[chicoruiz]

Well, it all started with my new roommate. And it ended with me having a police record.

When my old roomie, the monosyllabic Everett Shrum, was sent down, I figured his replacement would be different, but I didn’t realize how different he would be. Mauro Soto is a gnarled old catcher from the Dominican who admits to being 39 (I suspect he’s closer to 44), and who hasn’t stopped talking since he walked into the hotel. All the Latin players on the team seem to know him and gravitate to him as a father figure. He seems like an interesting fellow to get to know, so when he suggested that I accompany several of the Dominican players to a place they knew, I agreed readily in the name of international brotherhood and team togetherness.

So Soto, Ozzie Barranco, Oscar Marcano, Ramon Quinterio, and me, the “token Gringo”, took a cab to an establishment called Humberto’s somewhere in downtown D.C. (the neighborhood was unfamiliar to me). I was a bit leery of some of the denizens of Humberto’s, who looked as if they’d carve open my thorax for a shiny red apple, but a few of the house special rum drinks relaxed me. In fact, they relaxed me to the point where I lost control of my motor skills entirely.

I remember less and less of the evening as it progressed. At one point, I distinctly remember singing close four-part harmony with my teammates, although I was singing “Blue Shadows On The Trail” and they were singing what seemed to be a Spanish version of “Love Will Keep Us Together”. And an hour or so later I remember trying to teach a slender, dark-eyed senorita the Electric Slide, a dance at which I became moderately proficient during my minor league wanderings.

All of this might have been a pleasant, albeit hazy, memory except for what happened next; four new customers entered Humberto’s. Leo Gomez, Roberto Hernandez, David Segui and Jose Mesa. Our crosstown rivals, the Baltimore Orioles. Suddenly I was in West Side Story.

The insults flew back and forth. Then bottles and chairs began flying back and forth. I searched around me for a weapon, but was only able to find a small bowl filled with Pepperidge Farm Goldfish. Believe me, it was no match for Jose Mesa with a pool cue.

The police arrived, and it soon became apparent who they considered the major league team to be. While the Orioles were dismissed with a warning, three WBL players, myself included, were hauled down to the city lockup (Soto and Barranco, ever the wily veterans, had darted out the back door). I spent the rest of the night sharing a cell with several lumps of protoplasm whose smell made me think that some Depends might be in order.

The next morning I was somewhat recovered, apart from a splitting headache and the feeling that a Labrador retriever had slept in my mouth. The three of us were greeted by a minor club official, who informed us that our bail would be docked from our next paycheck. I was also met by my dusky senorita of the night before, who had been turned by sobriety and the light of day into a 220-pounder with hair growing out of her mole. She claimed that I had promised to “pull some strings” to bring her family to this country. I explained that I was a nonentity who had access to no strings to pull, but she persisted. I may have to change my phone number.

Oh well, at least I learned how to say “Your mother is the whore of San Pedro de Macoris” in Spanish. That should come in handy sometime…