SixFourThree

The Impossible Dream?

Well, I went undrafted.  Again. 

I know, I can’t believe it either.  How the league continues to overlook my multiple All-Star appearances in the Buffalo Grove Recreation Association or my two-hit shutout in the consolation round of the 1999 Houston Maccabi Games, I’ll never know. Maybe I can understand ignoring my storied BGRA career, but the JCC Maccabi Games?! It’s the Junior Olympics for Jews, for crying out loud.  

Because I got chai, because I got chai, because I got chai! Sha-ba-ba-ba-bat.

As I see it, I have two options:

(1) Bury the hurt deep within my core and let it fester for years and years, all the while sublimating my anger and subconsciously punishing my friends and co-workers for being complicit in this, my soul-crushing pain, until one day I melt down like Chernobyl (timely!) ….  OR …

(2) Do something about it.

As healthy as Option 1 sounds, I’m feeling frisky today and I’ll take my chances on Door Number 2.

How am I going to right this wrong?  By writing an open letter to the most powerful man in baseball, super-agent/collector-of-souls Scott Boras, that’s how.  Here’s what I have so far: 

Dear Mr. Boras,

‘Sup.  I hear you’re the guy to talk to.  

Your client, Stephen Strasburg, was the No. 1 pick in this week’s MLB Amateur Draft.  Without playing an inning of pro ball, Strasburg is on the verge of collecting what is rumored to be a $20 million signing bonus, and it’s all thanks to you.   

The San Diego State hurler has electric stuff — a 102 mph fastball and a four-pitch arsenal.  And with you in his corner, the young lefty will probably bankrupt the Nationals.  

Forgive my Foley, but la-dee-freakin’-da.  Color me unimpressed, Mr. Boras.  Getting Strasburg his skrilla is child’s play.  Like shooting fish in a barrel or racing a Nascar hopped up on meth, it’s just too easy.    

"Scotty-doo? It's me, Double Deuce. Show me the money!"

You think you’re so powerful, such a mover and shaker.  You fancy yourself a BSD (hint: one of the letters stands for ’swangin’).  I suggest you prove it — get me a contract!

Any shmuck with a law degree and a bottle of mousse can sign a stud from the college ranks.  But here I am, a 23-year-old Northpaw with a criminal record (multiple parking tickets!) and a history of hangnails.  And I spent last year living in the Dominican Republic, so me being 23 is more of a guesstimate.       

Your move, big guy.      

Sure, I’ll admit it, I’m not one of the flashier players in the draft.  But I have my share of appealing skills.  How’s a 70 mph fastball sound to you?  Zoom Zoom, baby.  They don’t call me the Mazda Man for nothing. 

(Note to PA guy: please play the “Zoom Zoom” song as my entrance music.  That, or“Rumpshaker” by Wreckx-N-Effect.  All I wanna do is zoom-a-zoom zoom zoom and a poom-poom…)

Just Shake Ya Rump!

Now I know scouts don’t just want speed — they are all about “movement.”  Pitches that tail and dive and cut and sink. Over and over, I hear the same question in press row: “What kind of movement does his fastball have?” 

You want to talk “movement,” Scotty boy?  When I throw my heater, the batters have a bowel movement.  Howdya like ‘dem apples?  

Did I mention that I’m smart on the base path?  Any scout will tell you that I’ve never been caught stealing.  Heck, I’ve never been caught attempting to steal.  Two feet firmly on first base at all times.  Like the Good Lord intended.  If the Heavenly Father had meant for men to steal things, or for women to get haircuts, why would He write the opposite?  Riddle me that, you godless Philistine!  

Sandy Alomar, Jr. : Doin' the Lord's work, one baserunner at a time.

Most of all, I’ve got intangibles.  You know, all those immeasurable things that Tim McCarver won’t shut up about, the invisible skills that make a ballplayer great.  Like my diamond I.Q. or my can-do attitude.  They’re off the charts!  Not that we need any charts — it’s immeasurable, remember?  Go with your gut.  

How else can you quantifiably  measure my competitive spirit or my gumption or the way I make my teammates better?  It’s impossible!  

You hear that, Bill James? Impossible!  So back off, old man.      

Mr. Boras, I’d love to meet with you and figure out a way to make this work.  Help me help you, get my drift?   Call me anytime.  I live in Hollywood now, so my number is (555) 555-5555.  Dial carefully.  

Love,

Your future 50th rounder, Daniel David