Hank mad?
Or maybe just sad.
Hank Bishop wasn’t a bad hitter now. He just wasn’t great anymore. His average was at .280 since he’d come back to the Tigers, with three homers and ten RBI. But whether Brian was watching him from next to the dugout at Comerica or watching him on television, he’d always see a few pitches per game that were practically begging to be crushed by Hank’s bat but would end up being routine fly balls.
More than anything, though, the question he knew he would never have the courage to ask was this:
How much Hank Bishop thought steroids had to do with the success he used to have.
Brian loved baseball enough to know that it was the record books, the stats, that connected one era to another, that connected somebody like Ty Cobb, the greatest Tiger of them all—and, from everything he’d read, a hundred times the jerk that Hank could be—to the players of today. And Brian knew that what was now called the “steroid era,” the era that pretty much took up his whole life, had made a fine mess of the record books and of history, especially when it came to home runs, because nobody could sort out how much the modern stats were real and how much they had to do with drugs. Who was clean and who wasn’t.
Every time one of Hank’s balls ended up on the warning track, he wondered if it would have been a home run five years ago.
He knew Hank had to wonder the exact same thing, whether he’d ever admit that or not.
Brian had experienced a lot of feelings since Hank Bishop became a Tiger again, more bad than good. A lot more bad than good, actually.
He’d never expected to feel sorry for him. Yet he did.
Even stranger, in a way that Brian couldn’t understand
properly, it made him feel sorry for himself.
It was three thirty in the afternoon, middle game of the Red Sox series, halfway through the home stand, the Tigers riding a four-game winning streak, and Brian and Finn were in Equipment Room No. 3, the real start of their day.
“Here’s what you need to do, if you want my opinion,” Finn was saying.
“Wait a second,” Brian said. “This opinion, the one you’re about to give me, is this one I have a choice about?”
“Yes,” Finn said. “But I’m telling you in advance, it’s not one you’d want to miss out on.”
They were changing out of their own clothes and into their Tigers golf shirts.
“I’m going to risk it,” Brian said.
“I know you well enough already to know you don’t mean that,” Finn said.
He turned now, having pulled his shirt over his head.
“You gotta stop thinking you’re going to get to know Hank the Crank,” Finn said. “Get to know what he’s really like.”
He put air quotes around really.
“Why’s that?”
“Because this is what he’s really like!” Finn said.
“I still don’t believe that,” Brian said.
Finn acted as if he hadn’t even heard him. “And I’ve got another bombshell for you.”
“Wow,” Brian said. “Who’s luckier than me today?”
“All those questions you tell me you want to ask him about being a former juicer? Say you did ask him one day in a moment of complete wigged-out insanity. You think he’d give you an honest answer? He still won’t admit he even took the drugs, remember? Says he didn’t know what his trainer was giving him.”
“I still want to know.”
“Dude,” Finn said. “You’re the big history guy, remember? You’re the one who told me that guys wouldn’t tell the truth about drugs even when they went in front of Congress. ”
“Yeah. Mark McGwire said he didn’t want to talk about the past on a day all they wanted from him was to talk about the past.”
“You need to start focusing on the guys who actually like having us around,” Finn said. “Not Hank the Crank, who acts like we were the ones who suspended him from baseball.”
Brian thinking: The guy acts like he’s still suspended.
Hank was playing in the field tonight for the first time since coming
Or maybe just sad.
Hank Bishop wasn’t a bad hitter now. He just wasn’t great anymore. His average was at .280 since he’d come back to the Tigers, with three homers and ten RBI. But whether Brian was watching him from next to the dugout at Comerica or watching him on television, he’d always see a few pitches per game that were practically begging to be crushed by Hank’s bat but would end up being routine fly balls.
More than anything, though, the question he knew he would never have the courage to ask was this:
How much Hank Bishop thought steroids had to do with the success he used to have.
Brian loved baseball enough to know that it was the record books, the stats, that connected one era to another, that connected somebody like Ty Cobb, the greatest Tiger of them all—and, from everything he’d read, a hundred times the jerk that Hank could be—to the players of today. And Brian knew that what was now called the “steroid era,” the era that pretty much took up his whole life, had made a fine mess of the record books and of history, especially when it came to home runs, because nobody could sort out how much the modern stats were real and how much they had to do with drugs. Who was clean and who wasn’t.
Every time one of Hank’s balls ended up on the warning track, he wondered if it would have been a home run five years ago.
He knew Hank had to wonder the exact same thing, whether he’d ever admit that or not.
Brian had experienced a lot of feelings since Hank Bishop became a Tiger again, more bad than good. A lot more bad than good, actually.
He’d never expected to feel sorry for him. Yet he did.
Even stranger, in a way that Brian couldn’t understand
properly, it made him feel sorry for himself.
It was three thirty in the afternoon, middle game of the Red Sox series, halfway through the home stand, the Tigers riding a four-game winning streak, and Brian and Finn were in Equipment Room No. 3, the real start of their day.
“Here’s what you need to do, if you want my opinion,” Finn was saying.
“Wait a second,” Brian said. “This opinion, the one you’re about to give me, is this one I have a choice about?”
“Yes,” Finn said. “But I’m telling you in advance, it’s not one you’d want to miss out on.”
They were changing out of their own clothes and into their Tigers golf shirts.
“I’m going to risk it,” Brian said.
“I know you well enough already to know you don’t mean that,” Finn said.
He turned now, having pulled his shirt over his head.
“You gotta stop thinking you’re going to get to know Hank the Crank,” Finn said. “Get to know what he’s really like.”
He put air quotes around really.
“Why’s that?”
“Because this is what he’s really like!” Finn said.
“I still don’t believe that,” Brian said.
Finn acted as if he hadn’t even heard him. “And I’ve got another bombshell for you.”
“Wow,” Brian said. “Who’s luckier than me today?”
“All those questions you tell me you want to ask him about being a former juicer? Say you did ask him one day in a moment of complete wigged-out insanity. You think he’d give you an honest answer? He still won’t admit he even took the drugs, remember? Says he didn’t know what his trainer was giving him.”
“I still want to know.”
“Dude,” Finn said. “You’re the big history guy, remember? You’re the one who told me that guys wouldn’t tell the truth about drugs even when they went in front of Congress. ”
“Yeah. Mark McGwire said he didn’t want to talk about the past on a day all they wanted from him was to talk about the past.”
“You need to start focusing on the guys who actually like having us around,” Finn said. “Not Hank the Crank, who acts like we were the ones who suspended him from baseball.”
Brian thinking: The guy acts like he’s still suspended.
Hank was playing in the field tonight for the first time since coming
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