The Bullpen Gospels - Dirk Hayhurst [70]
“Uh, hello everyone. I really hope you guys win today. I’ll be cheering you on from the bus. If you play hard, I know you’ll all be winners. Do it for your love of the game and stay positive—”
“Get off the mic!”
“Drive the bus!”
“Turn around.”
“Stop looking at me that way!”
He looked at our team’s manager, who pretended he was asleep.
“Uh.” The bus driver tried to figure out what was happening. He forced out some nervous laughter, wringing off the microphone chord. “You guys are all winners and—”
“Are you a coach or a bus driver?”
“Why are we still here?”
“We pay you to drive.”
“Sit down, Ralph.”
“Turn the air-conditioning on, Steve.”
“Let’s fucking go, Barry.”
“Have a seat, Don.”
“Quit staring at me, Ronald.”
The rattling off of names was done in an attempt to guess the name of the bus driver. It was almost a game to see who could guess his name first, each guess with its own complimentary insult.
“My name’s Tim, and I’ll be—”
“GET OFF THE MIC, TIM!”
Overwhelmed, poor Tim consented. The manager still feigned sleep, but there had to be a smile on his face. Tim put the mic down, and we started applauding him. He didn’t know it, but he was just initiated into the fold. If he did a good job, the guys on the team would treat him like royalty. If he did a bad job, well, he may as well drive this bus off a cliff. We wish we could all be winners, but let’s be honest, the “everyone’s a winner” talk lost its meaning back when fathers stopped buying ice-cream cones after the games for their red-blooded American boys. This is a lifestyle now, not a feel-good exercise. If you are going to work closely to a team, do yourself a favor and check your clueless speeches at the door.
As the bus crept up into the mountains on its way to High Desert, a master plan was hatched. It was partially my fault, since I was the one who brought it up.
“Do you remember what Skip did last year?” Brent asked, sitting up a few rows from me.
Skip did a lot of things, to a lot of women, in a lot of towns. It was hard to pinpoint exactly which incident Brent was referencing. “Which girl?” I asked.
“No, not that. I meant the sign he made for the bus trips.”
Oh yes, that. Skip thought it would be a good idea, a boon for team chemistry and all that, if he solicited those passing us on the highway for free entertainment. He drew up a sign, written on a white trainer’s towel that read Please Show Us Your Boobs. Cheers!
It wasn’t so much that the idea was invented. In fact it was actually rather odd the idea hadn’t come up sooner. I think every minor league team has done it. I’m confident major league teams would do it if they didn’t fly places. Rather, the irony was that so many women obliged.
Car after car of ladies would do double takes at the white towel flown by lustful faces pressed against window glass. Several women would laugh and shake their heads, but a certain sect acted as if it were an audition. They’d steady the wheels with their knees; then they’d flash the bus for a second or two before blushing and laughing hysterically at their inner naughtiness. Once we encountered a very willing caravan full of sorority girls, and on yet another trip, we had so many ladies flash, a couple guys drew up additional numbered signs and acted as judges. Out of decency, we never offered a score below an eight.
“Yeah, I remember,” I yelled back.
“Remember what?” Slappy asked. Brent and I looked at each other. A mischievous smile curled across Brent’s face. I put my hand on my head.
I explained the story to Slappy, and his reaction was immediate. “Do we have a towel?”
“You are such a savage, Slappy.”
“Yeah, like you don’t want me to do it, Tiny.”
“People are going to think we’re perverts.”
“It’s Southern California—they’re probably perverts too.”
I actually tried to talk Slappy out of the idea. It usually ended with a strict scolding from the team manager. But there was no stopping Slappy now that the idea was out in the open—a new crop of players, a new manager, a new highway full of talent. History looked