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The Tools of Ignorance on an Ignorant Tool
For as long as I can remember, I have dreamed of being a bullpen catcher for a professional baseball team (it’s worth noting that I have few memories from prior to the summer of 1998. All that nitrous I did at Deer Creek that year really took a toll on me. Stupid Phish concerts and their recreational drugs.) I realized long ago that chances were slim that my dream would ever be realized. The reasons are many, but first and foremost is that fact that I never played catcher in an organized baseball program past the eighth grade. However, that never kept me from day dreaming about being paid six figures to warm up a few relievers a night in the ‘pen and spend my days lounging in posh hotels, eating balled melons and prosciutto, and nursing off massive tequila hangovers (why did I have such a hankering for tequila shots in my fantasy life, anyway? I don’t even like tequila.)
Alas, my life long dream has thus far evaded me. Instead of hooking up with groupies and eating shrimp cocktails while “on the road” (that’s baseball player’s lingo for traveling… I bet you didn’t know that) I sit in my cubicle and make sure a computer network doesn’t crash. Is mine a glamorous job? Yes (and by “yes”, I mean “no”.) Is it something little boys dream of being? Maybe, but those little boys probably get the shit kicked out of them on a daily basis. With each passing day, my dream seemed a little bit farther from my reach. And as I near my 26th birthday, I was just about set to call it quits and find a new goal in life (“Hey! I bet I could free Tibet!” I thought to myself just the other day.)
Then, out of nowhere… the phone rang. It was a wrong number, so I took a swig of Jim Beam and went back to bed. When I woke up in the morning, however, I had an e-mail from Pat Imig from InsideStL.com. Pat is one of the main sportswriters for that website and together we collaborate on a column called the Daily Redbird where we write horribly unfunny jokes and columns about our beloved St. Louis Cardinals. But that is neither here nor there.
What is either here or there (though, truthfully, I’m not sure which) is the fact that Pat is some sort of events coordinator for the River City Rascals, a minor league baseball team located outside of St. Louis, MO (FYI – “Events coordinator” means that he’s the annoying guy who talks into the mic using a weird/fake voice while little kids do the bat spin -> dizzy run.) Pat wanted to throw an InsideStL.com night at the ballpark, apparently in order to celebrate the mediocrity of the website. He asked if I’d be interested in throwing out a first pitch or doing some contest or something… But I knew exactly what I wanted to do: Be a mother fuckin’ bullpen catcher.
And with that, the realization of a dream began. The Rascals play in the independent Frontier League, and, well, apparently do not run the tightest of ships. All it took for me to be the bullpen catcher for that night’s game was for me to show up. Once at the ballpark, the team’s equipment manager gave me a pair of baseball pants (I was bottomless at the time) and a belt and showed me to the bullpen. It was on.
One of the reasons that bullpen catcher has always topped my list of dream jobs is that I love sports, but I am a lazy man. And in all of sports, I can’t really think of a lazier place to be than the bullpen. That night’s game was exactly what I hoped it would be: Rascal’s starter Steve Brook was throwing a beauty and there really wasn’t too much work in the bullpen to be done. Without too much warming up going on, life in the bullpen was exactly what I thought it would be: Lot’s of talking about porn, spitting some chewing tobacco, and using the binoculars to scope for tail around the ballpark. Plus, it was pitcher Jon Tapper’s 23rd birthday, and he brought cupcakes and ice cream for everyone (I’m not kidding) so they were all in a good mood. Spending a summer traveling across the Midwest on a bus, sleeping in crappy motels, with really not too much to do… these guys had a tremendous sense of camaraderie.
And honestly, after spending just one evening hanging around with the Rascals, someone should definitely make a movie about life in the minor leagues. One that isn’t gayer than Pedro Zamora at a bi-curious convention (Summer Catch) or one of the most overly sentimental pieces of poop ever produced (Bull Durham) If I have to, I’ll green-light the movie myself (Wait... I don’t even know what that means.)
Right around the fifth inning, Jon Marshall, the Rascal’s backup catcher, threw me his gear and said I should get ready in case someone needed to get warm quick. “You got a cup on?” he asked.
“Nope,” I replied.
“You're a brave man.”
Nice doggy...
No, actually I’m a huge fucking idiot who overdrew his checking account earlier in the day and didn’t go to Wal-Mart because I was too fucking broke to buy a god damn cup.
