The Bullpen Gospels - Dirk Hayhurst [63]
“It does matter if she’s not of age. You could get in trouble, Stubbs.”
“Only one way to find out,” Maddog said. We all looked at Stubbs, who held the ball. It was his decision.
“Oh what the hell!” Stubbs got up and made his way to the stands. He delivered the ball and walked back. None of us spoke as we waited. Five minutes later the ball was returned to us with the following words: “What happens if I’ve got detention? I’ve been a very naughty girl.”
“Ohhh shit!” the pen roared.
“Wow, he-he.”
“You gotta find out how old she is man.”
“She looks older to me. Definitely over eighteen, like young twenties, for sure.”
“I don’t think it matters at this point.”
“Yeah, what kind of underage girl writes this kind of stuff down?”
Stubbs wrote out the request and made the pilgrimage to the stands for a third time. Again, the ball came back, this time with the following: “Old enough to teach, but young enough to tease. Amy, twenty-five years old, 951-*** ****.
“Wow, who would have thought it would be that easy?”
“Never underestimate the power of a man in uniform, boys,” Rosco said.
“Are you going to call her?”
“Heck, yes, I am, he-he.”
“Oh, we gotta know how that goes down.”
“I wonder what her students think right now?” Pickles said.
“I’ll bet they all wish they could be you, Stubbs!”
“I’ll bet they don’t—most of them are taller than you.”
“Screw you, guys!”
Chapter Twenty
I walked through the clubhouse doors around 2:00 in the afternoon. I put my backpack down and checked the itinerary on the dry erase board. It read Pitchers’ Stretch at 3:15, Position Players at 4. There was a note under the Kangaroo Court list that said Offenders, Pay Your Fucking Fines!
Pickles was standing naked in front of the big screen with a pair of sunglasses on. He was rocking out to “Free Bird” on Guitar Hero. He tells everyone he plays better naked—you get used to it. As long as he doesn’t use his “extra mic” in the song, we’re fine. Several of the other guys were perched around the place, watching Pickles go, like at a real rock concert. He’s fun to watch play, not because he’s naked, but because he really gets into the music, windmilling the guitar and drop-kicking furniture when he hits climactic notes.
I picked my way around the awestruck spectators and dumped my stuff into my locker. You may think it’s strange, grown men sitting around watching a naked man play digital guitar. Maybe it is, but you get used to that too.
I changed, threw on some sandals, and made my way back to join the crowd. I was going to sit on the floor in an open area, but before I could, Slappy grabbed my shoulder and told me not to.
“Why not?” I asked.
“Tiny threw up there, last night.”
“What do you mean, last night? When? We were at the Diamond Club.” The front office keeps the club open for the boys every dollar beer night.
“No, after the Diamond Club. Tiny was so drunk that he didn’t want to go home to his host family, so he came back here and crashed on the couch. He rolled over and threw up on the floor there.” Slappy pointed at the damp spot I was about to sit in. Tiny must have taken liberal advantage of the free brews for players rule.
“He went to the bathroom and threw up there a few times too, then passed out, and slept on the floor in there.”
“He slept on the bathroom floor?” I said, mouth open and hand stuck to forehead. I looked into the bathroom where the floor was wet from some mysterious leak. At least I hoped it was a leak.
“Yeah. It was fucking hilarious. You should have seen it,” Slappy roared.
“Come to think of it, the place does smell a little worse than usual. Did you take pictures?”
“Yeah, but he doesn’t know it yet, so don’t tell.”
“Oh, that’s going to be great blackmail.”
Pickles was just getting into the “Free Bird” guitar solo. We watched him rock, destroying the expert setting as if he wrote the song. He played it through its completion, maxed out all the points, and then tossed the guitar down as if he were bored. He faked a yawn and walked away. Some of the guys applauded.
“You done, Pickles?