Читать книгу The Bullpen Gospels: - Dirk Hayhurst - Страница 17

After that, Lars was elected to tell jokes at most of the morning meetings. A few days later, he led the day off with one about an octopus who could play the bagpipes. The punch line was something along the lines of this: “Play ’em? Once I get these fancy pajamas off, I’m gonna fuck ’em!”

We’ve heard funnier jokes, but the situation Lars told it in made all the difference. A film crew was on location to document the life of another camper, Cooper Brannan. Cooper was a former soldier injured in the War on Terror, when a flashbang grenade exploded in his left hand, costing him a digit. Before he joined the service, he was a pitcher with aspirations of going pro. In what was sure to become the feel-good story of the season, the Padres signed Cooper to a spring-training deal, stirring up a media frenzy.

Everyone from Jim Rome to Deal or No Deal was in, asking Coop what it felt like to go from active duty to pro athlete in America’s greatest pastime. To Coop’s credit, his answers were always humble, respectful, and genuine. He was a media darling, and the cameras seemed to appear at his command. Unfortunately, they did not disappear at his whim, or maybe they would have opted out of videotaping Lars’s morning joke.

Rather than toning things down, the first thing Lars did was walk up to the panoramic lens of the film crew and put two middle fingers into view, causing his peers to erupt with laughter. Then, after taking his place in front of the group, he proceeded to stretch the joke into a five-minute, Andrew Dice Clay swearfest, dropping lines like “Holy fucking shit, that octopus is the most fucking amazing musician I’ve ever seen, he’s like Prince.” Before he reached his conclusion, the camera crew had to stop recording, as none of the material was usable in Coop’s daily in-the-life-of documentary. The entire camp tittered like naughty little kids each time Lars used a swear word, including Earp, who had no one but himself to blame.

Along with Lars’s jokes, Coop’s film crew became a normal camp occurrence. On the cover of many magazines and television screens, Coop was a sensation, while Lars’s humor was a centerpiece for player discussion. Coop, it could be said, represented the side of the game most people wished it to be, which is why it was such good television material. Lars, on the other hand, represented what baseball life was really like, raw and unrefined. I found it odd that both could exist in the presence of one another without canceling each other out.

Evidence of Coop’s mass appeal was apparent thanks to the stream of letters from well-wishers and supporters, which came pouring into his locker daily, not to mention the many boxes of complimentary equipment that showed up with his name on it.

Before he was signed on, there were reports of Coop’s ability to gas the ball into the low nineties from the left side. Maybe it was this particular spring, maybe it was always this way, but all the hype surrounding his ability to bring lefty heat looked like make-believe because most of the time he labored in the low eighties, scuffling for outs.

To most folks, that didn’t matter. His testimony steamrolled right over such trivial things like production, even though it was make or break for everyone else. Coop was the most remarkable story in camp, and it was generally accepted that he’d have a job come the end of it—a fact that sat well with most players, though the reasoning behind it was undeniably questionable, considering the business’s normal operating procedure.

Coop had that kind of an image—too good to waste. So good, in fact, that it made the normal business of the game look ugly in comparison. He was such a quality individual, a credit to the service, that there was something cheap about how much attention he garnered. I was actually a little pissed off about it. Not at Coop, he was a class act, but at the industry for lavishing so much product and attention on him hoping to look good by association. People stood to profit from him, as they did from all great athletes, but something about the way they chased after Coop made me feel that no one really cared about Coop as much as they cared about the marketing potential of his story.

Possessing undeniable nobility, Coop would say he felt as if he were playing on behalf of the other wounded and injured, but the companies weren’t concerned about them. They were only concerned about one wounded veteran ballplayer who made for fantastic advertising. It made me wonder if all wounded veterans received free shoes and sports equipment or just those who had camera time. I know if it was up to Coop, they would.

On the off chance Coop climbed all the way to the top, it would be a Hollywood event. I’ll bet Ken Burns wet his pants at the mere thought of it. I know Coop wanted to earn it, but even if he didn’t, the industry would profit from him. A minor league roster spot was a pittance to pay for the kind of attention Coop could generate. It would be stupid not to keep him around even if that meant someone else who loved the game, who grew up wanting to be a baseball player his whole life, who broke the mold to get the chance, would lose his job. The numbers demanded sacrifice, and for every dream come true, there was a price.

For years, I believed that baseball was survival of the fittest, and I didn’t care about anyone else’s survival except my own. My story was the one that mattered, and as long as it ended with me in the big leagues, I could care less about anyone else’s chances. I never stopped thinking this until I started watching Lars and Coop go about their day.