The Bullpen Gospels - Dirk Hayhurst [56]
Behind the Diamond Club’s bar, tall windows stretched up to the setting California skyline. Oranges and sapphires blurred together at the pointed, glassy peak. Not only did the club make its home down the left field line of the Storm’s stadium, it also resembled its jewel namesake in construction with its angled glass prismatic.
Candles flickered on tables, and canned heat burned under trays of catered food. Next to the trays were homemade desserts furnished by the host families—cookies, cakes, and pies. Some were store-bought in a pinch, others painstakingly labored over by loving hands. Tupperware bins filled with ice held bottles of Sierra Mist, Dr Pepper, and spring water. A bartender dispensed adult refreshment—free to the players, a benefit that became a liability every year.
The club’s radioman, an excitable, energetic fellow with a goatee and a silver tongue paced about in front of us with a microphone. The first time I met him was in 2004. I was called up from Low-A toward the end of an all-star caliber season to get a taste of the Cal League. I did terribly. The team was selfish, the casino was a nightmare, and my pitching abysmal. It was my first time shouldering expectation, and I did not shoulder it well.
You’ll talk to anyone when you’re doing badly. I quickly exhausted my teammates with my woes. What were they going to say? They all had their own careers to worry about. After my last outing of the year, a particularly bad one, I found myself outside the hotel room of the team’s radioman. When he opened the door, the first thing he did was offer me a beer, something he was rather notorious for. It was kind of him, but I refused in favor of his ear. He listened as I exhausted myself trying to figure out the dilemma of my career in High-A. When I was done, he told me something very simple. This level was like a classroom. Each level was. Our job as players was to learn in each classroom and get As. It was okay if we didn’t yet make the grade immediately; the important thing was, we try to learn as best as we can. Next time we’re tested, we’ll do better, he said. It was about the most poetic thing a man in his boxer shorts, white undershirt, and dress socks could say to another man while polishing off a Bud Light.
Unfortunately, instead of taking it for the insight on life that it was, I insisted on harvesting the sour message that I had gotten an F. In fact, I got an F four years running. I’m sure he didn’t remember that conversation while he acted as the night’s MC. But I did.
“Tell us about your hometown, Dirk,” he said, lifting the tip of the microphone into speaking range.
“I was born in Canton, Ohio, home of the Football Hall of Fame.” This is the third time I’ve told him this little factoid, complete with the Hall of Fame reference. I don’t care for football, but the town is rather unremarkable in all other aspects. We have a few chain restaurants, manufacturing on the decline, and potholes.
“Where did you go to college?”
“I went to Kent State University in Kent, Ohio.” Another repeat.
“Did you graduate?”
“Not yet.”
“What will the degree be when you finish?”
“Communications studies.”
“Thinking about going into radio when you finish?” he asked, in a coy manner.
“I don’t know if I have the personality for it,” I mumbled.
“Now, we both know that’s not true, you’re quite the talker.”
The radioman spun around and faced the audience. He smiled, recalling a particular memory, then turned back to me. “For those of you who don’t know Dirk, he has been here before. This is his fourth year with us, and he’s become a bit of a fan favorite…” My mouth curved up at the enthusiasm in his tone, but my eyes betrayed me, falling downward. My head followed. Fan favorite?