The New York Times
The Bullpen Gospels: Major League Dreams of a Minor League Veteranby Dirk Hayhurst
I enjoyed the visualizations, maybe a little too
From the humble heights of a Class-A pitcher's mound to the deflating lows of sleeping on his gun-toting grandmother's air mattress, veteran reliever Dirk Hayhurst steps out of the bullpen to deliver the best pitch of his career--a raw, unflinching and surprisingly moving account of his life in the minors.
I enjoyed the visualizations, maybe a little too much, and would stop only when I felt I'd centered myself. . .or after one of my teammates hit me in the nuts with the rosin bag while my eyes were closed.
Hilariously self-effacing and brutally honest, Hayhurst captures the absurdities, the grim realities, and the occasional nuggets of hard-won wisdom culled from four seasons in the minors. Whether training tarantulas to protect his room from thieving employees in a backwater hotel, watching the raging battles fought between his partially paralyzed father and his alcoholic brother, or absorbing the gentle mockery of some not-quite-starstruck schoolchildren, Dirk reveals a side of baseball, and life, rarely seen on ESPN.
My career has crash-landed on the floor of my grandma's old sewing room. If this is a dream come true, then dreams smell a lot like mothballs and Bengay.
Somewhere between Bull Durham and The Rookie, The Bullpen Gospels takes an unforgettable trot around the inglorious base paths of minor league baseball, where an inch separates a ball from a strike, and a razor-thin margin can be the difference between The Show or a long trip home.
"It's not often that someone comes along who is a good pitcher and a good writer." --King Kaufman, Salon
"After many minutes, hours, days, weeks, months and years spent in the bullpen, I can verify that this is a true picture of baseball."
"There are great truths within, of the kind usually unspoken. And as he expresses them, Dirk Hayhurst describes himself as 'a real person who moonlights as a baseball player.' In much the same manner, while The Bullpen Gospels chronicles how all of us face the impact when we learn reality is both far meaner and far richer than our dreams--it also moonlights as one of the best baseball books ever written."
"A bit of Jim Bouton, a bit of Jim Brosnan, a bit of Pat Jordan, a bit of crash Davis, and a whole lot of Dirk Hayhurst. Often hilarious, sometimes poignant. This is a really enjoyable baseball read."
"Fascinating. . .a perspective that fans rarely see."
--Trevor Hoffman, pitcher for the Milwaukee Brewers
"The Bullpen Gospels is a rollicking good bus ride of a book. Hayhurst illuminates a baseball life not only with wit and humor, but also with thought-provoking introspection."
--Tom Verducci, Sports Illustrated
"Dirk Hayhurst has written a fascinating, funny and honest account on life in the minor leagues. I loved it. Writers can't play baseball, but in this case, a player sure can write."
--Tim Kurkjian, Senior Writer, ESPN The Magazine, analyst/reporter ESPN television
"Bull Durham meets Ball Four in Dirk Hayhurst's hilarious and moving account of life in baseball's glamour-free bush leagues."
--Rob Neyer, ESPN.com
"If Holden Caulfield could dial up his fastball to 90 mph, he might have written this funny, touching memoir about a ballplayer at a career--and life--crossroads. He might have called it 'Pitcher in the Rye.' Instead, he left it to Dirk Hayhurst, the only writer in the business who can make you laugh, make you cry and strike out Ryan Howard."
--King Kaufman, Salon
"The Bullpen Gospels is a funny bone-tickling, tear duct-stimulating, feel-good story that will leave die-hard baseball fans--and die-hard human beings, for that matter--well, feeling good."
--Bob Mitchell, author of Once Upon a Fastball
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Read an Excerpt
The Bullpen Gospels
By Kirk Hayhurst
Citadel PressCopyright © 2010 Kirk Hayhurst
All right reserved.
Chapter OneI toed the rubber, turning my foot to that unique angle that marks my set position-a deep breath, shoulder wiggle, and complete focus. Ball in glove, locked and loaded.
Inner Dirk was talking, "You're a winner, you're a tiger, a champion. You can do this, you will do this." I felt awesome. I felt invincible. I felt as if I should be in a sports drink commercial. I was dominating this team, a complete force of nature punishing them from all angles, like throwing to blindfolded children. A grand symphony should have been playing in the background for my display of pitching mastery. At one point I could actually see myself from the outside, really digging myself, like an out-of-body moment of baseball Zen.
