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Old 07-06-2004, 06:44 PM   #41
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Thanks for the comment, UngratefulDead. I started out playing every game and meticulously writing down the outcomes of every at bat. Then I realized I was spending more time on my stats than on the story; the exact opposite of my original goal. Besides, my own decisions at the plate had me in a horrific slump!

If this was going to be any kind of worthwhile story, Dave would have to make the majors. Judging by my management of his career so far, he was on the fast track back to Palookaville. Doesn't make for a very good book. So I started simming one week at a time. I read on the forums that the computer does a better job of getting you hits when you leave it alone, so that's what I did. It worked, too, until Dave got hurt. But you get the point.

So now I sim a week at a time and fill in the blanks with story elements. For example: when I sim, I go to the bar and bid on equipment weekly. I try to get advice from everyone (I drink and even try to get a little some-some once in a while to improve my mood). That behavior just isn't Dave, but it's how you have to play the game, so I do it. In the story, eye increases via drinking advice and mood increases via sexual intercourse are represented by other things, like Dave's conversation with Kearse on the bus. That was a bar encounter. The extra BP in Pounding Sand was actually more scheduled batting practice workouts at the gym. If you know ITP and read between the lines, you can pick up the times I've had to change something.

Hope that answers your question.

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Old 07-10-2004, 04:35 PM   #42
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Welcome to the next edition of SHORT HOP. As I finished Dave's first year in pro ball, I had a lot of things to get through, so the chapters got longer. After all, I'm only a few months ahead of the story, so I don't know if Dave will ever come back to Hinesville. That's why The Off-Season is split into two parts.

I'm going to try to post the Gents' logo. If it works I'll post more logos in the future.

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Old 07-10-2004, 04:48 PM   #43
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CHAPTER 9:

The Off-Season


Hinesville underwent quite a change when the season was over. The Gents were the biggest attraction for the little town, except perhaps for high school football, which was only just starting. Things got quiet. Life settled back into patterns. Without Gents games to come to, people saw less of one another, had less to talk about. I lived in the little house on Bagley Avenue, paid my rent, and went to church with Miss Draper every Sunday. I could have gone by myself, but I sensed she looked forward to talking to me each week. Theo didn’t require winter workouts from us: “If getting out of this hellhole ain’t incentive enough to work out on your own, then I can’t help you.” I still went to the gym, jogged each morning and did my grocery shopping at Wyler’s. Autumn in Georgia is beautiful. Even my personal pond glimmered at night when reflections of the headlights of passing cars raced across its gray-green surface. The lightning bugs played pickle in midair.

I missed my family, but I didn’t miss Southern California, with its traffic and smog. In fact, I really enjoyed being on my own. My folks were understandably concerned to have their 19-year old son living alone so far away – what with the world all around and all its temptations, but I guess I wasn’t like other 19-year olds. I never went in for the really crazy stuff. Sure, I got smashed with teammates a few times during my career, but I never sang fight songs from the tops of trees. I was content to live a solitary life. It was a little lonely, but peaceful. It was a nice change from all the attention I would have had if I had gone home for the off-season. Late at night, though, I often wished to have someone with whom to share the quiet.

As Thanksgiving approached the weather began to get colder, the nights a little crisper. The furnace in the little house would bang away for a minute or two before the heat started coming out in warm waves that smelled like lamp oil. It could never heat the bathroom, though. I remember that. No matter when you went in there the antique ceramic floor tile was cold as ice. The tiny shower took exactly one minute and fifteen seconds to heat up.

I looked in on Cliff from time to time. I’d go by the feed store once in a while and he’d always have a few minutes to talk. I saw him most when I was out on the back porch writing in my journal or just watching cars go by on Highway 84. He made me a small bookcase for my growing collection of baseball books. I bussed at Fiddler’s five nights a week. It was a good job. I didn’t need it, but it was something to do. I got to know the regulars and they got to know me. Everyone called me Davey.

