The Bullpen Gospels - Dirk Hayhurst [81]
“Religious preference, dude, just tell your story.”
Rosco continued. “We all knew what was going on, but no one said anything, letting Carl make his own mistakes. Of course, the pretty, new girl liked the players more than Carl, but we all played dumb for Carl’s sake.
“Then, in the middle of a losing streak, Carl did that thing where he said something dumb at the wrong time to the wrong player, and instead of ‘fuck off’ he was told, ‘Oh yea Carl, well I took your girl home last night and fucked her brains out. She says she hates you!’”
“Oh boy. How did Carl take that?” Pickles asked.
“He snapped. He charged the guy like a wild animal, flailing and punching and kicking. It was actually pretty noble, him defending his lady. Unfortunately, it ended with him getting stuffed headfirst in a trash can.”
“Oh my God, that’s horrible!”
“Yeah, it wasn’t our best moment,” Rosco said, shaking his head. “Carl took it bad too. Not the trash can thing, that had been done before, but the woman thing. We’d seen him upset, but this was like DEFCON 1. He didn’t talk to us for a while, didn’t even tell anyone to screw themselves like usual. Instead, he started writing up some kind of letter, like a last will and testament. He left it on the table of the clubhouse where the team could read it. It said something about how he was so sad he would die without ever knowing the love of a woman. It was pretty deep stuff.”
“What did you guys do?” I asked.
“Well, uh…” Rosco scratched the back of his head, clearly a little embarrassed. “We did the only logical thing a minor league baseball team could do to fix the problem. We bought him a hooker.”
“You what?”
“Oh, don’t act so shocked. You said you’d have sex with a three hundred pound dude if the Taliban put a gun in your face.”
“First off, that’s because I’d have a gun in my face, and second, if I was sleeping with him, none of the other dudes would mess with me cuz he’d be my bitch. It was the smartest scenario.” The rest of the guys agreed. “I rest my case.”
“Whatever makes you sleep at night. Anyway, the hooker wasn’t really a hooker, she was a call girl. She was higher class. We had to book her and stuff. At least that’s what I heard. Our dirtbag clubbie with supposed mafia connections said he would set up the whole thing for us, and we just needed to raise the cash. Before I knew it, the idea had legs, and guys were pitching in money for the Get Carl Laid Fund.
“We ended up raising a decent amount,” Rosco said, rather surprised. “We passed the cash onto the clubbie, and he took care of the details.”
“Does this clubbie still work in the minors?” Slappy asked. We ignored him.
“The lady they booked turned out to be a real professional with a specialty in role playing. So, the guys scripted out how they wanted the whole thing to go down. They brought her to a game, got her tickets, and told her to hit on Carl the whole night as if she were in love. She was great, had Carl fumbling with his bat on and off the field.
“After the game, she hung around and asked Carl out for a little postgame show. Carl didn’t have a place of his own, still living with his parents, and he didn’t know what to do. The clubbie thought of that. He arranged it so the two lovebirds could head back to his place.”
“Why didn’t you get him a hotel room?”
“We were on a budget.” Understanding nods all around. The minors were still the minors.
“The girl took care of the rest,” Rosco continued. “She walked him through the entire process and rung his bell many times over.
“The next day in the locker room, the guys came in early to discuss Carl’s night. When Carl came in, we met him with cheers and applause. Some guys got up and shook his hand, slapping him on the back. I’m surprised cigars weren’t handed out. Then we asked him the question everyone was dying to know, ‘So, how was it, buddy? Was she everything you wanted?’ To which he replied, as cool as ice: ‘Oh, she was okay, but the one the guys bought me last year was better.’”
“No way—” the boys around Rosco