The Bullpen Gospels - Dirk Hayhurst [32]
“Get back up there Hay. Get you another one,” the new coach said.
I made a packing motion with my glove, climbed the summit of the mound, and reloaded—the delivery, the pitch, a chopper back up the middle. Hayhurst sets, he reaches, he fumbles, and he catches the grounder with his forearm. The ball ricochets off him into no-man’s-land. The ghost runner is safe at first on a pitcher’s fielding error.
“Maybe they should rename this PFEs, huh, Dirk?” Ox chimed, standing behind me with his arms crossed.
“Yeah, yeah.”
“Come on, Hay, you got this!” the coach called.
It’s worse when you miss two. The embarrassment starts to add up, and you can feel the expectation of a third miss percolate. You have to catch the next one just to prove you aren’t a lost cause—that you can do something Little Leaguers do.
I climbed the mound again, wound, delivered, and induced a slow roller back to the mound. I charged it—too much charge. My glove came down and smothered the ball, but did not suck it up. The ball had stopped rolling, and I reached down with my free hand to make a quick throw before the imaginary runner got to the bag. As I pulled the ball up to fire it, it slipped out of my hand, making a backward lob to third base though I was facing first. I was a train wreck.
“Cocksucking balls!”
“Interesting choice of swear there, Dirkus.”
“Save it, Ox.”
Out walked the coach. I stood awkwardly as he approached. I had warranted a complete stop of the drill, and I would pay for it in total peer embarrassment. The coach put his hand on me and walked me to the summit of the mound. He stopped, released me, crossed his legs, and leaned on his fungo bat like it was a cane.
“Hay,” he began, pulling out his dip can and pinching a wad as he spoke—“have you ever held a titty before?”
The boys behind snickered. Someone repeated, “Huh, huh, titty.”
“Excuse me?”
“Have ya ever held a titty before, yes or no?”
“Yeah, I’ve held one before.” I adjusted my hat, and kicked some dirt.
“Well, catching a baseball is a lot like holding a titty,” he said, pressing his dip into his cheek line.
“Uh.”
“You can’t grab at it.” He stuck his hand out to imaginary boobie height. “You have to caress it. Be gentle with it, or she won’t call you back.” He finished his demonstration by moving his hands in a way I’m sure I’ll have nightmares about.
“I want all of you to stick your hands out and caress that titty.” As instructed, we all put our hands out and, well, started caressing imaginary titties. The whole pack of us, standing on the mound of field four, hands out, sexually harassing the air in front of us.
“Good. That’s real good. Now, let’s try it again.” He retreated back to home plate. I put down my imaginary titty and climbed the mound as if I were about to be executed—deep breath, shoulder wiggle, delivery, chopper up the middle.
“CARESS THAT TITTY, HAY!”
I stuck my hands out, and in slow motion came the bouncing, leather mammary. The ball nestled itself lovingly into my mitt; I turned and sent it off to first.
“Attaboy, Hay, she’ll call ya back now.”
“Great. Can’t wait to hear from her,” I said on my way to the back of the drill line.
“I don’t know if I can do this,” Ox whined.
“Why is that?” I asked.
“I’m not used to holding titties this small!”
As the days of spring passed, it became apparent that if something embarrassing was going to happen, it was going to happen on the field with this new coach. He never missed an opportunity to bust my balls, thus inspiring me to dub him with the private nickname of “Coach Castrate.” Every time I saw him leaning on a fungo at the field I was headed to, I cursed.
Finally, the perfect storm converged and my two worst on-field elements came together, Coach Castrate and bunting. The Padres are in the National League, so pitchers need to learn how to handle the lumber. Now that I had already been taught to handle baseballs as though they were titties, if I didn’t get