Diary Of A Can't Miss Prospect

[ifspuds]

Good news! I'll definitely still be reading.

[DWrightMVPin09]

I'll be reading, good luck with dell.

[Jason]

Monday, April 10, 2006, 5:45pm, Detroit, MI

“You’re going to have days like this a lot, kid,” I heard Ryland’s voice say from the darkness at the end of the corridor.

“I know,” I said as I smacked another line drive to the back of the batting cage. “I’ll be just as mad after those games as I am now.”

I turned to face my manager as he walked into the light and stood next to the netting of the cage. We had just finished a 5-1 win over the Minnesota Twins and Ryland still wasn’t smiling. He looked me straight in the eyes and didn’t say a word. After a minute of awkward silence, Ryland turned and looked toward the far end of the cage.

“You hit the ball just fine,” he said in a tired voice. “Some days they just don’t find the holes.”

“Thirty seven years in organized baseball and that’s the best you can come up with?” I asked with a laugh as I turned back toward the batter’s box.

Ryland stood silently as I smacked a few hard ground balls at the center of the back wall.

“Raise your back elbow an inch,” Ryland said quietly.

Figuring I had nothing to lose, I raised my elbow. The hard ground balls switched instantly to hard line drives that would sail just over the head of any pitcher in the league. I knew that Ryland had to be standing there with his arrogant smirk but I didn’t give him the satisfaction of turning around to face him.

“Turn off the machine and sit down,” Ryland said. “I want to tell you a story.”

I don’t want to seem disrespectful of baseball veterans because that’s certainly not how I feel. I know that I could sit and listen to Salinas tell stories all day. Things were different with Ryland and not just because the man was my immediate boss and could screw up everything by sending me down to the minors. He wasn’t friendly most of the time and I didn’t like being around him. I was sure this was going to be some lame story about a rookie who went down and came back stronger than ever.

I turned off the pitching machine and leaned my bat against the netting of the cage. Ryland waved his hand to indicate I was to sit.

“It was the summer of 1972,” Ryland said as he sat down and leaned against the concrete wall. “It was my rookie year playing for Weaver in Baltimore.”

I really fought the urge to roll my eyes. I just wanted to get back to my batting practice not hear Ryland rip off a great story of Earl Weaver’s.

“We had just gotten back from a road trip to the West Coast and I hadn’t had a very good trip,” Ryland continued. “Weaver had given me four starts in the ten games and I didn’t collect a hit in any of them.”

If the man didn’t have the power to send me down to the minors, I would have made some comment about how his career batting average started with a one.

“As soon as I had my bag, I headed straight for the ball park to take some batting practice,” Ryland said. “I couldn’t really understand what was happening. I had hit over .300 at each level of the minor leagues and popped at least thirty homers. I get to the show and I couldn’t even hit to the warning track. I thought I something had to be wrong.”

“What were you hitting at the time?” I asked feeling as if I needed to talk to keep up the charade that I was interested.

“Just over .250,” Ryland answered with a smile that said he believed my bluff. “It wasn’t bad but I wasn’t very happy with it. So I started to head to the cage after each game that I didn’t get a hit.”

“Isn’t that what you should do?” I said. “Work harder to get better?”

“I thought so,” Ryland said in a slower pace. “I thought that’s what a professional hitter did.”

“So what happened?” I asked with actual mild curiosity. He hadn’t mentioned any snappy quips from Weaver or other players so the story seemed a little more than typical manager to rookie talk.

“I kept making changes in my swing,” Ryland said as he turned to look at the pitching machine at the far end of the batting cage. “Every time I went hitless I’d try and change something. I’d raise my elbow or lower my shoulder or spread my stance. By August I had tried about twenty different batting styles and I was hitting under .150.”

“That when they sent you down?” I asked.

“Yeah,” Ryland said in a tone of voice that actually made me feel sorry for him. I knew how much I didn’t want to go down to the minors and here was a guy who knew what it was like to make the show and go back down again. Maybe a manager can be a human being after all.

“As I was packing up my stuff to go,” Ryland continued, “Brooks Robinson came over and sat down next to me. I couldn’t even look at the guy. Here was a future Hall of Famer sitting next to a guy who couldn’t even hit his weight.”

I chuckled without even realizing I did it. Ryland looked up at me with an angry look that changed to a soft smile.

“Yeah, I sucked,” Ryland said and chuckled.

“Sorry,” I said and meant it.

”That’s OK,” Ryland said. “I can laugh at it now.”

“So what did Robinson say?” I asked.

Ryland looked at me and the smile faded. He slowly rose to his feet and looked down at me.

“Robinson said that when I came up I had a great swing and I ruined it,” he said. “He said that I should have trusted the talent I had already instead of thinking a patch of bad luck meant I didn’t have the skill to play at this level.”

I wanted to get up but Ryland’s words hit me so hard it almost felt like a physical kick in the stomach.

“You hit .500 in your first week as a major leaguer,” Ryland said with a stern tone. “Those two home runs you hit off Ed Humphrey Wednesday night were some of the fastest I’ve ever seen leave a ball park.”

Ryland turned and walked a few steps away from the cage and stopped.

“So like I said before,” he said without turning around. “You hit the ball just fine. Some nights they just don’t find the holes.”

