The Bullpen Gospels - Dirk Hayhurst [55]
The first few days with a newly formed club serve as orientation for the players. For most of the players, it’s a new routine in a new town. We’ll be playing at night, with games ending at 10 P.M. instead of us going to bed at that hour as we did for the last forty days of spring training. In order to get acclimated to the time differences, practices are scheduled late in the day, under field lighting. Our bodies won’t adjust in the few days we have before the games start their inexorable march to September, but it’s a start.
This is also the time that jersey numbers are fought over, lockers are chosen, uniform pants are altered, and hats, bats and gloves are broken in. Franchise front-office faces are linked to names while hands are shaken and pictures are taken. Video clips for the big display board in the outfield are recorded. Come-out music for batters to walk to the plate and pitchers to take the hill are selected.
My number that year was 35. I didn’t pick it, I just took what fit. Some of the guys fight over more prized digits. Numbers 21, 22, and 23 are always hot commodities. The 7 or numbers with 7s at the end are also highly sought. Double digits are precious as well. Certain digits endear themselves to different players for different reasons. A player may have had a great college career in a number, and he hopes to keep the streak alive by wearing it in the pros. Maybe a relative wore a certain number, and it’s family tradition to keep it. It could be the number of a former baseball hero, and it gives you the goose bumps every time you put it on now that you’re a pro too. They’re all great reasons; it’s a shame there’s only one of each number.
A pair of guys ended up gambling over a digit. They turned to the precision-crafted, divinely empowered, age-old, time-tested decider of rock-paper-scissors. Rock won in the decisive third round, capturing the honor to wear number 23. Scissors was left with 28. I have also seen numbers bargained for using the baseball equipment commodities market. Dip, chew, extra batting gloves, bats, and mitts have been used to leverage jersey numbers.
Come-out songs, are selected in a much more metaphysical way. Guys will skulk around with their headphones on, iPods cranked, trying to gauge the “power” of favored songs. Then they’ll turn to their teammates. “Listen to this. Which one do you think sounds more badass?” The head phones will get passed, the music replayed, the headphones passed back. “I don’t know; they’re both good.” Very few players have one song they favor over all others, and it usually comes down to the wire.
Country boys will choose country songs—tunes about their homeland, their heritage, and their pickup truck. The prima donna with the flashy car and the jet-setter wardrobe will select a hip-hop ballad declaring what a stunner Pimp, or Baller he is. The hard-edged guy with the short temper and addiction to Red Bull will require a rock song that makes him feel like Bruce Banner on the verge of becoming the Incredible Hulk. All these choices are safe, but the ones that make for the best are those that stray from the beaten path. Some guys may like the path they’re on just fine, but personally, I believe a little originality makes a player and his tune memorable. This year I decided that if I didn’t pitch well, at least I would be remembered for my song. I picked “Give It to Me Baby” by Rick James.
I enjoyed my few days before the start of the season, planning out player appearances, talking with front-office people, and getting to know my host family and their dog. There was too much to do to think about roles, futures, and demotions. I was angry of course, but I pressed it deep down inside, where it bubbled and stewed. Whenever I let it creep up, the antics of Slappy and the boys kept me distracted. I had nearly forgotten that I had been banished back to A-ball. At least until the night of the 2007 Meet the Storm Diamond Club dinner party, that is.
Chapter Eighteen
Four of us sat in a row, perched on the Diamond Club’s bar stools like bachelors in