The Bullpen Gospels - Dirk Hayhurst [78]
“We are lost again.”
“Oh my God! Are you kidding me?” It was beyond frustrating; it was now completely ridiculous—absurd even. It was late, the bus smelled like a Turkish prison, and we just saw two dudes go at it—neither one a hot hermaphrodite.
Our anger subsided only when fatigue overcame frustration. The bus turned around and started going in a new direction. The movie finished, and no one dared put anything else in. It was almost five in the morning, and everyone was thoroughly miserable. Exhausted, uncomfortable, we slumped back and wished for any sleep we could get.
The next time the bus stopped, the sun was up. We were at the hotel in Modesto. Somehow, some way, I shambled through the check-in process and made it to my room where I passed out. An hour later, I was woken up by power tools. The room next to mine was being renovated.
Chapter Twenty-four
No batting practice and a late stretch time—the manager was giving us a break for our enduring the sentence we served to get to Modesto. Even with the relaxed schedule, it felt like a blink from departing High Desert to the time I found myself sitting in another bullpen.
Modesto’s stadium was newer. The facilities were good for A-ball: breathing room in the clubhouse, no fly strips, separate rooms for the coaching staff. The stadium itself was situated next to a golf course surrounded by green trees and grassy fairways, a far cry from the barren flats and nosebleed-inducing altitude of High Desert. Though the bullpen was nothing more than a row of chairs stretching down the side of the left field fence, at least there were enough chairs for all of us.
Getting up for a game on no sleep requires copious amounts of caffeine. Some of the guys were nursing their second Red Bulls, others suckled strings of coffee cups. Our eyes were bloodshot and our faces washed out. We looked like animated corpses. Having thrown the previous night, I would have tonight off unless we got into a real mess. I refrained from energy drinks in favor of a nap, inconspicuously nodding off, my hat angled down to hide my closed lids from fans and coaches alike.
“Come on, Hayhurst,” Slappy said. “If we have to stay awake, you have to stay awake.”
“Why?”
“We’re a team.”
“You can think of something better than that,” I said, pulling my hat back down. “Good night.”
About the time I reached the weightless point of half sleep, one of the guys screamed heads up, jerking me awake. I tumbled out of my seat and hit the ground as a line shot came screaming into the pen. The ball struck the fencing behind where my head was, bounced off, nicked a chair, and spun in the dirt of the pen.
“Jesus…I almost died,” I said, watching the ball twirl to a stop.
“You angered the baseball gods by not staying awake,” Slappy said.
“Yeah, right. I don’t believe in baseball gods.” An old heretical wives’ tale of supposedly mystical beings who watch over games and act as the ultimate judges of on-field karma—which I don’t believe in either. The baseball gods will humble players who get too confident, exalt players who’ve struggled, and embarrass players who think they’re cooler than they are. Essentially, all the unexplainable, ironic, and coincidental stuff that happens in this game can be blamed on the baseball gods if you try hard enough. Most of their god-worthy events are a combination of stupidity, averages, and ego, but it’s more fun to say some higher power did it.
“Don’t let them hear you say that,” Slap cautioned.
“Or what? What are they going to do? Trap me on a rancid tour bus and subject me to gay shower scenes? Send me back to A-ball? Hit me in the nuts with a line drive?”
Another line drive came whizzing into the bullpen. I sidestepped it as it hit the dirt and one hopped into the fencing. “Hit fair, I’m trying to sleep, goddamn it!” I