Ryland walked down the hall and disappeared into the darkness. I slowly stood up and picked up my bat. As I walked to the switch to start the machine I glanced down the hall toward the locker room and lowered my hand. Turning away from the switch I slowly walked out of the cage and down the hall toward the locker room.

Something told me that someday I would be buying Jack Ryland a very large steak dinner.

[GoCubsAndJays]

A very triumphant return DaED. Great job.

[DWrightMVPin09]

Great post DAED, really looking forward to more.

[GCCWolverine]

Oh heck yeah! Excellent comeback entry, DAED, and I'm looking forward to this returning.

BTW: God is good, all the time - right, brother?

[Jason]

(GCC: Yes he is. )


April 18, 2006, 1:02am, somewhere over Erie, PA.
(Detroit is 9-3 and 2 games ahead of Cleveland. Stats: .370, 5 HR, 15 RBI)

I really wish I could sleep right now like most of my teammates.

I’m tired. I’m lonely. I’m scared. I’m 25,000 feet above Pennsylvania and I don’t know who I can talk to about any of this because Salinas passed out the second he slid into his seat. I can’t take the chance of talking to another teammate because the last thing I need is for the guys to make fun of the scared little rook.

We’re in the middle of my first real road trip as a professional baseball player. I know that we had away games during spring training but there wasn’t the pressure that goes with a regular season road trip. In spring training you had the bus and were expected to be on time but it was before any game and we always knew we were coming home that night. No need to pack a bag for more than that day’s game.

A few hours ago we had just finished beating the White Sox 8-3. It wasn’t a bad game because one of my two hits was my fifth home run of the year. I hit it off Will Fontinals, a rookie who is the Sox’ fourth starter. He hung a curve and it was like hitting from a tee. I was told the ball went 455 feet but I was too busy watching my feet as I jogged around the bases to pay attention. I know I should probably put on more of a show when I hit a home run but Salinas just jogs the bases and goes into the dugout. If it’s good enough for an All Star like him then it’s good enough for a rookie with only 12 games in his career.

I was just walking out of the showers when I noticed almost all the lockers were empty and the guys were gone. I threw on my clothes and my hair was still dripping when I ran to the parking lot and saw almost everyone on the team bus.

“About time, rookie,” Skip said as I reached the bus. “When I say we’re leaving thirty minutes after the game’s over I mean it. Next time you find your own damn ride to the airport and you better pray you make it.”

Ryland turned without another word and walked into the bus and I could see the smug looks of Canfield and our fourth starter, Brad Leiser. I tossed my bag to the bus driver who smiled as he loaded it in a storage bin. I smiled and thanked him then walked onto the bus.

“Hey Leiser,” I said just loud enough for the guys sitting around him to hear, “if I had an ERA as high as yours I wouldn’t be laughing when Skip yells at another player.”

The look on his face was priceless as the snickers of the guys around him started. I never really liked the guy and I know he didn’t care for me because I was a bonus baby. Leiser struggled in the minors for eight years before barely making the roster last year for the Tigers. He turned in an ERA over five and had to compete with the rookies in camp just to keep his starting job.

“At least I know what to say to a**holes in the stands when they insult my mother,” Leiser said with a smirk. It didn’t get the response from the guys I think he was hoping for because the snickers stopped and I noticed Torre slightly shaking his head “no.”

The comment hurt me. Bad. I think I covered pretty well because I forced myself to roll my eyes and walk to a seat in the back beside Croteau. We made light conversation about the Yankees and what it’s like to play at Yankee Stadium. He didn’t say anything bad to me nor did Croteau say anything about me directly but it just increased my panic when he talked about the pressure of playing in front of New York fans.

I expected to be hassled on this road trip but I had no idea it would be this bad. I’d heard things all through high school when we’d go to away games but it was always limited to the usual “you suck” and similar things. When someone would get really personal there was always a parent or school staff member to quiet him down. It only took my first game away from Comerica to show me that I’d been sheltered quite a bit.

We were playing a day game at Kauffman Stadium in Kansas City and it was a beautiful day. I was standing beside the dugout just looking around and enjoying the fact I was going to play on this beautiful field when I heard a little kid’s voice say my name. I turned to see a couple boys, no older than five or six, standing there with baseballs and pens. They asked me if could sign an autograph so I spent a moment talking with them and signing their baseballs. Their smiles were bright and even though dad was sitting a few rows away wearing a Royals’ jersey he was smiling as well. I felt really good inside because I remembered how I felt when I was in their position years ago.

That’s when the first bad thing happened to me. As soon as the boys turned to walk away, a guy came rushing down the aisle toward me. He was wearing a well-worn Royals t-shirt and shorts that seemed to be a size too tight. His beer belly was hanging a little over his belt and as he reached where I was standing I could smell the alcohol oozing from him.

In his hand he carried a box with “Rawlings” on the lid. He flipped it open and inside was 20 brand-new baseballs.

“Sign these now,” he said while thrusting a black Sharpie at my face.

Not wanting to cause a problem, I took the Sharpie and I picked up a ball and signed it. I place the ball back in the box and went to hand him the Sharpie.

“Sign them all,” he said. “It’s not like you’re doing anything right now.”

“I’m sorry,” I said, “I really need to get going.”

“Listen you piece of s***!” the guy screamed at me. “I paid my f***ing money to get in here and I don’t make millions of dollars like you do. All I’m asking for is some simple f***ing autographs!”

