The Bullpen Gospels - Dirk Hayhurst [57]
“Dirk is in contention for a Storm Record,” he continued. “He’s only…”
Who cares? Contention for most something of some stat that didn’t even remotely matter to me. Some pile of minor league numbers I’d gladly exchange for being a step up or a single second of big-league time. He talked happily though, enthusiastically, as if I won on a game show.
“Dirk, I have to take a moment here and go back in time with you. I want to go back to a game in 2005. Do you remember that championship game?”
“Yes, I do.” Of course, I did. How could I forget that giant mental splinter?
He replayed the tale of the most infamous game of my life. The six dominant innings I pitched. The horrible feeling when the bullpen blew the game. Of course, he said it all more cheerily than I would have. “That was one of the best games I’ve ever seen pitched, certainly one of the best Storm games ever played.”
“I appreciate that.”
“Why don’t you tell us what that felt like, pitching in a game like that?” He brought the microphone up to my lips to collect my answer. Those sitting around perked up for my insightful monologue.
Sure, I could tell you what it’s like: it’s as if your soul gets ripped out of you. It’s like someone stomps on your neck and then giggles. It’s as if, oh, I don’t know, you’re getting told you had a good spring, but you’re going back to A-ball.
“Best moment of my career,” I said.
The radioman was so well meaning. Nothing he said was meant to hurt, and still I felt as if I was being flogged in public. It’s no fun lying to make yourself look good, but worse still is keeping up a lie so others can believe in you. I wanted to escape, but the microphone wasn’t going anywhere, unfortunately, and neither was I.
“It’s good to have you back Dirk, though we doubt you’ll be here very long. What are your thoughts on this upcoming season?”
This is the part where the player says he’s going to do great, where he’s sure the team will win, and where he’ll pitch the hell out of it. I didn’t want to lie, and so I didn’t want to answer. I didn’t even want to speak. The anger and the disappointment would surely come out if I opened my mouth. I wished Maddog or Slappy would do something stupid and distract the audience so I could sneak out. I wished for Armageddon, as I did minutes before the championship game we just blissfully discussed.
I dropped my head. The radioman shifted awkwardly. I’m sure the crowd thought I was choosing the right words, but I wasn’t thinking about that season. I was thinking about my life, and how I got up on this stage, and how I had had enough lying about the situation.
I lost faith in the game, lost faith in myself, and felt chained to something I didn’t care about anymore. How it was all a sham. I was tired of being a stat, a bad one, and I didn’t want to be remembered for what I almost did. You sell your soul to this game, and it gives you nothing to go on but the promise of chance. We chase it like donkeys after a carrot until we are put out to pasture or ascend to what? Gods of entertainment? Who cares what happens this season?
This is a wicked business, hiding behind soft candlelight and homemade desserts. I was tired of being a commodity and tired of lining up and thanking people for the opportunity of almost making it. I was tired of getting dragged up in front of people and having bad things spun clean by nice-speaking people. If I was going to be lost in the folds of some minor league town, then I go out on my terms. This rage and disgust was coming out, and I didn’t care what happened. I was already a loser, how much worse could it get? Send me back to my junkyard of broken dreams, I will find another way if I must. I was a competitor scorned, and believe me, I had a few things to say about it.
All the emotions of my private battle with the game swirled up to my tongue. The radioman lifted the microphone to my face, and I felt the fire coming up inside. When the heat came to my mouth, it melted away the Diamond Club walls and burnt the roof down.