The Bullpen Gospels - Dirk Hayhurst [37]
The assembly broke and I walked like a black sheep to the minor league side’s morning meeting. Lars told his joke, we stretched, and camp moved around me while I remained stuck in the dialogue of Hoffman’s speech in search of a hidden message.
How could I be so stupid? How could I be so nerdy? Was I destined to look like an idiot in front of the guy? It would probably be the last time I would ever have a chance to talk with him, and I asked him how he inculcates himself. Why didn’t I just ask him how he held his changeup? Then we could have spent the rest of the day flinging changeups at each other like mini Hoffmans.
Besides, what did I expect him to say to me that hasn’t been said before? Was he going to petition the big-league squad to call up a man with my all-star caliber vocabulary? Was he going to invite me over to his house to sip hot cocoa while we wore matching sweaters with embroidered H’s? The purpose of his talk was to offer advice to his fellow employees on how to do their job better, and he did just that. What else would he do?
I guess it was my fault; Hoffman never asked me to put him on a pedestal. He never asked me to grade him under unrealistic expectations. He was just doing his job the best way he knew how, which was pretty damn good whether it was the way I imagined it or not—so much for my moment of heroic inspiration.
Later on in the day, I took the mound in a scrimmage against the Cubs. I was slated for one inning of work, which I wasn’t locked in for, not after the morning meeting. I got blasted and found myself surrounded by base runners, pulling bad thoughts out of my head, struggling to escape. When the last out was made, I went into the dugout and plopped on the bench, took off my hat, and hung my head. Ox came over to me, slapped one of his big meat hooks on my shoulder, and asked, “So, what mantras or psychological routines did you inculcate yourself with to get your ass kicked out there today?”
Chapter Twelve
In the last few days of camp, with cuts looming visibly in the distance, my Double-A pitching group gathered and was told the positive, uplifting news that all of us were potentially on the chopping block. Our pitching coordinator informed us that cuts were coming, and we should all take the next few days of opportunity very seriously. “I am not trying to scare anyone,” he said. “I am just trying to let all of you know the situation. There are not a lot of jobs to go around this year. Most of the spots we have are already decided on. Some of you guys may be operating under the assumption you have a job locked up, and I am here to tell you that you may be disappointed.”
I can’t imagine how a person could leave that meeting with a smile on his face. He was trying to brace us, maybe motivate us, but all we heard was, “I am not trying to scare anyone, but I have to tell you, most of you are screwed and you should be terrified; in fact, most of you are dead men pitching.”
Every spring training there will be releases, and we know why teams have cuts. The organization brings in players, gives them a chance, and then takes the best. It’s how the business works. But understanding it and dealing with it are two very different things. I didn’t appreciate the doomsday message, no matter how good the intentions were behind it. All it served to do was compound my already overloaded mind with worries and concerns about the future of my career. Then, after I firmly intended to make the best of whatever shot I’d left, my remaining chances were stripped from me, thanks to a horrific bout of food poisoning.
Starting as soon as I got back to the hotel that night, I spent the rest of the day, as well as the next two, on the toilet—well, mostly the toilet. Later, when my butt started to bleed, I lay in the bathtub with the shower running on me and just crapped straight down the drain so I wouldn’t have to endure the pain of wiping. It was the worst bout of sickness I’ve ever dealt with. Every seven or so minutes a team of horses wearing