At this point I felt a hand on my shoulder and snapped out of my daze to see Ryland standing next to me.

“Time for BP rookie,” he said as he turned me around and walked me toward the cage. I could hear the guy shouting profanity as me as I walked to the cage. Salinas told me later that’s why he never signs autographs anymore.

That turned out to be the nicest of the hecklers I ran into on the trip. Tonight I was walking toward the dugout after hitting a soft pop up to Hack at short when I noticed a guy standing up behind the dugout and waving at my direction.

“Hey Ellison!” he yelled. “You suck!”

Then he proceeded to quantify that by saying my mom did a certain act upon him related to his insult. I was stunned and didn’t know quite what to do so I just walked down the steps into the dugout. The clubhouse manager had been standing at the entrance to the clubhouse and heard the exchange and called security to escort the guy out. I could hear him complaining as they took him away that he paid his money and could yell what he wanted. Then he protested that since I was on the opposing team he was just helping psyche me out.

So now I actually feel afraid to go to New York. I almost think that I’ll land at the airport and the stewardess will say, “Welcome to New York. You guys suck.”

I’m starting to feel sick.

[DWrightMVPin09]

Great Chapter

[Jason]

April 20, 2006, 5:48pm, Ed Sullivan Theatre, New York City
(Detroit is 10-4 and 2 games ahead of Cleveland. Stats: .370, 6 HR, 17 RBI)

“Paul, are you much of a baseball fan?” Letterman asked his long time bald sidekick.

“I’m a fan of the Toronto Blue Jays,” Paul answers while the audience gives him a light boo. Letterman gives Paul his usual comedic look of dismay.

“Those darn Canadians,” Letterman says to the camera in his deadpan tone. The toothy smile appears along with his goofy laugh.

“I like the Yankees too,” Paul said.

”Too late now, Paul,” Dave answers as he continues to look into the camera. “There’s no way you can love both Yankees and any lesser team.”

The crowd roars with approval and Dave soaks it in.

“Well Paul, we have a rather special guest tonight,” Dave says.

“We have the New York Yankees here?” Paul responds.

“Well, no,” Dave said. “They’re winning too much to appear with us right now.”

The crowd roars with laughter while Paul laughs with his usual over the top acting.

“No,” Dave says, “We have a member of the Detroit Tigers with us. Earlier today he had a monster home run to help the Tigers only lose seven to six against the Yankees.”

The crowd claps and laughs at Dave’s joke while Paul just nods like a bobblehead.

“Now that brings us to tonight’s Top Ten List!” Dave exclaims and the crowd roars. The theme music swells and I can see the graphics on the monitor for the Top Ten. I start to get nervous knowing I’m about to come out in front of a national TV audience.

“Tonight’s Top Ten List,” Dave says with a smile, “The Top Ten Things A Rookie Learns When They Make The Major Leagues.”

The crowd roars with approval while Paul gives his dumb laugh. Someone puts a hand on my shoulder.

“Just relax,” Biff Henderson says to me. “Have fun with it. Just smile and let Dave do most of the work.”

“OK, Mr. Henderson,” I say.

“It’s just Biff,” he says with a smile and walks away.


“Here to help us with tonight’s Top 10 list is the man leading all major league rookies with six home runs, Detroit Tigers third baseman Dale Ellison!”

I walk out to the small star on the stage right in front of the big screen hiding the backstage area. The crowd roars with applause and I know it’s not because they really love me or even really know who I am. They were clapping because the big “APPLAUSE” sign was flashing.

“Here we go!” Dave says. “Number ten!”

“The busses to the ballpark only smell like urine when you’re playing the Mets,” I say and the crowd roars.

“Number nine!”

“You have to tip the umpires a whole lot more at this level.”

“Number eight!”

“If Jose Canseco asks if you’d like some juice, just say no.”

The crowd roars loudly at this one and Dave shakes his head in his comedic way.

“That’s just wrong,” Dave deadpans while the crowd laughs. “Number seven!”

“If you don’t scratch yourself at least once per game the commissioner fines you ten grand.”

“Number six!”

“If you hit ten home runs a year Steinbrenner will pay you a hundred million dollars.”

The crowd applauds while the camera cuts to Paul smiling and shaking his head.

“That sounds about right!” Dave says as the crowd roars in laughter. “Number five!”

“Never, ever, shower at the same time as Mike Piazza.”

“Have you ever done that Paul?” Dave says.

“Not recently, no,” Paul responds while Dave turns toward the camera with his silly grin.

“Number four,” Dave says.

“Instead of infield chatter, Derek Jeter just keeps repeating Mariah Carey’s phone number.”

“Number three!”

“If you play well you have to do a stupid comedy bit on Letterman.”

Dave turns to the camera with his comic angry look as the crowd roars and hoots. The camera cuts to me and I couldn’t help but start laughing when I saw Dave going through his motions of false irritation.

“Don’t forget you still play for Detroit,” Dave says with a smirk and turns to the camera with a triumphant grin. “Number two!”

“You get free pine tar for life!”

Anton Figg begins a drum roll.

“And the number one thing a rookie learns when they make the major leagues!” Dave says.

“Ladies’ Day at the ball park is followed by Ladies’ Night in the clubhouse.”