I adjusted my hat and took the sign from the catcher. I didn't like it, so I shook. I didn't like the next one either, or the next one, or the ... "Come on man, I don't even throw a three, why do you keep putting three fingers down?" I shouted.
"I'm sorry, the other guys use three as their curve ball," he whimpered back. He didn't come out for a mound visit, yelling at me from across the expanse that separated us.
"Great. Thanks. Just tell the guy what I'm throwing why don't you! Besides, no one uses three for a curveball! Three is always a slider!" I said. The batter stood awkwardly, looking back and forth between the two of us, confused.
"Sorry, you don't have to throw it. We could throw your-"
"Use your fingers, not your mouth, okay?" Stupid rookie.
He squatted back down and adjusted his mask. I reloaded on the mound. "I'm a winner. I'm a champion. I will do this. There is no try, only do or do not do. Wait, how did Yoda get in here? I'll bet he has a filthy changeup, a Jedi mind trick or something ... What am I doing? Focus Hayhurst! You're a tiger...."
I set my feet again slowly. Then for the coolness effect, I lifted my head to lock on with the catcher's fingers. Fastball. Just what I wanted. Why waste good breaking stuff on these losers when all I needed was good old numero uno to sit them down?
I nodded, then started my windup-left foot back, hands up over head, rock, pivot, knee up, and then a ferocious uncoiling down the slope to where I let loose.
In slow motion you'd see the batter's hands go back taking the bat to its proper position. You'd see my front foot land in the precise location I practiced repeatedly in front of a mirror. You'd see my torso rotate, level and clean with no balance issues. You'd see the batter's foot go up as he began to channel his weight for max power. You'd see my elbow give way to my hand as it snaps a screaming fastball into motion. It would all look so flawless, so magical, so poetic. It would leave you scratching your head, wondering how in the hell I could look that good and still drill a poor high school kid in the ribs at around ninety miles per hour.
You know that dull thud sound-the one a blunt object makes when a person gets hit real good? It made that sound. He went down hard, convulsing between screams of pain as he writhed on the floor.
"Ah, Jesus," I whispered behind my face-covered glove. "I'M SORRY!" I knew I should have made him sign that liability waiver.... Way to go, Jedi Master. The kid was crying now. Not all-out tears but enough water was leaking out to show he was feeling all four seams. I thought we were going to have to put him down, shoot him like a lame horse.
The catcher, continuing his streak of helpfulness, came to the rescue with the comment, "Don't rub it."
"Nice job, meat," Mazz said from the next cage over. He'd been tossing batting practice to one of his clients, a big, beefy, future lesbian, the entire time I was throwing live batting practice to this group of high schoolers. This was his place, the perfect extension of his personality.
The joint was a run-down, former machine shop converted into a baseball lessons facility. The walls of the place had grease stains, and metal shavings littered the floor. The windows were old and single paned, holding in little heat. Mazz turned the heaters on only rarely, kept the minimal amount of lights, and didn't think painting over the dismal gray walls was cost-effective.
The track record for indoor baseball facilities in the area was poor. Mazz had been doing great because he only worried about the necessities. No paint, dim lighting, heaters kept slightly above freezing-it all averaged out to less overhead. He was a Scrooge with his own economic rules, which I called Mazzenomics. He was a good hitting coach, but a ruthless businessman, which is why he made such good money doing lessons. A little extra money and the place could look respectable instead of the baseball equivalent of punching beef in a meat locker, but with lessons second to none, people put up with the substandard conditions.
Mazz played pro ball for several years, then coached it, and then coached college ball. Currently, he was coaching an independent team called the Washington Wild Things when not peddling lessons. Since his life had been spent in the game, his default tone was that of the thick-skinned ballplayer crowd where "What's up assbag?" is just as good as hello. He's never been away from the game long enough to be in any danger of civilizing himself, so screwing up in front of him still warrants high school, bully-style chastisement.
"I wasn't trying to hit him. It was an accident," I said.
"I know you didn't mean it. That's why you've got a career 7.00 ERA-poor command."
"It's not a seven, it's ... well it's not a seven."
"It's a six, you're right. That's way better."
I never played for Mazz, but he told me I would soon. "Don't worry," he'd say, "you can still be the ace of the Wild Things after you get released this year." He tells me that every year, mercifully, as if the thought of him as my manager should somehow make me feel blessed.
