The Bullpen Gospels - Dirk Hayhurst [72]
Dry heaving, coughing, and moaning, the pirates fell back in their seats, hitting the deck as if fat, fleshy, pendulous cannonballs had struck the bus.
“That’s the most disgusting thing I have ever seen.”
“I think I’m gay now. I think I just turned gay because of that.”
“Take the sign down! Take it down before she does anything else!”
Someone’s ass went back up against the glass, but she didn’t leave as the other one did.
Slappy wadded up the towel and threw it at me. “Great idea, Hayhurst. My penis hates you!”
Chapter Twenty-two
The area around the High Desert stadium is not among the most picturesque locations in baseball. There is a beautiful view of snowcapped mountains during certain times of the year, but the immediate view is far from captivating. It looks like a former testing ground for atomic bombs—flat, barren, windswept land with a burned out feel to it. There isn’t much development near the stadium either, giving it a remote feel sitting lonesome off a bumpy stretch of road on the outskirts of Victorville, California.
The place depresses me. Something about long stretches of flat, cold, windy deserts just feels sad. Then there is the high altitude. They don’t call the place High Desert for nothing. The stadium is the minor league equivalent to Coors Field. Couple the elevation with the wind, and it’s easy to understand why the park hosts so many games in the ten-run range. The unceasing high-altitude jet streams act like a tractor beam, simply sucking fly balls over the fence. If you aren’t depressed when you get there, you will be after you watch your ERA increase in altitude.
At night the temperature drops substantially. The park’s bullpen, which is nothing more than a single slat of wood forming a bench only four relievers can sit on at a time, offers no shelter from the elements when the sun sets. The wind picks up and the cold air cuts through our spandex outfits as if we weren’t wearing anything at all.
Though not the oldest in the league, the park is not a very comfortable experience for the away club. The locker room is nearly the size of a semitruck trailer. Lockers line the sides of it, with folding tables in the center. The confines are so tight, when pre-game food is put out, players have to sit wedged inside their locker cavities to make room for others to get through. Poorly ventilated, fly stripping hangs over the meals, coated with the dead insects like a decaying chandelier.
There’s no training room. The trainer’s table and equipment are also crammed into the locker room, as are all the coaches, the manager, and his desk. There is a soda machine, which would only make sense, and the manger’s desk sits next to the toilets and showers to make room for it. Sure, his shoulder is getting brushed against by naked guys who just took a dump, but on the bright side, he’s only an arm’s reach away from a Dr Pepper.
When the bus pulled into the parking lot and the boys began to filter out I languished at the end. I watched the guys exit noticing how the wind grabbed their coats when they stepped out. The unseen force, a constant at this park, smeared their hair and pulled it across their faces. It was gusting, straight out toward the outfield.
Getting off this bus was a gut check for me. I couldn’t believe I was here, again. It’s amazing how nice parks make you feel proud of your career, whereas garbage ones make you wish it was over. I got off, grabbed my equipment, and fought the gale into the locker room. I picked a locker away from the high-traffic areas ensuring that I spent as little time forced in my locker as possible. Apparently, there were not enough seats to go around today. Some of the plastic chairs were broken to begin with, the backs snapped off or kicked through, no doubt the aftermath of a