The Bullpen Gospels - Dirk Hayhurst [133]
Hoffman looked up at me, “I think all people could change that, not just me.” He handed me the last ball.
“You know,” I said, “there weren’t many players I cared about while I was growing up, though I always kept track of you. You were one of the players that inspired me to chase my dreams. I was excited to get up here, if for no other reason than just to say I played on the same field as you.
“But when a person gets to the big leagues, he realizes that the people in the bigs are just people. Heck, some of the guys up here are dirtbag savages just like the knuckleheads in the minors. Not everyone lives up to the expectations, and not everyone is safe on his pedestal. I guess that’s just life, but I want to tell you Hoffy, you met every one of my expectations, for whatever it’s worth.”
I took a moment to look out at all my guests, listening to me tell them a story about life in the big leagues, which was really just a story about life, and smiled.
“I’m sure a lot of guys had kissed Hoffman’s butt in his career. Guys do that to big names in the industry, but that wasn’t why I said it. I said it because I wanted to tell a person who was great in the game that I respected him more for who he was than what I thought he was. I knew him as a real, genuine person, and that’s what I valued. Baseball wouldn’t make my marriage work, just like it didn’t make so many other things work, but a man of integrity can make any profession seem heroic by how he lives while doing it.
“Hoffman told me I paid him a very high compliment, and he was very flattered. Then he said words that I will never forget. He said that the conversations we’d had touched him. He said they made him think about baseball in ways he’d never thought about it before. He said, with absolute sincerity, that the best part of me wasn’t in the locker room or on the baseball field, but beyond the lines. Just like the best parts of us aren’t in our jobs or stations. He said there was more to a person than just what they do, and that only a real person, not an icon or an image or a jersey, can take a job that puts a man on a pedestal and use it for something selfless.”
I stopped there and let the words settle on my listeners. Relaying the story was the easy part. The next part was a little more spontaneous.
“When I signed my contract to play professionally, I thought that was the best moment of my life. When we won the Texas League, I thought that was the best. When I put on my big-league uniform, I thought the same. Then there was that moment, the one I just told you about with Hoffman—truly, an amazing experience I will never forget. Yet, as amazing as it was, it pales in comparison to this.” I reached down and picked up the hand of my wife.
“I may be a big leaguer, and that is something I have always wanted to be, but I will always be a man first—a man in love with this woman right here. And it takes a man, not a uniform or a title, to do that. It takes a man to care about people. I am a man, a very lucky one, who’s just married a woman way out of his league, even if it is the bigs!”
Silverware struck glasses, and my wife stood up and laid one on me that made everyone hoot and holler. Cups were raised in the honor of something much bigger than a minor league championship, even though there were far fewer fans present. Flowers were thrown, even though no one checked for velocities. A garter was caught, but no one was called out.
Just before my wife and I left for a very special All-Star break in which I planned to bust an extremely long slump, I felt another thick hand grab me from behind. I turned to face my father. He wore overalls to my wedding, and Mom combed his hair. His hand fell from my shoulder, slid down my arm, and grabbed my hand. His calloused, crippled digits labored to form a firm shake. He wrung my hand, and then for the first time in God only knows how long, he pulled me in for a hug.
We embraced for a few seconds, with me in my wedding uniform and him in his overalls. Then he said words I’ll never