The Bullpen Gospels Read Free Page A

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 of his clients, a big, beefy, future lesbian, the entire time I was throwing live batting practice to this group of high schoolers. This was his place, the perfect extension of his personality.
    The joint was a run-down, former machine shop converted into a baseball lessons facility. The walls of the place had grease stains, and metal shavings littered the floor. The windows were old and single paned, holding in little heat. Mazz turned the heaters on only rarely, kept the minimal amount of lights, and didn’t think painting over the dismal gray walls was cost-effective.
    The track record for indoor baseball facilities in the area was poor. Mazz had been doing great because he only worried about the necessities. No paint, dim lighting, heaters kept slightly above freezing—it all averaged out to less overhead. He was a Scrooge with his own economic rules, which I called Mazzenomics. He was a good hitting coach, but a ruthless businessman, which is why he made such good money doing lessons. A little extra money and the place could look respectable instead of the baseball equivalent of punching beef in a meat locker, but with lessons second to none, people put up with the substandard conditions.
    Mazz played pro ball for several years, then coached it, and then coached college ball. Currently, he was coaching an independent team called the Washington Wild Things when not peddling lessons. Since his life had been spent in the game, his default tone was that of the thick-skinned ballplayer crowd where “What’s up assbag?” is