The Bullpen Gospels - Dirk Hayhurst [69]
When the bus huffed and puffed into the parking lot, all the future occupants sprang to attention and began forming a line at the presumed point where the bus, or rather the door of the bus, would stop. Everyone jockeyed, shoulder to shoulder, nudging and bumping each other almost in front of the bus itself for a chance at prime seating. As soon as the bus rolled its last inch and its pneumatic brakes exhaled, signaling a full stop, the doors folded open and the gang burst into it like zombies in a cheap horror flick. I got on last. There was no reason for me to rush.
Part of being the oldest guy on the team with higher-level time is I get whatever seat I want, regardless if someone else has it or not. It’s baseball tradition that older guys get the pick of the seating litter, and always has been. I’m not sure where the tradition originated, but it is what it is, and I for one was not going to challenge it.
I walked up the steps to the bus aisle proper and stared down it like Death looking for his next victim. The occupants who had already gotten comfortable held their breath as I made my way down the aisle. Some players pretended to look away, as if I didn’t exist. The age hierarchy of priority seating was law, and it was mine to enforce however I saw fit. I came to a stop in front of the seat I usually take, the one with the few extra inches of precious legroom. It was occupied by Matt Bush.
Bush was the 2004 first pick overall. He was made a millionaire three times over by the draft and wasn’t even twenty yet. However, not even a month into his professional career, he fell out of favor for some stupid stuff he did off the field involving underage drinking and anger. He wasn’t performing as the Padres hoped he would, thus his exploits off the field were his most notable career achievements. Partially the business, partially his own fault, he was under tremendous scrutiny and pressure. I felt sorry for him, actually. Just not sorry enough to let him have the good seat—not this year.
“Beat it, Bush,” I said, like a king throwing the jester from his thrown.
“Come on man, are you serious?” In his defense, no one, regardless of the round they were drafted in, would be happy about this.
“Hell yes, I’m serious. I’m the oldest guy in the Cal League. Now gimme my damn seat!”
Bush rolled his eyes, then retreated to another location. He was definitely irritated, but he didn’t bite me or anything. It felt good to push a first rounder around.
As the time of departure drew near, those players who came late were punished by having to double up with other players for the trip. In order to make their seats seem less inviting, the players already seated spread out as if they had spontaneously gained weight. Some were stretching uncomfortably over the seats, arranging their backpacks, iPods, and magazines in ways that screamed “no room for rent.” Some even pretended to be asleep, hiding under their dark sunglasses.
“I can see your eyes, dude. Just let me sit down and quit faking it.”
“For fuck’s sake, why don’t you just show up on time!”
“It doesn’t matter if I did—there aren’t enough seats for everyone to get his own. Someone was going to double up, so deal with it.”
“Well it didn’t have to be me! God…I hope you get beaned tonight.”
I believe this reaction is why things like seat hierarchies are created.
When everyone is on board, the bus is supposed to go forward—supposed to. Occasionally, some things will occur that alter the normal series of events. Things like breakdowns or late players. Or things like what happened today when the bus driver got on the mic and began talking to us—
Baseball players are not nice, tame animals. Especially not in packs, when they feel safe to bark and snarl and spit thanks to their superior numbers. When the bus driver turned around, the first thing we all noticed was that he was cross-eyed, severely cross-eyed, noticeable even to me sitting in the back. The next thing we noticed, by the excitable way he breathed and groped the bus’s built-in tour-guide microphone,