The Bullpen Gospels - Dirk Hayhurst [3]
The night before game five, the biggest game of my pro career, I lay in bed staring at the ceiling, sleepless. There was nothing I could do to prepare; it was too late. I thought about standing on the mattress and doing some blind visualization, but my roommate was already convinced I was nuts because of my conspiracy references to the Baseball Reaper. I do some of my best thinking when I’m in bed, but all I wanted to do that night was turn my mind off. A river of anxiety was running through my brain. Sleep would be an escape from the lashing of anxious thoughts. Finally, during the dark, forgotten hours of the morning, I went under. I dreamed I was Captain Ahab chasing a big, white, baseball-shaped whale. And I was naked.
The day of game five, my teammates repeatedly approached me asking if I was ready. What a stupid question, of course I wasn’t ready. How could I be? I was tossed into this role about forty-eight hours ago, expected to pitch a gem after hurling nothing but turds the entire season! I didn’t say that though; I just looked my inquirers in the eye and in my confident, competitor’s voice, said, “Oh, you know it, baby.” They’d smile, kneed my shoulders, or slap me on the ass, then tell me we were going to get ’em today. It made me wonder if they were faking it too.
I used all my cellular minutes talking to any positive voice that would pick up. I prayed every panic-induced prayer I could think of, being sure to remind God of each and every nice thing I’d ever done. Then I panicked and prayed for something wonderful to happen, like Armageddon, so the game would get postponed. I wrestled with the event I was about to spearhead until I had explored all possible contingencies and I was still feeling nauseous.
By the time I walked out to warm up, I was a mental and emotional ruin, and I hadn’t thrown a pitch yet. The stands were packed, and sure enough, there was the Baseball Reaper sitting in the beer garden—the smoking section—running a sharpening stone over his scythe in between lustful looks at senior citizens. He waved when he saw me. I pretended not to notice.
I warmed up, spinning my arms like propeller blades, contorting my legs at odd angles—toe touches, twists, nervous dry heaving. Then before it was time to start throwing, I flopped on the ground and closed my eyes. I had to—some force beyond my understanding made me do it. Twenty minutes before the biggest game of my life, I lay, stretched out like a snow angel with no snow in the middle of the outfield grass.
I was tired of thinking about the end of my career or the meaning one game had over my life. All this time spent being a prisoner of results. I wasn’t even having fun anymore. There was no assurance all the work I’d put in would pay off in improved pitching numbers or a win. I’d spent most of the season trying to fix whatever was wrong with me. Even if I’d figured it out, I could take the mound and get shellacked regardless. That’s the thing about baseball: every game is a roll of the dice. Once the ball leaves your hand, what happens next is out of your control. Veteran baseball people will tell you the same thing—hard work can only take you so far, the rest is luck and opportunity. Well, I had put in my hard work and landed an opportunity, for better or worse. Now it was time for luck to show up.
I can’t explain what it’s like to pitch an amazing game. I always wanted to be a superhero when I was a kid, and when I pitch well, it’s as if I am, and everyone watching knows it. Still, it’s something you need to feel to understand. Words can’t tell you how fulfilling, empowering, and relieving it is, all at the same time. How it makes you feel like some great champion, the master of the battlefield. How it justifies all the work you put in to capture it, even though you know it’s something so wild and free it can’t truly be contained. In the brief moments you hold on to it, it frees you from your bondage,