The Bullpen Gospels - Dirk Hayhurst [42]
The two lefties and I conjectured over probabilities. We did it because it made us feel safe. If we could figure out why a guy got canned, we could rationalize how we weren’t like him. And as sad as it sounds, along with every pang of remorse, there was a sigh of relief.
When I left the cafeteria, yelling was coming from the back office, the executioner’s room. From what I could hear, the player inside had been released and was venting his dissatisfaction. Not everyone goes down without a fight. A competitor is a competitor. If he doesn’t like an umpire’s call, he’s probably not going to like the call of management declaring him out of a job. Seeing as he’d already been tossed, he might as well get his money’s worth.
Heated voices raged from within. The door remained closed so the drama didn’t spill into the clubhouse, though several guys lingered around the door trying to catch wind of what was going down. Then the door of the office flung open and out walked Lars.
His face was flushed and his eyes were full of the same intensity he had when he took the mound in late innings. He made his way to his locker, kicked the chair out of the way, grabbed his bag, and began slamming stuff into it. The locker room fell silent, the players dispersed, watching him from a safe distance. I felt as if I were miles away, watching across an impassable chasm. The mighty Lars, his jokes, his antics, the character he brought, gone—the end of an era.
He, like Larry, was one of the players who made my baseball life interesting, bearable even. The friends you make in this grind are what make it survivable. Yet, such friendships are dangerous when days like today come around and those bonds are ripped out of your life. After years of battling in the trenches of the minors, making the best of it with the boys you’re fighting alongside, they vanish in a matter of minutes.
Outside, Larry sat on the concrete lip of the sidewalk bordering the parking lot. He had his cell phone out, spinning it over in his hands. Whom do you call first when your career ends? Your wife? Your parents? Your agent? Larry sat there, talking to no one. Maybe he had already called them, or maybe he was still waiting for it to make sense to him before he tried explaining it to someone else.
I sat down next to him on the dusty concrete. The sun’s glare beamed off the expensive cars. The world went about its business in the distance, a world Larry was now a part of again.
“How you holding up?” I asked.
“I’m okay,” he said. “I thought it might happen.”
“Yeah. You know what you’re gonna do from here? Have you talked to Adam?”
“Not yet. But I’ll get a job playing independent ball somewhere or catch on someplace else.”
A lot of guys say, “I’ll catch on someplace else.” There’s no guarantee that’ll happen, but it’s a positive way to look at things. The only thing I could say was, “Yeah, I’m sure someone will snag you. I know the manager of the Washington Wild Things, if you think that would help.”
“I got a few connections of my own.”
“What are you going to do in the meantime?”
“Relax. Spend some time with the fam until that agent of ours finds me a job.”
“You thinking about independent ball in any place particular?”
“Varner and I are going to try for the same team together.”
“You two on a team…Wow! I don’t know if that league knows what it’s in for. Two chunky, Blue Collar Comedy extras tearing up indie ball.”
“Bad Body Bullpen, brother!” Larry said, giving me a slap on the shoulder. He laughed for a bit, before slipping back into silence as we both came to terms with the fact he was leaving and so would all of our interaction.
“Well, I better call Adam and let him know what’s going on.”
“Yeah. Well, look man, if you need anything, call me, okay?”
“Same to you man. It was good playing with you. Git-er-done out there.”
“I’ll do my best. You be good now.”
“Me? Always,” he said and then winked. We exchanged