Free The Bullpen Gospels by Dirk Hayhurst Page A

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 Brent’s was a friend of mine. Taller than Brent, Frenchy lurked at the edge of the circle, looking over shoulders and listening to how players who had some time interacted.
    “What tests have y’all done so far?” Brent asked.
    “I’ve done the blood test, and I only did that so I could eat.” This was Ox.
    “What about the piss test?” I asked.
    “I made the mistake of taking a piss when I got up this morning. Now I gotta wait to go again. I’ll do it last.”
    “I wouldn’t expect a ten-year vet like you to make such a rookie mistake.”
    “It’s only been eight years, asshole, I ain’t that old,” Ox barked.
    “I don’t know Ox. How many Advil does it take you to get through the day again?” Drew asked.
    “Kiss my ass, Mr. Big-League Backup.”
    “You should draw a picture of Ox with a cane and a walker, popping Advils, listening to Metallica, and cussing at children.”
    “Save it, cockface. I hope Grady sees that wannabe Jesus hair you got and fines your ass five hundred dollars.”
    “They can fine you that much?” Frenchy asked.
    “I don’t know, but I hope he starts with this guy.” Ox fingered me in the chest with one of his thick, caveman digits.
    “Hey man, if I were Jesus, I’d raise my career from the dead.”
    “Shit, if you were Jesus, you could start with healing me,” Ox said, extending his notoriously cranky right arm out.
    Drew chimed in, “I think healing what’s wrong with you would take a miracle even Jesus couldn’t perform, Ox.”
    Brent and Frenchy both laughed, but stopped abruptly when Grady Fuson himself walked into the locker room. Carrying a clipboard and a coffee cup, he made his way past, stopping to look at us in a detached and uninterested way before unclenching a very sterile “boys” in a voice like a cross between Lou Brown from Major League and Tom Waits.
    We looked back at him like dogs about to get whipped. “Grady,” we harmonized. He locked eyes with me. “Hayhurst, good to see you. Get your fucking hair cut by tomorrow or pay the fine.” Then he walked away.
    “What are the chances?” I said, when I was sure he was out of range.
    “Wear