The Bullpen Gospels - Dirk Hayhurst [124]
After we finished dumping everything we could on everything we could, we mingled about, talking about the coming championship series. Those of us who were still around to recall the colossal defeat of the Cal League spoke about how the coming game would be a second chance. Other players, first timers to veterans, spoke excitedly about the chance to play for some jewelry. The only person who seemed slightly bummed was Chase because he knew a September call-up was a very real possibility, and even though winning the Texas League would be grand, collecting big-league paychecks was a lot more exciting. We double max fined him.
Being in the playoffs is an experience all to itself. During the regular season, if a team doesn’t win a game, it can be written off as another day in the grind where developing prospects is the focus, and wins and losses a side effect. In the end, the only level that really matters is the big leagues, and no one will remember how terrible the minor league teams were that gave birth to a big-league star. Teammates on those squads get along as best they can because they have to tolerate each other while they reach for individual goals.
The playoffs, however, are when a minor league team is really, truly a team. There are no prospects. There’s no time for worries about being outshined for a promotion or lack of playing time. All that matters is winning, in any way possible. Players root for each other because all interests are suddenly entwined. There’s a ring to be won, and no one can strip you of the title of champion once you receive it. It’s an experience that bonds players together in a way that a regular season can’t. And like so many other experiences that reach our hearts and our desires, it has the ability to crush you, unlike any regular season defeat can.
We were on a one-way course with destiny, a chance to define ourselves as capable players even if the media in its infinite wisdom only thought a handful of us were worth a damn. We could win something for ourselves and no one else. We could be champs. To do that, we would first have to beat the Springfield Cardinals, the best team in the league. The Missions, the former worst team in the league, would take on the best team in a battle for the Texas League crown.
The Cardinals came to our house for the first two games of our possible five-game set. Chase the Magnificent smacked a home run in his urgency to end the series, get a ring, and go to the big leagues. We rolled over the Red Birds, 6–2. The next night, the Birds answered back in similar fashion, beating us with the same score, 6–2. I pitched two innings of relief in a losing effort, allowing one of the runs that cemented our defeat. When we left San Antonio for Springfield, the series was tied.
In game 3, Frenchy beat the Birds like a drum. He punched out six, allowing one run, and managed to collect two hits for himself at the plate. We won 3–2, thanks to his masterful performance, and I could have almost punched him in the head for ever doubting his ability.
Come September 15, we were leading the series 2–1 and had a chance to win the whole thing.
Chapter Forty-six
Next to Hammond Field the Cardinals’ home in Springfield is a park. It’s small, and clean, and green. There is a walking track that winds around tufts of soft grass, artistic mobiles, and blooming flower beds. Stay on the path long enough, and you will come to a fountain.
In search of a calm before the night’s coming storm, I stopped at the park before entering the stadium. I walked the trails, admired the art, and watched bees float from flower to flower. Then, like I did two years ago,