I sit, once again behind
my desk at a major media company, my face tender and red from the penetrating
ultraviolet rays of that star which functions as our giver of life, and I am
morose. No, not morose. I am plaintive. I am plaintive because yesterday, as I
sat at my dining room table pounding the keys of my Gateway EV 500 computer, which I
purchased via the Internet at a very reasonable price, I was struck with the
television sounds that floated melodically into my all-too-sagely ears. For on
the television was the 1993 Daniel Stern-directed
classic, Rookie of the Year. In this film, 12-year-old Henry
Rowengartner (portrayed by the astounding
Thomas Ian Nicholas) recovers
from an arm injury with the ability to throw a baseball at remarkable speed. He
is recruited by the evil nephew of the owner of his beloved Chicago Cubs to
pitch in the Major Leagues. Naturally, hilarity ensues. It is an hysterical
romp. If you have not seen this film, do yourself a favor and purchase the
greatest sports related film in the history of the world.
Rookie of the Year always reminds me of my brief yet successful stint as a Major League baseball player. In the days of my puissant youth, I displayed my clear superiority on the Elysian fields of my heroes. Then, as now, I was a finely tuned specimen. My arms bulged with rippling strength, like the legs of a Siamese whore that could latch on and give you the roll of your lifetime. My legs were as firm and taut as the breasts of Kirsten Dunst. I mean no offense to Kirsten Dunst. She is a dear friend of mine and a wonderful lady. She attended the worldwide premiere of my critically acclaimed pornographic documentary, Sexual Coma. You can read all about it in my new book, How Kirsten Dunst Attended My Worldwide Movie Premiere, available in bookstores this fall. Once again, I digress.
I played the game of baseball with a voracious hunger, like a wolverine devouring a gazelle in the heartlands of the African continent. Offers for my services abounded, as did the offers for women, booze, parties and nightlife. Ultimately, I chose to play for the Montreal Expos, due in part to their mascot YouppI!, with whom I had a brief but illicit affair. Additionally, Les Expos would provide me with ample opportunity to show off my skill as they were generally considered the laughingstock of the National League. Not to mention my proficence in all of the Romance languages would allow me to dazzle the French Canadian women. I chose to pitch, since the National League mandated that pitchers bat for themselves. My debut was a stunning success, as I scattered four hits over 7 1/3 innings, striking out 11 and walking none. I also went three for four that day with two doubles and a home run. My presence in the clubhouse was positive as well. By early August, my beloved Les Expos sat atop the National League’s East Division, due in large part to my tremendous ability. In the dugout, I saw Larry Walker and John Wetteland perform the “Naked Tango”; that is, they danced the tango completely naked. In my penultimate start, I came within two outs of performing pitching’s most indomitable feat: a perfect game. Ultimately, I was given my outright release my management, as they refused to relent to my "unreasonable demands." To supplement the bucket of animal crackers I received each week, I demanded that I be allowed to masturbate on the mural of Rusty Staub prior to each game, in homage to Le Grand Orange. 55,000 people watched my final start, a 6-1 win against the Cincinnati Reds. My career had come to an end, for the time being, but I would be back.
It was a glorious trip to that most major of leagues. My memories will last a lifetime, like so many lifelong memories do. Thank you, Daniel Stern. Thank you, indeed.