The Bullpen Gospels - Dirk Hayhurst [51]
“Fine, sheesh, you guys don’t have to get bent out of shape over it. It was just a suggestion.” On that, Daigle, who may have been the nicest, most well-meaning one in the group, turned around and made his way back toward the middle of the bus like a whipped puppy, curling up somewhere between Seth and the crew in the back near me.
“Some guys just don’t know when to quit, huh?” the group of lion cubs mumbled.
“So where were we?”
“I have a question,” Pickles said. “If a guy sucks your dick, does that make you gay?”
“Absolutely.”
“That’s what I thought.”
I followed Maddog’s example, reclined my chair, and kicked my feet up with a grin on my face. Not only was this free entertainment, but it looked as if it could go on all day. And to think, I was worried about making a good first impression.
Chapter Sixteen
“This is just great,” Slappy said. “We got Hayhurst with Triple-A time, seventeen fucking prospects and high-round picks and superstars on this team—I’m never going to pitch!”
It didn’t seem as if Slappy was the kind of guy who received many compliments. “Relax Slap-nuts,” Rosco said, sitting on his knees facing back toward me, with his head popped over the seat back of his chair like a prairie dog. “They’ll need someone like you around to fill in innings between when the studs throw.”
“I think that’s my job, actually,” I said, inducing a polite, if not merciful chuckle.
The bus was settled, and we were rolling now. Having made each other’s acquaintances, sorted out the histories of our respective careers, and made an orientation ruling on oral sex, we did our best to deduce who would be in what role this season: starters, relievers, closer, and all the guys in between. Seth and Sanchy stayed up front. Daigle refrained from participation. The rest of the clan settled around me in the back and talked shop.
I was the oldest of the group. Having some higher-level time, I was treated as if I knew more about the game than I actually did. If anything, at this point, I knew less than ever.
“Seriously, what is your job?” Tiny asked. “Are you starting?”
“I don’t know. They didn’t tell me,” I said.
“I’ll bet you’re starting. I’ll bet the rotation is you, me, Frenchy, Brent, Daigle, Buschmann—oh, wait, that’s six guys.”
“I don’t think I’m starting. I think I’m long relief.”
“No, that’s Pickles.” Pickles smiled, and mouthed the words big one.
“Well, then I’m the bullpen coach. Hell, I don’t know. All I can say is I’m not starting.”
“You started in Triple-A though, right?” Tiny asked.
I was honestly sick of hearing about what I did in Triple-A. “I did, but it wasn’t all that spectacu—”
“Holy shit, you started in Triple-A and now you’re down here in the bullpen. Wow, that really blows, huh?” Slappy blurted.
“Jesus Slappy—” Rosco put his hand to his forehead.
“What? I didn’t mean that as a knock against Hayhurst. I’m just saying. That blows.”
“No offense taken.” I had nothing left to offend.
“See? We’re cool.”
“So, you think they are just sending you here to get you some innings?” Rosco asked.
“They didn’t say. The only thing I can tell you is, I’m not a priority.”
“I’ll bet you were pretty pissed when they told you that, huh?”
“Well, I wasn’t thrilled about it, but…” I let the answer slip away.
“So what are you going to do?” Tiny pressed.
I looked out the window. The desert rolled by. The sun was starting to set, painting the skyline in oranges and purples. How many days of my life have I spent on buses like this? How much longer until the sun sets on my career?
“Not much I can do, bro. Keep pitching is all. As long as you got a jersey, you got a chance,” I robotically regurgitated.
Tiny scratched his head. “Well, if they would have told that stuff to me, I would have…” Off he went, doing what all players do in situations where they vicariously live the life of a player they believed was screwed. They do what I told myself I was going to do a million times before I went into that office. They talk big about how they’d tell the brass to shove it up their collective asses, get