Paul and the band kick up their usual post-Top Ten music and Dave walks over to me.

“Dale Ellison, ladies and gentlemen!” Dave says as he reaches out to shake my hand. “That was very good. Thank you for coming on.”

The floor director yells that we’re in a commercial.

“Thanks for coming on the show,” Dave says to me as he shakes my hand one last time. “You keep playing like you have been and I’m sure we’ll have you back on the show again.”

“Thanks, Mr. Letterman,” I said. “It’s an honor just to meet you.”

Dave smiled and turned to head back to his desk. Biff came and led me off-stage and back to the green room so I could gather my things. When I walked in, there was the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen in my life sitting there reading a “People” magazine. As I picked up my jacket, she smiled and shook her head so her long brunette locks flowed in an imaginary breeze.

“Hi,” she said. “I’m Shannon Elizabeth.”

“From American Pie,” I said with a smile.

“Among other things,” she said. “I saw your bit and it was pretty funny.”

“Thanks,” I said.

“Some friends and I are going out to dinner after the show,” she said. “I’d love it if you came along with us. I’ve always wondered what it was like to be a pro baseball player.”

“Miss Elizabeth,” Biff Henderson said as he stuck his head in the door. “You’re on.”

“You want to go?” she asked me.

“Yeah,” I said as I laid my coat down. “I’ll be waiting right here.”

“Good,” she said as she walked past me and let her hand brush against my arm. “I’ll only be a minute.”

I sat down in one of the overstuffed chairs and turned toward the monitor of the show. I picked up my cell phone and called Sid.

“Letterman went very well,” I said into the phone. “Listen, can you get me a later flight back to Detroit? I want to grab some dinner before I leave.”

Sid asked me if I wanted a limo to take me somewhere.

“No, that’s OK,” I said. “I think I have a nice ride all lined up for tonight.”

[Jason]

May 1, 2006, 1:54pm, Comerica Park, Detroit
(Detroit is 15-9 and1 game ahead of Kansas City. Stats: .294, 7 HR, 21 RBI)

“Oh, s***!” Croteau said as he pointed to the left field bleachers. “Who the f*** is that?”

I just finished a very painful slide, naked, into home plate. My batting average fell below .300 for a week thanks for a horrific 2 for 17 stretch to end our recent road trip. The veterans didn’t give me an inch of slack over the bet we had made regarding my avoiding hazing. The minute I walked into the park I was greeted by Salinas and Croteau who escorted me to the ferris wheel in the park. After riding it in the buff for about ten minutes, I had to streak to the batter’s box. Faking a swing, I bolted around the bases while the guys cheered and laughed.

I noticed the laughing stop as I started my slide into home. If it wasn’t for the fact it hurt so bad I wanted to scream I would have likely been more concerned about why all the veterans stopped clapping and cheering.

“They’ve got a camera,” Allen Canfield snapped.

Salinas and Bill Sparks pulled me off the ground. My legs felt like they were burning from the dual scrapes thanks to the unforgiving dirt around the plate. I wanted to complain and ask the guys to slow down but it was like I was the President after someone shouted “gun.” The next ten seconds as they rushed me into the dugout and into the tunnel seemed like ten minutes. My eyes were watering but I forced myself not to actually cry because it was humiliating enough to have done what I did without letting them see me cry.

“Ryland’s going to have our asses,” Sparks said to Salinas. They placed me on a chair in front of my locker and Salinas tossed me a towel.

“Go see the trainer and get something on those scratches,” Salinas said. “We’ll be back.”

“He’s gonna cut us for sure,” Sparks started to say as they walked back out of the locker room.

I sat in my chair for a second and it finally hit me what Canfield had said before my crude removal from the field. There was someone in the park and they had a camera. My naked home run trot was captured and likely headed for the internet. I started to cry and felt very sick to my stomach. I jumped from my chair and ran for the bathroom.

I didn’t make it.

I threw up all over the floor near the opening of the bathroom. Tears and snot flowed while I continued to bring breakfast back for an encore. I was naked on all fours and shaking so hard I was having trouble catching my breath. I felt dizzy and I wasn’t sure exactly what was happening to me. I started to panic because I felt as if I was starting to suffocate even though I knew I was still breathing. I fell on the floor next to the puddle of vomit and continued to shake. I couldn’t see because I was shaking so hard and finally everything went black.

“What the hell are you gonna do?” I heard a voice say.

“I don’t know,” a voice replied. “I sure can’t cut them all even though I’m sure that’s what Dombrowski is going to want to do.”

I opened my eyes and noticed that I was in a darkened room. I glanced around to see I was in the trainer’s room with the lights turned off. The door was open and I could see team trainer Kevin Rand standing in the doorway talking to Jack Ryland.

“I don’t know when he’ll come around,” Rand said. “What do you want me to do when he wakes up?”

”Check him out to make sure he didn’t get a concussion or something when he fell on the floor,” Ryland said. “I’m not going to put him in the lineup for tonight so it’s your call about whether or not we just send him home.”

“You know he’s going to want to play,” Rand replied.

“I know he will,” Ryland said, “and that’s why you have to make the call. This kid is going to wake up very pissed off with a serious chip on his shoulder. I don’t want him to do something stupid.”

“All right,” Rand replied. I saw Ryland walk away as Kevin stood for a minute looking down at his shoes. He turned around and saw that I was looking at him.

