The Bullpen Gospels - Dirk Hayhurst [75]
Another single was rapped out to center, two runners scored. When the dust settled, Webby was standing on the lip of the dugout. Looking down toward the pen, he took his hat off, the universal sign for Is he ready?
“You ready?” Slappy asked.
Of course I’m not ready, it’s freezing and I’ve throw ten pitches! “Yeah, I’m good,” I replied.
Slappy took his hat off to signal back. Our manager called time and went out to retrieve Brent.
There’s a surge of adrenaline a reliever feels before he enters a game. A quick jog to a pile of dirt under the lights, and the cold, barren, windswept desert is now your battlefield. You versus the guy with a stick, both trying to carve out a living. Numbers will be accumulated, stats added, careers evaluated in that merciless piecemeal fashion baseball is famous for. All of it, humming along in the background whether you’re loose and ready or not.
The first batter singled off me and two more of Brent’s runs scored. While it may be frustrating to give up my own runs, I absolutely hate giving up other pitchers’ runs—especially those of friends. I covered my face with my mitt and fired off nine or ten F-bombs in response to the single. I got the next hitter to pop out, but the damage was done. I hand delivered Brent’s runs. Some friend I was.
The team ran me out for the sixth, and I promptly punched out the first hitter I faced. The second hitter, the leadoff man, earned another single. I found myself facing the meat of the order with a runner on, one out, and the two hole stepping in.
It’s natural to watch a batter enter the box, because a lot can be learned from observing his setup. Stance, hands, weight, plate proximity—each gives a clue to the type of hitter you’re facing. In the case of this hitter, it was none of the above. He was peeking at the signs. Not blatantly gawking, but his eyes were definitely wandering back to Sanchy’s hands as he telegraphed pitches.
I stepped off. Maybe it was a fluke? I thought, pacing about the mound. I licked my hand, smacked the rosin bag, and reset myself on the rubber. This time I watched the batter and paid no attention to Sanchy at all.
The batter’s head shifted slightly and his eyes bounced back. He was looking at Sanchy’s hand, alright, That motherf—. I stepped off again. Sanchy popped up and called a time-out. He jogged out to the mound to meet me.
“Uh, is you okay?”
“He’s peeking at your signs, Sanchy.”
“He pee-king?”
“He’s looking at your hands.” I said it slower, pantomiming with my hands as I talked.
“Oh, he see my hands!” Sanchy looked back angrily at the batter, but I grabbed his shoulder and pulled him around to me. “You want hit that fucking guy?” he asked, making a fist and pounding his glove. I smiled. He didn’t speak the best English but didn’t need to.
“No,” I said. This wasn’t the time.
If there’s any reason a pitcher can hit a batter, it’s for stealing signs. But then he’s on base. Next thing I know, I’m watching the three-hole hitter lift a fly into the High Desert jet stream. What was a fun bonding experience with Sanchy is now a bloated ERA. “Go back there and set up outside.”
“Fastbol?”
“Yeah, just set up away. Let him see the sign too.”
“What, why jou wanna—”
“Let him see it.”
“Let’s go boys,” the umpire said. He had walked out to the mound now, anxious to keep the game moving.
“Sorry Blue, we’re good,” I said. I nodded at Sanchy, who still looked confused.
Sanchy jogged back to the plate and squatted, the umpire followed. I reset on the mound and the batter stepped in. I watched the batter’s eyes as Sanchy put the sign down. He peeked again, just like before. I nodded to Sanchy, accepting his sign, though I never had any intention of throwing what he called, even though I told him to