"You know, it probably wouldn't have stung so bad if you'd turn on the heat in here."
"You guys are here to train. Exercise makes its own heat. If you were working hard, you wouldn't even feel the cold," came the Mazzenomics principle in response. The boy continued moaning on the ground.
"Just like if my lungs were tough from working hard, I wouldn't feel the iron shavings chewing them up?"
"Exactly." Mazz nonchalantly flipped another ball to the war club of the she hulk.
I walked over to the boy I drilled, who, with the help of his coach, was on his feet now and trying to walk it off. The blow was to his ribs, but baseball law requires players to walk off all wounds, even those not related to walking. When I got beside him, I slapped him on the butt and said, "You alright kid?"
"Yeah, I'm okay," he squeaked, trying to act tough. I probably scarred him for life, and he was only a sophomore. He'd never crowd the plate again, that was for sure.
He and the rest of the high schoolers, whom I subjected to this face-off, didn't realize what a favor they were doing for me. I wasn't going to tell them I needed them or that I felt bad about the beaning. I'm a pro; I have an image to maintain. I had to remain strong and impassive like some general. Part of war is casualties, and part of baseball is hit batsmen. If I acted too concerned, it would look as if I weren't in control.
"Hey man, my bad," I offered magnanimously. "I just wanted to brush you back. I was afraid of your power. Didn't mean to come in that far." No need to tell him the pro guy missed his spot by four feet. "If I gave up a hit to you, I'd never hear the end of it." And I'd feel like a complete joke. If Opie here got a knock off me, I might as well call the Padres and tell them I'm done and save them the trouble. Pro pitchers should never give up hits to fifteen-year-olds who weigh as much as the bat they swing.
Now that we were talking, I tried a little misdirection, some smoke and mirrors to change the subject from potential lawsuits. "Go grab a Gatorade, it's free today," I said, squeezing his shoulder as if we were pals. Sugar still distracts kids up to at least age eighteen. I think.
"No, it's not!" Mazz said, cawing from his cage. He was still sacrificing balls to the she-wolf, but he never missed a beat of my conversation.
"I'll pay for it you cheap bastard."
"Then I'll take it out of your next lesson," A buck fifty spent to make a wounded soldier feel better, and he was itemizing it like Satan's CPA.
The boy walked over to grab a cold one out of Mazz's mini fridge. The big softball orc smiled at him. From the way she looked him up and down, I couldn't tell if she thought he was cute-or edible. The rest of the group followed suit, grabbing more Gatorades that I also ended up paying for. Mazz said happy customers are good for business, but he was only saying that because I was paying for their happiness.
I wanted to keep throwing to hitters, but the boys lost their nerve after watching one of their own reduced to tears. I only had a week before spring training, and this would be my last chance to pitch to live bats before shoving off. However, with no one brave enough to stand in, I had to settle for a standard practice session, tossing openly discussed pitches to the genius behind the plate for the remainder of our time
As I threw, the boys stood sipping their Gatorades outside the cage, watching me do my thing. Their coach pointed at me during key points in my delivery, going as far as to mimic my motion at certain points. Some of the other boys followed suit. It's a good thing they didn't know much about the business of baseball, or they'd see something completely different.
One year had passed since that 3-1 loss in the Cal League finals. During the following season of 2006, I managed to climb up to Double-A, even a short stint in Triple-A. I was, on paper, a Triple-A pitcher, something I could proudly declare whenever asked about my level of experience.
What I couldn't say, however, is that I earned it. My promotions were gilded. Dig a little and you'll discover I really didn't have any tangible success last year. I had poor stats in Double-A. Atrocious ones in Triple-A, and despite my good ERA in High-A, I had a win/loss record of 1-7. I didn't move up because I was a prospect-quite the opposite actually.
Injuries and call-ups drained all the talent from the system. I, not being a priority guy the club felt like focusing on anymore, was the perfect choice to hop around the system and mop up spilt innings. At one time, the Padres may have kept me securely planted on the developmental track. That was back when I was an All-Star in the Midwest League and a choice conversational piece for media covering up-and-comers in the Padres organization. I was someone to watch out for then. Now four years into my pro career, I was tagged with lines like washout, roster filler organizational guy. The only all-star team I belonged on was the winter batting practice bruisers who bean high schoolers in rusty machine shops. Maybe not even that.