One night right before my folks came to spend Thanksgiving with me I was cleaning up at the end of the night and Mooney Copell was closing us down, as usual. Now I must say that most of the time Mooney was a polite, if slightly obnoxious drunk. He used to come to games and sit behind our dugout with Cliff and just get hammered. Cliff would always walk him home. He’d get a little mouthy, then everyone would tell him to be quiet and that was the end of it. Mooney getting drunk was just part of the game. He was one of those men who always seem to be drinking.

It became part of my evening to take him out through the kitchen where his dog was tied and see him off. But tonight he was just mean. Mean to everybody, even to me, who he said he liked. I finished up and came over to his seat at the bar.

“Mooney, it’s time to go, man.”

“I’ll go when I’m damned good and ready.”

“Mooney, we’re closing. It’s two o’clock.”

“Get me another drink, Davey boy.”

“No,” I said gently. “No more drinks. Come on, I’ll walk you home.”

“I said get your hands off me!”

Now I had a standing order to call Mike, the bartender, if anybody wouldn’t leave. He’d get somebody to move them. It happened more than a few times, but never with Mooney. Normally I would have called Mike, but this was Mooney and Mike had long since gone home.

“Mooney, we gotta go. The night’s over.”

“No it ain’t! Not tonight it ain’t.” Then he picked up his head as if it weighed a hundred pounds and looked at me. His eyes were bloodshot from crying. “C’mon, Davey boy. Can’t you see I need another drink?”

“Yeah,” I said. “I can see that.”

I should not have done it, but I gave Mooney one more shot of bourbon and called Cliff. “Is tonight the seventeenth?” Cliff rasped into the phone, still half asleep. “I’ll be over right away, Davey.”

Cliff came over, walking in through the kitchen in his big black coat, gray fedora on his head, pajama bottoms and leather slippers. It was strange; Cliff never looked at me, only at Mooney. In the dim light of the bar he looked like a giant shadow.

“Charles,” came Cliff’s deep baritone. Mooney looked up.

“Time to go home, captain,” Cliff repeated.

“You know what today is, Cliff?” said Mooney.

“Yes, sir, I do. And so do you. There’s nothing you can do about it. It’s time to go home.”

A sad kind of pride breathed into Mooney just then. He slowly raised his head and straightened his shoulders. He put down his drink.

“Don’t tell me there’s nothing I can do. I know what I’m about.” He slowly raised himself from the stool. “Home,” he muttered. “Why would I want to go there?”

And he got up and shuffled out. Cliff went out behind him, gesturing to me to follow. I quickly locked up the bar and together Cliff and I walked Mooney and his dog home. Mooney shuffled his way down the lamplit street, his tiny dog trotting next to him, looking back worriedly and often. Mooney’s was a small house a couple of blocks from the stadium. It was simple, with old furniture and faded yellow wallpaper. After we had put him to bed, Cliff and I talked on our walk back.

“Why did you call him captain??” I asked.

“Did you know Mooney was in the army?” asked Cliff.

“No.”

“Well he was. He was a good soldier, too. Did you see those photos on his wall there?”

“Yeah. Were those his buddies?”

“Not buddies, really. They were his men, the men he commanded.”

“Those looked like old photos.”

“Those photos were taken while he was in Korea. Most of those men died, many of them in an ambush that happened on November seventeenth.”

“Oh, man,” I said quietly.

“Mooney felt responsible, but there was nothing he could do. Eleven men died in less than four minutes. He drinks to their memory every November seventeenth.”

“It seems like he drinks to their memory every night,” I said.

“No,” said Cliff, stopping and turning to me. “”Every other night is for himself.”

The lessons we learn, the lessons that shape us, don’t often come in nice square packages. Most of the time they hit us like muggers, unexpectedly, like a punch in the stomach, leaving us confused and vulnerable. Mooney, old drunk Mooney, was a soldier. You could never tell to look at him. Mooney wasn’t a bad man because he drank, he drank because he had bad memories and couldn’t get rid of them. Mooney had no happy anniversaries. Some people are like that. Sometimes you just can’t tell about people until something happens. Ever since that night I have always tried to really listen to people and never make assumptions. I always listen to fans when they speak. I look into their eyes, if I can, to see what I can learn about them. That night wasn’t to be my last encounter with an angry drunk.

