Dirk Hayhurst - The Bullpen Gospels

Its no easy undertaking to write a book. Its especially hard to write a book about professional baseball while playing it. Thanks in large part to the expos-style works that have come out in the past, any book about baseball from a player/author is met with incredulity and paranoia. Despite the rough-and-tumble, thick-skinned persona needed to survive in this industry, telling a story about what happens behind the scenes is a sensitive subject.

That said, Id like to tell the reader that this books purpose is to entertain, not to name names; pull the cover off the bare ass of drug use; show cheaters, adulterers, or tax dodgers; or do any other whistle-blowing. If you are looking for someones dirty laundry, you wont find it here. I know it stands to reason that if those things didnt exist in the sport, there would be no paranoiaand I hear yaIm just saying, its not in this book.

Names have been changed at the request of some players and at my discretion, to give them more of a character feel as well as to protect identity. Some characters within are composites blended together for ease of reading. Everything in this work is based on actual occurrences, though I have attempted to conceal identities for the benefit of those who may not want to deal with any extra drama this book may bring their way. Mind you, I was a teammate before I tried my hand at writing, and I hope to be one long after this book is published.

Furthermore, I believe there is more to the game than steroids and scandals. I also believe there is more to the game than just baseball. For all the great things baseball is, there are some things it is absolutely not. And that is what this story is all about.

When we won the division in the first half of 05, I had nothing to do with it. Hell, I was lucky to be employed. I was deadweight on a team full of prospectsa dud, a smudge on an otherwise crystal squad. We may have been guaranteed a spot in the postseason, but I didnt know if Id be around when we got there.

I was the teams long relief man. A nonglorious pitching role designed to protect priority pitchers. If the starting pitcher broke down or the game got out of control, I came in to clean up so the bullpen wasnt exhausted. Despite feel-good semantics supplied by the organization, my main job was mopping up lost causes. Why waste a talented pitcher when there was a perfectly useless guy for the job? I could pitch five innings in a blowout or face one batter in the seventeenth inning. Put it this way: if I could have done any other role successfully, I wouldnt have been the long man.

I had been struggling all year, inadvertently serving as the leagues batting practice thrower. I floundered as a starter and was demoted. Then I brought the kind of relief that made starters moan, Jesus, I could have given up my own runsno need to bring in this guy! The way the season was shaping up, it would take a witch doctor to resurrect my career.

I didnt pitch very often, which didnt bother me at all. I knew I couldnt make it to the big leagues if I didnt get out on the mound and show the world what I had, but, at the time, I didnt feel I had much. All I could think about is how bad things could go, even worse than they were.

Its hard to pitch with fear. It was as if baseballs Grim Reaper was watching every time I took the mound. Most of the time hed show up in little incarnations, like a black cat or a double that landed exactly on the foul line just when I thought I was going to have a clean outing. Lately though, it seemed as if the Baseball Reaper had season tickets for front row seats to every park I played in. He never missed me pitch, sitting silently in the stands, sipping a Red Bull while waving a foam finger that said #1 Fan! From the way he looked at me, I knew he couldnt wait to reach out and snatch my baseball career.

Maybe Im being a little dramatic, but I had never struggled before. I imagine a lot of guys who get drafted arent used to struggling. I always knew it would happen eventually, but I envisioned it to be more like turbulence than a fiery plane crash.

The only solution I had was to bear down and work through it. I spent hours on the practice mound refining my delivery. I tried to bend my breaking ball, hasten my fastball, and change my changeup. I even tried sports meditation, which had me standing on the mound with my eyes closed visualizing myself pitching better. Id picture myself standing on the mound in the heat of battle, with my hair being tussled by a breeze blowing purely for the sake of making me look sexy. At my feet would be the corpses of dragons, ninjas, and Chuck Norris. My pecs would barely fit into my uniform, and I would pitch with a huge sword strapped to my back. I would laugh at batters as they feebly limped to the plate, my voice deep like thunder. I would crush the hitters, see them driven before me, hear the lamentations of their dugouts. I enjoyed the visualizations, maybe a little too much, and would stop only when I felt Id centered myselfor after one of my teammates hit me in the nuts with the rosin bag while my eyes were closed.