June 11th, 2024

The College World Series starts this Friday, and to celebrate I’m dialing up some more baseball stories. I’ve already done this once, but when you’re a part of the game for as long as I was, you’re gonna rack up some tales. Let's get right to it...

Championship Advice

Most ballplayers are inherently cool, and big leaguers especially so. I’ve played with and against future MLB All-Stars, World Series winners, and even a league MVP; I’m talking dudes that you’ve absolutely heard of, all of them cooler than shit. And out of all of them, the coolest motherfucker I’ve come across in baseball was an 80-year-old independent league manager. Independent baseball is a great thing for a lot of reasons, but one of them is that it offers baseball lifers a place to continue to contribute to the game after big league clubs feel they no longer have utility at that level. The pay is shitty, the clubhouses are small and dank, and the cleat chasers come preprogrammed with an advanced strain of HPV, but playing independent ball will almost certainly mean you’ll spend time around a dude that’s been in the game at the professional level for several decades. I was lucky enough to play for such a guy, and I’ll always hold him in high esteem. 

This man was a living and breathing baseball encyclopedia. A small sampling of some of the guys he played with: Jackie Robinson, Gene Mauch, Gil Hodges, Roy Campanella, Duke Snider, Johnny Pesky, Harmon Killebrew, Roger Maris, and MOTHERFUCKING WILLIE MAYS!!! A fraction of some of the big names he coached and/or managed: Frank Howard, Jeff Burroughs, Toby Harrah, Curt Flood, Buddy Bell, Charlie Hough, Fergie Jenkins, Kirby Puckett, Kent Hrbek, Frank Viola, Jack Morris, Max Scherzer…the list of dudes you’ve got baseball cards of that this guy played with or coached is as distinguished as it gets. Like, this dude played with Jackie Robinson and coached Curt Flood, two of the most important and influential figures in baseball history. He used to play cards with Willie Mays, drink beer with Ted Williams, and throw bones with Kirby Puckett. My guy is the Forrest Gump of baseball.

So, it’s my first day of independent league baseball. I’m 23, recently released from a big league organization and one of the laziest dipshits you’ll ever meet. However, I could throw a two-seam fastball with crazy run north of 85 miles per hour anywhere I wanted to, so I still had some marginal usefulness in the world of professional baseball. We have a team meeting before our first workout, and in walks our manager, this walking, talking Baseball Reference page. He steps to the front of the room, all 5’9” and 150 pounds of him, and says, “Fellas, I’ve got two rules. Rule #1: If you miss curfew, she’d better be worth it. And rule #2: If you take a shit, wash your hands. WITH SOAP, GENTLEMEN!!! I’m too goddamn old to be getting sick ‘cause of your horseshit hygiene. Play ball.” It was awesome, and keeping team meetings short, memorable, and funny is something I still try to do now that I’m a coach.

I Don’t Know What I’ve Been Told…

I’m not a huge fan of the recent and growing trend of college and high school baseball players talking all sorts of shit to each other from the dugout during games, but one thing I’ve always been on board with: folks in the stands talking shit. Heckling, especially at college games, is an art form, and as long as those doing the heckling stay away from stuff involving race, religion, homophobia/transphobia and other harmful topics, I feel like most anything is fair game. For example…

A former coach of the college I played for had his left leg amputated above the knee at some point during his coaching career. He used crutches to get around everywhere, even on the field, and it was just a part of his life. I asked him about the best heckling he heard because of his leg, and he didn’t hesitate: “Texas Tech, no doubt. I crutch out to the mound to make a pitching change, and all I can hear is 2,000 assholes chanting in unison every time my foot hit the ground…’Right’…’Right’…’Right’…’Right.’ When it’s that clever, all you can do is laugh.”

Secret Ingredient

The higher you go in the game, the better the accommodations and perks. Most big league clubhouses have a kitchen with a legit chef that can make you anything you want, and even Rookie Ball clubhouses have pretty good spreads. Independent ball spreads, though, were…spartan. Most days you’d have to make yourself a PB&J with stale bread and the cheapest, shittiest peanut butter in existence, using a tongue depressor you got from the trainer to spread the ingredients around. Every now and then, though, you’d get a real meal. And I learned quickly from a baseball lifer how not to handle your business on those occasions.

This guy was hitting coach that had literally coached almost everywhere in the country in terms of professional baseball. As he said, “I’ve coached in every league except the two that matter: the American League, and the National League.” Every level of affiliated ball, indy ball, college ball, high school ball, even some American Legion ball; dude had seen it all. He was a country motherfucker, too, from Georgia I believe, and had a very pronounced and syrupy drawl. He was a good dude, a great coach, and a legendary storyteller, one of those guys that can make anything funny.

