The Bullpen Gospels

I'd wondered all year how the power of baseball should be wielded. And now I knew. Baseball doesn't have any intrinsic power. It only has what people give to it. For some the man who plays is a superhero, and he can do great things. For some, the man who plays is an obstacle who must get out of the way. Is baseball as important as food, knowledge, care, or a dry pair of boots? Is it as important as some of the things that pass us by in everyday life? I don't think so. Can it inspire, motivate, and call us to do something greater than ourselves? Absolutely. The burden of the player isn't to achieve greatness, but to give the feeling of it to everyone he encounters. It was wrong of me even to try to separate life and the game. They were intertwined, meant to be, one affecting the other, one teaching the other, even when the mixture occasionally blows up.

*an excerpt from the book

The Bullpen Gospels

Dirk Hayhurst

if these walls could talk

Ghost stories - everyone seems to have one, be they induced by mind expanding hallucinogens or a real life encounter.  Whatever the case may be I apparently am in the minority here. I have never caused my neurotransmitters to fire at such a rate that I see a herd of angry elephants charging toward me in my sleep. Nor have I had an encounter with the unexplained. What I can tell you about, though, is the feeling I get when I see this image (inset). You might be surprised to learn that this isn't a picture of the SkyDome..errr... Rogers Centre. The atmosphere created by stepping into both parks in their current state might be somewhat similar though. Rogers Mahal is a tribute to the way were in the 80's when bigger was a better. Essentially it is a monument to excess where now parks are built with the intent of building the very atmosphere that it seems to lack.

When I see this image of this diamond I think if these outfield walls could talk, oh the stories they would tell. I've wondered the very same thing when I've visited other parks around the league. I've stood and thought about who played their before or who walked the dugout tunnels. But I rarely do that when I enter the Rogers Centre. Obviously it does have its history, I'm not trying to discredit that. It has played host to some truly memorable baseball moments. And football moments. And soccer moments. And wrestling moments. And musical moments. And car moments. I think you understand what I'm getting at. It is a venue at best and a tourist attraction, not a baseball stadium in the ilk of Wrigley Field or Fenway Park.


image courtesy of:
www.baseballpilgramages.com

the baseball gods

Whatever god you kneel before at night is understandably your business, be it the sun, Jobu, Superman, or Ganesh. Religion is a personal matter - I get it. And baseball is not without its deities. In baseball it is an undeniable fact that there is a higher power at work. Hardly ever are things attributed to chance or coincidence in this game. There is a deep reverence for these mysterious beings that look down on baseball diamonds from above.  To not acknowledge these beings is to bring upon oneself great misfortune in the form of seemingly incurable hitting slumps, befuddling fielding errors, and the inability to hit a curveball.

Pedro Cerrano, in the classic movie Major League, was fully aware of his fallibility as a human playing a divine game and prayed to Jobu to "come take fear from bats." Baseball players are a quirky bunch. They will do things like avoid stepping on the white lines, eat the same pregame meal if things are going well, or draw a cross in the dirt - the highest form of reverence to the baseball gods. And next time you see a pitcher sitting alone in the dugout in the late innings of a game it's because its believed talking to him will jinx him if he is in the middle of a no-hitter. Also, please do your part and do not under any circumstances say the phrase no-hitter. That is blasphemy of the highest order towards the baseball gods. They are listening. And they will punish said pitcher and end his attempt at perfection with an unwanted base hit.

Need further proof that the baseball gods do indeed exist? This past weekend I took in a Blue Jay game. In the later innings of the game some inebriated frat boys that sat near me took to the time honoured tradition of heckling the opposing team. Fine. All in good fun. That was until their remarks began to border on offensive. Not even the baseball gods could let this slide. For two innings they heckled and jeered and for two innings EVERY TIME they said something a Blue Jay batter made an out, but for one batter. I noticed the hand of the baseball gods at work. Clearly they didn't. And that one time they were presumably tonsils deep in their alcohol and unable to utter more nonsense, what happened you ask?! A homerun.
Baseball Gods 1, Dingalings 0.

The baseball gods are omni-present. Just remember that.

baseball dads

Baseball dads - everyone who has ever played has them. The one's who bought your first glove, bat, and ball. The one's who played catch with you on a Saturday. And the one's who coached you, not necessarily because they were experts on the game, but because they just wanted to be there. Whatever the case may be, they all deserve a big thank you.

I can recall my dad throwing a plastic ball to me while I did my best in my uncoordinated kindergarten days to hit it with a plastic bat. Or the 5am wake up calls in high school to go take batting practice before school started. And the years he spent coaching me.

Most major moments in my life can in some way, shape or form, be traced back to baseball. Birthdays were always spent at a Blue Jay game. I'm sure bar mitzvahs would have been to if I was Jewish. I can probably tell you what I was doing every time the Blue Jays won anything of significance. And the one common thread through all of them has been my dad. He was there for all of them.

So, thank you dad. Thanks for the bat, the ball, the glove, and the memories.