Epilogue
Laughter was brewing in the spring training meeting room as George Poulis, the Toronto Blue Jays big league trainer, shuffled up to the podium in the front. It was his turn on the introductions merry-go-round, and something about what he was going to say had several of the veteran guys snickering like devious school kids. I didnt know George very well yet. I didnt know anyone in the room well yet. It was only my second day with the club, and other than the Jays affinity for Greeks, I was still getting immersed in the culture, figuring out important things like inside jokes and unexplained giggles.
Of course the guys I was sitting among looked like a ball team, just like the kind youd find in any other spring training facility this time of year. Just like the kind I left behind in San Diego. There were a few big names, a few small names, and a few no names. We wore Majestic brand pants, tailored to fit us perfectly, complete with a few personal modifications that would assuredly get us fined if this were minor league camp. Free Phiten necklaces coiled around our necks and imbued us with their mystic powers while equally free sponsor-paid shoes of all makes and models housed our precious feet. Dip cans of every flavor were passed around like party favors, and complimentary Red Bulls were slugged with abandon. Some players brought their expensive gloves to the meeting and were still bending the newness out of them. Others talked rapidly about some embarrassing nightlife story, former teammates, or the roads that brought them here. Travis Snider, for example, talked about what he ate last night to the newly acquired former Pirate, Jose Bautista. Ricky Romero compared designer cleats with fellow pitcher Brandon League. Jesse Litsch fell all over himself as Shaun Marcum ripped on Jesse Carlson. And then there was the great Roy Halladay, who sat in uninterrupted silence, content to observe.
Along the right side of the meeting room, coaches congregated with front office faces and trainers. They came in after all the players were accounted for and introduced themselves to us in an orderly fashion, stepping out of line long enough to state their names and roles. Dave Stieb and Pat Hentgen, two legendary Jays pitchers, were in attendance under the guise of guest coaches whom, we were told, we should all take the opportunity to glean wisdom from. Stieb, however, did his best to dispel the prestige of his presence by saying the only reason he kept coming back was the free food.
The coaching staff wore Jays windbreakers or fleece sweatshirts with Jays logos stitched in. Most had on Jays hats, with color-coordinated sunglasses resting atop the bill like polarized tiaras. The office personnel wore more professional attire: ties, suits, and the like. The training staff wore their customary khaki, and the meatheads, of course, sported the latest space-age workout shorts with shirts that read, INTENSITY! tucked into them.
As new as spring training for another team in another state in another league was, it all seemed familiar. It was remarkable how similarly the fraternity of baseball players indoctrinated its subjects regardless of the employer. We all spoke the same abrasive, sarcastic, ballplayer language. We all understood the inflection used to mask a compliment in a put-down. We all knew the value and place of service time. Baseball is a unique world, but once you experience it firsthand, there is no mistaking how it operates, and this group of new teammates, sitting around joking and goofing off and treating each other with the highest amount of respect a player can give to another, which is to say, no respect at all, were just like so many teammates Id known before.
Tell us about the grapes, George, came a heckle from an older player.
George had just finished introducing himself and his complement of trainers. He did so in an extra respectful and genuine way, which, of course, made him a prime target for us savages, who wanted nothing more than to corrupt him.
Alright, real quick, guys, said George, getting suddenly serious. Our goal is to keep you healthy. No lost playing time. That means we dont want guys getting sick by spreading germs. But ... George seemed to blush at the topic he was about to explain to us, which made the players quite happy. I followed a player into the bathroom the other day. He went to use the toilet while I took a leak at the urinal. When I finished up, I went to wash my hands, but heGeorge started shaking his head in disgusthe just shut the stall door and walked out! He didnt wash his hands!
So I followed him down the hallway, and he turns into the cafeteria and starts eating grapes from the fruit bowl with his bare hands! Hes gothis voice got softer, like he was going to say a bad wordfecal matter on his hands! Now, that fecal matter is on the grapes. Sure enough, other guys come into the place and are eating his fecal matter! You know how many guys go through the cafeteria eating his fecal matter? George let the questions hang in the air as if the notion of it should scare us like a fire-and-brimstone sermon.
Dont eat the grapes, boys. Theres shit on the grapes! someone shouted.
Why didnt you say something to him, George? You just let the bastard shit on our grapes?
It was probably Carlson, came the booming voice of BJ Ryan.
No way, dude. Thats disgusting, protested Carlson, who cringed as BJ slapped a massive paw on his shoulder and shook him like a sapling.
George seemed to shrug off the heckles and disruption. The fact that the story was known by older players suggested this was not as recent a tale as George was making it out be, and Im sure the heckling wasnt a new thing either. Its amazing what becomes tradition for a team.
So, youll notice, continued George, there are hand sanitizer stations set up all around the facility. There is no excuse not to clean your hands. So, uh, lets just be considerate of one another and we can all stay healthy this year.
George was offered a playfully mocking round of applause for his plea on public health as he walked away from the center of the room.
In Georges place, a very powerful individual came to address us, and on his approach the humor subsided. Cito Gaston now stood before us, prepared to give his 2009 inaugural spring training address.
There was a podium at the front of the room that Cito gripped using both hands. He looked up at us casually but did not introduce himselfhe was our manager, and that was all we really needed to know.
Cito spoke in easy, relaxed tones about how the team had talent, just as much as any of the other big name, major market, extravagantly compensated clubs wed be going up against. He said he expected us to hold our own this season, even shine when the opportunity presented itself. He said several other things that make for good, inspirational starts to another year in the grind, but it was the words he used at the end of this talk that stuck with me the most.
Were here for you, so if you need something extra, you let one of us know. If you want to talk about something, my door is always open, Okay? Even when its closed, its open.
