The Bullpen Gospels - Dirk Hayhurst [7]
One year had passed since that 3–1 loss in the Cal League finals. During the following season of 2006, I managed to climb up to Double-A, even a short stint in Triple-A. I was, on paper, a Triple-A pitcher, something I could proudly declare whenever asked about my level of experience.
What I couldn’t say, however, is that I earned it. My promotions were gilded. Dig a little and you’ll discover I really didn’t have any tangible success last year. I had poor stats in Double-A. Atrocious ones in Triple-A, and despite my good ERA in High-A, I had a win/loss record of 1–7. I didn’t move up because I was a prospect—quite the opposite actually.
Injuries and call-ups drained all the talent from the system. I, not being a priority guy the club felt like focusing on anymore, was the perfect choice to hop around the system and mop up spilt innings. At one time, the Padres may have kept me securely planted on the developmental track. That was back when I was an All-Star in the Midwest League and a choice conversational piece for media covering up-and-comers in the Padres organization. I was someone to watch out for then. Now four years into my pro career, I was tagged with lines like washout, roster filler organizational guy. The only all-star team I belonged on was the winter batting practice bruisers who bean high schoolers in rusty machine shops. Maybe not even that.
In four years, I’d failed to impress the people who do the promoting. I was a cold product, and folks who knew the game from the inside, folks like Mazz, knew where a guy like me, an aging, senior college signee with a small bonus and unattractive career numbers, was headed.
Mazz understood how the game works. He knew the outward appearance of success was just that, the appearance of it. He knew I was trying desperately to make sure people didn’t know the rest of the story, and he loved to call me out on it.
Sure, the game isn’t fair and guys who don’t deserve it move up all the time. Several players in my situation have hopped up levels, paying no thought to the opportunity or to the way they got it, only to have a run of unprecedented success. I wish I could say I was one of those players.
The vast majority of people who love this game care only for big-time players with big-time numbers. I wasn’t one of those, but I was faking it as best I could. The way I carried on, you’d never know I was back in the same situation I was a year ago, standing at the edge, staring into the pit of my career’s end. For all the Gatorade-sipping boys knew, I was shooting through the system. Three levels in one year. Triple-A time was just a step away from the big leagues. Sounds impressive, especially when presented in a way that, again, misdirected attention from the whole truth. Yet, no matter how much smoke, mirrors, or sugary sports drinks I used, I couldn’t misdirect the truth away from myself. Every opportunity I had last year, I failed to impress. I was on my way out barring something inexplicable. As soon as the organization found a younger guy to do my job better, I’d get chopped, and there’s always a younger guy.
The boys’ coach pointed at me, “Watch his finish. See how he gets through each of his pitches?” He bent over in imitation, balancing on one leg.
“Yeah, he’s going to look great in a Wild Things uniform isn’t he?” Mazz said. He had finished his lesson and now came to mock.
“Why don’t you grab a bat and stand in here, Mazz,” I called to him.
“No thanks, I don’t want to embarrass you in front of your fans,” he said. “I might be older, but I can still turn on your eighty-six.”
“I thought you said you threw ninety-two,” the coach said.
“Whoops,” Mazz said, tittering.
“I, uh…well…I can. I mean, I don’t right now because it’s cold and I’m still getting into