The Bullpen Gospels - Dirk Hayhurst [52]
“I still can’t believe you went from starting in Triple-A to no role in the pen here,” Slappy mumbled.
“Look, Triple-A is just more of the same, okay. The hitters are a little better because they’re older and a few have big-league time. I got my ass kicked up there because I spent too much time obsessing over how I was in Triple-A to do my job. I pitched terrible. If you can pitch, if you can execute, you can do well at any level because it’s all the same game. I was so afraid of blowing it that that’s exactly what I did. Don’t let anyone tell you it’s something it isn’t or tell you you’re something you’re not. You guys are all more talented than I am, and if you do your job, you could be up there before the year is out.” My words caught me off guard. I’d never been that honest before. It was just too much work to be dishonest about it anymore. Funny, being honest actually sounded strong. It made me realize how fearful and fragile it sounds when all a person does is cover up the truth or talk about how good they are. I don’t think I could’ve spoken that way even a week before.
No one had time to digest the words as Slappy interrupted with, “Hey, you guys want in on this?” and produced a bottle of vodka from some mysterious location. Maddog countered with a bottle of Sprite.
That wasn’t supposed to be on the bus, but then again, there were no coaches on board for this trip. What the management didn’t know wouldn’t hurt them. Hell, even when they did know, as long as they didn’t see it, they didn’t say anything. This generation of players were definitely not the first generation to booze their way through a long bus trip.
This bus was heading toward the Lake Elsinore Hotel and Casino, so if you were a player doing the math on whether this was a safe trip to drink on, it was relatively risk free. Once we got off the bus, we’d be checking into a hotel, not driving around under the influence. The coaches wouldn’t be there when we got out, and since this was a minor league squad, there wouldn’t be a horde of fans awaiting our arrival. If you had any concern about the image we would present to the hotel operators—wait until you see the place.
“I’ll jump on that,” Rosco said. He guzzled the water remaining is his bottle and handed it over to Slappy, who used it to mix up some time-travel tonic. Pickles handed his over next.
“How strong do you like it, Pickles?”
“Strong enough to put hair on my chest.”
Slappy played bartender, and mixed up stiff ones for Pickles, Tiny, Maddog, Seth, and himself.
“You want to hit this Hay?”
“No, I’m good, thanks.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah, I’m sure, more for you.”
“I like where your head is at Hay!”
One hour and several refills later, we were out of vodka and Sprite. Slappy was passed out. Maddog watched the scenery pass by on the highway—his head hitting the seat back as he followed it. Rosco drunk dialed folks in his cell phone contacts. Pickles was glued to Layer Cake, watching it over the shoulder of Daigle, who had it playing on his laptop. Tiny was talking to me, or at me, rather, forcing me to practice in drunk psychiatry.
“Yeah bro, and then she was like, I just wanna be friends. How can we be friends after that man? Am I supposed to forget it, I mean, we have it on film, bro.” I’d give you the details, but it would be $2.99 for the first minute and $1.99 for each additional. Suffice to say, it was a situation in which all I could offer was, “Women, what can you do?”
“I know man, I fucking know. Women!” He took another slug of his drink to emphasize his point, then slapped a heavy, big-boned arm around me. “What about you, bro? Let it out man, I’m here for you. You know you can trust me.”
I smiled at Tiny. He was right, I could totally trust him because in his current state there was no way he would remember anything I said.
“I don’t know, Tiny. I don’t know what I’m feeling.