The Bullpen Gospels - Dirk Hayhurst [43]
More people got cut that day than any other cut day I had been a part of in my four spring trainings. It was a real butchering—hard to watch. The stretch lines were noticeably thinner and social circles were sparse. There was no morning joke. When Grady spoke at the morning meeting, it was easier to gather in because most of the space formerly taken up by extra players was vacant.
Grady informed us that the updated rosters would be set before the end of the day and that there were a few cuts still remaining. The green light for us to coast was definitely not on. Frenchy nudged me during that part.
Grady told us this was one of the hardest days in his career and it’s never enjoyable releasing players. He said that he released a lot of excellent men today. I’m glad he said that part. I’m glad he took a moment to acknowledge them as men, not just cattle. Then, however, he said something that will never leave me. “Gentlemen, in just a short while, you’ll be heading off to your respective towns and teams. Remember, you are gods to the people in these towns. You are their entertainers. Conduct yourself accordingly. Be professionals and represent yourselves and the organization well.” Was that what this was really all about? Being a god of entertainment?
When I left camp in the afternoon, I was still on the Double-A roster. Some cuts came at the end of the day—people who played in the games like the lefties predicted. I was not one of them. I had made it. I had survived another spring training, something I did not truly grasp until that evening when I sat in my hotel room alone. The maids had come while I was out and erased any trace Larry left behind.
I sat in the dark at the tiny kitchenette table, television off, curtains pulled shut. I thought about various mantras of the sports world—how winning is about beating out the other guy and only the strong survive. I thought about being a god of entertainment. I thought about the people who would worship me. Finally, I thought about the guys who lost out to me in this spring’s battle for roster spots, and about all those years together in the trenches, only to be shot down by friendly fire. When I got into the game, I never thought I’d be friends with the guys I’d have to beat to keep my dream going. Winning doesn’t feel like winning when it happens this way.
Coaches tell Little Leaguers “heart” is the most important thing a player possesses, yet when money mixes into the equation, heart slides to the bottom of the list. Heart has this do-gooder, patriotic nature to it, like George Washington had a lot of it and so did Gandhi. What about Lars, pushing through agony to get his arm back in shape, and how bad he wanted to make it, no matter how much pain he had to endure? I guess sometimes heart doesn’t look as warm and cuddly as we expect it to. Sometimes it looks like a tattooed maniac who listens to Rammstein. And sometimes, it doesn’t matter how much of it you have. On days like this one, a person could swear the meaning of life is as simple as making a roster.
I thought for a long time about the game, about now I was back in it and about how I got the chance I worked for all off-season—a chance to be someone again, someone with a title and a purpose. I was back on track to be a Double-A player, maybe prospect again. I wouldn’t have to bend the truth about my career, and maybe, just maybe, I could make it after all.
After two hours of sitting in silence, the sudden ring of my hotel room phone was deafening. I stood up and grabbed the receiver.
“Dirk?” the voice of one of the trainers asked.
“Yeah, buddy, how’s it going?”
“Hey, uh, Earp wanted me to call you and tell you not to pack for the Double-A van tomorrow.”
“What?”
“Yeah, he said not to bring your stuff to the field.”
“What do you mean don’t bring my stuff to the field? I’m on the Double-A roster, we leave tomorrow.”
“I don’t know what’s going on with that. He just asked me to call you and tell you this.”
I sat down. “Do I at least have a job?