Free The Bullpen Gospels by Dirk Hayhurst

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