I warmed up, spinning my arms like propeller blades, contorting my legs at odd angles—toe touches, twists, nervous dry heaving. Then before it was time to start throwing, I flopped on the ground and closed my eyes. I had to—some force beyond my understanding made me do it. Twenty minutes before the biggest game of my life, I lay, stretched out like a snow angel with no snow in the middle of the outfield grass.
I was tired of thinking about the end of my career or the meaning one game had over my life. All this time spent being a prisoner of results. I wasn’t even having fun anymore. There was no assurance all the work I’d put in would pay off in improved pitching numbers or a win. I’d spent most of the season trying to fix whatever was wrong with me. Even if I’d figured it out, I could take the mound and get shellacked regardless. That’s the thing about baseball: every game is a roll of the dice. Once the ball leaves your hand, what happens next is out of your control. Veteran baseball people will tell you the same thing—hard work can only take you so far, the rest is luck and opportunity. Well, I had put in my hard work and landed an opportunity, for better or worse. Now it was time for luck to show up.
I can’t explain what it’s like to pitch an amazing game. I always wanted to be a superhero when I was a kid, and when I pitch well, it’s as if I am, and everyone watching knows it. Still, it’s something you need to feel to understand. Words can’t tell you how fulfilling, empowering, and relieving it is, all at the same time. How it makes you feel like some great champion, the master of the battlefield. How it justifies all the work you put in to capture it, even though you know it’s something so wild and free it can’t truly be contained. In the brief moments you hold on to it, it frees you from your bondage, each perfect pitch erasing a speck of self-doubt. It’s a feeling you’ll gladly endure a season of hell to experience. It’s why you compete.
I was a champion that day. I was a king among men. I was all that and a bag of chips. I carried a one hitter through six before talented pitchers came into relieve me. In my last inning, I struck out the side for good measure. A whole season of treading water justified by one stellar performance. I felt as if a weight was lifted from my chest. The shackles were unlocked, and I was free to believe in myself again. All year I had been a failure, blasted in the media as a letdown and on his way out. But in that moment, I was the hero.
Then minutes after I exited, somewhere between congratulatory butt slaps and getting my arm in ice, my relievers handed the game away. A hit batsman, a walk, a single, a sacrifice…We lost the game three to one.
The movie theme music screeched to a halt, the dream burned up like flash paper. When the last out was made, we watched as the other team surged onto the field, dancing around like wild men. They screamed and hugged and waved their jerseys overhead. Fans roared, music blared, cameras clicked to immortalize it. All we could do was sit in silence, too crushed to speak. That was supposed to be us; I was going to be the star.
Long after everyone made his way into the locker room, I remained sitting in the dugout, staring into nothing. I was too numb to move. It wasn’t supposed to end up like this, but once the ball leaves your hand…
In that moment, I got my first taste of hate for the game I loved. My entire life I had been told that hard work and hustle could get you anywhere you wanted to go. There were always obvious exceptions to the rule, top-dollar assholes who fueled ESPN showcasing how they squandered their talent and resources, but I blocked them out. I thought baseball was a pure thing, magical, bigger than the men who made it. I thought it was fair. Turns out that baseball is a lot like gambling. I had gone all-in with my beliefs. I bet the house on that championship start, and in those final innings, when it looked as if I was going to win everything back and then some, I got beat on the river.
A manager once told me, you don’t have to be a big leaguer to play a big-league caliber game. He said players all through the minors play like big leaguers while some players all through the big leagues play like minor leaguers. On any given day spectacular things can happen in this profession. It’s a game of luck and opportunity. Thus, we work hard so that we can make the most of things when they fall in our favor, have no regrets when they don’t. Sometimes a player puts it together at the right time even if he isn’t the most talented, and sometimes the most talented players fall apart when the spotlight is on them. Call it luck, call it opportunity. The bottom line is, you always have a chance if you have a jersey on your back. What you do with that chance, is a different story.
Chapter One
I toed the rubber, turning my foot to that unique angle that marks my set position—a deep breath, shoulder wiggle, and complete focus. Ball in glove, locked and loaded.
Inner Dirk was talking, “You’re a winner, you’re a tiger, a champion. You can do this, you will do this.” I felt awesome. I felt invincible. I felt as if I should be in a sports drink commercial. I was dominating this team, a complete force of nature punishing them from all angles, like throwing to blindfolded children. A grand symphony should have been playing in the background for my display of pitching mastery. At one point I could actually see myself from the outside, really digging myself, like an out-of-body moment of baseball Zen.
I adjusted my hat and took the sign from the catcher. I didn’t like it, so I shook. I didn’t like the next one either, or the next one, or the…“Come on man, I don’t even throw a three, why do you keep putting three fingers down?” I shouted.
“I’m sorry, the other guys use three as their curve ball,” he whimpered back. He didn’t come out for a mound visit, yelling at me from across the expanse that separated us.
“Great. Thanks. Just tell the guy what I’m throwing why don’t you! Besides, no one uses three for a curveball! Three is always a slider!” I said. The batter stood awkwardly, looking back and forth between the two of us, confused.
“Sorry, you don’t have to throw it. We could throw your—”
“Use your fingers, not your mouth, okay?” Stupid rookie.
He squatted back down and adjusted his mask. I reloaded on the mound. “I’m a winner. I’m a champion. I will do this. There is no try, only do or do not do. Wait, how did Yoda get in here? I’ll bet he has a filthy changeup, a Jedi mind trick or something…What am I doing? Focus Hayhurst! You’re a tiger….”
I set my feet again slowly. Then for the coolness effect, I lifted my head to lock on with the catcher’s fingers. Fastball. Just what I wanted. Why waste good breaking stuff on these losers when all I needed was good old numero uno to sit them down?
I nodded, then started my windup—left foot back, hands up over head, rock, pivot, knee up, and then a ferocious uncoiling down the slope to where I let loose.
In slow motion you’d see the batter’s hands go back taking the bat to its proper position. You’d see my front foot land in the precise location I practiced repeatedly in front of a mirror. You’d see my torso rotate, level and clean with no balance issues. You’d see the batter’s foot go up as he began to channel his weight for max power. You’d see my elbow give way to my hand as it snaps a screaming fastball into motion. It would all look so flawless, so magical, so poetic. It would leave you scratching your head, wondering how in the hell I could look that good and still drill a poor high school kid in the ribs at around ninety miles per hour.
You know that dull thud sound—the one a blunt object makes when a person gets hit real good? It made that sound. He went down hard, convulsing between screams of pain as he writhed on the floor.
“Ah, Jesus,” I whispered behind my face-covered glove. “I’M SORRY!” I knew I should have made him sign that liability waiver…. Way to go, Jedi Master. The kid was crying now. Not all-out tears but enough water was leaking out to show he was feeling all four seams. I thought we were going to have to put him down, shoot him like a lame horse.
The catcher, continuing his streak of helpfulness, came to the rescue with the comment, “Don’t rub it.”
“Nice job, meat,” Mazz said from the next cage over. He’d been tossing batting practice to one