The Bullpen Gospels - Dirk Hayhurst [35]
I encountered Hoffman in the pages of ESPN The Magazine. Someone had stuffed a Spider-Man comic book into it on the bookshelf in the dentist’s office waiting room. The article was skillfully crafted, making Hoffman sound amazing, larger than life, as if he threw laser-guided fastballs and Jedi mind-trick-caliber changeups touted as the best in the game. I read how the stadium went super-freak when he entered in the ninth to the rockin’ sounds of AC/DC and how it was one of the most electrifying moments in sports. It was kickass stuff I had no idea baseball players could do. I thought they just argued about which wife had the cooler upgrades. In that article, Hoffman was like a superhero.
I was so excited to hear Hoffman speak, Larry wanted to punch me in the head. Ox told me I was borderline gay, and Brent said he wouldn’t sit near me because he was afraid I’d embarrass him. It wasn’t that other guys weren’t excited; it’s that I was “Star Trek geek at a convention” excited about it, which tended to freak my friends out. They didn’t understand because they didn’t see how great my expectations were. If anyone could shine a light into my baseball universe, I knew it would be Hoffman, and I couldn’t wait to hear the pearls of wisdom straight from my hero’s mouth.
After breakfast, before morning meetings and Lars’s joke, the minor league pitching troupe marched over to the major league side of camp’s bullpen area. We all sat Indian style on the grassy portion of the big-league pen, turning the mound into a stage: what better place for a pitcher to address a crowd?
Grady started the meeting, offering some forgettable introduction, as if it were needed, and then out came Hoffman to take the stage. Up he strolled, majestically, the first time I had ever seen him take the mound without musical accompaniment. He placed his hands on his hips and, in a very gym teacherly way, said, “Good morning everyone. Thanks for letting me come out here and speak with you today.”
I love how really smooth celebrity folks say stuff like “Thank you for letting me,” when they could say, “You’re lucky I bothered to waste my time with you insignificant peons.” Actually, that’s about what my first real interaction with the guy went like. He didn’t call me a peon, but that didn’t stop me from acting like one.
My first bona fide encounter with Hoffman came in my second spring training. He actually approached me. Hoffman, or Hoffy, as we folks who are on speaking terms with him call him, came into the lunchroom after what I’m sure was a long day of keeping baseball full of magic and wonder. I’m not ashamed to say I watched him like a little peasant boy gazes on royalty. He grabbed a hot plate of food, a glass of refreshing Gatorade, and a plastic fork. Then he walked over to my table.
I almost spilled my drink in my lap. I thought, It’s him. It’s Trevor Hoffman! He looked at me with that “destined to be bronzed on a plaque” face of his and said, and I’ll never forget it, “Hey, can I borrow your salt?”
Nothing came out as I stared at him like a mental patient, choking on my tongue.
He picked up the salt and sprinkled some on his food, despite me. Look at his salt-sprinkling technique—masterful! I thought.
He placed the salt back down, and I still couldn’t make any words come out.