The Bullpen Gospels - Dirk Hayhurst [83]
“Yeah, me too, but I’m back on track now.”
“Uh-huh,” he said hollowly.
One little note of excitement was all I wanted, but my words seemed to tumble into him like a deep, empty well.
This was one of the reasons I didn’t call home. My dad was like any other father who pushed his son to be successful. He kicked me in the ass when I needed it, sometimes even when I didn’t. He was my first pitching coach and first life coach. Consequently, he was the person I went to for help handling bumps in both roads. It felt like I lost a piece of myself when I started pitching without him in the stands. Then, when he began to vacate other portions of my life, he felt less like a father and more like an unstable person living in my house.
Back in 2005, when things were going bad and my demons had manifested into cloaked figures and regular ass-kickings, I called my dad to tell him I hated baseball. I told him I was sick of it and I wanted out. Essentially, I called him to be told I should keep pushing from the man who had pushed me to chase this down in the first place.
He didn’t, though. He was bankrupt, no words to push himself along with and certainly none for me. He started screaming, his voice straining the speakers of my cell phone as the high pitches blared through. He told me to quit, “Just fucking quit! I’m sick of hearing you whine about it! Ain’t got no chance anyway. Doesn’t matter how hard you fucking try…”
It was so absolutely depressing to hear him say it. His passionate hatred for life could convince anyone it wasn’t worth trying anymore. I kept playing as a way of refusing to accept his words as gospel.
That was then, and this was now. I didn’t need motivation, I only wanted to share a victory. I was realizing, however, not only couldn’t my father give, but he couldn’t receive anymore either. He couldn’t share this feeling or take hold of the success with me. The pain of not receiving joy from loved ones was something I had become accustomed to. The powerless feeling of being unable to give joy back, however, was not. I felt my promotion turn to ash.
“Are you proud of me, Dad?” I asked.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, I’m playing professional baseball. I’ve been playing for a long time now. I know I may never make it to the big leagues, but I’d like to think you’re proud of me regardless. I haven’t given up.”
“You don’t need me to tell you I’m proud of you.”
“I need to know. I need to know that what I’m doing makes you happy. I want you to tell me I make you happy.”
“What does makin’ me happy have to do with what you’re doing?”
“I want to know you’re happy, Dad. Please, just tell me you’re happy.”
The receiver hung silent, then, “Nothing makes me happy anymore, Dirk.”
I held the phone like it was a brick as the cabby drove me down the cemetery roads of some forgettable, minor league tomb. The cab might as well have been a hearse.
“Can I talk to Mom?” I asked in a whisper.
Dad yelled for my mother. There was the sound of the phone changing hands, and my mom got on the line. “Hello?”
“Hey, Mom.”
“Well, hello,” she said, in a more typically cheery parental way. “How are you?”
“I’m okay,” I mustered.
“How are things going?”
“Good, I’m on my way to Texas. Got called up to Double-A.”
“You did! That’s great!”
“Yeah…. It’s where I want to be, right?” The words bled out as if I were deflating.
“You don’t sound happy about it.”
“Oh, I am.”
“How funny. I know you don’t like it when I talk about this, but I was reading in the Mad Friars the other day, and they said you weren’t—”
“Please don’t go there mom,” I interrupted. “You know I hate that crap.”
The Padres have their own team-specific media venue, which pumps out speculation and prophecy about kids coming up through the system. Like most minor league news venues, its reports are written to sell and hype as much as they are to inform. It’s a fine example of how people in my line of work are sifted into the prospects and nobodies. My mom treats it like the Bible, while I detest it.
“If you called more often, I wouldn’t have to read what they print.