This post is for the Nachos Grande Blogger Bracket Challenge. Having come in dead last in the voting after writing the way I usually write (message received, by the way), I've decided to take this one in another direction.
No ballplayers were harmed in the making of this blog post. And for the record, I'm a fan of all of these guys and wish them well.
No ballplayers were harmed in the making of this blog post. And for the record, I'm a fan of all of these guys and wish them well.
So it was
that John Burkett, fresh-faced right hander out of San Francisco, infiltrated
the Mets organization in 1992 under the guise of rookie phenom "Rusty
Shackleford," a highly-touted albeit fictitious triple-A sensation from Dubuque,
Iowa. A few well-placed letters of
recommendation and he found himself invited to try his skill at spring
training.
No one knew what Rusty looked like, but his Mets uniform was utterly convincing as was his affable demeanor. The boyish gentility of this newcomer won over the hardest of hearts (Vince Coleman). Even gruff manager Jeff Torborg came around at the sight of the rookie’s dark, smiling eyes and soft, feathered hair. This ruse would be a piece of cake.
No one knew what Rusty looked like, but his Mets uniform was utterly convincing as was his affable demeanor. The boyish gentility of this newcomer won over the hardest of hearts (Vince Coleman). Even gruff manager Jeff Torborg came around at the sight of the rookie’s dark, smiling eyes and soft, feathered hair. This ruse would be a piece of cake.
What the
team didn’t know is that Rusty carried with him a little handwritten paper roster and a Bic mechanical pencil. After only a few days he had won the respect
and affection of everybody on the team, so they were not suspicious when unfortunate
things began to happen at spring training and names began being crossed out
Burkett started with little things that could be mistaken for pranks. For example, he superglued David Cone's chin to his shoulder when he fell asleep watching Bebe's Kids in the clubhouse. Everyone had a good laugh - it seemed harmless, maybe even cute. Then Cone sneezed, dislodging two vertebrae and ending his pitching career (and almost his breathing career).
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| Cone, just before the fateful sneeze. |
Unfortunately for the '92 Mets, it wasn't long before these "pranks" began to lose their subtlety. One day catcher Charlie O’Brien began seeing what he described as “little blue Hitler bunnies” in the infield. A few drops of experimental government psychotropics in his Miller Lite and the poor guy was seeing them everywhere, and all the time. “There! No, wait….there! Don’t give them carrots, guys! They’re anti-Semites!”
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| Charlie pointing out his tormentors, the ump actually looking. |
Shortstop Tony Fernandez always had a cup of coffee the morning. Little did he know that one morning in particular his cup would contain half coffee, half highly-concentrated uber-dose of elephant-grade veterinary colon cleanse. The results were too horrendous to describe here. Suffice it to say that for the next few months he went through a lot of pants.
 |
| Jeff Bagwell witnesses a blowout first-hand. |
It wasn't long before "Rusty" started going after the power hitters. Burkett made a few late-night calls to the homes of Eddie Murray, Howard Johnson, and Bobby Bonilla, impersonating each one of them and making aggressively sexual comments about each of the other’s familial and marital affiliations. He also mixed in some "yo mama so fat..." stuff because it was 1992. The result was a Three Stooges-esque free-for-all….with bats.
At the height of their confrontation, Murray took aim
at Bonilla as Bonilla whacked Johnson over the head with his backswing. Johnson took advantage of the angle, inserting his entire bat somewhere very uncomfortable. "Like the back of a Volkswagen," Burkett thought and laughed to himself.
The only thing Burkett liked more than human suffering was movie references.
Vince
Coleman was a solid runner, but even that is no match for meticulously trained seagulls
thirsty for the sweet juices of the human eye. He was in the outfield one afternoon when they swooped in and pecked his
skull sockets clean with the precision of a pack of flying half-starved jackals surgically removing every chunk of meat from the bone. They were gone before he could even cry for
help. Needless to say he was never a
particularly good outfielder again though he could still step in front of
a pitch pretty well so long as you whistle when you throw the ball.
 |
| Vince Coleman, sans eyeballs. |
Speaking of packs of starving jackals, John spent two weeks starving a pack of jackals, allowing
them only to occasionally sniff a pair of Todd Hundley’s dirty socks. He then marinated Todd's cleats in gravy for good measure. Once set loose upon the diamond during practice one day they quickly
found their prey. While they wouldn’t kill Todd, he would lose forever the ability to squat.
