to throw that hard this way, but what I lost in velocity I made up with the element of surprise.
Captain Curls stood loaded at the plate, timing me in anticipation of a juicy heater. Instead, a 70 mph batting practice heater lazily lumbered right down the middle to a confused hitter who watched it float by.
Remorsefully, his catcher and teammate, the dickhead, called him out.
Instantly Curls’s minions turned on him. “Dude, how do you not swing at that? It was right there!”
“Shut the hell up!” protested Curls. “That’s not even a legal pitch, right? That’s not a legal pitch, is it?” he said, glaring at his catcher. “He can’t do what he just did!”
“I, I don’t know, dude,” sputtered the catcher.
Curls dropped his bat and stared at me. “What the hell was that crap?”
“You striking out. Perfectly legal,” I said, stepping out of the cage. To be honest, I wasn’t sure if it would work. I never had enough guts to do something like that in a real game. Coaches always talk about how effective a little timing variation is at screwing up a hitter, but it can also screw up a pitcher. I decided I’d have to hold on to that little trick.
“That wasn’t your best fastball,” continued the captain.
“Best is such an arbitrary term,” I said, changing my shoes and stuffing my glove into a gym bag.
“You’re done? You can’t leave us on that.”
“Sorry, gentlemen, I have to. I got a date tonight and you’re out of time.”
“You got a date? You’re blowing us off for a girl?” Like a group of seventh-graders, they all oohed over my admission.
“Easy, princess. Don’t be mad at me because things didn’t work out in there the way you wanted.”
“I ain’t mad. You beat me with an illegal pitch.” Curls stepped from the cage, his teammates filling in around him.
“No, I beat you with something you’ve never seen before. Spend as much time as I have in the minors and you find new ways to get things done,” I said, throwing my bag over my shoulder.
“Yeah, but now you’re walking away from getting better for a girl. That’s crazy. You’re a pro player, man. You can get a girl anytime you want. You only got a little while to get better before spring training.”
Curls took a dry cut with his bat while he waited for me to respond, to confirm his belief that life was centered around the ease at which things came to those with a professional baseball title. As I looked back at him, I felt like I was looking at a younger version of myself, a Dirk who believed that baseball had all the answers. I was never as cocky or well tanned as Curls, but I was just as naïve, just as convinced that baseball would always love me as long as I dedicated myself to it. But that was years ago, as far away from me now as Curls was from hitting my last fastball. I would never be able to explain it to him. He knew what he needed to know for where he was, and where he hoped to go—but not for where I hoped to go.
“It’s not what you think it is,” I said.
“That’s because you haven’t made it to the Bigs yet,” said Curls. “You make it to the Bigs, you can get all the girls you want, right?”
I sighed, thinking about baseball’s Promised Land. “Maybe.”
“Then what’s more important: girls now, or girls in the Bigs?”
“I don’t know,” I said. The words must have sounded like heresy as the troupe exchanged shocked faces.
“You aren’t going to make it with an attitude like that,” said Curls. But it wasn’t his voice I heard; it was my own that had been saying the same thing for a while now.
“Easy, bro,” I cautioned him, “I don’t think you know what you’re talking about.”
“I’m just saying it sounds like you can’t keep your priorities straight.”
“What do you know about priorities?” I came on Curls, angrily. “What do you know about life? I’ve been through shit you can’t imagine to keep this game a priority. I think you better learn
Captain Curls stood loaded at the plate, timing me in anticipation of a juicy heater. Instead, a 70 mph batting practice heater lazily lumbered right down the middle to a confused hitter who watched it float by.
Remorsefully, his catcher and teammate, the dickhead, called him out.
Instantly Curls’s minions turned on him. “Dude, how do you not swing at that? It was right there!”
“Shut the hell up!” protested Curls. “That’s not even a legal pitch, right? That’s not a legal pitch, is it?” he said, glaring at his catcher. “He can’t do what he just did!”
“I, I don’t know, dude,” sputtered the catcher.
Curls dropped his bat and stared at me. “What the hell was that crap?”
“You striking out. Perfectly legal,” I said, stepping out of the cage. To be honest, I wasn’t sure if it would work. I never had enough guts to do something like that in a real game. Coaches always talk about how effective a little timing variation is at screwing up a hitter, but it can also screw up a pitcher. I decided I’d have to hold on to that little trick.
“That wasn’t your best fastball,” continued the captain.
“Best is such an arbitrary term,” I said, changing my shoes and stuffing my glove into a gym bag.
“You’re done? You can’t leave us on that.”
“Sorry, gentlemen, I have to. I got a date tonight and you’re out of time.”
“You got a date? You’re blowing us off for a girl?” Like a group of seventh-graders, they all oohed over my admission.
“Easy, princess. Don’t be mad at me because things didn’t work out in there the way you wanted.”
“I ain’t mad. You beat me with an illegal pitch.” Curls stepped from the cage, his teammates filling in around him.
“No, I beat you with something you’ve never seen before. Spend as much time as I have in the minors and you find new ways to get things done,” I said, throwing my bag over my shoulder.
“Yeah, but now you’re walking away from getting better for a girl. That’s crazy. You’re a pro player, man. You can get a girl anytime you want. You only got a little while to get better before spring training.”
Curls took a dry cut with his bat while he waited for me to respond, to confirm his belief that life was centered around the ease at which things came to those with a professional baseball title. As I looked back at him, I felt like I was looking at a younger version of myself, a Dirk who believed that baseball had all the answers. I was never as cocky or well tanned as Curls, but I was just as naïve, just as convinced that baseball would always love me as long as I dedicated myself to it. But that was years ago, as far away from me now as Curls was from hitting my last fastball. I would never be able to explain it to him. He knew what he needed to know for where he was, and where he hoped to go—but not for where I hoped to go.
“It’s not what you think it is,” I said.
“That’s because you haven’t made it to the Bigs yet,” said Curls. “You make it to the Bigs, you can get all the girls you want, right?”
I sighed, thinking about baseball’s Promised Land. “Maybe.”
“Then what’s more important: girls now, or girls in the Bigs?”
“I don’t know,” I said. The words must have sounded like heresy as the troupe exchanged shocked faces.
“You aren’t going to make it with an attitude like that,” said Curls. But it wasn’t his voice I heard; it was my own that had been saying the same thing for a while now.
“Easy, bro,” I cautioned him, “I don’t think you know what you’re talking about.”
“I’m just saying it sounds like you can’t keep your priorities straight.”
“What do you know about priorities?” I came on Curls, angrily. “What do you know about life? I’ve been through shit you can’t imagine to keep this game a priority. I think you better learn
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