The Bullpen Gospels - Dirk Hayhurst [120]
“Punishing myself?”
“Yeah, sometimes when we fail, we punish ourselves with negative self-talk so we can feel like we paid the price to feel good about ourselves again. But winning and losing doesn’t make us heroes or failures. You can be upset about your imperfections today if you want, but, imperfections are part of this game. Beating yourself up doesn’t make you any better at this sport. It just drains you, and sooner or later you start to believe the voice telling you how bad you are. Sooner or later, you don’t care about anyone else but yourself, and you won’t listen to anyone else no matter how relevant that person’s words are. You become your own enemy, and your words turn into something more than words.
“Take what you can from this and move on. It’s really all you can do. Besides, you’re a lot better than you think you are right now.”
Frenchy leaned back on the couch to let the words settle in. I did the same from my chair.
I spoke to him as much as I did to myself. They weren’t my words, but they were my experiences, boiled down and pieced together like some bullpen gospel. I had taken more than my share of lumps in this game, and while I thought I had nothing to show for it except a string of yawn-inducing numbers, it turns out I did. I had wisdom, something far more valuable.
“That’s some great advice,” Frenchy said, leaning forward again. “Seriously dude, that may be some of the best advice I’ve had in a long time.”
“It may be some of the best advice I’ve had in a long time too.”
Chapter Forty-four
The next night in the bullpen, in between chats about how Martha Stewart would be the perfect clubbie, a lady about Martha’s age came and petitioned us for a baseball. “There is this cute little girl down behind the dugout who really should get a baseball,” she said. She had enough gold jewelry around her neck to make Mr. T jealous and spoke with an air of refinement.
If Martha Stewart were a clubbie, she would fold our uniforms up like swans, serve us Independence Day–themed cupcakes with sprinkles on top, and make us wear galoshes over our spikes so we didn’t get the clubhouse floor dirty. She wouldn’t beg us for baseballs for cute little mystery kids.
“I’m sorry, we can’t give these balls out,” I replied.
“Oh my, I’m sure you’re not supposed to, but she’s so darling. You really should see her. All the other kids have gotten one, and her precious little shoulders slump in disappointment each time she sees them with one. It’s torture, I must say.”
“I know, I know,” I said, unmoved. “Unfortunately, that’s how it works sometimes. Honestly, though, we really aren’t supposed to give these out.” Nor did I want to give her one, I must say. I’ve heard the darling little kid excuse so many times now I’m convinced the world is completely populated with pageant winners and child actors. If she would have asked me to give her a ball because there’s an ugly, bulldog-looking kid with a tail by the dugout, I might’ve had second thoughts based on originality.
“I understand, of course, but she’s not even my child. I just can’t bear to witness her suffering.”
“She’s not your kid?”
“No, but her parents won’t ask, so I thought I’d take it upon myself.”
“That’s just weird, lady. I mean, she just didn’t get a ball; what’s so bad about that? If her parents aren’t concerned, why are you?”
“I will buy a baseball from you if you insist on being so difficult about it,” she said, irritated with us. I guess mostly me—well, all me.
“If you’re going to buy her one, just go to the gift shop.”
“I don’t want to buy it. I want you to take this opportunity to make a little child’s dream come true,” she said, nobly, like some knight of baseball injustice.
“But I’m not even going to give it to her. It’s going to go through you. What if it doesn’t get there?”
“Do I look like the kind of person that lies?”
I took my time thinking about it, which made her extremely offended. “Lady, life’s not fair,