The Bullpen Gospels - Dirk Hayhurst [89]
“What did you call me?” Ox was doing his best to fight through Manrique’s slapping hands to deliver some good kidney shots. Ox was not angry about the name-calling. He loved it actually. It was Ox’s love language to be called names by his little Mexican brother. But Ox was still Ox, and when Manrique farted, farts that are mercilessly putrid, Ox would be the first to beat on him for it. Who would have thought a guy like Ox would be so passionate about air pollution?
Punishing Manrique for clearing the room with his emissions was not a very well thought-out idea. As Ox planted punch after punch on Manrique who was now scrunched up in the fetal position, the tension caused him to fart again, point blank on Ox. It sounded like a log going through a wood chipper.
“Goddamn!” Ox cried. He covered his face with the collar of his shirt. “You are one stinky motherfucker!” he said, releasing Manrique to block his nasal passages better.
Manrique laughed to himself, very pleased to escape his predators like a skunk.
“Nice going, Ox,” came criticisms from scattering players.
“I’m going to fix this right now.” Ox grabbed a shoe from his locker, then grabbed Manrique. “I warned you, didn’t I?” Manrique squirmed while Ox tried to wedge a shoe into his ass.
“Good to see Ox hasn’t changed,” I remarked to Drew.
“Ox change? Impossible.”
“Hey dude, how are you?” This was Jon Dalton. He’d come over to welcome me back to the league. He was wearing a pair of spandex sliding shorts and nothing else. He extended one hand to shake while the other was unmistakably stuffed in his shorts, fondling himself—perfectly normal behavior for Jon.
“I’m good, bro. How are you?”
“Great, I’m great,” he said, tickling his Elmo. “Don’t fucking live in the apartments up here, by the way.”
“Okay. Why not?”
“Why not! Why fucking not?” Dalton was the coolest-headed crazy person I’d ever met. He was fearlessly rebellious, a tad hyperactive, but by no means stupid. He went to Citadel Military Academy, a full-on military school full of drill sergeants and hard asses. When he got out of line, he paid a healthy price for it. Consequently, he learned two things: first, if you are going to cut loose, get your money’s worth in case you get caught, and second, don’t get caught. He and the army did not mix well, though he deviously kept up appearances, toeing the line of trouble without paying the full price for it. Sure, he made a few mistakes here and there, but he learned from them, and the stories gained made it more than worth it. He was smart enough to know how to cheat the system, cautious enough to make sure he didn’t get caught, and hyper enough to guarantee cheers and laughter from his teammates.
“Dude,” he continued, “during our first road trip of the year, a storm caved the roof of our apartment in.”
“What?”
“Yeah, my roommate and I came back, and the fucking living room was a pond. There were leaves and branches and bird shit all over the place. Everything was ruined.”
“Holy crap! What did you guys do?”
“The apartment people moved us into another place, but a lot of our stuff was wrecked, which they wouldn’t pay for.”
“Wow, that sucks.”
“You’re telling me!” He stopped the conversation abruptly, then, “Hey, you got a dip on you?”
“No, I don’t—”
“You don’t dip, that’s right. What are you, Mormon?”
“Why does everyone keep saying that?”
“I need a dip. Nice pants. Excuse me.” He walked off, hand still on his piece. “Thompson! Give me a fucking dip. You owe me like forty!”
“I’m going to get dressed,” Drew said, and he walked off.
“I’m going to look stupid,” I said to myself, and stared down at my pants.