The Bullpen Gospels - Dirk Hayhurst [126]
Autumn had begun its slow creep across the Missouri landscape. The air was cool, and the wind carried a chilled bite, reminding us we were in the playoffs. Bulbs flickered on the stadium’s scoreboard. Its massive LCD board flashed bios and compared lineups. The PA announcer read off our batting order in a less-than-enthusiastic voice while the Imperial March from Star Wars played in the background. Then the order for the home Cardinals was read, each name evoking raucous enthusiasm from the crowd. A montage of highlights showcasing the St. Louis Cardinals lineage was played on the big screen. Legendary music, playing over clips of great Cardinals moments in the past showed in the hope of blessing the future. The lights were lit, the anthem was played, and the crowd roared like a lion. We were not impressed.
In the first inning, we scored three and Ek blanked the Cardinals. Come the second, we scored four more. We knocked the Birds’ starter out of the game before he could record six outs. Ek snubbed the Cardinals again in the second inning, and by the time the third rolled around, we were comfortably in the driver’s seat, seven to nothing.
In the pen, we scampered about the place like flighty school-girls. I think we would have held hands and bedazzled our jersey pants if we could have.
“Hayhurst, you gonna get shit-faced?” Dalton asked.
“No. I am not getting shit-faced.” I rolled my eyes.
“But you’re still drinking, right?”
I’d made a promise to the boys. If we won the whole thing, I’d have my first drink to commemorate it. I vowed I’d never drink while my brother was doing it, but now that he had had sobered up, I could finally raise my cup with my teammates, something I’d been waiting for a long time, at the very least, to experience. The boys loved this little extra incentive, and to be honest, I liked it too. For so long, drinking was something I looked down upon for the chaos it sparked in my family’s life, but this was one chance for me to see it used to celebrate something great.
Even though I was okay with joining in with the boys in what would be the best moment of my baseball career, I was not cool with getting trashed. One would be enough, thank you very much. Besides, I heard it tastes like piss.
“If we hold on to this, I am,” I confirmed.
“Oh, we will, baby!”
“So you aren’t gonna get wrecked to commemorate it?” Dalton asked.
“No, dude.”
“Well, I am!” Dalton cried. “I’m gonna get shit-faced and watch Road House!”
“Road House?”
“ROAD HOUSE, BABY! ROAD HOUSE!”
In the fifth inning, I went into the clubhouse to take a whizz. The clubhouse attendants were busy hanging up plastic over our lockers, thick, clear tarps to protect our personal belongings from the streams of poorly aimed champagne. I watched them work, taping it to the ceiling, covering every exposed section of the walls and lockers.
I know it’s sacrilege to the baseball gods to believe a game is won before it actually is, but it was hard not to think it when the locker room was already prepped for the victory party. If there was any doubt, a banner reading 2007 Texas League Champs! was stretched across one of the walls. I permitted myself to believe it was really going to happen.
I returned to the pen in the top of the sixth, in time to watch our left fielder hit a home run, putting us up eight–zip. Ek pitched seven scoreless before being relieved by Rob, who put up a zero of his own. The offense never stopped, and by the time the ninth, the last inning of the year, rolled around, it was twelve nothing.
Blade would receive the honor of closing the game out. He would also be the person crushed at the bottom of the pile of ecstatic Missions uniforms when we came roaring onto the field to celebrate. When he left the pen, we cheered him into his destiny. All we needed were three more outs.
With so much anticipation flowing through the pen, we were borderline ridiculous. We practiced approaching the bullpen’s exit gate and opening it, like a fire-drill escape exercise.