Editor’s note: This story contains graphic language.
Manhood. It’s a competition. Has been since the first grunting, snorting, finger-sniffing Neanderthal scratched out whatever he felt defined it on the wall of his cave. Battle, power, money, looks — they all have their place in the contest, but the one thing that’s been a true indicator of Manhood, since the days when men huddled around flame adorned in animals pelts, is Woman.
Not any one specific woman, mind you. Just the fact that Woman is out there, representing “points” to be scored — a trophy to be wooed, captured, seduced, suckered or even smacked over the head with a club. And men who play baseball come standard with a club.
When I signed to play pro ball back in 2003, the Padres shipped 24 other bush leaguers and me out to Oregon to play for the mighty Eugene Emeralds. We stayed in a hotel in downtown Eugene, like it was a big boarding house. We didn’t have a fridge or a microwave or any clue of what was to come. I thought I was a Man for making it to the pros. Hell, we all did. We would get paid to play, and that alone was like a shiny medal pinned on your chest for all to see.
In a competitive environment, there is no such thing as equal. There are too few spots at the top for any man to regard each of his peers as an equal talent. No, when all men start on an equal footing, something has to separate them, be it a long-standing cultural custom or just random BS made up on the spot. “Equal” is loser talk. It’s unsportsmanlike.
Lots of guys made their cases for why they should be considered the alpha male of a locker room in the low minors. Guys with more time in, guys with more money, guys with more big-league friends. All of that had its place, but none of it was enough to rule. College was over, and the draft didn’t matter anymore. Even good play didn’t mean jack, since you were still six bus stops away from The Show. Thus, the separator, once again, was Woman.
There was a big fella we’ll call Jimmy Keets, broad and sturdy and an absolute meathead. (All names in this story have been changed.) He was built like something you’d christen with a bottle of champagne before launching it out to sea, but so dumb that you knew an iceberg would sink it someday. He kept his brown, tightly curled hair cut short, just long enough to smoosh in hair product. He had a never-ending supply of black V-neck shirts, copper skin, swollen biceps and a winsome grin that, when combined with the job title “pro athlete,” made him like flypaper for certain women.
Jimmy was shameless about his pursuits, by which I mean, he would screw anyone. Anyone. Moms, daughters, moms and daughters. Big ones, little ones, odd sizes and plus sizes. Ex-girlfriends, new girlfriends, your girlfriend. Once, when a teammate’s sister came to visit, it took Jimmy all of a day and half to get her into bed. “You can’t be mad at him, bro,” I heard another teammate say to the girl’s brother. “It’s what he does. He’s like the rain, or the mountains, or the moon and the stars. He just can’t be stopped.”
Jimmy didn’t brag about his prowess, but he didn’t hide it either. One day, on a long trip out to Idaho, he sat next to me on the bus, calling all the girls he’d met so far who lived near the town where we were headed. His “little black book” was a cell phone full of names, with one entry for “Mom and Dad” surrounded by dozens of ranked and categorized booty calls…