The Bullpen Gospels - Dirk Hayhurst [125]
There were no screaming fans, no hot dog smells, and no Baseball Reaper. A cool breeze pushing clumps of clouds through the blue sky stretched above me. I was floating with them, tumbling off to some place, blown by the breeze. Tonight could be the last game of the season. Another season finished—a season that I almost never started.
The sounds of laughing children broke the silence. I sat up and searched for the source. Ahead of me, the park’s fountain, apparently time activated, had begun shooting spouts of water from dozens of water jets. Up the squirting water went, like water fireworks, before coming down and splattering on the smooth stone surface beneath. The fountain was built flush with the ground level. If you walked the path and stepped on the fountain at the wrong time, it might squirt you, a scenario the kids thrived on.
Like tribal warriors chasing after elusive prey, they ran the width of the fountain, shirts off, screaming as they went. Some anticipated which holes the next burst would come out of, some ran recklessly, lunging at each spout as it came. Some stood still, soaked, knees knocking and arms tucked in, with chattering teeth forming a smile.
The jets seemed to play with the children, staying just out of reach or biting them from behind with playful nips. The children kicked and swatted them, sometimes standing on them, sometimes shouting at them for escaping. Around and around they danced, until the jets built to a crescendo and erupted in a steady fountain of water, drenching the children completely before coming to a stop.
Parents stood outside the splash zone, forming an audience to watch the children play. They happily lived through their children, ready with dry towels for exhausted, soaked heads. I sat in the grass, content to watch, though I did feel tempted to join. This was not my moment though—this was theirs—and all we spectators could do was enjoy watching those few living it.
When the fountains stopped, I ran my hands across the tops of the grass blades. What would the children do if they caught the water? I thought. Of course, they never would. They could never hold on to it. The water would never come home as a trophy or a pet. Catching the water was never the idea. Experiencing it was.
Chapter Forty-seven
The crowd was teeming, even before the Cardinals took the field. Springfield, Missouri, fans knew baseball. They knew what was going to happen tonight, and extra motivation via some stadium staff cheer squad was unnecessary. En masse, they formed a sea of organized crimson—red hats, red shirts, red towels, face paint, signs, foam fingers, and plastic megaphones. The energy was almost tangible, waves of sound pressing our uniforms as we walked to the field. The Cardinals’ faithful were a formidable tenth man, and we felt like true baseball players in their presence.
I was happy, I admit, to be shielded from them in the pen, which felt more like a bunker than a cage this day: three walls of concrete and one of chain-link fence protecting us from the madness about to go down.
Some players think a big game requires an extra shot of intensity. Truth be told, big games require players to slow down. Emotions are already running at intense paces. Anxiety is in high supply. Big games are won by those who can keep control of themselves. Intensity can be a liability. Some exhaust themselves worrying about the game before it starts.
Mike Ekstrom, or “Ek,” our quiet, unassuming, right-handed fourth starter, who spent most of the season buried in a book or quietly taking in the day’s events, went through his stretch motions while the crowd brought itself to a boil. Whether it was his enigmatic persona or a focused sense of duty, the crowd, the day, the magnitude of it all, seemed to bounce off him.
This was the first time Ek would pitch in the playoffs. Our sweep of Frisco did not require us to call upon his services. The break we had while Springfield won its series allowed time for our rotation to reset, bringing