The Bullpen Gospels (9 page)

The Imodium I downed didn’t kick in when I was with Larry, but during the next few days it came on in full, creating a force field around my ass through which I couldn’t squeeze even the tiniest of nuggets. By the time I was feeling better, it was cut day, and my first sick-free morning was met with the nauseating thought of what would happen to me when I arrived at camp.

I had done all I could. I had played my hardest, dug for answers the best way I knew, and adjusted radar reads diplomatically to give me a little extra edge. If I didn’t make a team, then baseball just wasn’t in the cards. At least I could walk away knowing I did the best I could. I would be okay with that. I think.

When Larry and I pulled into the complex, a group of players stood by the entrance in their street clothes, packed Padres bags on the ground next to them. They all had their cell phones to their ears. Some talked loudly and in angry tones, other in diffused, forlorn tones. Their time with the Padres had come to a close. At least they got to keep the bags.

“Anyone you know?” I asked, hoping Larry could identify the bodies.

“No. I think they were younger guys. I saw that one with the sunglasses on his head in the treatment room a lot though. That makes me feel
real
good, lemme tell ya.”

“You sure you’re ready for this?”

“Shit, it is what it is.” We exited the van and headed in.

No roster work groups were up on the cork scheduling board. No names on the early work sheet, no clues of any kind. The atmosphere of the locker room was like a funeral, somber and stark. No one joked around; most of the guys just sat at their lockers with heads down in respect for the fallen.

Everything is done in person. Bruce Wick, the equipment manager and Lord Clubbie of the minor league side, plays the harbinger of death. He is commissioned with the duty of telling the players who are soon to be unemployed that their presence is requested in the back office by Grady or Earp for execution. Players who really want to know, find him.

The locker next to mine was cleaned out, several others as well. Come day’s end, would mine be empty too? A pile of abandoned baseball equipment was forming next to the trash bin. Someone would take it for themselves before the end of the day, but not until cuts were over. It would seem too much like grave robbing.

Many players had not yet changed into their workout uniforms. I suppose there was no point in changing if you were going to be out of a job. Undeterred, I sat down on my dressing stool and started to dress. I got my jersey pants on, then started slipping my Ringor sports shirt over my head. My vision was obscured briefly while the fabric went over my eyes; when I got it past my face and my sight was restored, there was Bruce, the Clubbie of Death, standing in front of me.

“Son of a bitch,” I said.

“You’re alright,” Bruce said. I sighed. He probably wanted to reprimand me about not staining my jock so bad. It wasn’t my fault, I’d been sick.

“Have you seen Larry?”

I thought about not answering. It didn’t matter; they’d find him eventually.

“Did you check the training room?”

“Yeah, he’s not there.”

“Did you check the lunchroom?”

“Not there either.”

“Well, then he’s probably taking a dump. Check the bathroom. Though I suggest you wait for your own good.”

Bruce left.

Larry was gone, just like that. I didn’t pursue Larry. There was no way to stop what was in motion. So after changing, I hit the cafeteria, finding a seat with Brent and Frenchy. After a few moments of silence, Brent asked in a whisper, “Did you hear they released Varner?”

“Varner?
Varner?
That’s ridiculous. He was doing great. He’s had nothing but success. Why?”

“I don’t know. I think it’s because he had that positive drug test.”

“Yeah, but you know he wasn’t doing anything. I mean, look at the kid. He’s not exactly the model of fitness,” I said. Varner was a stocky reliever, known for his in-season diet of Doritos and Mountain Dew. He was a member of the notorious “Bad Body Bullpen,” a group of very successful relievers who had a “little more” to love.

Varner got popped for banned substances last year, though he looked no different. In fact, he may have put on weight. “He probably took some shady product that lied about its ingredients. It happens more than people think.”

“Doesn’t matter. It’s about the image that comes with it. People think steroids, which might as well be pedophile as soon as it’s tagged to your name. No one thinks honest mistake,” Frenchy said.

“I suppose, but wow, I did not see that one coming. And, if you didn’t know, they just released Larry too.”