We had a home game early in the season and came back into the locker room after BP (batting practice). This was one of those days when our clubhouse guy was able to put together a nice meal for us, as we were greeted by the dueling aromas of sausage and mac and cheese. There were also a couple side dishes, and even a pie. A nice little lunch, nothing too fancy, but by gauging the reaction of the some of the fellas you’d have thought we were being served prime rib on Sydney Sweeney’s asshole. Dudes attacked that shit, some helping themselves before showering. A couple of guys were even serving themselves bare assed, their units grazing the table. Our hitting coach comes in, surveys the scene, and immediately starts barking at them. “Boys, hold up goddamnit. Rule #1 when we have real vittles in here: Keep your dick out the spread. Go warsh yer ass, put some clothes on, then come eat. Last thing we need is you dippin’ your balls in the macaroni salad.” 

I’m not a big tattoo guy; I only have one, and it’s related to my sobriety/recovery journey. However, if I do get another one, it’ll absolutely be “Keep your dick out the spread.”

Off Script

My dad is such a good dude. Super smart, kind, supportive, loving, a great father, and an exemplary grandfather. We’ve had our ups and downs over the years, mainly when I was a fuckstick of an idiot as a teenager, but one thing has always been evident: My old man is Ride or Die when it comes to his sons and their friends.

Opening Day, early 2000s. I’m in college, and we’re playing at a big rival’s place; this is definitely a school you’ve heard of. Full house, like 3500 people, and my parents were among them. There was a particularly loud (and likely overserved) young lady that was a fan of the team we were playing. She was sitting right behind our dugout, and she was intent on having something to say after EVERY PITCH. Normally I wouldn’t mind that, but her shit was so weak; just generic stuff like, “Hey #23, you’re supposed to hit the ball” after a strikeout, and similar extremely mid rejoinders. This goes on for a few innings, and around the 5th or so one of my best friends on the team is pitching. This is my dude, one of my boys; in just a few years we would each be in each other’s weddings. My parents and his parents had even shared a few meals together after games at this point. 

This girl keeps on with her weak ass chirping and has directed her attention at my boy on the mound. She’s dialing up some of the worst, most generic smack you can imagine, and my dad had had enough. He waited until she unleashed her latest gem, waited for it to get as quiet as possible, then yelled, “Shutup, bitch.” LOUDLY. Everyone in the dugout heard it, and I was extremely confused for a second. “That…sounded like my dad.” But there was no way, ‘cause he was the last guy that would do something like that. In fact, I can’t ever remember him saying the word “bitch” before; he was a pretty calm dude and never got riled up too much. I brushed it off, thinking there’s no way it was him. A couple pitches later, though, it was obvious it was him, ‘cause he went back for seconds. Another “Shut up, bitch,” this one louder and more pronounced, and there was no doubt this time who said it: It was my pops. My old man, the quietest, most reserved dude you’ll ever meet, doubling down on gassing up a sorority girl. When I asked him after the game why he did it, he said, “She was running her mouth. I didn’t like it, and I told her.” 

Love you, dad. Happy Father’s Day.

Geometry Lesson

College baseball games in Louisiana are the best. Even at the mid-major schools, the locals will show up, boil all manners of seafood, drink beer, and talk shit to the opposing team all night. It’s great. One Friday night my boys and I were in the western part of the state, playing a conference game. The park we were at put the visiting team in the first base dugout, and the bullpen was in the left field corner. The tailgaters at this particular school congregated down the left field line, and thus were just a few feet from the ‘pen. This was not an uncommon set up at college parks in the Bayou State, so I had a pretty good idea what my night would look like: I was going to be well-fed and was also going to hear some incredibly creative and entertaining shit-talking. 

The food was great. Shrimp, crab, crawfish, boudin…a veritable feast. These guys will get shithoused and motherfuck your dead grandma, but they’ll also feed you a four-star meal; it’s a strange dichotomy. When it comes to shit-talking, these dudes go typically go for the low-hanging fruit, and as a 6’6”, super skinny pitcher with legs that looked like pipe cleaner, I was ripe for ripping into. “Hey [REDACTED], why you so skinny? You got the AIDS or somethin’?” “Your dick as skinny as your legs, boy? I bet it’d fit in this here straw.” “You ain’t just skinny, but ass ugly too. No way you gotta girlfriend. I bet you beat your dick like it owes you money.” “How many times a day you jerk off, boy? 10? 20? Your dick is so curved, you probably gotta face the bathroom wall to take a piss.” That’s the lane they stayed in the rest of the night: My dick was super skinny, and super curved. And they did not relent, not even a little bit. One thing they were wrong about, though: I did have a girlfriend, and she was there. She would usually come down to the bullpen to give me some gum or candy around the 7th inning, and this game was no different. I thought all the shit these guys were saying was hilarious, and was eating it up, but she felt differently. She really didn’t know ball, and thought they were seriously attacking me, and decided to defend her man’s honor. “I’LL HAVE YOU KNOW HIS DICK IS THE PERFECT SIZE, AND ONLY A LITTLE BIT CURVED!!!” 

You ever seen a 300-pound Cajun in denim overalls choke on his gumbo from laughing super hard? 'Cause I have.

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The 221

The 221 is evolving, folks. Initially during my current rewatch of the greatest drama of all time I had planned to give thoughts on each individual episode. That, however, has been done many times and in many ways, by others much better at it than me (one of my favorites to do it is Alan Sepinwall). Instead, I’m going to pick a character/scene/line/moment from an episode and go to work on it (while trying to avoid spoilers). Today is all about Omar Devon Little. 

