The Bullpen Gospels - Dirk Hayhurst [129]
We soaked one another, chasing each other around as if the bottles were squirt guns. We drenched teammates, walls, furniture, the ceiling, members of the press, mascots, and everything else we could blast. Drew took a champagne bottle and sprayed it as if he were riding a pony. Lunchbox acted as if he were jerking off with his bottle. Ox sprayed it up Manrique’s ass, and I sprayed mine on the wall thinking it was my fellow players because I had my eyes closed. Dalton ran around naked, and Blade, knowing he wouldn’t get his arms ripped off, sprayed Juice in the face, then dumped the rest down his shirt back. When the pressure in the bottles ran out, we tackled each other and dumped the remaining gulps on each other’s heads.
Randy fought us off as long as he could before we cornered him with the watercooler. Ice cold, it took his breath away when we dumped it over him. Abby, less mobile than his managerial counterparts, stood his ground and was demolished—standing with his eyes closed, hands out like a blind man while a river of booze splashed down on his head. Pops happily called us all manner of swears and curses, which only served to cement the inevitable dumping of an ice chest on him by his hitters.
When we ran out of bubbly, we moved to beer cans. We sprayed it from the lid, slopped it like paint, spit it out of our mouths, and dumped it on heads and down pants and shirt backs. We even punctured the cans and let little annoying streams squirt out like baby sprinklers. Ox tried to catch as much of it in his mouth as he could.
When the waterworks stopped, we peeled off, picked each other up, and stumbled around, staggered by the surreal quality of our victory. Hugs, shouts, arms over shoulders, punches to shoulders, chest bumps, hugs again, until there was nothing left for us to do except take it all in. There we were, a pack of grown men, big kids, and wild warriors standing in the locker room so far from our homes. We had done the very thing we only whispered about in spring training, back before teams were made. We were a family now, baptized in the power of a championship. We posed for personal pictures with our arms around shoulders and our pointer fingers up, declaring we were number one. We stretched the Texas League Championship banner out in front of us and surrounded it, soaking wet, hair matted to our faces, reeking of cheap booze for the best family picture of the year.
After showering and changing into dry clothes, we made our way to the hotel for the after party. There was beer there as well, but the meant-to-be-drunk kind. There was also pizza, chips, our freshly acquired championship trophy. Fortunately, Dalton was clothed again.
The guys took turns having their pictures taken with the monstrous Texas League trophy, complete with a fresh engraving declaring the Missions as 2007 champions. I took my turn next to it, though the real prize was something far less tangible, something that felt like redemption.
A promise is a promise. Drew poured me a tall, plastic party cup, like the kind I refused at so many forgettable college parties, filled to the brim with New Castle. With my chalice in hand, I walked to the center of the converted conference room. I interrupted the party, asking for the attention of my teammates, raised my cup and declared, “Here’s to you guys! A hell of a good reason for a first!” With that, I inhaled the entirety of my cup in one gulp, slammed the cup onto the table in front of me like a Viking, then gagged, cringed, and coughed. My teammates shared a laugh at my expense, then showed their approval by screaming, “Get him another one!” Twenty-three fresh beers were immediately pressed into my face.
“That’s okay,” I said, waving them off, “I think I’ll take it easy from here on. It really does taste like piss.”
Twenty-four hours later, I was on a plane back to Ohio. The season was