The Bullpen Gospels - Dirk Hayhurst [85]
When I strolled into the office of the Missions manager, my hair had grown back down to my shoulders, popping out under my hat like the straw from a scarecrow’s hat. I had a strong five o’clock shadow going and didn’t even bother with a collared shirt. My eyes were bloodshot and my glasses were dirty. The manager, Randy Ready, stared at me as if I just walked in from the street to beg for change.
“Hey, how’s it going?” I offered.
Randy eyed me. “Jesus, Hayhurst, you’re takin’ the law into your own hands looking like that.”
“I was going to get my hair cut today, but I got called up and it ruined my plan. Honest.” I’ve said truer things.
“Oh yeah, sure you were, right? How convenient is that, huh? Couldn’t get your hair cut because a promotion got in the way.” He laughed, openly skeptical.
I wasn’t going to slip anything past Randy, least of all some limp excuse for weeks of haircut neglect. Randy understood baseball life too well. He knew all the trick plays and heard every excuse. The stuff he’s seen during his time in the game makes my tales seem like nursery rhymes.
I’ve played under him before, and I know from experience he operates under the principle that with success comes leniency. It’s a long season, and a good manager knows when to pick his battles. If a player does his job and keeps his nose clean, he’ll make sure the police look the other way. On the other hand, if he sniffs out that guys are going through the motions, spending too much time thinking about things like hair, and not taking extra reps to ensure victories, he’ll make sure the law is followed to the letter. He has his priorities, chief of which is developing winners. Somewhere down at the bottom is looking trendy.
I respected Randy for his desire to win, his views on professionalism, and, of course, his power to punish. I also respected him for other reasons. Some managers pushed the panic button when teams started to drop games. Randy always kept his cool. He never screamed at players, and he didn’t have to. The ease with which he could tell a player how it was, what failure meant, and what he’d be forced to do if it continued were more sobering than high-volume verbal ballistics could ever be. True, he did get loud now and again, though he usually aimed it at an on-field official, getting him tossed like some form of baseball exorcism.
Abby, the Missions’ pitching coach, sat on the far side of Randy’s office. He stared at me in pretend shock, then took his turn welcoming me to the club with, “My God Hay, you look like Harry Potter. Tell me he don’t look like Harry Potter?” he said, gesturing to Randy while shaking his head. Randy smirked and offered a laugh that was more of a decorative exhale than anything. “You ain’t gonna cast a spell on me are ya?”
“Okay, okay, I’ll get it cut.”
“Oh yeah, you will,” Randy said. I had done nothing to help his team this year, therefore I had earned no leniency.
“Shit, you’re looking like one of them fairy book people,” Abby continued, again with the face of shock.
Things were not always what they seemed with Abby. Though his country drawl and old-fashioned disposition evoked a dimwitted Southern stereotype, he was anything but. He made a habit of rednecking up his speech, fumbling words and phrases, just to see if we’d catch it. He’d act surprised when the team called him out for it, like a teacher would feign shock when kindergartners corrected her for something she purposefully botched. He used it as a defense when he got in trouble, like when he’d cut in on boarding lines during team flights and aviation officials would reprimand him. He’d act as if he didn’t know any better, airplanes were magical creations, and he was just a country boy after all. He’d never apologize, however, when he got that exit row seat.
Acting wasn’t the only thing Abby knew. He was