For me, the really important things I learned always came like sucker punches. Pow! Wake up, idiot! Like an experienced boxer, as I got older I was able to spot them coming. Even now, though, one can sneak through. I didn’t know it at the time, but I had a big one coming, bigger than Mooney. My parents were driving it all the way from California.

Let me stop here and say that my first year in baseball became perhaps the most important year of my life. While I realize many of you bought this book to read my versions of the things for which you know me (the triple play, the fight with Marcus Barrows, the Castle Cove scandal), I would not be doing justice to my time in Hinesville if I didn’t at least try to convey the importance of the things I learned while I was there.

Theo Garner and I saw little of one another. He was on the other side of the county, near Savannah. It wasn’t very far in distance, but distant in economics. Spring Hill was large houses and country clubbers and nice cars. I lived with the working folk. Besides, to be honest, Theo wasn’t really my kind of people. The generation gap aside, Theo could be harsh, abrasive and imposing. I just wasn’t like that. It made me uncomfortable, all his in-your-face tactics. Funny, now that I look back on it, it was probably the one thing I needed most.

One thing I didn’t need was a call from Sergeant John Draper of the Hinesville Police telling me my manager was in jail. “He doesn’t have any family and I didn’t know who to call,” he said over the phone. “Sorry to put you on a spot, Davey. I know it’s late, but can you be down here in fifteen minutes?”

I was there in six.

Next Week: The Off-Season, Part Two

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Old 07-10-2004, 06:36 PM   #44
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Your thread has inspired me to start playing this game again. Awesome story!
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Old 07-11-2004, 02:02 AM   #45
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This has been good from the start, but even so the latest entry is a big step up.
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Old 07-11-2004, 04:09 PM   #46
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This story is just getting better. Please continue.
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Old 07-12-2004, 01:52 PM   #47
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Great Job Tib. I want a printed out book copy when you are done.
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Old 07-18-2004, 07:24 PM   #48
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Welcome to the next SHORT HOP installment. This is the last chapter of Dave's first year in pro ball. Unfortunately, it may be the last chapter for a while because I'm having problems getting ITP to sim for me after I moved it to my new computer. Until I can figure out what's wrong, SHORT HOP will have to be on hiatus. Sorry for the delays, everyone. I'll be trying <i>very</i> hard to get back on track.

Meanwhile, if anyone can help me solve my problem (it's listed in the ITP Technical Help thread), I promise to write you into the story. How's that for incentive?

Also, the logo thing is not working. I'm sure it's me, so I'll keep trying.
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Old 07-18-2004, 07:47 PM   #49
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Chapter Nine: The Off-Season, Part Two

At the front desk I met John Draper, a well-built graying man in his mid-fifties. We shook hands. “I had hoped to meet under better circumstances,” he said.

Theo was arrested for public intoxication. From what Draper told me, it could have been worse.

“He’ll be alright,” said the sergeant. “I didn’t think we needed to have the manager of the local pro team arguing with strangers in a parking lot.”

“Thank you,” I said. “Can I see him?”

I wrote a check for Theo’s bail and John grabbed a set of keys from a ceramic pig snout hanging on the wall.

The Hinesville Police station was six rooms and a hallway with cells on each side. Theo was at the end. “Driscoll?” he said, squinting at me from the dark.

“Hey, Skip. I’m getting you out of here.”

We went out to my truck.

“Thanks,” I said to Draper.

“No, thank you,” he said. “You’re bailing him out. He’s all yours now.”

The ride back to Theo’s house on Spring Hill was only a moderate success. He must have given me the wrong directions six times before I accidentally turned onto his street. At least he didn’t throw up in my new truck. He had plenty to say, though.

“Didn’t want you to see this, Driscoll.”

“Call me Dave,” I said dryly.

“I used to manage in the Bigs, Davey. You know? The Bigs!”

“I know, Skip.”

“I was 29-26 as a manager. That’s not bad, is it? Especially with that pitching staff. Jeeeeesus, they were awful. You know I managed Horatio Munoz?”

”Yeah, Skip.”