In four years, I'd failed to impress the people who do the promoting. I was a cold product, and folks who knew the game from the inside, folks like Mazz, knew where a guy like me, an aging, senior college signee with a small bonus and unattractive career numbers, was headed.
Mazz understood how the game works. He knew the outward appearance of success was just that, the appearance of it. He knew I was trying desperately to make sure people didn't know the rest of the story, and he loved to call me out on it.
Sure, the game isn't fair and guys who don't deserve it move up all the time. Several players in my situation have hopped up levels, paying no thought to the opportunity or to the way they got it, only to have a run of unprecedented success. I wish I could say I was one of those players.
The vast majority of people who love this game care only for big-time players with big-time numbers. I wasn't one of those, but I was faking it as best I could. The way I carried on, you'd never know I was back in the same situation I was a year ago, standing at the edge, staring into the pit of my career's end. For all the Gatorade-sipping boys knew, I was shooting through the system. Three levels in one year. Triple-A time was just a step away from the big leagues. Sounds impressive, especially when presented in a way that, again, misdirected attention from the whole truth. Yet, no matter how much smoke, mirrors, or sugary sports drinks I used, I couldn't misdirect the truth away from myself. Every opportunity I had last year, I failed to impress. I was on my way out barring something inexplicable. As soon as the organization found a younger guy to do my job better, I'd get chopped, and there's always a younger guy.
The boys' coach pointed at me, "Watch his finish. See how he gets through each of his pitches?" He bent over in imitation, balancing on one leg.
"Yeah, he's going to look great in a Wild Things uniform isn't he?" Mazz said. He had finished his lesson and now came to mock.
"Why don't you grab a bat and stand in here, Mazz," I called to him.
"No thanks, I don't want to embarrass you in front of your fans," he said. "I might be older, but I can still turn on your eighty- six."
"I thought you said you threw ninety-two," the coach said.
"Whoops," Mazz said, tittering.
"I, uh ... well ... I can. I mean, I don't right now because it's cold and I'm still getting into shape and ..." I stammered out some hyperbole on pitching that ended with, "Besides, velocity isn't everything, you know."
"Neither are K's or Wins, which you also don't have. Funny how that works." If I did have Jedi powers, I would use the Force to choke Mazz until his head popped off.
I ended my practice session with a dazzling array of big, loopy curve balls. The kids oohed and aahed over them; Mazz yawned. Finished, I strolled over and addressed my crowd. "Thanks for coming in tonight guys. I appreciate your time."
"It was our pleasure. I think the boys really learned a lot from hitting off you." I nodded and told him they looked good and had a lot of potential, which I would have said regardless. "Hey!" the coach said, forming his hand into a pistol and shooting me as he talked. "If you make it to the big leagues, we expect tickets!" If I had a dollar for every time I got gunned down with that comment, I wouldn't need to make it to the bigs.
They left, and I went back to my cage to keep throwing, trying to make my pitches obey. Fastballs that wouldn't go down and away, curves you could hang on a coat rack, and a slider I had been tinkering with for years with no luck. I was trying to get better today, but I felt worse than when I came in. The ball felt wrong in my hand, and all the grips were like math problems I couldn't solve. The game didn't even feel right to me anymore.
Mazz, done for the night, said, "I'm leaving. Lock the place up, turn off the lights-"
"And turn off the heat, and enter the alarm, and make sure there's no penny unaccounted for, I know. I'll take care of it Ebenezer."
Mazz stopped and looked at me. In an extremely rare moment of genuine care, he dropped the surly routine and said, "Easy Dirkus, you can't force it. Relax."
"All the same, I'm going to stick around for a while and see if I can." It was kind of him to let me keep working. I won't deny, he did support me in his roundabout, borderline abusive way. Maybe he wasn't that bad after all.
"Well don't blow your arm out. The Wild Things can't use you if you have a bum arm."
Then again, maybe he was.
"I'll remember that-top of my priority list." Right under leaving the door unlocked, turning the heat all the way up, and dumping the rest of his Gatorades.
Away he went, turning out all the lights save for the one cage I was in. I stayed, who knows how long, alone in a cold, dark building, throwing sliders that wouldn't slide into a worn, plastic tarp, trying to figure out more than just pitching.
