Grady ended his portion of the morning with, “We have high expectations for this camp, and your job is to make our decisions at the end of it as hard as possible.”
Earp took the floor again, pulling a sheet of paper from his pocket. “Alright men, let’s go over some rules for camp. First, if you’re late for anything, it’s fifty bucks plus a dollar for each minute after that. If you don’t tie your shoes in the weight room, you’ll be thrown out. Don’t be in there without the proper gear on. Don’t be jack’n around when you are in there….”
I looked over at Frenchy who was trying his best to act as if it were as serious as Earp made it out to be, “Hold on, it gets better,” I said.
“What do you mean?”
“The hotel hot tub is not a washing machine,” continued Earp. “Don’t try to wash your laundry in the hotel whirlpool or you’ll pay for it to be cleaned.”
“What? Is he kidding?” Frenchy asked, smiling as if it were one of those jokes speakers mix in just to see if you’re still paying attention.
“No. About two years back, we had a guy in camp who honestly tried to wash his clothes in the hot tub. He took detergent and his dirty drawers and threw them in. I think he was trying to hand wash them when he was busted. They had to drain the whirlpool and clean out the jets. The hotel billed the Padres, and they were pissed.”
“Was this guy retarded?”
“No, but he was from a very undeveloped part of the world.”
“Wow, that’s unbelievable.”
“Oh, just wait—”
“No cooking in the hotel bathrooms. In fact, no cooking in the rooms at all.”
“What does he mean no cooking? If you got a suite, can’t you use your microwave?”
“You got a suite? How the hell did you get a suite? It’s your first year!”
Frenchy shrugged. “So can I cook or not?”
“The microwave is fine,” I resumed. “He’s talking about something that happened when a couple of guys tried to make food in the bathtub. They almost set the place on fire, and the heat melted some of the plastic in the tub.”
“The room caught on fire?”
“No, just part of it.”
“What were they making?”
“Rat, or something. Hell, I don’t know. They were making it in a damn bathtub.”
“Stay off the hotel computer. Every year we have problems with this, so this year we are just banning it from the start. Stay off the hotel computer, or else it’s a two hundred and fifty dollar fine. No excuses.” Earp was referring to the hotel lobby’s computer. There was only one computer in the hotel that guests could use for free. It was located by the front desk, next to the entrance, and was a common gathering site for players to look up things they shouldn’t.
“That won’t last,” I said.
“What do you mean?”
“Every year, fine or no fine, there are people on it. And every year, someone gets caught looking up porn and leaving the links open for other guests to stumble on. It’s never your standard porn, either. It’s always make-you-gag fetishes with barn animals and stuff. Honestly, I don’t want to know who is looking that stuff up because I gotta shower with the dude. Maybe I already have?”
“Barn animals? That’s disgusting,” Brent said.
“It was you, wasn’t it?” Frenchy accused, nudging Brent.
“Yeah, right. Even if I did look at porn, I wouldn’t do it in the hotel lobby, and I wouldn’t look up that crap.”
“I’d say that too, if I was doing it, Brent,” I said.
“It’s probably one of you guys,” he countered.
I sighed heavily, “It’s me; I admit it. Nothing like a little barnyard love to get me ready for a day at Padres Spring Training 2007!”
“No beef in the team hotel,” Earp said, not referring to either burgers or barn animals. He was talking about minor league groupies or random encounters at the bar. “You get caught bringing beef back to your room, it’s gonna cost you five hundred dollars. Go to her place instead.”
“Or just do it in the lobby, I guess,” Frenchy said.
“No, seriously, go back to her place because it’s cheaper that way. If you get busted for curfew it’s only two hundred and fifty dollars—half the price.”
“Where’s Hayhurst at?” Earp shouted suddenly.
“Jesus, they caught me!” I said, winking at the boys. I put my hand up.
“Stand up, Hay!” Earp commanded. I got up as ordered and stood awkwardly in front of the entire Padres minor league troupe as well as its coaches, trainers, and staff.
“Did you wear your cup today Hayhurst?”
“Sure did,” I said, knocking on it.
“You ever think about not wearing it anymore?”
“No chance.”
“You can all thank Hayhurst here for a fifty-dollar fine if we catch you not wearing a cup out here. How hard was that line drive that almost knocked your beans off?”
“Ninety-four they said.” There was a collective groan by the audience.
“Damn.” Earp adjusted himself uncomfortably. He laughed in that strained way a person does when confronted by something really painful but still funny. The coaches just shook their heads, obviously believing my choice not to wear a cup was well beyond stupid—which it was.
Earp turned back to us. “Alright, fifty dollars if you don’t wear a cup, got it?”
I sat back down while he was putting the price on the threat. I didn’t want to relive that experience any more than I had to, but thanks to Earp’s callout, I’d be explaining it for the rest of the day. Yes, I got hit in the nuts with a ninety-four miles per hour line drive while not wearing a cup. I just didn’t like the way a cup felt when I pitched, so I didn’t wear one. Never did, not even in college. People would always joke it was going to catch up to me, but I didn’t buy it. Turns out, I was wrong. Now one of my nads has a seam mark on it. It was the worst pain I’d ever felt in my life, ripping through my body like a chainsaw, not letting up for twenty-four hours.
“Did you lose one?” Frenchy asked.
“No, but I was dangerously close. I remember praying I would never think another impure thought if God would just let me keep them!”
“So does everything work down there?”
“I think so. I haven’t tried to have kids yet, but everything seems to function like it’s supposed to.”
“Well, you should be ashamed of yourself, if you ask me,” Brent said.
“Why is that?”
“Promising God no more impure thoughts and then looking up sheep porn on the lobby computer, it’s just wrong.”
“Alright,” Earp said, resuming his lecture. He had folded up his notes and was about to end the meeting but was looking to go out on a bang. “Anyone got any good jokes?” He looked over the crowd, but no one felt courageous. “Lars, I know you got something.”
Lars Maynard, a right-handed closer drafted the same year as I was, may best be introduced as the one person in the organization who could walk up to Grady and tell him to go fuck himself without batting an eye. He was, without a doubt, the most interesting person I ever played the game with, and thanks to his eccentric personality, he stood