The Bullpen Gospels - Dirk Hayhurst [118]
“I don’t know if I feel convinced.”
“It’s not all about you, Dirk! It’s not all about how you fucking feel! I may be a drunk, but at least I’m not an arrogant son of a bitch.”
I had a strong notion to dismiss his words. Who was he to tell me anything, least of all what I was? Yet, as rough and tarry as his argument was, he was more right than I’d like to admit. The brotherly thing to do was forgive, even if it was messy, even if it didn’t feel good. But the way he so easily called me out as arrogant while touting this redemption of his pissed me off. He suddenly had an undeniable sense of direction. He knew what he wanted, where he stood, who he was. He accepted the circumstances, and he seemed stronger for it. I’d never heard him talk that way, or level any argument against me that wasn’t drunken gibberish. I felt jealous and spiteful. I wanted him to stay lost because I felt he deserved it. But here he was, found, and I could just hate him for it.
I was so angry that I would let him kill himself to satisfy my pain. The realization of my thirst for destruction hit me hard, so hard I almost threw up. I dropped to the pavement of the sidewalk and grabbed my head. Who was the monster now? I felt tears welling up in my eyes.
My brother spoke but much more controlled. “I’ve hit the bottom, Dirk. I mean, if I go any lower, I’ll be dead. Just like you wanted.”
“That’s not what I want, Brak.”
“What do you want then?”
“I want to know how you got to this point, how this transformation?”
“I had some help.”
“I know that, but you’ve had help before.”
“This may not make sense to a person like you, Dirk, but I guess I realized that the best of a person isn’t discovered in great accomplishments. I haven’t done anything like you have. I’ve always been the failure, and I hated that feeling. I hated the comparison. That was why I drank. I realize now though, the best part of a person is how he deals with the low points in his life, not the high ones. I don’t expect you to understand that, I mean, you’ve always been the successful one….”
“I do understand,” I said.
“Well,…I think about that stuff and it makes me feel stronger, like I can still do something with my life.”
I thought about his words. Neither of us talked, and the situation calmed.
“So, what do you think?” he continued. “Think you can forgive me?”
I labored for each syllable as if I had never spoken the language before, but I got it out. “I think so. It’s not easy, but…you’re right, it’s not all about me.”
“I understand it’s hard, and I am sorry for all of it.”
“I know you are. I know it’s a disease, and I forgive you, but it’s going to take awhile before I forget.”
“Don’t ever forget. I can’t. The minute I think I’ve got it beat, that I’m beyond it, I’ll fall into it again.”
“Then I won’t forget.”
Chapter Forty-three
We won the game I pitched in, despite my best efforts to blow it. We also won the next game as well, but if you talked to the starter about it, you’d have thought we lost.
I opted to be Frenchy’s road roomie when he got called up. I was paired with a position player before he arrived, and that’s never as fun as having another pitcher to plot and scheme with. When I got back to the room that night, Frenchy was on his cell phone, not exactly yelling at the person on the other end of the line, but not in perfect agreement with that person either. His face was still wearing the scowl he left the game with when he got pulled, something I understood very well.
He looked at me standing in the doorway, waved at me, then got up and left the room for the sanctum of the hallway. Though I tried to stay out of his business, I caught most of his conversation through the cheap hotel door. Up and down he paced, sometimes barking at the phone, sometimes whimpering. The barks were for his parents, while the whimpering was reserved for his girlfriend. He started today’s game, and it didn’t go as well as he’d have liked it too. Three runs over five innings of work, could’ve been way worse, but he expected perfection. Can’t say that I