Dirk Hayhurst has pitched for the Blue Jays, Padres, and Rays and  lives in Hudson. He’s the author of the best-selling book, “The Bullpen Gospels.”  His new book is  “Out Of My League.“   

Off-season hopes


"Careful not to wake my wife, I use the light of my cellphone to rummage through my accumulated pile of workout gear. The top dresser drawer is packed with stuff from the Toronto Blue Jays, Tampa Bay Rays, and even the San Diego Padres; plus all their minor league roots. Today, I’m looking for something without a team logo—after all, wearing unmarked gear to the gym reduces the chances of being asked what I do for a living.

It’s not the question. It’s the answer. Frankly, I don’t know.

I was released last season, effectively making me unemployed. My line of work calls it being a free agent, but it’s the same thing: I’m looking for a job and if I don’t find one in a couple of months, I’d just be lying if I said I was a player. And, at 30, after a shoulder surgery and just half a healthy season, my chances of backing up any lies are not that great.

Thoughts like that make me wonder what I’m doing up so darn early. I can’t help it though, after 10 years of training, my body is set to wake up automatically.    

The life of a player is all about routines, all put in place to maximize baseball opportunities. But, I wonder, what if there are no more opportunities?

Then I decide that this is stuff for Bob Costas and I to joke about when I’m the World Series MVP next October. We’ll laugh that worried about the future because clubs weren’t beating down the door with offers. Bob will say he respects my perseverance, and ask me to sign a baseball card. Then I’ll say, jovially, “can you believe I was genuinely thinking about playing overseas, even independent ball?”

Then reality sets in: I’m not just thinking about those things, I’m hoping for them since they might be the only opportunities I get.

I’m not a kid anymore. Do I really still have what it takes to compete with the young bucks and the super stars? If not, would it really be so bad if it was over?

I played in the Show, I had my 15 minutes; I even managed a book deal. Hell, I’ve done more than most guys ever do in this game. I could come home, be with the wife, finally put that education to use. No more cranky shoulder. No more bus trips. No more racing to the gym at 6 a.m. to beat all the 9-to-5ers. It wouldn’t be that bad, would it?

But arm pain, bus trips, and wake-up calls aren’t the only thing that would end. So would the pressure situations, loaded bases, pay-off pitches. The euphoria of stepping out in front of a major league crowd and living in the moment¬—gone. My childhood dream would be over. I’m not a kid anymore, but I’m ready to stop living a kid’s dream?

If I stop now, it’s my choice. Come March, however, if no team is interested, I’ll just be another guy with a boring story about what he used to do. That’s the risk: years of your life spent training for opportunities that may not come. Well, Dirk, what’s it going to be, ante up or fold?

I take a breath, fish out a pair of white sport socks from a dresser drawer and head for the door. I’ll be home from the gym before my wife wakes up."