58.11- Bogota Blues
Posted: Tue Mar 26, 2024 3:13 pm
It was Rafael, my assistant GM, who first brought the issue of the recently acquired Julio Barajas to my attention.
“Um… If we’re really going to assign this guy to Bogota, somebody should probably travel with him” he said.
“How come?”
“Well… we both know that most baseball players aren’t particularly bright, but Julio really abuses the privilege. If we tell him to go to Bogota, Colombia on his own, he’s likely to end up in Bogalusa, Louisiana or Columbus Ohio. You want me to find a staff member with a valid passport to chaperone him?”
“Nah, I’ll do it myself. That’s the one farm team I haven’t visited yet, and I’ve been feeling guilty about it.”
-------
A couple of days later, Julio and I were touching down at El Dorado Airport. The flight had been uneventful, although Julio was certainly no kind of company for me. He had headphones on the whole way, which was okay by me… one look into his eyes told you that there wasn’t much going on behind them. We were met at the airport by Glenn Williams, a pitcher who wasn’t scheduled to start that day, and who, in contrast to Julio, had a lot on his mind.
“Look, Mr. Ruiz”, he began, “I don’t want to complain, but… is there any way at all you can get me out of here? I really hate this place. We’re eight thousand feet above sea level, and I’ve forgotten what it feels like to throw a breaking ball that actually breaks. And the food! So many beans! I swear, I was called for a balk this year when I farted myself right off the pitcher’s rubber. I’d even go back to Albany, if you want.”
I assured him that the organization still had big plans for him, diplomatically neglecting the fact that several other Bogota starters didn’t seem to be having the same problems. “So Glenn… what else is there to do in Bogota while I’m here?”
“Well, there’s the botanical gardens and the zoo… And if you’re into that sort of thing, there’s a neighborhood called the Zone of Tolerance where prostitution is legal. I guess it used to be pretty crime-ridden here, but it’s mostly safe to walk around now.”
“Oh, I’ll probably just hang out at the ballpark I guess. I need to talk to your hitting coach and see if he’s really some sort of coaching genius or whether having all these .300 hitters are just an altitude thing.”
At that point Julio roused himself and took off his headphones for the first time in seven hours.
“Hey, amigo… So where is this Zone of Tolerance place?”
Baseball players, man…
“Um… If we’re really going to assign this guy to Bogota, somebody should probably travel with him” he said.
“How come?”
“Well… we both know that most baseball players aren’t particularly bright, but Julio really abuses the privilege. If we tell him to go to Bogota, Colombia on his own, he’s likely to end up in Bogalusa, Louisiana or Columbus Ohio. You want me to find a staff member with a valid passport to chaperone him?”
“Nah, I’ll do it myself. That’s the one farm team I haven’t visited yet, and I’ve been feeling guilty about it.”
-------
A couple of days later, Julio and I were touching down at El Dorado Airport. The flight had been uneventful, although Julio was certainly no kind of company for me. He had headphones on the whole way, which was okay by me… one look into his eyes told you that there wasn’t much going on behind them. We were met at the airport by Glenn Williams, a pitcher who wasn’t scheduled to start that day, and who, in contrast to Julio, had a lot on his mind.
“Look, Mr. Ruiz”, he began, “I don’t want to complain, but… is there any way at all you can get me out of here? I really hate this place. We’re eight thousand feet above sea level, and I’ve forgotten what it feels like to throw a breaking ball that actually breaks. And the food! So many beans! I swear, I was called for a balk this year when I farted myself right off the pitcher’s rubber. I’d even go back to Albany, if you want.”
I assured him that the organization still had big plans for him, diplomatically neglecting the fact that several other Bogota starters didn’t seem to be having the same problems. “So Glenn… what else is there to do in Bogota while I’m here?”
“Well, there’s the botanical gardens and the zoo… And if you’re into that sort of thing, there’s a neighborhood called the Zone of Tolerance where prostitution is legal. I guess it used to be pretty crime-ridden here, but it’s mostly safe to walk around now.”
“Oh, I’ll probably just hang out at the ballpark I guess. I need to talk to your hitting coach and see if he’s really some sort of coaching genius or whether having all these .300 hitters are just an altitude thing.”
At that point Julio roused himself and took off his headphones for the first time in seven hours.
“Hey, amigo… So where is this Zone of Tolerance place?”
Baseball players, man…