“Larry, huh? Well, I hate to say it, but that one makes sense to me,” Brent said.

“Yeah, me too.” I exhaled deeply. “Even Larry felt like it was coming. Still, it sucks. He was my roommate.”

“Sorry, bro.”

“What can you do? I mean, it’s part of the game….” I attempted to rationalize it to myself, but it didn’t feel any better.

“He was too injury prone.”

“I know, and they seem to be weeding out guys who have injuries.”

“Makes me wonder what kind of injuries you’re allowed to have.” Brent had torn a muscle in his foot last year and missed a large chunk of time.

“Well, judging on how the guys with any type of arm trouble are dropping like flies around here, I’d say the one kind of injury you can’t have has to do with the arm.”

“Unless you’re a big money pick. If they have a lot invested in you, then you get some grace.”

“It’s funny, but it’s a lot like who has the big stack at a poker table, isn’t it?” I asked.

Frenchy chimed in, “I think they are going to cut more guys tonight too.”

“Really?” I thought I’d dodged the bullet.

“Yeah, I heard some guys talking about how they can’t cut everyone in the same day because of the way it would mess up the on-field rotations.” That’s true, they’d need bodies to fill positions, if even for just one more day.

“You guys know everything, regular pipelines of information. Have you bugged the coaches’ locker room?”

“Think about it. It makes sense.” Unfortunately, it did. I was supposed to pitch today.

“Can you imagine knowing you’re going to stick around for one day just so you can take up a field spot while someone else gets work in?” Brent asked.

“I’d be pissed. I’d want to know I wasn’t wanted as soon as they decided on it,” Frenchy affirmed.

I said nothing.

There was no sure way to tell why anyone got released. Some things played bigger parts in the process than others, but any of us could go at any time. Though some players are safer than others, this wasn’t like
Survivor Peoria
. There’s no immunity, no factions to unite with. Everyone with a jersey is a commodity, and if the right (or wrong) set of variables presented themselves, we could disappear.

The two lefties and I conjectured over probabilities. We did it because it made us feel safe. If we could figure out why a guy got canned, we could rationalize how we weren’t like him. And as sad as it sounds, along with every pang of remorse, there was a sigh of relief.

When I left the cafeteria, yelling was coming from the back office, the executioner’s room. From what I could hear, the player inside had been released and was venting his dissatisfaction. Not everyone goes down without a fight. A competitor is a competitor. If he doesn’t like an umpire’s call, he’s probably not going to like the call of management declaring him out of a job. Seeing as he’d already been tossed, he might as well get his money’s worth.

Heated voices raged from within. The door remained closed so the drama didn’t spill into the clubhouse, though several guys lingered around the door trying to catch wind of what was going down. Then the door of the office flung open and out walked Lars.

His face was flushed and his eyes were full of the same intensity he had when he took the mound in late innings. He made his way to his locker, kicked the chair out of the way, grabbed his bag, and began slamming stuff into it. The locker room fell silent, the players dispersed, watching him from a safe distance. I felt as if I were miles away, watching across an impassable chasm. The mighty Lars, his jokes, his antics, the character he brought, gone—the end of an era.

He, like Larry, was one of the players who made my baseball life interesting, bearable even. The friends you make in this grind are what make it survivable. Yet, such friendships are dangerous when days like today come around and those bonds are ripped out of your life. After years of battling in the trenches of the minors, making the best of it with the boys you’re fighting alongside, they vanish in a matter of minutes.

Outside, Larry sat on the concrete lip of the sidewalk bordering the parking lot. He had his cell phone out, spinning it over in his hands. Whom do you call first when your career ends? Your wife? Your parents? Your agent? Larry sat there, talking to no one. Maybe he had already called them, or maybe he was still waiting for it to make sense to him before he tried explaining it to someone else.

I sat down next to him on the dusty concrete. The sun’s glare beamed off the expensive cars. The world went about its business in the distance, a world Larry was now a part of again.

“How you holding up?” I asked.

“I’m okay,” he said. “I thought it might happen.”