Episode 3 of Season 1, “The Buys,” finally introduces the most famous and beloved Wire character of all, stick-up artist Omar Little. The ridiculously charismatic Omar (who when asked in a later season what his occupation is, answers “I rip and run…I robs drug dealers”) is first shown to us doing what he does best: Observing the patterns and tendencies of a streel level drug operation in order to figure out its weaknesses so that he can exploit them later. And exploit them he does, as he and his cohorts rob the Pit’s stash minutes before an expected re-up, taking two G-packs (100 vials of heroin or cocaine) for their effort, but not before Omar’s sawed off greets a young man directly in the knee when he was less than forthcoming with the location of the product. It’s one of my favorite scenes in Season 1 and serves as a perfect introduction to a perfect character. Writing about Omar is tough, though, because so many have already done it really, really well; there’s very little new ground to tread. My challenge to myself today: Write something about Omar that I haven’t read before. It's not perfect, but here’s what I came up with: Omar has a lot in common with the Joker.

Both arrive on the screen/page as fully formed characters. Although later attempts were made (and made, and made again) to flesh out Joker’s backstory, initially there was none. He just showed up as Batman’s perfect foil, with no explanation for why he does what he does. The universe seemingly dropped him into Gotham to fuck with Batman’s shit, and blessed him with talents uniquely suited to do so. Same thing with Omar. There’s no slow build from young Omar to the present shown, no flashbacks (save for a small one a few seasons down the line that didn’t even appear in an actual episode), no origin story, nothing; he just exists. We eventually get some of the blanks filled in terms of Omar’s personal life (R.I.P. to Granny’s church crown) and circle of confidants (I almost wrote the word “friends” there but, like Joker, Omar doesn’t really do friends), but almost nothing of how he came to be is shown/explained. Joker and Omar just are, and it serves their characters and the story being told exceedingly well.

Both are willing and, more importantly, necessary antagonists of the world they inhabit. Joker is Batman’s opposite, the answer to the question, “What would happen if a rich dude with a truckload of poorly processed trauma and 3% body fat dressed up like a rodent and Mike Tysoned a bunch of criminals after sunset?” Well, eventually he’d get the attention of a hyper intelligent clown that gives less than zero fucks about anything except causing as much chaos as possible. The Joker’s sole purpose is to disrupt and terrorize Batman, and he’s highly adept at it. Similarly, Omar’s a product of the evolution of the drug trade (and, by extension, capitalism, though I don’t have the bandwidth today to dive into that particular rabbit hole) that has thrived in places like Baltimore. He’s a disruptor, but a different type than Joker: he’s an apex predator that helps to maintain status quo. If drug dealers like Avon and Stringer were left unchecked and didn’t have to account for an entity like Omar, their footprint could potentially spread like a virus and destroy the ecosystem. Omar and Joker are counterweights, existing to be the checks and balances of their worlds. 

Both use violence to accomplish their goals because that’s the best tool for the job. If Joker’s sole reason for existing is to disrupt Batman’s mission of stamping out crime in Gotham, then the best way to achieve that is through the murder and terrorization of Gotham’s citizens. Is Joker an inherently violent person? Almost certainly but, truthfully, it doesn’t really matter. Bottom line: violence is something he’s good at, and using it is the best way to accomplish his quest of thwarting Batman’s quest. Same with Omar. I’ve seen every scene involving Omar at least 30 times, and I’m convinced that if he thought the best way to disrupt the drug trade was to do a square dance in the middle of Fayette Street, he’d do that. That’s not the world he lives in, though, so he throws on the durag and the duster, loads the shotty, and handles business that way. Violence is a means to an end for both (although I must admit there are many instances of both characters seeming to enjoy utilizing it).

And the most fascinating and interesting part of the comparison, at least to me: They both do their jobs with such charisma and panache that you can’t help but be drawn to them, despite their unforgiving tactics. A brutal and sociopathic clown that has literally murdered thousands during his existence is one of the most popular characters in the history of the comic book medium, and the reason is simple: Dude is entertaining. He’s funny, he’s witty, he talks mad shit, and he does the job with a ton of flair. Same with Omar. Yes, he shoots people in the name of his goal (it’s not much of a spoiler to say that he eventually murders people as well), and yes, he commits serious felonies with no problem, but he does it in such a gentlemanly and charming way that it’s endearing. He’s also incredibly funny (his first scene in Season 3 being a prime example) and unfailingly polite, making watching him doing terrible things to bad people very enjoyable. 

(I think it’s important to note here: Omar is NOT a good guy. He’s easy to root for because of who his opposition is, and how likable he is, but this man is no hero; at best he’s an anti-hero. He is seemingly on the side of the angels, though, whereas Joker is decidedly not. That’s why this isn’t a perfect 1-to-1 comparison, but I do think there are enough similarities between the two to make it interesting to discuss.)

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Love you guys, thanks for reading. Don't be an asshole.