Checking in for spring training can be a hassle. There’s a heap of paperwork to be signed, answering questions ranging anywhere from “Do you have drug allergies?” to “Does it feel like razor blades when you pee?” I’m sure it’s important to the organization to get all urinating habits out in the open, but the biggest part of check-in is getting a room and roommate.
There are only so many suites in the Country Inn and Suites, and a smart player spends the whole year kissing up to trainers to make sure he can score a suite with his buddy the following year. So when I hit the check-in room and met two new faces, I didn’t see new trainer friends, I saw a year’s worth of ass-kissing out the window.
“Name?”
“Hayhurst, Dirk.” Upon my utterance, the questioner sifted through a pile of names and sheets, found my information, and marked me off as arrived.
“Do you have any suites left?” I asked, as he worked.
“I don’t think so,” he said, absently shuffling, “I think we gave them all out.”
“Well, I hate to play the seniority card, but I’ve got five years in this hotel, and if I was ever going to use seniority to get a perk, it would be on this issue. I’ve been looking forward to a suite all off-season, and believe me, if you spent a whole winter at my grandma’s, you’d look forward to it too. Besides, there can’t be that many older guys in-house this year?” Most of the other guys in my age bracket were at big-league camp, found places outside the hotel, or were fired.
The trainers sighed and cycled through the rooms. I’d been grinding it out for half a decade, and if I wasn’t going to make it out of this camp, at least I could have a nice winter vacation in Arizona in a room with a refrigerator and a goddamn microwave.
“We’ve got one left. Do you know Leroy Davis?”
“Yeah, I know Leroy. He snores like a semi truck—”
“It’s the only one left. Him or no suite.”
“Usually there are more, especially on the first day.”
“This is the only one left. Yes or no?”
This may seem trivial, but in reality, it’s pure economics. Players don’t get paid in spring training; we get meal money. We get $20 a day, $120 a week after “clubbies” (clubhouse attendants) take their share. If you eat decent meals, you’ll be broke by the end of the week. Even if you get a doggy bag, you can’t bring it home with no place to store it. No suite means you’ll have to go into your own pocket for food. Fine for a high draft pick, debt for everyone else.
There was a SuperTarget within walking distance of the hotel. With a suite, I could pick up a Pyrex bowl and buy pasta, soup, milk, and cereal. I’d be set. Spend forty bucks, pocket the rest, and come out of spring training in the black.
However, I also needed to sleep. Leroy didn’t just snore; he had the septum of a wood chipper. He also has other “unique” tendencies that’ve earned him the nickname Larry the Cable Guy. For one, he looks just like him. For two, he acts just like him. His body is a refinery for dip, grease, domestic beer, and redneck humor. Larry, as we always referred to him, is not a drunk, but he’s consistent. He’s the type of guy who says he likes to have a beer with dinner and then a few for dessert. The more beers he has, the more he transforms into Larry the Cable Guy in looks and demeanor, and the louder his snoring gets.
He’s a hell of a guy, as nice as a big friendly dog, with a streak of that country boy, do-anything-for-ya hospitality a mile wide. He’s hard not to like, or at least laugh at, but living with him would require ear plugs and a strong tolerance to the smell of dip spit. Yet having lived with worse, I opted for the suite.
I parked my suitcase in the front part of my new home, where a table, a couch, and a kitchenette were located, but no Larry. In the rear part of the suite, where the beds were, I could hear a television turned to the unmistakable sounds of ESPN’s SportsCenter. Littered across one of the beds was an empty Gatorade bottle containing a brown gravyesque liquid, a can of Kodiak, a Carl’s Junior Bag, and a crumpled up sandwich wrapper. A Western Bacon Six Dollar Burger had been murdered here.
Like a trained detective, I knew the routine. The modus of minor league meals: get food, eat food, put in dip (the official diuretic of baseball), place hand down pants, watch SportsCenter, take a dump. This would explain why the suite’s bathroom door was shut with the fan whirring from the inside.
Without disturbing the evidence, I made my way to the bathroom and knocked. No answer. I opened the door and immediately wished I hadn’t. There, splattered all over the porcelain of the toilet bowl was the body of the Six Dollar Burger. The murderer had escaped without flushing.
It was getting late, and Larry still wasn’t back yet. I was looking forward to seeing him, and reminding him what the little lever on the top of the toilet was for. He was probably out with some of the other boys, having a cold one, or four, to commemorate another spring training in the grind. A few beers would mean snoring, so I made a preemptive strike and dragged one of the mattresses from the bedroom portion of the suite into the living room portion and threw it on the ground—just like Grandma’s. So accustomed was I to sleeping on floors at this point that I didn’t know if I’d even be able to fall asleep without the ambient sounds of pissed elderly women beating on doors.
Sometime before midnight, Larry blasted the suite’s door open and nearly stepped on my head. “Jesus man, what the hell are you doing on the floor?” My eyes had trouble adjusting to the light from the hall. Larry stood in the doorway, and between my sleep-dilated eyes and the bright backlighting, he looked like a big redneck angel—an angel with a spitter and a goatee.
“Hey, Larry. Good to see you too.”
“Good to see you man, but seriously [spit], why in the hell are you out here on the floor?”
“Well, the rumor is you snore pretty bad. I’m a light sleeper and figured I wouldn’t take any chances.” I smiled at him, sincerely. He looked at me as if I were fucking retarded.
“Dude, you’re fucking retarded.”
“I think it’s pretty smart! This way we both sleep fine.”
“Why didn’t you just buy earplugs? [spit]”
Why didn’t I just buy earplugs? “Well, Target was sold out. I’ll get some tomorrow,” I said, knowing I was lying.
“Well, what if I wanna sit out here? Your bed’s takin up all the room!”
“Don’t give me shit about the bed, not after what you did in the bathroom. I came in today, and it looked like a scene from the Exorcist in there. I had to call maintenance to come and force it down because it scared the maids.”
“Ha-ha, my bad, rommie,” he said, but you could tell he was proud of his bowels. “I got a phone call from one of my good buddies and forgot all about it.”
“I don’t see how you could forget an experience like that.”
“Actually, I thought it was one of my better ones.”
“You’re disgusting.”
“Now wait a minute.” He looked at me, suddenly serious possibly offended. “Who said I snored?”
“Everyone who has ever lived with you.”
“Everyone?”
“Everyone, Larry.”
“Well, hell [spit], then maybe I do!” He stepped over me and went into his room. “Well, I’ll let you get back to sleeping on the kitchen floor, smart guy. Good to see you again!”
“You too, Larry.”
Chapter Seven
The next day, bright and early, I rolled off the mattress and onto the floor. I lumbered into the