The Bullpen Gospels - Dirk Hayhurst [58]
I was on a ball field, atop a mound, with fans and players and families standing behind me. Across from me, in the batters box, the Baseball Reaper came up to hit. This was it, where it all would end. I swore I would beat him. I would not stand in fear of him any longer. I dug in on the mound, wound up, and threw my best fastball in for strike one. The crowd behind me cheered, and I lapped up their praise. The Reaper, however, stood motionless. No emotions to be seen underneath his dark mysterious hood as I showboated.
I wound again—a fastball again. I felt my arm would snap as I gave it everything. The ball shot from my hand like fire and down the middle it went, popping into the glove for strike two. The Reaper did not move, his cloak blowing lazily in the wind, with the bat still motionless on his bony shoulder. The ball returned, but the praise and support were gone. Somewhere in the distance, some prospect of unknown origin stood surrounded by the people who once watched me. They had moved on. I was alone, forgotten, and suddenly cold.
The Baseball Reaper did not forget. I owed him another pitch. Once I started this challenge, there was no backing out. Silent, ominous, and sixty feet away, he stood piercing me with his gaze. The reaction came up inside me again, the fire that raged at the game and all its lies. Who cares if the rest of the world was here to see it or if I was alone? I would beat him, or I would watch my career go down in flames trying—it didn’t matter anymore. This was now a competition of will, something beyond muscles, velocity, or baseball talent. All I could control was my approach, and so I wound up with the will to win, unafraid of the worst.
The ball went into flight, rolling off my fingers the way it did so many times before. It spun over and over as it made its way to the mitt. The reaper stood motionless, waiting for the ball to come to him as though he was waiting for the demise of my career.
The ball whipped by him, slamming into the glove for strike three. He did not move. Everything froze. I stood staring at the Baseball Reaper—no emotions, no fear, no joy, no fans, no cheering, no lights, no reporters, nothing but him and me. The reaper dropped the bat, reached up to his cowl with his bony fingers, and pulled back the fabric that hid his face. It was me underneath. It was always me.
The radioman’s microphone lingered near my mouth. “So Dirk, your thoughts?” he asked again.
“I feel very optimistic,” I said, and for the first time in a very long time, I meant it.
Chapter Nineteen
I didn’t get to ride on the fire truck, which sucked. I mean, this was my fourth year at the place, the least they could let me do was ride on the fucking fire truck. Instead, mostly position players came rolling out on the polished red engine. I walked out of the dugout and stood next to it, but you could tell all the fans thought the guys who rode in were much more interesting than me.
Opening night at home is always one of the best experiences in baseball. Though we started the year on a seven-day road series, the season doesn’t have the same kick-off feel to it as it does the first night you walk out to a packed house of your own fans. Most stadiums won’t see this many fans again until a fireworks promotion or a championship series, but it still makes you feel like a rock star even if most of the crowd just happens to be here because it’s dollar beer night.
The bullpen in Lake Elsinore sits down the left field line. It’s cut out of the left side of the stadium, in the left field corner just below the outdoor decks of the Diamond Club. There is a metal bench in the pen, but no one sits on it. Instead, the players use plastic lawn chairs, common seating arrangements for bullpens around the league. When there aren’t enough chairs, players have been known to steal the soft, bar-stool-style seating from the Diamond Club.
Both the Diamond Club and the Lake Elsinore bullpen