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| A shot from the 2.4 seconds Todd was able to evade the pack of starving jackals. |
Player after player fell to random animal maulings, flesh-eating bacteria, even a few disembowelments (Dwight Gooden). Also he gave
Mackey Sasser gonorrhea. It didn’t affect
his baseball skill, but it was still pretty messed-up.
It wasn’t
until Shea Stadium looked like that one scene in Gone With the Wind where they zoom out on all the dead and wounded soldiers laying in rows did Jeff Torborg begin to get suspicious. In the locker marked "Shackleford" he found a little folded paper roster, nearly every name crossed out (Sasser's name just had "gonorrhea" scribbled next to it). He started researching Rusty’s minor-league stats and found that the man had
none. Torborg pulled “Rusty Shackleford” into his office
and started grilling him.
“Witness Relocation Program,” claimed the rookie with total confidence. “I saw a mob hit last year. Blood everywhere. I have my Witness Relocation Program membership card and complimentary t-shirt in my car if you’d like to see them.”
“Witness Relocation Program,” claimed the rookie with total confidence. “I saw a mob hit last year. Blood everywhere. I have my Witness Relocation Program membership card and complimentary t-shirt in my car if you’d like to see them.”
“I think that
would be best, son.”
Rusty got up
walked out, smiling as he passed Bobby Bonilla on the way out of Jeff’s office. Bobby walked in straddling air as though he
was riding an invisible horse. “Where’s The
Shack goin’? He’s not cut, is he?” Everyone loved The Shack.
“I don’t
know yet, Bobbo. I may never know what it
is that makes a ballplayer, or a man for that matter.” Jeff pondered for a moment and noticed Bobby staring at him
quizzically.
 |
| Dahhhhhhhhh..... |
Torborg relented. “He’s going to get his Witness
Relocation Program membership card and shirt from his car.”
Bonilla’s
stare grew more quizzical. “Witless remocational whoozits? I’m not sure
that’s a thing, coach.”
Torborg
began to chuckle at Bobby’s inability to understand words when suddenly his eyes
widened. A wave of bitter Torborgian comprehension
spread over his face, and the anger burst forth from his throat like rage vomit. “Stop that man!” he yelled out into the
corridor, but it was too late. The impostor
was gone. The damage had been done.
"Shacklefoooooooooord!!!!!!!!" Torborg bellowed, raising his arms helplessly into the night.
"Shacklefoooooooooord!!!!!!!!" Torborg bellowed, raising his arms helplessly into the night.
Thus, the
’92 Mets would have another sub-par season and go on to be called “the worst team money could buy.”
_________________________________________________________________________
Epilogue
A week later two men sat at a shadowy corner table at a 24-hour Blimpie in
Toronto, Canada. “They won’t be a threat
to you anytime soon,” Burkett said. “I
took care of everything.”
“Very good,”
said the other man. He took an envelope
out from under his blue and white batting helmet which lacked ear protection. “Our best statisticians have foretold that
the Mets were poised to win the World Series this season, but thanks to you
baseball will finally belong to Canada.” He
passed the envelope across the table. “Here’s
the agreed-upon sum. You taking all that
back to San Francisco?”
“Banque
Suisse, untraceable,” Burkett replied as he took a
sip of his coffee and gazed out the window.
“Only the baseball card collectors will know what really happened, and no one listens to them.”
The men sat and basked in the afterglow of the perfect crime. “Are you available next season, John? Seattle is starting to show some skill."
"Not a chance," replied Burkett sternly. "Too much respect for the program."
"I understand. They really are the best." He pondered a moment. "How about Atlanta? Seems they may begin to pose a threat to
Canadian dominance.”
