The Bullpen Gospels - Dirk Hayhurst [33]
I wasn’t such a bad fielder, really. I just had a bad day that became a worse one when Coach Castrate turned it into an event. I was, however, a terrible hitter no matter what day it was, no matter who was watching.
I was a marked man. Coach Castrate had labeled me as the nonathletic guy, so everything I did was subject to ridicule. When it was my turn to bunt, I marched up to the plate like a man ready to take my medicine. Screw this can’t bunt talk, I thought. I’ll show this motherfucker who he’s messing with.
My first attempt went over the backstop—the second straight into the plate. I missed the third one altogether. “Jesus Hay, you look like you’re trying to take a shit in the woods.” Here we go again.
Guys started snickering. I wanted to tell Coash Castrate he could take this bat and shove it. “Here, give me that bat,” he said, grabbing it from me and squaring around as if he were some bunting ninja. He had one of the other pitchers feed the pitching machine, and he laid the bunts down like he invented the art. “See, relax, not so stiff. You need to go to the bathroom before we continue?”
“No, I’m fine. I got it.” He handed the bat back to me and returned to the pitching machine. I missed four out of the next five, and he called for the next man in line because I was wasting too many balls.
We were supposed to take two turns bunting, but I skipped my spot in line, hiding in the background until we finished. “Okay boys,” Coach Castrate said, “we’re going to play a little game. We’re going to bunt to each side of the field and then a squeeze. If you don’t get ’em all down, you have to stand on the plate, tuck your nuts between your legs, bend over, and take a pitch in the ass.”
I dropped my head immediately.
“This guy’s fucking crazy,” Ox said. “I love it!”
“Here, I’ll show you what you have to do.”
“Is he really gonna—” Then Castrate walked to the plate.
“Here’s what you do. Take the helmet and turn it around so the bill protects your neck.” He spun the helmet around so he looked like a football player. “Then, make sure you protect your nuts, pull ’em up so they don’t get smashed, and bend over.” He turned away from the pitcher’s mound where the machine was sitting, bent over, scrunched his balls, and tucked his arms in. “Keep your fingers safe, you don’t want to hurt one of them either.” I hate to say this, but he had very good technique.
“Alright, let one go.”
“Are you serious?”
“Yeah, let it go,” he called, with his head still tucked down.
One of the pitchers reluctantly took a ball and stuck it the machine. The ball whizzed through the air and thudded into his left ass cheek. He flinched slightly, then stood up, and turned to look at us. “See? Nothing to it.”
“Fuck that!” one of the other pitchers declared. “I’m not standing in there and getting cranked with a ball! What the fuck is that going to prove?” Several of the other guys grumbled in agreement, but we were at his mercy.
“Hay! Why don’t you start us off?” Of course, why not, I was a safe bet for a baseball enema, so I might as well get it over with. I took my bat and helmet and walked to the plate as if I were on the green mile. The first pitch I took for a ball. The next I punched down the first base line.
“Okay, now one to third.”
I stuck the bat out and tried to keep it balanced, imagining what would happen if I missed. What if when I had to take it in the rear, the ball hit me square in the center and got stuck?
The ball bounced off my bat and headed toward third. It teetered on the foul line but remained fair. Two down.
“Squeeze!”
I took the bat and put it on my shoulder like I was going to swing away. I waited for the coach’s hand to rise with the ball. When he brought it down to the machine, I squared to bunt. The ball whizzed, I deflected it into the ground fair—three for three.
“Attaboy, Hay. Even a blind squirrel finds a nut now and again.”
It didn’t matter what he said. I got ’em down. Whether I looked like I was trying to take a shit in the woods