Brook was cruising through six innings but Brian Johnson, a big lefty from Texas, decided to get warm at the start of the seventh. And it was my time to shine.
Now, this is right around the time where I should probably tell you that while I did play baseball in High School, a) that was ten years ago, b) I was a pitcher, and c) I wasn’t “good.” Not by any means. In fact, I have no problem admiting that I was the worst player on my High School team. An example: In one of my starts, I was DH'ed for so that a guy who ended the year hitting .074 could get some plate time. Nope, not good at all.
And honestly, I haven’t even played catch with a guy who can throw harder than 70 mph in eight years. So when I got down behind the plate to catch for a guy who, for a living, throws a baseball, I was a little nervous.
Once Johnson had his armed stretched out, he fired his first fastball in to me. And it wasn’t that bad. No, I didn’t “catch it” but it hit my glove and bounced out (I looked a lot like Einar Diaz), so that’s worth like half a point, right? He tossed about thirty pitches, a mix of fastballs and curves, and I successfully caught about 75% of them. And I didn’t get hit in the crotch. It was a successful warm up session as far as I’m concerned.
Right around the time that I finished up that session, Brook was putting the wraps on his eight inning, two hit performance. It was time for Pat Evers, the Rascals de facto closer for the game, to get loose. Evers is a righty from St Louis and he throws… um, hard. Actually, he threw a lot harder than I was ready for. And when his first pitch whizzed in between my glove and my head, I simultaneously cried and shat myself just a little bit.
I made it through seven of Evers’ two-seam fastballs (actually catching three of them) before tagging out to Marshall, the actual catcher. This much I know as fact: If I had stayed in there to try to catch another pitch, I would be dead right now. He would have killed me. And I am way too young and too sexy to die.
(Note - What I didn’t know earlier is that Johnson was just getting in some side work and was only throwing at about 80%, grooving his pitches in to me in the low 80’s. Evers, however, was getting ready to go into the game and was throwing in the upper 80’s/ lower 90’s. It was startling how much of a difference 10mph made.)
Steeeeeeee-rike!
Evers went in for the ninth inning to close out the game. I sat back down on the bench in the bullpen and watched him strike out the final batter of the game. I had lived my dream of being a bullpen catcher and the Rascal’s had won. I felt confident that I had done absolutely nothing to contribute to the victory.
Which meant that I had done exactly what a bullpen catcher should have done: nothing. My life long dream had been fulfilled.
Indeed they are "the tools of ignorance"; excepting, of course, for that one tool that you did not don. Not donning that = ignorance. I'm guessing that some of the stories that were told prior to inning 5 were enough to convince you not to borrow from one fo the other guys.
MEH
Living the Dream
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Posted: 6/26/2006 12:07:09 PM
Beautiful. My brother has always said he plans to teach his son to coffin-corner for similar reasons.
Dave B
Nice
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Posted: 6/26/2006 1:52:22 PM
This was my favorite of the day, but I'm usually biased towards anything sports related.
Kiley
Yup
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Posted: 6/26/2006 2:23:45 PM
Dave B is right. This is the best today. Nice.
deuce
solid, solid piece
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Posted: 6/26/2006 2:35:39 PM
suplemented with a superb comment from tom a.
nice work alex
ripi$money
Excellent Piece
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Posted: 6/26/2006 3:57:54 PM
I loved this article! Not only was it well written, it sounded like a pretty interesting experience. It reminds me of when I was at a Tigers-White Sox game at Comerica Park. We were standing near the bullpens in left field, and someone was heckling the bullpen catcher. "Bullpen catcher! Bullpen catcher! Why don't you get in the real game?" From this article, I now know why.
Joe Kickass
Nice
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Posted: 6/26/2006 7:59:34 PM
Well done Alex, the last one I read today, but the best.
Alex
Thanks
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Posted: 6/27/2006 12:07:14 AM
Thanks for the kind words folks. It was a blast.
Bage
Thanks
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Posted: 6/27/2006 8:17:44 PM
I thought I was the only other 20 something with this life long dream. Ironically, for the Rascals.
JohnnyC
Nice One, Alex
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Posted: 6/30/2006 9:12:43 AM
I pitched BP for the Cards back in '97, throwing to the starting pitchers who weren't starting on that day, and that was a blast. Stottlemyre hated my delivery (and the fact I nearly hit him twice), but Alan Benes and Matt Morris had a good time watching me try to throw strikes at 70 MPH.
This piece really brought back some memories. Thanks.
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