“Yeah. You know what you’re gonna do from here? Have you talked to Adam?”

“Not yet. But I’ll get a job playing independent ball somewhere or catch on someplace else.”

A lot of guys say, “I’ll catch on someplace else.” There’s no guarantee that’ll happen, but it’s a positive way to look at things. The only thing I could say was, “Yeah, I’m sure someone will snag you. I know the manager of the Washington Wild Things, if you think that would help.”

“I got a few connections of my own.”

“What are you going to do in the meantime?”

“Relax. Spend some time with the fam until that agent of ours finds me a job.”

“You thinking about independent ball in any place particular?”

“Varner and I are going to try for the same team together.”

“You two on a team…Wow! I don’t know if that league knows what it’s in for. Two chunky, Blue Collar Comedy extras tearing up indie ball.”

“Bad Body Bullpen, brother!” Larry said, giving me a slap on the shoulder. He laughed for a bit, before slipping back into silence as we both came to terms with the fact he was leaving and so would all of our interaction.

“Well, I better call Adam and let him know what’s going on.”

“Yeah. Well, look man, if you need anything, call me, okay?”

“Same to you man. It was good playing with you. Git-er-done out there.”

“I’ll do my best. You be good now.”

“Me? Always,” he said and then winked. We exchanged man hugs, and he got on his phone. I walked back to my career.

More people got cut that day than any other cut day I had been a part of in my four spring trainings. It was a real butchering—hard to watch. The stretch lines were noticeably thinner and social circles were sparse. There was no morning joke. When Grady spoke at the morning meeting, it was easier to gather in because most of the space formerly taken up by extra players was vacant.

Grady informed us that the updated rosters would be set before the end of the day and that there were a few cuts still remaining. The green light for us to coast was definitely not on. Frenchy nudged me during that part.

Grady told us this was one of the hardest days in his career and it’s never enjoyable releasing players. He said that he released a lot of excellent men today. I’m glad he said that part. I’m glad he took a moment to acknowledge them as men, not just cattle. Then, however, he said something that will never leave me. “Gentlemen, in just a short while, you’ll be heading off to your respective towns and teams. Remember, you are gods to the people in these towns. You are their entertainers. Conduct yourself accordingly. Be professionals and represent yourselves and the organization well.” Was that what this was really all about? Being a god of entertainment?

When I left camp in the afternoon, I was still on the Double-A roster. Some cuts came at the end of the day—people who played in the games like the lefties predicted. I was not one of them. I had made it. I had survived another spring training, something I did not truly grasp until that evening when I sat in my hotel room alone. The maids had come while I was out and erased any trace Larry left behind.

I sat in the dark at the tiny kitchenette table, television off, curtains pulled shut. I thought about various mantras of the sports world—how winning is about beating out the other guy and only the strong survive. I thought about being a god of entertainment. I thought about the people who would worship me. Finally, I thought about the guys who lost out to me in this spring’s battle for roster spots, and about all those years together in the trenches, only to be shot down by friendly fire. When I got into the game, I never thought I’d be friends with the guys I’d have to beat to keep my dream going. Winning doesn’t feel like winning when it happens this way.

Coaches tell Little Leaguers “heart” is the most important thing a player possesses, yet when money mixes into the equation, heart slides to the bottom of the list. Heart has this do-gooder, patriotic nature to it, like George Washington had a lot of it and so did Gandhi. What about Lars, pushing through agony to get his arm back in shape, and how bad he wanted to make it, no matter how much pain he had to endure? I guess sometimes heart doesn’t look as warm and cuddly as we expect it to. Sometimes it looks like a tattooed maniac who listens to Rammstein. And sometimes, it doesn’t matter how much of it you have. On days like this one, a person could swear the meaning of life is as simple as making a roster.

I thought for a long time about the game, about now I was back in it and about how I got the chance I worked for all off-season—a chance to be someone again, someone with a title and a purpose. I was back on track to be a Double-A player, maybe prospect again. I wouldn’t have to bend the truth about my career, and maybe, just maybe, I could make it after all.