The Bullpen Gospels Read Free

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