”Hello Sleeping Beauty,” he said as he reached over and turned on the lights. Picking up a pen light from the desk next to the door, he walked over and shined them into my eyes. I winced from the brightness of the light and shook my head slightly.

“How do you feel?” Rand asked.

“Very pissed off,” I replied. “With a serious chip on my shoulder.”

“All right smart ass,” Rand said with a smile. “Now tell me how you really feel.”

“Disoriented,” I replied. “I don’t have a headache or anything. I’ll be fine. I can play tonight.”

“I’ll decide that,” Rand answered.

“How long was I out?” I asked as I slowly sat up.

“About two hours,” Rand said. “Salinas came back and found you. A few of the guys brought you in here and called me.”

“Great,” I said. “I’m never going to live this down. I couldn’t have screwed this up worse.”

Rand was quiet so I looked up to see him staring at me with a very puzzled look. I just looked back at him.

“Did I just fart?” I asked with a hint of sarcasm.

“Kid,” Rand said, “The last thing you have to worry about is living this down. In fact, there are a few guys in that locker room who feel like total s*** right now. A few are worried they’re not going to have a job in the morning.”

“Did they get the camera?” I shouted as my senses finally returned. I started to climb off the training table when Rand put his hand on my shoulder and held me down.

“Yeah, they got it,” Rand said, “but they had to rough up this guy to get it. The guy said he’s going to sue and go to the press about it so it’s likely this is only the beginning. Salinas destroyed the camera and video so you don’t have to think about that anymore but I’d be ready for some reporters to ask some very embarrassing questions.”

“Great,” I said laying back on the table. “My career’s over.”

I felt a knot in my stomach as if I was going to throw up again. I closed my eyes and felt the tears swell and then run down the side of my face and into my ears.

“It’s not over,” Rand said. “Although you’re likely going to have to deal with a lot of bulls*** for the next few months. And there will be jerks who will never let you live it down.”

“Thanks for the comforting words,” I said as I tried to laugh.

“Well, it’s the truth,” Rand said. “You want me to feed you a line of crap?”

“No,” I answered.

“All right,” Rand snapped. “Stand up.”

For the next half hour Rand put me through a series of coordination tests and mental exercises. I answered all the questions correctly and made through each physical test without a single stumble. Rand kept trying to make me slip up so he could tell me to go home but I didn’t give him a reason.

“OK,” Rand finally said. “I can’t send you home on medical reasons but I still think it would do you good to take the night off.”

“No,” I replied. “Even if Ryland sits me down all night I’m going to be in uniform and be on that field.”

Rand shook his head and just pointed toward the door. Standing up from the table, I put on a pair of uniform pants and walked to the doorway. Down the short hall from the locker room, I heard Ryland’s voice speaking with more anger than I had ever heard from him.

“You sons of b****es better hope that kid is fine,” Ryland said.

Someone else said something that I couldn’t make out but it apparently wasn’t something Ryland wanted to hear.

“I don’t care if you didn’t mean anything by it!” Ryland snapped. “You’re professional f***ing baseball players and you may have just ruined a kid’s career and this team’s chances to win! I’m not saying I didn’t do my share of hazing the rookies but for crying out loud you could have destroyed that kid today! You better home that kid hits .400 with 50 home runs this year. If he goes down the tubes because of your little stunt all of you will be playing somewhere else next year if you’re not in jail for hitting that guy!”

I turned the corner into the locker room and everyone turned to look at me. Ryland was standing at the far side of the room and all the guys were sitting in front of their lockers.

“I need to play tonight,” I said as I looked directly at Ryland.

[DWrightMVPin09]

Great story, are we going to get an update soon?

[Jason]

May 8, 2006, 12:35pm, Angel Stadium of Anaheim
(Detroit is 17-14 and 2 ½ behind Kansas City. Stats: .295, 8 HR, 24 RBI)

“Dear Jim,” Rome’s voice said from the radio on the trainer’s table. “A nude video? What’s that? Signed, Paris Hilton, Anna Nicole Smith and Colin Farrell.”

A few of the guys fought smiles but to their credit no one laughed.

“Dear Rome,” Rome continued after a comedic pause, “I still look better on camera. Signed, Mel Gibson’s butt. That’s just wrong.”

Croteau started laughing and Salinas smacked him in the back of the head.

“Hey!” Croteau snapped.

“You’re still on Skip’s s*** list,” Salinas said. “I’d be real careful about what you laugh at.”

“Let him alone,” I said as I sat up on the trainer’s table. “If we don’t laugh at this it’ll just continue to get worse.”

“I don’t know how you do it,” trainer Kevin Rand said softly.

“Don’t worry,” I said with a smile. “Revenge goes better when the object of that revenge has no idea it’s coming. Besides, I have a surprise for everyone.”

I picked up Rand’s cell phone and gave him a look asking if I could borrow it. He smiled and nodded and I started to walk toward the batting cages where I knew I would be alone.

In the week since the hazing incident we’ve fallen out of first place and lost five of the seven games played. Ryland fined all the guys involved $20,000 each and suspended them all five games. Most of the guys took their punishment in stride except for Allen Canfield who had the union file an appeal claiming the manager had to right to fine him for something that happened outside of team time.