“Now there was a player. Fast. Smart. No attitude. He could play short with his eyes closed. You could be as good as him, you know that?”

“I hope so.”

“You worry too much. Don’t let your ability guide you. And you don’t focus soon enough on the pitcher’s release.”

“Great,” I said. “You couldn’t tell me this six months ago when you were sober?”

“Hey, ****head, you ain’t been where I’ve been.”

“You mean jail?” I shot back.

“Yeah,” he said. “I forgot. You know everything there is to know about baseball. You’re just a baby in this game, kid. You should listen to someone who’s been there. You might learn something.”

“Well you did teach me one thing,” I said.

“Yeah? What’s that?”

“How to bail someone out of jail.”

Mom and Dad arrived the day before Thanksgiving. After submitting to my father’s intense scrutiny of my elbow, and answering a thousand questions, I got them to sit down. I told them all about Hinesville and the team and Cliff and Miss Draper. I told them about the fans and the local attractions and Savannah. I also told them about Marisa Hollings.

Going to church with Miss Draper was always a pleasure for me. She was so serious all the time, but when she was in church she changed entirely. A calm came over her. Her stern gaze softened into a benevolent smile. I used to try to get her to laugh. I’d watch her out of the corner of my eye, and at particular times of a hymn would sing loudly and off-key. The stern glance would return. I would smile at her as if nothing at all was wrong and I’d laugh to myself when she turned away. After the service she would scold me.

“The Lord’s music is not to be mocked, David,” she would say to me.

“Yes, ma’am,” I would reply.

One Sunday she said, “David, I know what you’re trying to do and it won’t work. I taught elementary school for thirty-one years and believe me, if six year olds couldn’t do it, neither can you.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Then she eyed me strangely. I felt like a beetle in a glass jar. “Perhaps what you need are voice lessons.”

“Oh, Miss Draper I was just—.”

“Tut tut! I know just the person, too. Follow me, won’t you?”

Did I have a choice?

She walked briskly toward a group of people clustered around Reverend Lockett, pastor of the little church. She tapped the shoulder of a slim girl in a blue dress. The girl turned around.

Wow. Brown eyes, pretty face, friendly smile, long brown hair. I guess a few singing lessons couldn’t hurt…

“Miss Hollings, this is David Driscoll.”

“Pleased to meet you, David.” A voice like warm apple pie. Her hand was slender and soft.

“I--. Uh, I’m, uh…very-.”

“David is a baseball player, Marisa,” interrupted Miss Draper. “With the Gents.”

“Yes, Miss Draper,” said Marisa. “I know.”

“David needs some singing lessons, Marisa. He simply cannot carry a note, I’m afraid,” said Miss Draper, shooting a dissatisfied glance at me.

“Oh, really?” said Marisa with a sly smile. Apparently Miss Draper’s introductions had earned a reputation. “Is this true, Mr. Driscoll?”

“Uh, well, I, uh-. You see, I was, uh…”

“And maybe some speaking lessons, as well,” added Miss Draper.

“I see,” said Marisa. “Well, I do have some time available now.”

“Yes,” agreed Miss Draper. “Marisa’s former student has moved on, David.”

“Ah,” I managed. I got the sure feeling they were not talking about singing lessons. “Good for me, then.”

“Indeed,” said Miss Draper.

And then we just stood there. Marisa stood smiling quietly. Miss Draper stared at me like she just ate half a lemon. I shuffled from foot to foot and looked at all the pretty trees.

“David.”

“Hmm? Yes, Ma’am?”

“Why don’t you give Marisa your phone number so she can call you to arrange your first lesson? You can’t expect a young lady to give you hers, now can you?”

“Oh! Of course. Right. Yeah.” <i>I’m an idiot, I’m an idiot, I’m an idiot.</I> It’s 257--.”

“Write it down for her, David.”

“I don’t have a pen.”

“I have one,” said Marisa. I wrote it down for her. My tie was choking me to death.

“There. That’s done,” said Miss Draper, as if she just finished folding clothes or putting away the dishes. “Come, David.”

“Yes, Ma’am. Nice to meet you, Marisa.”

“Nice to meet you, too, David.”

