The entirety of testing day is dedicated to getting things stuck in and extracted from my person, along with running for time, being pinched for body fat, and enduring cold, awkward hands while coughing with my pants down. Chief on the list of nuisances is filling a plastic cup under the scrutinizing gaze of Dr. Fondle, whose wonderfully relevant job was to “make sure it comes out of me properly” by standing over my shoulder in a bathroom stall like some lonely trucker.
White, Padres’ passenger vans would be running players from the hotel to the complex every half hour, on the dot. I took the first one, bright and early, under the pretense that the sooner I got there, the sooner I could get it all over with.
The familiar scenery of my spring home passed by as the van rolled down the highway to the complex. The desert was in bloom. There had been enough rainfall to turn the rocky hills of the Phoenix landscape green with bursts of brightly colored flowers. The morning was a cool sixty degrees, with soon-to-be extinct rain clouds hovering in the air. It was a beautiful scene. In a month the sun would be back from its winter break to chase the clouds away and turn the landscape a burnt tan.
When the Padres’ van pulled into the parking lot, nothing had changed. It was as if time stood still in spring training. The cars of the big-league squad were already there. The big-league invitees arrived two weeks ago, their luxurious rides lined up in the choicest parking locations. The remaining spaces, closest to where foul balls landed most frequently, were left for the minors players.
Our eighteen-passenger taxi halted outside the minor league doors. I got out, produced my ID, and headed to the piss testers. They gave me a cup. My piss-test partner and I went into a toilet stall and did our best imitation of rookie inmate hazing. I closed my eyes and pretended I was Harry Potter casting a spell. “Expelliamus!” I thought.
During my early days of pro ball, before I’d adjusted to whizzing with random dudes staring at my junk, I couldn’t go no matter how bad I had to. I’d just stand there, holding my wand, trying to talk myself into it. I’d hum “Eye of the Tiger” to myself. The professional meat gazer would flush the toilet in hopes the sound of running water would help ease the tension and give me some momentum. When that didn’t work, he’d try asking me questions about my hobbies and goals, as if we were speed dating. No questions about my personal interests would diffuse the fact I had my pants down and my shirt around my neck while I held a cup under my twig and berries. I’m glad it went well this time.
“Well look who it is!” the booming voice of Ox Bundy said. He bumped into me as I was walking down the hallway, zipping my pants up after a job well done.
“Hey bud, good to see you!” I replied. Ox gave me a playful shove as a greeting. I tried to shove him back, but he was too thick to move, and I ended up bouncing off him like a toddler running into his father’s leg.
Ox was a fellow pitcher. A boldface, all caps, type-A male. A big, solid, man-boy with a perpetual five o’clock shadow that made his face part Wookie, part lumberjack. He loved hard rock, cheap action movies, and chicks with big boobs. He ate red meat like Pez candies and never stopped to think about what was good for the environment. He was a savage, but a lovable one, and like most guys with tough exteriors, he was a softy deep down—very deep down.
“How ya been pal?” he asked.
“I’m good. Happy to be back, I think. You?”
“Fucking one more year in the grind.” He shrugged his shoulders.
“Well you look good man. You look strong, strong like bull.” With so much emphasis on shape and strength, this is the one place where it’s cool for guys to compliment each other on their looks. “Your ass looks great this year,” I continued. “You must have decided to get off it once or twice in the off-season.”
“No, but thanks anyway. You look good too.”
“Oh, it’s my sexy hair.” I tossed my long, wispy locks.
“No, that’s not it.”
“Then it’s my chiseled physique. Let me tell you man, I know it’s in to give Billy Blanks a bad rap, but that Tae Bo crap really works.”
“No, that’s not it either.”
“Then what is it?”
“Actually, you look like shit, but I figured since you said I looked good, I’d be nice.”
“Thanks, pal.”
“Don’t mention it.”
“Dirk!” A new voice joined the scene, that of Drew Macias.
Drew was a perennial center fielder who became my friend during our first full season. He’s one of the few position players with a personality compatible with pitchers. Maybe it’s that position players swing clubs for a living or maybe they’re just born that way, but many of them seem a little too serious and macho to loosen up like the collection of loony tunes that comprises a pitching staff. Drew, on the contrary, had an aura about him of pure fun. He had thick, dark hair that shot out at crazy angles, an infectious laugh, a charismatic personality, and a sense of humor that provided a quick joke or a good retelling of after-hours exploits. His creativity was always in motion, doodling up someone’s caricature, designing some crazy invention, or planning a practical joke. He also knew a fair share of magic tricks that earned him the nickname Drewdini.
We exchanged a “man hug,” a male-sanctioned, completely heterosexual embrace consisting of a half backslap, a half chest bump, and a three-quarter handshake.
“Drew, what’s up buddy—wait! Look at you! Is that a big-league uniform?”
“Yeah, they have me backing up over on the other side.”
“Nice. Get you a little Big-League Camp action. How was your off-season?”
“Good, bro. Played some guitar, mastered some new magic tricks, learned ninjitsu.”
“Sounds productive. You still drawing?”
“Yeah, you should see the one I did of Bonvechio!”
“It’s outstanding dude,” Ox said. “Looks just like him, the freckles, bald spot, even the extra ass cheeks.”
“I’ll show it to you later. How was your off-season?”
“Worked on my slider, grew my hair out, refrained from killing my grandmother.”
“Sounds productive.”
“Not really, I should have done it.”
“Hey guys, what’s happening?” Another friendly face hit the scene. It seemed there was suddenly a party in front of the bathroom. I’m sure all the excitement made the other guys trying to squeeze out some specimens a little nervous.
The newest voice was that of Brent Carter. He strolled up to us in a pair of khaki shorts, a polo, and deck shoes, with a friend sporting the same. Though I didn’t know Brent’s friend, he was most likely a pitcher and left-hander, like Brent, as they both had medical tape wrapped around gauze on their right arms, indicating blood extraction. Everyone shook hands and exchanged courtesies. Brent’s friend went by the nickname Frenchy.
Brent was a Southern Comfort gentleman. His smooth voice had a slight drawl, which, when combined with sir or ma’am, always made him sound respectful. Typically adorned in deck shoes and polos, he looked as if he were perpetually on his way to the golf course. Though he didn’t know the rest of the pack that well, we were good friends from last year, splitting a season together. Initially, we didn’t have much in common, but once we discovered a mutual enjoyment of imitating our pitching coach, the rest was history.
Frenchy, as it turned out, was drafted from the same college as Brent, which explained their connection. He did not share the accent, though they could have shared wardrobes. This was Frenchy’s first spring training with the club, so the experience was foreign. Most new guys follow an older acquaintance around until they learned the ropes. Brent was playing chaperone, and any friend of