Salinas told me yesterday that he overheard Ryland talking on the phone to Dombrowski about trading Canfield. Since he’s only hitting .240 it’s not like we couldn’t find someone else to fill his shoes nicely.

I had two straight game where I didn’t even knock the ball out of the infield because I was so worried about the news breaking. It was kind of a relief of sorts when the newspaper carried the story of the guy with the camera. He filed suit against the team for over ten million dollars for emotional suffering and assault. Interestingly enough, he declined to file charges with the Detroit police department.

Instantly I became the butt of many a late night talk show joke. I was very happy that the actual video had been destroyed because I can’t imagine what would have happened if it hit the internet! I had been the subject of several rants on the Jim Rome show and the Best Damn Sports Show Period did a comparison of my butt in my baseball pants with celebrities like Brad Pitt and Mel Gibson.

I was about to ramp it all up thanks to a suggestion from my agent Sid. I thought the idea was horrible at first but if I can get in front of this and defuse it I won’t be known for the rest of my career as the guy who was caught bare assed at home plate.

“Hotline,” Jason Stewart’s voice said from the cell phone.

“Hey J Stew,” I replied.

“Who’s this?” he asked with a friendly tone. Since I was calling on the special hotline he knew it had to be a friend of the Rome show. I was hoping after the call I would still be one.

“Dale Ellison,” I answered. “I’m standing on home plate in Anaheim mooning Disneyland.”

Stewart busted out laughing and in the background I could hear Rome interrupt his latest take.

“Something’s wrong in our control room,” Rome said. “I’m looking up and Jason Stewart is laughing so hard he’s doubled over. What’s going on J-Stew?”

There was a few seconds of silence and then Rome was on the phone.

“I can’t believe it,” Rome said. “On the phone is Tigers rookie sensation Dale Ellison.”

”Hey Romie,” I said.

“What brings you into the Jungle?” he asked.

“I needed to clear the record about something,” I said. “You might have heard there’s some rumors flying around about me.”

“Really?” Rome said with his sarcastic tone. “I hadn’t heard anything although some of the clones are alluding to something.”

We shared a laugh.

“I’ve heard all these lame clone takes,” I said. “I just can’t believe none of them took the time find out what really happened.”

“Why don’t you tell us?” Rome asked.

“Yeah, I was running around the bases completely in the buff,” I said. “But there was a very valid reason for it.”

“And that was?” Rome asked.

“The Carolina Panthers cheerleaders were standing at home plate waiting for me,” I said as Rome erupted in laughter. “There isn’t a single clone that wouldn’t let Captain Happy flap in the wind for a shot at them!”
Rome continued to laugh as I heard the locker room erupt into laughter and cheers.

“The bad part was I was interrupted,” I continued, “So it completely ruined the slumpbuster I was working on for the team!”

Rome slowed down his laughter and we had a short chat. I snapped the phone shut and smiled. I knew it had worked better than I or Sid had hoped it would work.

As I walked back into the locker room the guys stood up and applauded. I walked through to the trainer’s room and handed the phone back to Rand who just shook his head and smiled.

“We have some new e-mails,” Rome’s voice said. “Dear Jim. How in the world does Detroit’s players get cheerleaders for slumpbusters? All we get are old women! Signed, the Tampa Bay Devil Rays, the Florida Marlins and the husbands of the Golden Girls.”

“You might have ended this,” Rand said as I started to walk toward the door.

”That was the point,” I said as I stopped and turned toward him and looked at the small radio.

“Dear Jim,” Rome’s voice said, “What’s home plate have that I don’t have? Signed, the bathroom stall at the nightclub where the cheerleaders were busted.”

“Let’s hope it works,” I added and went to get dressed for the game.

[Jason]

May 25, 2006, 1am, On Top Of The Green Monster, Fenway Park
(Detroit is 28-17, 2 ½ ahead of Cleveland. Stats: .304, 11 HR 37 RBI)

It was a perfect night in Boston.

Cool evening with a slight breeze blowing as I’m sitting above the green monster. Only a few lights on the field so it’s dark around the edges of the outfield but home plate is lit up like the night a wishful World Series home run was waved fair by Carlton Fisk. I’m trying to ignore Croteau and Salinas who are sitting here with me because I want to just soak in the moment. I know I’m a professional baseball player but there’s just something about Fenway Park that makes me feel like I’m ten years old again.

“I have to admit I wasn’t sure if putting seats up here was a good idea,” Salinas said.

“Yeah,” Croteau said. “Seems a little less imposing if Uncle Bob is sticking a finger up at you from the top of the fence.”

The two of them laughed and continued to trade barbs as I sat and looked at the field. Just a few hours earlier Salinas hit a three run home run to tie me for the team lead and win the game for us in the thirteenth inning. I looked to the chair to my right. A Red Sox ball boy told me that his cousin was sitting up here tonight and had caught my eleventh home run of the year. I tried to get him to bribe his cousin for me but apparently he thought he could get more by putting it on EBay.

It was a pretty tight game when I came up with one on and one out in the top of the fifth inning. I was having a rough game to that point with two strikeouts in my two at bats. Other than that, everyone was playing fairly well.

Bill Sparks actually looked like a decent starting pitcher and with the exception of the back-to-back walks in the fourth inning that cost us two runs he was dominating the Sox hitters. Rob Marshal was matching Sparks pitch for pitch because the only run we could manage was on an RBI single from that jerk Al Canfield.