Have I mentioned I was an idiot?

My mother was very interested in Marisa. “No, mom, I don’t know if you’ll meet her this trip.” “Yes, she is from Hinesville. She’s studying to become a nurse at the Roper School of Nursing in Charleston. She also works in a music store teaching voice and piano lessons on weekends.” “Yes, she’s in town. She’s staying at her parents’ house in the Deer Run Estates for Thanksgiving with her family.” “No, I’m not going to call her.” “Because she hasn’t given me her phone number yet.” And so on.

I drove my dad around Hinesville while my mother prepared for our little feast. We had a good time – for about an hour. Remember when I said life sucker punches you sometimes? Well…

My dad said he had something to tell me. He said it was not good news and I should probably pull over. I remember feeling a cold shiver run over me as I pulled into a bank parking lot.

“What’s going on?” I said.

My dad said, “Rick Phillips was killed in Iraq six days ago.”

Rick Phillips was a kid I grew up with. We went to high school together, played on junior baseball teams together. We weren’t friends, but we knew each other. He enlisted in the Army right after graduation. He had been in but a year. I remember I sat there for a long, quiet moment. Traffic buzzed by.

I knew Rick, but I wasn’t chummy with him. He was one of those guys you say “hi” to when you pass him on the street. You just don’t think anything more of it. Now all I wanted was to say “hi” to him again.

My dad said he was working with his squad clearing roadways for supply trucks and a bomb exploded. He was the only one killed. At that moment I thought of Mooney. I wondered if the cold knot in my stomach was anything like what he must feel. It was a very strange feeling. It felt wrong. It felt like I was hungry and full at the same time. I just stared at the dash of my truck and felt guilty for all the things I had that Rick would never have.

“I suppose now your going to tell me not to take anything for granted,” I said.

“I don’t think I have to tell you that,” said my dad. “There’s no moral to this story, son,” he added. “It’s something I thought you would like to know.”

“Yeah. Thanks.” I started the truck.

“You want to go back to the house?”

“No. I want to find a card to send to his family. And after that…”

“After that, what?”

“There’s someone I’d like you to meet.”

Cliff and my dad got along great, as I knew they would. Cliff showed him his bats. I feigned anger. “Hey, it took you three months to show me these.”

“What’s your point?” said Cliff.

“What’s so special about him?” I jerked a thumb at my dad.

“Do you know who Bennie Watson was?” asked Cliff.

“No.”

“Catcher. New York Dockers,” said my dad.

“Do you know Mountain Joe Clark?”

“No, but--.”

“Left field. Later first base. Chicago Crowns,” said my dad. “Once hit over a hundred homers in a single calendar year in the BBA and the Mexican Winter League.”

“Alligator Al Jefferson? Tommy the Rocket Brewer? Sweets Rodriguez?” asked Cliff.

“Uh, no,” I repeated.

“Alligator Al Jefferson was called Alligator because he made extra money wrestling alligators after games. Tommy Brewer. Jersey Jesters. Stole a base in every game of the 1946 season. Sweets Rodriguez used to take chewing tobacco and--.”

“All right, all right,” I said, throwing my hands up. “I think I get it.”

After that my life leaped forward like a rocket. I guess after the night with Mooney and the news about Rick Phillips, I felt like I wasn’t taking advantage of the opportunities around me. Maybe Kearse was right, after all. Maybe I had to fight a little for the things that were important to me. Marisa and I saw more of one another. A lot more. Thanksgiving slid into Christmas. I worked out like a madman. I cooked chili and made bats in Cliff’s freezing workshop. I wrote to Moose and Yoogie and J.R. I drove to Charleston, to Ft. Lauderdale and to Atlanta to see McCammon. By the time March rolled around I was ten pounds heavier, all muscle. I was itching to play.

On March 15th J.R. showed up. On the 17th McCammon arrived, ten days late. Theo fined him five hundred bucks. It never fazed him.

Hinesville was waking up. You could feel the anticipation in the air. The Gents were in the news again, on TV again. The local paper did stories about who was gone and who was new. Atlanta’s draft did not include a shortstop, despite losing Dave Fountain to free agency.

