Baseball America: Hayhurst: Non-Prospect Diary: Gas Attack

You get the feeling Dirk Hayhurst could have pitched for Hunter Thompson’s “Down Valley Doughboys” softball team?

The bus rolled into the parking lot at 5 a.m. We left after our last game, traveling all night, riding in our minor league limo for eight hours. The sun was trying to break through the sky but I wasn’t in the mood for my day to start yet so I put my sun glasses on. Eyes hurting, head disconnected, I stepped off the bus with the complete confidence I looked as bad as I felt. My hair was reminiscent of Doc Brown and my collared shirt, the one team policy requires I wear to appear professional, looked like I just took it out of my wallet. 

As tired as I was, the worst part was the terrible taste in my mouth. 

One of the guys on board, a gentlemen forbidden by team rule to eat beans, ate beans. I can’t say it was his fault. The meal we had before leaving the last town was Chipotle burritos, and in the excitement of getting the trendy Mexican meal, we lost track of our bus trip diet laws. We filled our tummies, he downed his beans, and onto the bus we went oblivious to the storm that was brewing. 

Now, he-who-shall-not-eat-beans is no ordinary gas passer. Other guys on the team pass gas, but this young man, well, lets just say his toots are on par with the stuff Godzilla uses to blast Japan. And he sits right behind me.