Excerpted from The Bullpen Gospels by Kirk Hayhurst Copyright © 2010 by Kirk Hayhurst. Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
Meet the Author
Dirk Hayhurst is a part time professional baseball player who enjoys comic books, video games, and a good sugar high. Dirk is a former member of the San Diego Padres, and currently a member of the Toronto Blue Jays where he is temporarily on the disabled list. He makes his home in Twinsburg, Ohio, with his wife Bonnie and their pet garfoose.
Most Helpful Customer Reviews
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I read the first chapter and was already hooked. Most books would just give the good parts of becoming a Major League Baseball player. This book speaks the truth. Dirk had already had me as a fan from his fan interactions online and I was slightly worried the book would be a letdown. It was not a letdown *at all*. In fact, I can't imagine Dirk getting any better than this. I definitely recommend this to any baseball fan and any baseball player. Both boys and girls would enjoy reading Dirk's work.
This is a journey through the 2007 minor league baseball season from High A to Double A as experienced by the author. Parts were fascinating, like the life of the minor league players, the travel, the living, the relationships. Parts were thrilling like the game descriptions. Parts were touching when the author gets personal with a few of the fans. Parts were sad when the author seeks solace from his family. But parts were overdone with frequent segments on the off-hour antics of some of the players. While those actions are part of minor league life and worthy of presentation, some of them, due to their number, seemed interminable. Overall the work was a trip worth taken. However, it was not what one commentator quoted on the cover of the book said, "one of the best baseball books every written." It was good, in parts great, funny, touching, sad and uplifting, but you had to leapfrog over some of the many passages devoted to the ill manners of teammates. In those passages we left touching for bizarre, caring for crass, reporting for scandal. That detracted from the overall feeling for the book. Its not that they didn't happen, but why do we have to know so many of them? The work is a good read, and with less attention to the immature, could have been a great one.
It's already taken on rear reviews such as the best baseball book written in 40 years and while I have no idea if that's true, all I can provide is that The Bullpen Gospels is one entertaining read. The book is written by Dirk Hayhurst, a Toronto Blue Jays pitcher, as he gives a first-hand account of his experiences in grinding through the minor leagues in the Padres organization in 2007. While most of the reviews will be stunned with the notion of "a baseball player can write?!", Hayhurst does a superb job of reliving minor league ball and his dreams and failures throughout his life. I'm no literary agent or reviewer by any stretch of the imagination, but I usually judge a book by how well it holds my attention. The Bullpen Gospels did just that as I flew through its 340 pages in just a couple of days. As someone who has worked a couple of years in the minor leagues, I found it to be entertaining, funny, intriguing and an honest account of what goes on between teammates in the minors. And it left me wanting more from Hayhurst, including his ascension to the Majors where his book left off. Thankfully, he's been writing a seasonal blog for Baseball America that can be found via his website. I've read plenty of baseball books over the years, but most of them are second-hand biographies through countless interviews on legendary people and teams like Roberto Clemente or the Brooklyn Dodgers. As for a recent first-hand account of today's minor leagues and what it means to struggle to reach your dream, The Bullpen Gospels is the book for that. I highly recommend it to any baseball fan out there. Read more at my website: http://baseballwheelhouse.wordpress.com/2010/04/11/the-bullpen-gospels/
It seems like 95% of the book was about the rude, insensitive, pranks and sexual bragging of adolescent boys. Only about two events in the book showed any human kindness, mostly that was right at the end of the book. It was enlightening in that I had no idea that baseball players behaved in such a manner. I learned from the book but it wasn't worth the time invested. It certainly did not live up, by any measure, to Keith Olbermann's assessment as "one of the best baseball books ever written" on the book's cover. My recommendation for that title goes to "Nine Innings" by Daniel Okrent.
