The Bullpen Gospels - Dirk Hayhurst [88]
“It sucks, dude. You know how Grady is about pants. When he came to town, he got pissed at everyone for not showing sock.” There was an organizational rule forbidding pant legs the right to extend to the shoe or cover it, anyway—a rule that has irritated the hell out players since its creation. “So,” Drew continued, “he had the Missions’ tailor alter all the pants down to thirty-two inches to prove his authority.”
“Isn’t this taking it a little too far? I mean, I wasn’t even here. Why do I have to wear Little League pants?” I felt like Huckle-berry Finn in a pair of high-water overalls.
“It’s stupid. I feel ridiculous in mine too! Guess we all get to rock the dirty mid look.”
“I feel like a clown in these.” All the stretching had gained me maybe an inch when I put the pants back on.
“We got guys with big-league time on this team, and they have to wear the same pants. One of the guys has a World Series ring!”
“One of our guys has a World Series ring?” I said in a whisper, forgetting about the pants. I looked around the room trying to spot him. I eyed the ring hand of all the big, burly players. Surely, the man possessing a World Series ring looked herculean, like a dude from a romance novel cover.
“Yeah, Wooten does. You didn’t know that?” Drew looked at me quizzically. Most of the guys retained this detail from spring training. I did not, considering I was most likely preoccupied with fielding breasts or getting a ball up my ass.
“You know I don’t know baseball heritage. I don’t even know everyone on our big-league club right now.” Fact.
Drew shrugged his shoulders. “Woot,” he called, “show Dirk your ring.”
One of the guys playing cards looked over at Drew, then nonchalantly extended his ring hand like the Godfather, revealing a ring the size of a grapefruit. I almost felt unworthy gazing upon it. Then I saw the owner. My notions that a World Series champ would look like a longhaired Adonis were slightly off because Woot looked more like one of the fat kids on the chess team. Short dark hair and a few extra tires, he sported a golfing visor, no shirt, and a pair of mandatory too-short pants. All things considered, he looked better in his pants than me.
Woot spoke in a high-pitched, nasally voice sarcastically declaring, “If you pay me, I’ll let you touch it.” He paused and thought to himself for a second. “Actually, I’m not doing too well this hand, so I could extend that offer to other things if the price is right.” He looked down at himself and then back at me. “I won’t charge much.”
“World Series Champion, ladies and gentlemen,” Drew said, laughing himself. He slapped me on the shoulder. “Welcome back. Enjoy the pants.”
“Thanks.”
A cry came from the other side of the locker room, “Goddamn it, you stinky little bastard! I’m going to sew your fucking ass shut!” Ox roared. He shot out of his seat and threw his glove at Manrique Ramirez or “Reek” as he was christened for just such behavior. Manrique laughed like a Mexican Tickle Me Elmo, delighted by his own stink and Ox’s disgusted reaction.
“You won’t be laughin’ when I—” The stink settled in on Ox and derailed his monologue, his face shot several different directions, trying to find uncontaminated air. “Christ! Did something crawl up your ass and die?” Manrique waved his hand in a scooping motion to propel more of his stink at Ox. Players within the blast zone began to wilt as the stench crept through the locker room.
“It smells like a sick baby’s diaper,” one cried, falling.
“It smells like bad Indian food covered in burned hair,” another said, exiting the area. Manrique laughed harder, delighted with his brew. More gloves were hurled at him.
“Wash your ass once in a while you dirty Mexican,” Ox said. As soon as Manrique’s mustard gas had cleared, Ox was back in the area to serve up some punishment
“Eh, eh, eh! Get off me, you fucking Yeti!” Manrique squealed.
Manrique was not a big guy. Actually, he was small and wiry and carried a look