The Bullpen Gospels - Dirk Hayhurst [48]
Prime seating was the reason I arrived so early. The only good reason I had. Even now, the urge to get up and get off this bus was still hard to resist. I could be on a plane right now. The Padres owed me my last year of college via our contract, and I would finally have time to get that degree in communications studies, which, I admit, was something almost as useless as the five fruitless years in the minors were shaping up to be. If I got up right now, I could go home—home, yeah, right. That was the reason I got on this bus.
Sanchy, a Spanish catching prospect and this year’s starting catcher for Lake Elsinore, boarded after me. He sat his pack down, unloaded a few travel items, and seated himself.
Catcher is the only position that has to worry about mound-side manner. A good catcher is one who can handle a pitcher well even if it means treating him as if he were the second coming when he’s on the mound or handing him crayons because he’s too stupid to read a coloring book. Catchers have to have a way with encouraging words. Sanchy dug into his pack and produced the book Ingles Para Dummies—so much for that idea.
Two more players, gangly pitcher types, galloped onto the bus. They squeezed Sanchy’s shoulders in place of hello then proceeded farther into the bus. Chatting as they came toward me, the lead looked back to his partner and said, “So then he says, ‘No, it’s not gay, he was sucking my dick.’ Can you believe that?”
I knew the speaker from playing with him last year in Lake Elsinore. Rosco, an easygoing right-handed reliever, was my former road roommate—I chose him because he was affable, well tempered, and didn’t snore. The guy behind him was not a new face, but someone I didn’t know. I saw a lot of him during the spring because he was part of a band of guys always horsing around near my locker. They were hilarious to watch, even though I didn’t know what was going on, like right now, for example. Their in-jokes reminded me that I was on the outside of the loop, and worried about making a good first impression. The pair made their way back toward my seat and parked. Rosco looked at me and said, “Dirky.”
“Rosco,” I responded. The other gentleman reached out his hand and introduced himself as Pickles.
“He’s got a big one,” Rosco said, commenting on Pickles.
“Umm, that’s great,” I said, shaking Pickles’ hand and then wiping my own on my leg. By the time the bus was done filling, I wouldn’t know most of the people on it. All my friends were off to San Antonio, and the few people I did know on this team, like Brent and Frenchy, had found other rides. They worked out arrangements to drive with other players. Lake Elsinore is the only minor league team location that players can drive to in the Padres organization. All the other affiliate cities were flights. The busing service was provided for those who didn’t have cars. Maybe I could have found a ride, but since my roster change was on such short notice, I was out of luck for an open seat.
Just as well. The bus would have ten people on board, if that. It would be relatively quiet and relaxed. I could throw my headphones on while we drove and listen to Bono or Dylan or some other great lyricist to help me make sense of what I’m doing with my life from the sanctity of the bus’s rear.
Next to board the bus was a broad-shouldered, aloof-looking guy who seemed so mellow and pleased, you could mistake him for stoned. Behind him sprung an animated character sporting a polo shirt with its collar messed up, wrinkled khaki shorts, and flip-flops. As relaxed as the first gentleman was, the second one seemed just as tightly wound.
A horn honked outside the bus, and the excitable guy pressed his head against the bus window, immediately flicking off the car driving by. “Yeah, fuck you, guys!” he screamed.
Pickles greeted our excitable new friend with, “What’s the matter now, Slappy?”
“False friends