The Bullpen Gospels - Dirk Hayhurst [132]
This was probably one of those moments I should have kept to the seen-and-not-heard rule. Hoffman was talking to me, on his own accord, and I went into deep water. I could have just said it was about baseball and smiled like a kid in a parade while he waited for the sound of a toilet flush, content with the scraps from his table. When people asked, Hoffman could say I was a nice, harmless kid who majored in English. I would tell folks I talked with baseball’s all-time saves leader, who was a nice, personable guy. We could both ride off into the sunset, another conversation neatly wrapped up with a bow and forgotten. Instead, I just told the person who was baseball’s walking synonym for “save” that our identity shouldn’t rest in our job.
Hoffman looked at me, evaluating and judging me like those big leaguers with time and power do. “I agree,” he said, and the words struck me as if someone had taken me out to be shot but fired blanks instead. “Baseball’s brought me everything I have, but I agree, it’s not as important as a lot of other things in life.”
“Yeah. I, uh…” I swallowed hard. “I mean, I believe that if you take baseball out of the world, it would keep spinning, but if you took math or science, or love, or art, or teachers, or doctors, or some of the other things we take for granted away, it would stop. Baseball is such a small thing, comparatively speaking.”
“I’ve never thought of it like that, but I’d agree with you,” he said. “Though, you can’t deny it’s still a great tool.”
“That it is, if you know how to use it,” I added. A bold comment for a rookie to make, but one that would spark more conversations than I ever thought I’d have with my childhood hero.
Every now and then, when the pen was quiet and I was feeling courageous, I would pick Hoffman’s brain on a subject about life and baseball, and he would always give me, some rookie with less big-league time than the watercooler, a real, thoughtful answer. Come the end of the year, after the last game of the season, while everyone packed up their bags and readied to escape the dismal conclusion of the 2008 season (we lost 99 games), I felt compelled to approach Hoffman one last time. With a half-a-dozen baseballs I had snuck from various sources, I asked him whether he would mind signing what would become my groomsmen presents. He obliged, and while he stretched the ink of his name across the balls for me, I asked, “Do you remember a few years back, during spring training, coming out to speak with the minor league pitchers?”
“Yeah, I think so.”
“Do you remember being asked a certain question about psychological routines and inculcating yourself?”
He looked at me funny, then smiled, “Yeah, I do remember that. You were the one who asked me that huge question. Now that I know you, it doesn’t surprise me at all!”
I didn’t know whether I should feel flattered or embarrassed that he remembered. “Yeah, about that, I just want you to know you turned me into a laughing stock.”
“I’m sorry kid. I remember that question, and to be perfectly honest, I didn’t know exactly what to say to you. I mean, you have to understand, when you reach this level, there is so much pressure surrounding you, it’s easier to let people down than it is to meet their expectations. This game puts us on a pedestal, and showing our human side doesn’t always go over well with those keeping track. I’m sorry I made you look bad.”
“That’s okay—it made for a good story,” I said dismissively, as he scratched his name across the white leather. “Do you think it would be better if it wasn’t like that, if we weren’t placed on pedestals?”
“Sometimes.”
“Do