geez, where can i start...
well, i used to play a little baseball in highschool, so when i got a flyer in my mailbox that the l.a. dodgers were having walk-on tryouts for starting pitchers, i said "why the hell not?" i sign up over the internet and get sent all the important dates.
he laughs and starts to choke on a cruton.
i give him the heimlich until he starts spittin out blood and i expect some major gratitude.
as a show of gratitude, he signs me to a day-by-day deal. wow. i'm amazed, but not particularly grateful.
alright, it's 7:05pm and i'm standing on the mound before 17,000 screaming dodger fans. i'm not nervous for some reason. all my teammates hate me but like i told them before, "i don't give a fuck about the opinions of meatheads."
here comes the first hitter. it's some dude from the montreal expos. i don't know his name, and i don't give a fuck. shit, i never even bothered to learn any of my teammates' names. i always just referred to them as "hey, brain-less" or "catch that, you cro-mag!"
i wind up and serve up a fastball that misses his head by the width of a pubic hair.
"Get up, you pussy!" i yell to him as he dusts himself off.
i serve him another fastball, this time connecting with his empty head. i know it's empty cause i heard a hollow 'thwok.'
next hitter.
first pitch: fastball to the ribcage. he drops to the ground for about 10 minutes and needs to be taken out by a stretcher. yeah that's right motherfucker, wallow in pain.
next hitter steps up. he's a big ogre, looking to teach me a lesson.
first pitch: change-up just outside the strike zone. ball one.
next pitch: curve-ball just a tad high. ball two.
next pitch: sinker in the dirt. ball three.
next pitch: fastball smacks him in the face. gotcha, you bastard.
as the next hitter comes up to the plate, i spy out of my peripheral the coach picking up the dugout phone. they do that when they're gonna pull you out.
i look towards the coach and yell, "you pullin' me?!?"
he doesn't say anything, he just glares at me.
"Hey Fuckhead, i asked are you pullin' me!?!?"
still no answer.
i hold up the game as i wave the middle finger at him for awhile. the crowd starts booing and throwing shit onto the field.
at this point, coach starts coming out of the dugout. jesus christ, what did i do? okay, i think to myself, i need to salvage whatever chance i have left. what could i say or do to stay in the game.....i grip the ball, tightly. coach is walking towards me, about thirty feet away.
"leave me in, coach!" i yell to him.
no response, just a steady stride coming towards me.
"Can't you fucking speak!?" i yell, sending a fastball dead-on his right eye. he drops to the ground, howling in pain.
at this point all the players start running towards coach, even the outfielders.
me? i start running towards the outfield exit, trying to get the crowd to chant "bulls-eye! bulls-eye!".
i run right out the exit, right into the parking lot, right into my suzuki samurai and head home.
that game was never televised.
i haven't heard from them since.
after that, i didn't leave the attic much. i spent alot of time on the internet, looking at bizarro-porno websites. until one day, i stumbled across a l.a. lakers website and discovered they were having walk-on tryouts for a point guard or shooting guard. could i get lucky again? only one way to find out, so i said why the hell not.....
"kinda like your mom." i yell.
"Who said that?"
i stand up and point to some high-school kid who looks like he has game.
"Get out." Jerry says. man he's got a short temper.
We do hustle scrimmages and running drills for about four days, and i feel like i have a good chance to make it. BUT, there's this one guy who may be a smidge better than i. i notice the coaching staff has had their eye on him, so after practice one day, i ask him to hang out at this cool strip club over on labrea. he says, "cool."
so anyways, blah blah blah, i end up slipping him a bunch of steroids and he ends up failing the drug test. he's also in the hospital with severe kidney damage. i make the cut.
needless to say, i tear shit up.
i'm not really a point-producer, so basically all i do is serve up assists to my teammates and the big guy. matter of fact, i had a season high 14 assists in two quarters.
it's a pretty tough game, and it comes down to a single shot with 14 seconds left. Make it and we go into overtime.
coach draws up a play where i'm supposed do some faking and draw the defense. Our superstars will do the rest.
it's a brilliant play that works to perfection until i end up stealing the ball from my own teammate and throwing up an airball.
we end up losing by two and all of a sudden i pretend like i don't speak english. we hit the showers and not much is said.
"Hey chahlie," someone says to me. "you did pretty good tonight."
"hey thanks, man, i just wanted to contribute, that's all."
"Well you did, chahlie. You did real good. You don't mind if I give you a pat on the backside, right?" he takes a step towards me.
"uhm, seeing as how we're in the shower, maybe it wouldn't be a good idea."
"Well then, how about on the frontside?" he reaches out his big hand.
"hey, hey--let's just go back to our respective shower stalls, alright?"
"Alright," he says, but stops short. "Oh hey chahlie, you dropped your soap behind you."
i don't move. "no i didn't."
"Oh my bad," he says. "It's your wallet. You dropped your wallet behind you."
"no, i don't think it's mine."
"Oh look, there's a hundred dollar bill behind you."
i run out naked and never come back. i don't really want to say specifically who it was, but let's just say his name rhymes with "Raquille Ro'neal."
i've gotten a bunch of letters asking where i am and if i'm aware that i signed with them on a year-long interim contract.
i can't even watch their games, anymore.
after that, i was kind of fucked up, mentally. i split on a little road trip through a few states and ended up staying at this old widow's ranch, doing odd jobs and sexual favors for money. i stayed there about three months, and then split, heading back home.
