These Are Things That Happen at Spring Training

The bullpen pitchers are professionals at more than one thing. These are men who can throw balls at ridiculous speed and angles, better than anyone on the planet except for the five men in the rotation who start the games. They finish games. They come in when situations become difficult.

They are also professionals at ignoring the people in the stands. I do not fault them for this. It's a necessity of being a bullpen pitcher at spring training. You make millions of dollars, and the response is probably going to get negative. Putting the news stories together, I can estimate that Bobby Parnell had probably been told before the game, or a day earlier, that he was not going to make the big league roster for opening day. Or, maybe he knew all along.

Poing is, this guy knew. And he had to sit there, do exactly what they told him to do, and sign autographs for a bunch of people who didn't know anything about him more than that he threw a baseball at high speeds and that he had a uniform. He did not have a smile on his face while signing. This makes him a selfish man. He makes millions of dollars. He should happily sign autographs.

So they disconnect. They learn, after a while, that they have to totally ignore everything that the crowd does short of throwing projectiles at them. How do they do that? How do you train yourself to completely ignore dozens of people around you?

"Can you sign for me?" they ask. They don't know his first name. Why would they? He's a middling reliever on a bad team. Who gives a shit. It's an AUTOGRAPH, man. Little kids hang over the edge. Mothers encourage their children to get autographs of men they don't know. Their names are on the backs of their jerseys.

The fucking bullpen catchers sign autographs. It's probably against their contract. They shouldn't. It's dishonest. But why would they not sign? You don't pass up fame, and you don't pass up admiration if you're starved for it. You'll never get in a game. But they want you. They need to justify their trip. They need a man's signature.

So they create their own world. Bobby Parnell, Sean Green, Pedro Feliciano, Jenrry Mejia. K-rod isn't there, but it would be the same thing.

"Are you signing?"

They're going home to a wife, a girlfriend, a family, a beer, a group of buddies.

"Can you sign?"

We don't care who you are, we just want your name. We spent so much money on this trip. We deserve your name. Sign a part of yourself over to us. You know how much we pay for these tickets? This parking? This concession? You're a fucking ROLE model, man.

So you create a world. You make something up, because otherwise you have to look people in the eye. You have to tell these people, "I see you. I see you, and I don't care. Leave me alone. I'm doing my job. I'm scared. I might not get this guy out. Leave me be and let me work."

But there's a tension. I paid for this. You're right here. I can't throw this ball. ACKNOWLEDGE me.

Feliciano will massage his fellow bullpen mates. Parnell's going to sit in his chair and relax. Olly just wants to talk to the fellas. This ain't a fucking sideshow. We're trying to work. These are grown-ass men.

So now you're Palahniuk. You get it. It makes sense. You're going to analyze them. I am a writer, I must comment on the inner workings of these human beings. Fuck them anyway, it should be us. We'd put the money to good use. We'd appreciate it. Shit, you pay me that much, I'll sign autographs.

I'm at work, you fuck. I'm talking to my coworkers. Eat shit. Eat your funnelcake. Let me throw the ball, and let's just pretend each other isn't here. Have that much respect.