Trailing 2-1 and with Jimmy Caesar standing at second base I expected to be walked on four pitches just outside the strike zone. I stepped in and Marshal shook off three signals from his catcher Galarza before Raul called time and ran out to the mound. A mildly heated discussion ensued that broke up just before the umpire reached the mound to break it up. Galarza came back to the plate slowly shaking his head. He looked in the dugout and waved his mitt in what looked to me like a resigned disbelief.

I saw Salinas waiving his arm out of the corner of my eye. I looked over at him as he mouthed the word “fastball” and I nodded. I had a few of the veterans tell me that the only thing keeping Marshal from being a Hall of Fame pitcher was his arrogance and his refusal to listen to the coaches. The skipper of the Red Sox was calling for the pitch around. Salinas confirmed what I suspected was happening to me. Marshal wanted to strike out the rookie getting all the attention for the third time in the game.

I dug in and looked down at Galarza to see where he was setting up. The glove was on the outside of the plate and low. I saw Raul look at my feet where I was dug in and expected the glove to move inside for a little dust up. Instead, he just looked back at the mound and kept the glove steady.

So I’m looking fastball and I focus in on Marshal. He stared in as if he was drilling a hole through Galarza’s skull before finally going into his windup.

It wasn’t even a good, challenging fastball but it was a little farther outside than I usually like to try and pull over the wall. Ninety nine times out of a hundred I’d have gone the other way with that pitch but I wanted to show this prick who was boss.

The ball shot high into the Massachusetts night and for a moment it didn’t look like it was going to get out of the park but it was going to at least bounce off the Monster. Caesar was on his horse and rounding third before I even made the turn at first base. I knew I had at least tied the game and made the turn with the intent to hold up with an RBI single.

Suddenly the crowd roared and I heard Marshal tell me that he thought my mother was a female dog. I looked up and saw Javier Abril standing next to the bag at second just looking at the wall with his glove hanging limply by his side. I started into a trot and tried hard not to do anything that could be seen as showing up Marshal. Yes, he was a prick, but he also had teammates that wouldn’t take kindly to a rookie showing up their ace.

I didn’t do much the rest of the game. I stole second in the eighth after a walk but was left stranded when Canfield tried to muscle it and popped up to short. We led 3-2 with two outs in the bottom of the night when our closer Loya gave up his first home run of the season to tie the game at 3. It was a big of overtime and it did feel good to win my first game at Fenway Park.

Birds were starting to fly around us and land on the edge of the monster. I had nearly forgotten Salinas and Croteau were with me until I heard the loud beep of Croteau’s cell phone. I glanced over as he read the message on the screen and then showed it to Salinas. Will smiled and nodded in my direction as Croteau turned and held out the phone.

“Just remember,” Croteau said, “He brought this on himself.”

I picked up the phone and looked at the display. It was a news story from ESPN.com that popped up on Croteau’s mobile web.

“TIGERS TRADE CANFIELD TO WASHINGTON FOR TROUBLED PITCHER.”

I slowly smiled and looked back down to the field. NOW it was a perfect night in Boston.

[ifspuds]

Another great post. Keep up the great work, DAED.

[GCCWolverine]

Man, I'm really enjoying this - not a game by game thing, but journal style - I'm looking forward to the next installment.

[DWrightMVPin09]

Great Post

[Jason]

June 2, 2006, 11:45pm, Player’s Parking Lot, Comerica Park, Detroit
(Detroit is 32-20, 3 ahead of Cleveland. Stats: .330, 13 HR 47 RBI)

It’s been quite a good time since Canfield departed unwillingly for Washington. I didn’t even mind his snippy quotes in the press calling me a “spoiled prima donna” and the veteran players “cowards” for not standing up to the manager. I scored some points with management when I appeared on Fox Sports’ “The Drive” and told Chris Myers that as a major league rookie I have more to worry about than the complaints of a former teammate.

Of course, hitting .500 this week with two home runs and ten RBI didn’t hurt either.

I can’t explain why I’ve been swinging the bat so well since Canfield left other than to say the atmosphere in the clubhouse has been significantly lighter. We’ve been laughing and playing practical jokes on each other again. I even saw Skip put a whoopee cushion under Salinas’ chair after his three home run game so that during this post game interview he had some explaining to do.

“So were you really running the bases bare assed?” a voice says shattering my train of thought. I turn to see Steve Spurrier, the 21 year old pitching phenom we obtained for Canfield, standing ten feet away leaning on the fence that surrounds the player parking lot.

“You really get caught making out with a sixteen year old at the movies?” I asked.

“She said she was 19,” he replied with a sarcastic smirk.

“It was a warm day,” I replied and kept walking.

We had all heard the stories from the players in Washington about Spurrier. He was enjoying the lifestyle of a major league baseball player to the point he was almost send down to the minors as punishment several times. The Nationals, however, were only a game out of first place and it’s hard to send down a player who won three of his first five starts and had an ERA under 2.90. Especially when he was the best pitcher on your staff.

