The Bullpen Gospels - Dirk Hayhurst [59]
Before our merry band of relievers took to the pen, Pickles jumped up onto the lip of the grass and shouted in his best superhero voice, “Bullpen, assemble!” Supposedly, we relievers were to leap to our feet and rush to his side like the Super Friends, maybe even combined into one large reliever like Voltron. Instead, I got up from the dugout bench like an old man getting out of his rocking chair, Slappy put a dip in, and Maddog accidentally dropped his glove on someone’s spit out gum.
As we made our way to the pen, fans splashed against the stadium’s fencing, begging us for autographs. We signed everything from hats and programs to ticket stubs and sandwich wrappers. It always boggles my mind how fans will fight all over themselves at a chance to get one of our names scribbled on their souvenirs. If only they knew what we were under these jerseys. Just hours before the game, the team debated the question of when a protein shake should be consumed—before or after sex? During, we decided, if you have a hand free.
After signatures came the sound of something I truly despised—the constant petitioning for the game’s more revered souvenir.
“Can I have a ball?” legions of children squawked.
“No. Sorry.”
“Why not?”
“We can’t give these out.”
“Why not? You have a whole bag full of them.”
“I’m sorry, I’m not allowed. Our coaches will get mad at us. I can only give out foul balls.”
“Well, if you get another foul ball hit down here, can I have it?”
“Yeah, sure.”
“Can I have a ball?”
“No. Sorry.”
“Why not?”
“You were standing right behind the other kid when I told him no. Weren’t you listening?”
“Can I have it if I listen?”
“No kid, you can’t have a ball. I can’t give these out.”
“Why not?”
“Because our coaches will get mad at us.”
“They don’t have to know.”
“They’ll find out. Sorry I can’t give you a ball.”
Some of the other guys on the team handled it differently—like Slappy, for example.
“Can I have a ball?”
“Sure, they’re ten bucks at the gift shop.”
“Why can’t you give me one?”
“It’s un-American to give it out for free.”
“You’re mean.”
“You’re annoying. Go sit down.”
Then there was the Spanish rejection.
“Can I have a ball?”
“Que?”
“Um, can I have a ball?”
“Que? No habla Ingles.”
“But you were just talking to that other guy in English.”
“Que?”
And, my personal favorite.
“Can I have a ball?”
“No.”
“I’ll give you twenty bucks for one.”
“SOLD! Show me the money kid.”
“I don’t have it; let me go ask my parents.”
“Well hurry up because I don’t know how much longer I can guarantee this price.”
“Dude, you’re not seriously going to sell that kid a ball are you?”
“Why not? I need the money more than he does. I can’t afford to come to these games on what I make.”
The pen’s seating arrangement puts us close enough to the edge of the stands to warrant constant petitioning for baseballs throughout the contest. If you ever come down to the pen to ask for a ball from a player and he ignores you, it’s probably because he knows what you want, can’t give it to you, and is sick of explaining it. We began rejecting requests one after another until we were sick of rejecting fans and just ignored them altogether.
“You know, there has got to be a better way to deal with this,” I said.
“What do you mean, like make a big sign that says ‘no free baseballs’?”
“No, I mean, we have this high-demand item. Every kid wants a baseball. It’s a simple economic issue—supply and demand. We could make this profitable. Back in my communications studies days my professors always said collaboration was the best way to solve an issue. Well, this is