It is easy to glance at the cover and topic of this book, and to superficially log it mentally as yet another entry in the cascade of sports books written by former sports icons or wannabes. But no "inside the game" memoirs begin by painfully detailing the reality of living on the floor of a hateful grandmother's sewing room; a lifestyle that is nevertheless infinitely preferable to actually living in the demilitarized zone Dirk Hayhurst calls home. Even a casual baseball fan--particularly one who follows minor league professional ball with any degree of interest--will be entertained by the book's play-by-play of the on- and off-field exploits of a bunch of post-adolescent boys who earn a meager income by throwing baseballs instead of french fries. Hayhurst vividly and hilariously describes the details and tribulations of the remaining 21 hours each day that he and his team is not committed to fulfilling the public's limited vision of what happens between the baselines. Yet despite the theme of the book, baseball simply serves as the backdrop against which Hayhurst unfolds and unveils the personal pain he endures, compliments of a father who has abdicated his responsibility of caring about anything anymore, least of all holding a family intact. For Hayhurst, the minor league system is less an inconvenient stop on the way to San Diego, Toronto, or any other glistening gem of a big league park and lifestyle than it is a means of escape from a far worse life outcome. Many other grown men have to deal with the type of violent, dysfunctional family life that Hayhurst shares with us about his. But they stay in their difficult homes, work at their difficult jobs, and don't have the relative "luxury" of escaping on noisy, stinky buses to some dilapidated minor league town a continent away. For Hayhurst, the journey through the minors itself becomes the prize; any greater glamorous outcome is gravy. Exposing the seedy, steroid-laced, "naming names" side of professional sports is commonplace and tiresome in sports literature today. But using this literary category as a way to exorcise personal demons while entertaining a generation of baseball fans is novel and refreshing, and Hayhurst accomplishes it with class, sincerity, and honor.
A lifelong Baseball-fan I expected an interesting insight from the players perspective. I got way more though: a truly funny, honest and well-written book about the behind-the-scenes of professional Baseball. Must read!
Not quite halfway through it, and I keep wondering why I go back. Maybe because I'm hoping to find some of the humor that other readers describe. Haven't come across anything even close to funny yet. Crude, vulgar, disgusting -- yeah, there's plenty of that, for sure. But calling it one of the best baseball books ever -- I wouldn't call it that if it were the only baseball book ever written. I may have to give it at least one star, because I doubt if this review will allow me to give it no stars. Don't waste your time or money.
“The Bullpen Gospels” by Dirk Hayhurst is an eye-opening novel. The author goes through his process of making it into the Major Leagues. I grew up around baseball and have learned to love the game. So I ultimately loved the book because it was about baseball. It wasn’t just about the game though, and how they played it or how a team made it to the top. This novel was about what we, as fans, do not see. It explained the heartbreaking or life-making process the players go through. They go through the most emotional process, all for what, a lousy jersey that we, as fans take for granted? I think every sports fan, whether they like baseball or not, should read this book. “The Bullpen Gospels” makes you appreciate players and their hard work more and you really get to understand their lives. In my opinion I think a weakness of this book would be the amount of language and dirty jokes throughout it. But besides that Hayhurst does a great job explaining everything he is talking about like the baseball reaper or the thoughts that run through Dirk Hayhursts, the main character, mind. I especially love the ending; the author wraps everything up nicely. He also includes a lot of inspiring quotes. One of my favorites is, “I realized that the best of a person isn’t discovered in great accomplishments. The best part of a person is how he deals with the low points in his life, not the high ones.” This is definitely a must read!
Amusing and heartfelt look at "almost making it" I read Dirk's Out of My League first, then found this prequel. Sometimes raw, always insightful, the book shares his journey through the less-than-glamorous world of the "feeder teams" that funnel into the well-know Major League teams. Examining self doubt, the power of helping another young boy's dream come true, and the belief in team spirit create a truthful and inspiring story.
Great book, interesting insight, honest picture of life in Minor League Baseball.
Hello. Would u like to join a team?
Having spent 12 years working with minor league pro sports and logged millions of miles on charter buses, this book summed it all up! I LAUGHED SO HARD I CRIED REPEATEDLY!
Enjoyable and entertaining.
A thoroughly enjoyable story about life as a fringe prospect in the minor leagues. We see how Hayhurst struggles with his family situation while dealing with the inevitable ups and downs of pitching. There are many funny stories, a couple of touching ones, but the overarching one is seeing Hayhurst slowly become a man with a purpose.
As an avid baseball fan, and minor league season ticket holder for many years, I was prepared to be disappointed by yet another "tell all" book. BUT...I am happy to say that I wasn't disappointed at all, but pleasantly surprised. This book is very insightful, and will be an eye-opener for people who think that minor league baseball is anything like the major leagues. HIGHLY recommended!
This is just one locker raunchy jokr aftrr another. I expectef more.