Theo was stomping around the clubhouse again. He and I never spoke of the night I got him out of jail, and I never told a soul until now. He paid me back every penny, but he was still Theo. He rode my ass about my swing and a dozen other things. Not once did he thank me. He came close years later when we met at a charity function, but I guess apologies never come easy to the unrepentant.

Spring came to Hinesville, and with it the promise of new beginnings. People waved at me on the street. They remembered. The smell of wood and leather was in my nose again. The staccato clicking of cleats echoed through the locker room again. I heard the heavy snap of balls striking the pockets of well-oiled gloves. I felt the surge of power in my torso and arms when I fired a ball across the infield. When I crouched at short, muscles relaxed but ready, I could see the familiar angles again out of the corners of my eyes.

Baseball was back again.


Next: Chapter Ten: <i>A New Beginning</i>

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Old 07-19-2004, 02:14 AM   #50
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This is an unbelievable story. I want you to know that I have been reading intently, but haven't posted until now. Just know that there are many others intrigued by your work who do not come out and say it. Keep up the wonderful work!
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Old 07-19-2004, 10:38 AM   #51
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Great story. I am going over to the Tech Support Forum to help you.
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Old 07-20-2004, 05:48 AM   #52
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its a very nice dynasty.. i want to start my own but with your dynasty, i don't think it will be close or even at-par with yours.. great work..
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Old 07-20-2004, 08:57 AM   #53
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Big thanks to Reechards, who used his first post on my behalf. And to pat, don't let me stop you. It's not a competition. This project is a result of many, many hours of writing over the years. Do you know I wrote and rewrote the first 8 chapters before I had the guts to start posting them? One of the reasons I started posting at all was that I felt I could inspire others to try their hand at "sim-based" fiction. Good luck.

Note: I think I've solved my problem. I should be ready to start simming again soon.
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Old 07-20-2004, 09:15 AM   #54
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its cool.. i know, im just saying you're really good..
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Old 07-20-2004, 02:07 PM   #55
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Quote:
Originally Posted by Tib
Big thanks to Reechards, who used his first post on my behalf. And to pat, don't let me stop you. It's not a competition. This project is a result of many, many hours of writing over the years. Do you know I wrote and rewrote the first 8 chapters before I had the guts to start posting them? One of the reasons I started posting at all was that I felt I could inspire others to try their hand at "sim-based" fiction. Good luck.

Note: I think I've solved my problem. I should be ready to start simming again soon.

Glad to hear you solved your problem.
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Old 07-20-2004, 04:13 PM   #56
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Quote:
Originally Posted by pat
its a very nice dynasty.. i want to start my own but with your dynasty, i don't think it will be close or even at-par with yours.. great work..
Just be up to par with my dynasties. LOL

Don't compare it to this guy.
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Old 07-23-2004, 01:14 AM   #57
Tib
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SOLVED IT! My Lord, what a relief! I thought ol' Dave's career as we knew it might be a goner. Simming again (furiously).

Note to self: do not play with forces beyond your control.

I may not have the next chapter ready by Saturday, but I'll try to have something...
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Old 07-23-2004, 01:23 AM   #58
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wow, this thread REALLY freaks me out.

signed,
David Driscoll (aka Draft Dodger)
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IMO we are best off abandoning that sinking ship that is Off Topic to the rats infesting it and just starting a whole new Baseball Forum from scratch.
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Old 07-23-2004, 09:30 AM   #59
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Tib,

You going to send me the file, so I can work on your logo problem?

-Doug-
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Old 07-23-2004, 10:29 AM   #60
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Jax,
Yes. ASAP.

Draft Dodger,
Didn't mean to freak you out. I honestly didn't know that was your name until you posted it in your profile on that other thread. I just thought it was a cool name for a ballplayer; sounds like someone who played the game, but there is actually no Dave Driscoll who ever played in the majors. I thought: I've got to choose a name that can't be confused with anyone else. Look what happened. I inadvertantly pick the name of an OOTP legend. But think of it this way: if you ever want to write a fictitious memoir of your days as a pro ballplayer, you'll know where to go.
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