Assistant to the Assistant General Manager
Chicago Black Sox
The call from the assistant GM’s office came early – too damn early after another night of tequila mixed with Everclear mixed with self-loathing. "Get your butt down here now," they said. "You’ve got an assignment."
I groaned because I knew what was coming: every year the same. Gird your loins, climb into your car, drive to frickin’ Iowa and scout out what’s happening in Lovecraft Country.
But I had no choice. Bill McGuffin, the Asst. GM, was a brother. We’d gone to hell and back with each other – which, of course, is still a picnic in Grant Park compared to Des Moines.
When I arrived at McGuffin’s office, I could sense something was different, though. Something wrong. There was a new receptionist who smirked when she saw me.
“Go right on in. He’s waiting for you,” she said.
I cracked open the door and stopped. Behind McGuffin’s desk was a distinguished looking Hispanic gentleman wearing a tailored dark business suit and a thunderous scowl.
“Who the frick are you?” I asked. “Where’s McGuffin?”
“Mr. McGuffin no longer works here,” he said. “I am his replacement, José Ávila, and I have an assignment for you, Mr. Caleca.”
I frowned.
“Yeah? So, when do I leave for Des Moines?”
Ávila snorted.
“Des Moines? We no longer care about Des Moines – oh yes, we know it is a cesspool of unholy cult activity, but they are not our prime concern any longer.”
I blinked in confusion.
“No? Then who is? Where are you sending me?”
“Pack your bib overalls, Mr. Caleca. You leave this afternoon,” Ávila said.
“For where?” I blurted.
“Where else would bib overalls be the local uniform? We want a full assessment of the pustule of Ohio, the pretenders of the Brewster, the bane of the Heartland … Yellow Springs!”
I couldn’t control my face, which contorted in an unlikely combination of fear and derision. This was a disaster. Yellow Snow … damn it, McGuffin. Why did you abandon me?
As I turned away, and began to shamble abjectly from the office, Ávila delivered a parting shot.
“And take your own car,” he said. “We don’t want a repeat of the last time you rented a vehicle on the company.”
Truly, I had lost my will to live.
A Dark Night of the Soul
Two weeks later, I found myself at a Comfort Inn in Fairborn, Ohio – the closest motel I could find to the half-horse town of Yellow Springs – frantically thumbing through notes scribbled on napkins and labels peeled from bottles of Wild Turkey.
First, I had driven cross country to watch the hated Yellow Springs Nine play some Spring Training games, starting scrubs and wannabes to taunt their opponents while the lineup regulars lounged in the dugout eating grapes and sipping Pinot Noir.
Or at least that’s how it seemed.
Then I followed the team north, donned my bib overalls and tried to blend in with the locals so I could file in with the crowd and watch the real Nine work out in the overgrown barn they call Utopia Field on the afternoon before Opening Day.
I emerged shaken. Horrified. Nauseous.
Could there be a baseball team anywhere on the planet more formidable than the collection of supermen I had witnessed soaring around the diamond in this flea-bitten excuse for a burg? Truly, Ron Collins – the omnipresent GM of the “Nein” – must have signed a deal with Beelzebub himself to amass this kind of talent and stay under the salary cap.
What sorcery is this?
Position Player Perdition
The names are enough to leave opposing pitchers weak in the knees:
- Dong Po Thum, the preternatural second baseman;
- Robert Chenoweth, who spent years in the minors nursing resentment against Lucas McNeill before rampaging into the BBA;
- Blaine Tyler, the third basemen who causes premature baldness among pitching coaches;
- Shortstop Luis Peña, who prowls the infield like a supercharged Hoover.
- Right Fielder Ricardo Mendoza, who snacks on the femurs of right-handed relievers during the 7th inning stretch.
- Left Fielder Rex Foster, who once caused former Sox SP Juan Nicto to wet himself while watching batting practice.
Good God, man, don’t make me think of the horrors I witnessed on the pitching mound:
- Carlos Valle, the wily right-hander who went 22-6 last year. He racks up wins merely by stalking from the dugout to the mound as opposing hitters curl into the fetal position and mewl for their mommies;
- Dave Lee, a left-handed youngster whose circle change actually giggles on the way into the catcher’s mitt;
- Carlos Pineda, who spent much of last season on injured reserve, only to emerge this year with scouts saying his stamina is unaffected and to pencil him onto the short list of top starters in the game;
Sobriety swiftly returned, though, as I glanced at my notes about the relief corps left behind:
- Al Colbert, who saved 41 games and racked up 5.3 WAR last year as he scythed through the Frick like a … well, frickin’ scythe.
- Ángel Hernández, whose 1.37 ERA in 2044 was even smaller than Vinnie Vitale’s IQ;
- Josh Henson, who chews up more innings in relief than Joey Chestnut downs hotdogs at Portillo’s.
Calamitous Conclusions
I cracked open another bottle Wild Turkey, took a long chug, and didn’t even bother to swipe at the drool running down my chin.
What to make of all this?
In a moment of despair, I fired up my laptop and checked the early preseason predictions from the drunken swine down at BNN, who've penciled the YS9 in for … 109 wins.
Sweet Jesus.
Well, I think they’re wrong. I’ve seen this collection of Übermenschs up close, and I don’t think they’ll come close to last season’s BBA record of 114 wins.
This may be the Wild Turkey talking, but I think they’ll blow that record away.
Is 120 wins out of the question? 125? Perhaps they'll go 162-0. Or 324-0 after they barge into Black Sox Park and impound all of Chicago's games for themselves. Has the second place team in a division ever finished 50 games behind the leader? This could be the year to find out.
Like the damned filing into Dante’s Inferno, the other teams in the Heartland can read the writing above the portal leading to the division race:
"Abandon All Hope, Ye Who Enter Here."
Until the playoffs, of course.
Then their hope can frolic like fleecy lambs in a meadow of spring …