Then the incident happened with the girl. Apparently she was someone that he met in a nightclub around DC and met her at Union Street 9 theatres to catch a showing of King Kong when apparently someone who knew her parents came over and made a scene. Several of the patrons recognized Spurrier, most likely from the Washington Nationals jacket he was wearing. Next thing Spurrier and the team knew the girl was in front of camera saying that she told him that she was only 16, that she didn’t want to be at the theatre with him, etc. All the usual things people say when they’re backed into a corner and are covering their ass.

The stigma of being the next Luis Polonia stuck even though within a few weeks the truth had come out and the girl even admitted on an episode of Dr. Phil that she had lied because she didn’t want her parents to know she was dating a white guy. The police not only dropped the investigation but issued a public apology. That didn’t stop the fans from being relentless in making signs asking him who he was taking to prom or if his mommy knew he was out so late.

Spurrier became angry with everyone because no one on the club really stood up to defend him while it was happening. They didn’t have his back when the season started and people brought those signs to his home park. The team stopped requesting him for public appearances and he wasn’t allowed to participate in their little league coaching clinics because some parents complained about his presence.

Spurrier then ripped into the team’s management and his fellow players. Players came out in the press and said he wouldn’t last the season before he’ll disappear like John Rocker.

Washington made it quietly known they wanted to get him out of town because of political pressure. Most baseball commentators think we made out like a bandit in the deal and after his three hit shutout of Oakland last night I think we did as well.

“So we’re two guys who know the business end of being reamed by the media,” he said as he started to walk behind me.

“One could say that,” I said without looking back at him. I was in a great mood and didn’t feel like being drug down by a guy that Salinas said was considered a cancer in Washington.

“Can you stop for a minute?” he asked with a bit of a harsh tone.

“When I get to my car,” I commented as I walked. He followed without another word. When we reached my car, I opened the driver’s door and tossed by duffle bag in the back seat. I stood in the open doorway hoping that subtle hint would keep this short.

“What do you need, Steve?” I asked trying to sound as pleasant as I could with this interruption.

“I want to know how you turned around the story on your streaking,” he said in a quiet, almost humble tone. “I can’t seem to shake this underage girl thing and it’s driving me crazy. I just want to be able to come to the park without seeing signs asking me what crib I robbed tonight.”

I looked at him in disbelief. He was three years older than I was and had several years of professional baseball under his belt. I’m barely a year removed from walking the halls of high school myself. This guy expected me to help him out?

“What’s your agent been telling you?” I asked with a more concerned tone in my voice.

“Nothing,” Spurrier replied. “I think he’s about to ask to be released from our agreement. He doesn’t even try to help restore my image.”

“I don’t know if I can do anything either,” I said. “Let’s face it, I’m just…”

”Cut the crap,” Spurrier said. “You’re a buddy of Jim Rome, you’re the darling of sports talk radio and every veteran in the clubhouse thinks you’re a hell of a guy. If you don’t help me, I’m not going get anyone else in the clubhouse to give me a shot. Most of them won’t even talk with me. Did you notice that last night after I threw a complete game shut out no one met me coming off the field to shake my hand?”

I had noticed it and felt a little guilty about not meeting him coming off the field. I would have done it for any other teammate but the vets started to head into the clubhouse without greeting him and I just followed Salinas when he walked away.

“Yeah, I saw that,” I said. “That was wrong of all of us.”

”No s***,” Spurrier said. “You probably heard all the stories about what an a**hole I was in Washington and so everyone’s ignoring me.”

“Yep,” I said realizing there was no reason to lie anymore. “That’s exactly what it is. The vets down there said you were a cancer on the club and they were glad to see you go. Our vets are of the mindset as long as you come in and do your job they won’t give you crap but they’re going to ignore you.”

Spurrier’s face turned into a look of rage and he turned away from me looking back toward the stadium.

“Great,” Spurrier said with more of a tone of resignation than anger. “I don’t even know why the hell I try.”

I stood there without any idea what to say or do. The guy had the talent to be on a major league roster. He deserved to be here. It’s been proven he didn’t know the girl wasn’t nineteen. He’s in a new town, with new teammates and he’s completely alone.

Pretty much where I was when I arrived at Spring Training.

“Did you know she was under eighteen?” I said calmly.

“I f***ing told you,” he started to snap at me when he turned and saw my face.

”DID you KNOW she was under eighteen?” I said again.

“No,” he answered quietly.

“OK,” I said. “Go home and get some sleep. Meet me here at ten tomorrow morning.”

“The game’s not until seven,” Spurrier replied.

“Rehab starts early in the morning,” I said sliding into my driver’s seat. “And you have a lot of rehab that needs to be done.”

I watched the smile slowly grow on Spurrier’s face as he shrunk in my rear view mirror.

[majormet]

Wow best post yet in this thread., Steve Spurrier ehehehe, wonder if he is cocky if on the mound

[Jason]

Originally Posted by majormet

Wow best post yet in this thread., Steve Spurrier ehehehe, wonder if he is cocky if on the mound

Thank you. Stephen Spurrier was the name the game created...I laughed my head off when I saw it.

And thank you for all the kind comments in this thread. It keeps me going to know many of you enjoy what I'm writing.

[GForce]

Really nicely done DAED...you've got an excellent format going on here and you're playing it out very well. It's funny, the young leader is a bit unbelievable, and had you picked the wrong franchise I don't know it would have flown (regardless of real/fake players)...but doing it with the Tigers just seems like it could actually happen.

Keep up the great work.

GH