The Bullpen Gospels:: Major League Dreams of a Minor League Veteran

by Dirk Hayhurst

The doctor explained the process of recovery—how breaking up all the scar tissue is excruciating and how the body has to go about it slowly to build up its tolerance. Lars looked the doctor in the face and bluntly asked, “Pain is the only thing? There are no other repercussions?” “The kind of pain I’m talking about is enough of a repercussion.” “So, I could get it back now if I could take the pain?” The doctor laughed. “Sure, but you don’t want to do that.” Lars stood up right then and there, pulled off his sling, placed his arm in the frame of the office door, and jerked his arm straight. He swooned and passed out. When he came to, despite the chastisement of his doctor, he could extend his arm straight.

Standing there, looking down at him, I realized he was strapped into his chair. The expression on his face was not one of joy or expectation, but unintelligible emotion, continuously shifting while his head lulled side to side, sometimes gently, sometimes in thrashing spasms. His eyes focused on me as much as they did anything else, as if I were not there at all. He spoke no words, merely sounds and labored breaths. I knelt and did the only thing I knew how to do in my uniform. They only thing I’ve ever been expected to do in it. I smiled and acted cheerful, like some fifties comic book hero talking to a Boy Scout. I produced the ball and held it out to him, as if it were words enough. I expected him to take it from me, to snatch it up like every other child, yet his bent hands and crooked fingers continued to trace spastic patterns in the air. To him, I was not there and there was no ball—no souvenir, no magical bauble of white leather, no chance for a lasting memory. Spittle dribbled down the boy’s chin and collected on a napkin tucked in the collar of his shirt. His sister stepped in. She smiled graciously and requested the ball. I handed it to her. “Look!” she said to her brother in a singsong voice. “It’s a real baseball player and he’s brought you a ball! Way cool, huh?” She rubbed his arm and placed the ball at his fingertips, but they did not grab hold. The ball fell to the ground. The boy’s face did not react to her excitement, nor did it cringe at the dropping of...

“Hello,” said the mother again. “I have a little boy here who would really like to meet you.” The boy jutted out from behind his mother’s leg. Shy blue eyes pressed down, timidly stealing glimpses of me from under the brim of his oversized ball cap. He had thin wisps of blond hair on a pale face and a smile waiting to blossom, if he could only find the courage to let it. If only someone would help him. His mother nudged him forward, but he resisted, comfortable in Mommy’s shadow. “Hi there,” I said to the boy. I didn’t have to hand out souvenirs, but I could still talk with the boy. My words, however, made him cling to Mommy’s leg like a shy koala. “Tell him your name,” his mother said, and he did, in a squeak of voice. I repeated it back to him, adding, “Nice to meet you.” The strong, silent type, he opted out of the conversation. I left my comfy Rough Riders bullpen chair and went to the railing in pursuit of the boy who had contentedly buried his face in his mother’s leg. “Hey there, buddy. Why so shy?” He let one eye free. “It’s okay. You can talk to him,” his mother said, trying to encourage him not to suffocate on her kneecap. I steadied myself on the railing, squatting like a catcher, awaiting his attempt. “Tell him how old you are,” his mom coaxed. He didn’t speak, but offered me three tiny digits, instead. “You’re a slider? That’s what it means when you wiggle your fingers like that. Are you a slider?” “I’m three,” he said, letting the other eye free. “Oh” I repli...