Dirk Hayhurst, 29, spent most of his 20s as a minor league baseball pitcher, sleeping in cheap motels and driving a beat-up Honda to the ballpark. In 2008, he was called up to the majors, only to see his dream falter as he posted unremarkable stats and wound up on the disabled list. On Saturday, Nov. 20, at 3:30 p.m., Hayhurst will be at Politics and Prose bookstore (5015 Connecticut Ave. NW) to read from his book “The Bullpen Gospels: Major League Dreams of a Minor League Veteran.” The free agent spent an hour of his offseason to speak with The Washington Examiner about a faith that has guided him through tough lessons learned.
Do you consider yourself to be of a specific faith?
I’m a Christian guy, and I appreciate most the figurehead of my faith, Jesus Christ. I’m drawn to him. When I think of Jesus, I think of this radical guy — a self-sacrificing individual both so strong and so humble. I believe there’s great strength in that humility, and in the caring and compassion that move people in a way that want to move. You don’t have to boss or force anyone when you’re humble and caring, and a in a world all about achievement and success, that’s an incredible trait.
Baseball seems to lend itself to literature more than other American sports. As both a player and a writer, what about the sport so captures our imagination?
I think the thing about baseball is that if you look at it, it’s a sport where you don’t have to be a particular size or build to play — it’s an everyman sport, from chubby to short to lanky to everyone in between. And I think that makes us connect with it more than, say, football, or basketball, where you have to be a giant. And there’s nostalgia involved — people trade moments in the ballpark like they trade old war stories. Hours are played and the game is decided in one pitch, or one swing. There’s so much essentially forgettable time that we tend to raise up those small moments into heroism and reverie.
You said that the 2010 season on the disabled list was one of the toughest years of your life. Looking back on it now, what positives came of the pain?
I think I’ve always tried to believe that I’m more than a uniform. In our culture, our titles make us who we are — a doctor of this, or an executive of that. I spent my whole life trying to be a baseball player, and then for my first real time as a big leaguer with a big paycheck, my arm is hurt and I’m about to watch it all disappear. I had this incredible epiphany realizing I’m mortal. And everyone in the baseball world will disappear, and no one will care when I leave. Someone else will replace me. I realized that it ends for all of us, and the most important thing in our life is not what we do — not even the great things that we do. Those moments don’t define us — we define ourselves. So, I didn’t face the Yankees this past year, but I did face myself.
It seems to me that athletes more than a lot of people have trouble knowing when to quit. Even as you’re hopeful about playing again next season, what have you learned about giving up?
It’s something I’ve thought a lot about, and there’s not a concise answer for it. The mantras that we have to never give up are valuable, and I’d never tell anyone to quit. But there’s a difference between quitting, and knowing when it’s time to make a transition. Sometimes we feel that if we plug away long enough, we can make anything happen. But the fact of the matter is that we can’t. There’s a difference between being confident and lying to yourself. You’ve got to know yourself well enough to make that decision, but sometimes the smartest thing you can do is put your talents to use in other fields.
At your core, what’s one of your defining beliefs?
I believe that it’s not the best moments in our life that define us, but it’s the strength with which we weather the bad moments. Because we’re all going to have them, and how we handle them is what will separate us.
– Leah Fabel
