The Bullpen Gospels - Dirk Hayhurst [39]
Larry stood outside the door. It’s funny. I can’t stand the sound of people going to the bathroom, but when I’m around the boys, it’s so commonplace that it doesn’t register. At the training complex, the bathroom houses seven stalls. After breakfast, all the stalls will be full of minor league asses. It’s more like a library than anything because everyone who comes in to make a deposit brings his favorite reading material, crossword, or puzzle. Some people read Harry Potter, others USA Today. Public bowel movements are so common in this line of work, it’s considered bad etiquette if you don’t offer the paper you were reading to the set of panted ankles in the stall next to yours when you finish.
“So what do you really think you got? [spit]” asked Larry, who was apparently leaning on the bathroom door.
“I have no idea, bro, but it’s terrible. I wish I could just drink Drano and flush it all out.”
“What are the chances of me getting it?”
“Again, no idea, but I stopped using your toothbrush just in case. Ern…hold on…more on the way.” I went again. Larry laughed from the other side of the door. Something about bowel movements will be funny to men until the end of time.
“So, what are you thinking about cuts after today’s feel-good message?” Larry asked.
“You mean, who do I think is going to get cut, or how do I feel about them in general?”
“Who do you think is going to get cut? [spit]”
“I don’t know. I’ve been throwing well, but after being bounced around all season last year, I got a strange feeling that I’m expendable.”
“Yeah, I hear you there. I’m getting worried myself.”
“You? You throw in the low-to-mid nineties with a nasty hammer. How could you be worried?”
“Grady is systematically getting rid of guys who have track records of injury. I don’t think he likes me, the surgeries and all. Besides, they got me out of indi ball, and don’t got shit invested in me [spit].”
“I don’t buy that. They’ve developed you for the last two years and promoted you to Double-A; they have to like you. They love hard throwers. At least Earp does.”
“I don’t think his opinions count for too much anymore.”
“Well, then I guess it was nice playing with you. We can go play on the same church-league softball team when we get chopped.”
“I don’t think you’re going to get chopped, and I’m not going to go play church softball—you can’t drink in church league [spit].”
We could have spent all day telling the other how they weren’t going to get axed. Even if we thought the other would be released, we’d rather boldface lie about it than say it. No baseball player will ever tell another baseball player his future is over. If someone believed the object of your heart’s ambition was unattainable, would you want to hear that person say it?
It’s the hardest for middle-of-the-pack players to feel safe. They’re lukewarm and in the gray, unsure if it’s their time to get spit out or not. If you know you’re on your way out, you can prepare accordingly. Call your uncle in the oil well company, get an internship with a bank, or finish your degree. You can hop out of one profession and get tied up in another one before the reality of what happened sets in and you find yourself back in Grandma’s basement, consumed with your failure.
Everyone frets about cut day, either for himself or for a good buddy who is trying his damnedest to hang on. It can be a very depressing time. The lockers are quieter, coaches less jovial. We all know what it means. For many, being released means the end of a dream, or a fantasy, or a lie, depending on how they made their way to the pros.
I didn’t say much after Larry said he wouldn’t play church league. I suppose I could’ve kept telling him about how I was sure I was going to get released, fishing the barrel for his reassuring compliments. I didn’t want to talk about it anymore because I knew no matter what we decided, we weren’t going to affect the outcome.