The Bullpen Gospels Read Free Page B

just as good as hello. He’s never been away from the game long enough to be in any danger of civilizing himself, so screwing up in front of him still warrants high school, bully-style chastisement.
    “I wasn’t trying to hit him. It was an accident,” I said.
    “I know you didn’t mean it. That’s why you’ve got a career 7.00 ERA—poor command.”
    “It’s not a seven, it’s…well it’s not a seven.”
    “It’s a six, you’re right. That’s way better.”
    I never played for Mazz, but he told me I would soon. “Don’t worry,” he’d say, “you can still be the ace of the Wild Things after you get released this year.” He tells me that every year, mercifully, as if the thought of him as my manager should somehow make me feel blessed.
    “You know, it probably wouldn’t have stung so bad if you’d turn on the heat in here.”
    “You guys are here to train. Exercise makes its own heat. If you were working hard, you wouldn’t even feel the cold,” came the Mazzenomics principle in response. The boy continued moaning on the ground.
    “Just like if my lungs were tough from working hard, I wouldn’t feel the iron shavings chewing them up?”
    “Exactly.” Mazz nonchalantly flipped another ball to the war club of the she hulk.
    I walked over to the boy I drilled, who, with the help of his coach, was on his feet now and trying to walk it off. The blow was to his ribs, but baseball law requires players to walk off all wounds, even those not related to walking. When I got beside him, I slapped him on the butt and said, “You alright kid?”
    “Yeah, I’m okay,” he squeaked, trying to act tough. I probably scarred him for life, and he was only a sophomore. He’d never crowd the plate again, that was for sure.
    He and the rest of the high schoolers, whom I subjected to this face-off, didn’t realize what a favor they were doing for me. I wasn’t going to tell them I needed them or that I felt bad about the beaning. I’m a pro; I have an image to maintain. I had to remain strong and impassive like some general. Part of war is casualties, and part of baseball is hit batsmen. If I acted too concerned, it would look as if I weren’t in control.
    “Hey man, my bad,” I offered magnanimously. “I just wanted to brush you back. I was afraid of your power. Didn’t mean to come in that far.” No need to tell him the pro guy missed his spot by four feet. “If I gave up a hit to you, I’d never hear the end of it.” And I’d feel like a complete joke. If Opie here got a knock off me, I might as well call the Padres and tell them I’m done and save them the trouble. Pro pitchers should never give up hits to fifteen-year-olds who weigh as much as the bat they swing.
    Now that we were talking, I tried a little misdirection, some smoke and mirrors to change the subject from potential lawsuits. “Go grab a Gatorade, it’s free today,” I said, squeezing his shoulder as if we were pals. Sugar still distracts kids up to at least age eighteen. I think.
    “No, it’s not!” Mazz said, cawing from his cage. He was still sacrificing balls to the she-wolf, but he never missed a beat of my conversation.
    “I’ll pay for it you cheap bastard.”
    “Then I’ll take it out of your next lesson,” A buck fifty spent to make a wounded soldier feel better, and he was itemizing it like Satan’s CPA.
    The boy walked over to grab a cold one out of Mazz’s mini fridge. The big softball orc smiled at him. From the way she looked him up and down, I couldn’t tell if she thought he was cute—or edible. The rest of the group followed suit, grabbing more Gatorades that I also ended up paying for. Mazz said happy customers are good for business, but he was only saying that because I was paying for their happiness.
    I wanted to keep throwing to hitters, but the boys lost their nerve after watching one of their own reduced to tears. I only had a week before spring training, and this would be my last chance to