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

by Dirk Hayhurst

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...