SixFourThree

Joba studied his strikeout dance from the king.

Lady and gentlemen,

(If we have more than one female reader, I’ll be shocked.)

(I’m not counting SixFourThree girlfriends — they have no choice in the matter.) 

I’m sad to say that this will be my last posting for this bodacious baseball blog.  “Why?” you ask, as you fight back hot, briny tears.  “Why are you leaving us?  Haven’t you heard we’re in a recession?  You can’t go.  First Cash for Clunkers ends, and now this?”  

There, there.  Dry your eyes, people-who-can’t-really-cry-because-imaginary-people-don’t-have-tear-ducts.  I’m off to a better place.  

At 4:16 this afternoon, I was officially claimed off of waivers.  Some team plucked me off the wire, just like Rich Harden and Brad Penny.  And now I’m off to the majors. 

I’ll be playing in The Big Time.  The Show.  The Whole Megillah, as my grandpa would say.  The Whole Shebang, as Ricky Martin would say.  The Whole Wheat Toast, as no one would say.  

(Point of clarification: Ricky Martin is my grandfather.)  

How did this happen?  Well, some of you may remember my plea to Scott Boras a short while back to ditch that Strasburg kid and sign me to a multi-million dollar deal.  That didn’t happen.  But teams this time of year are so desperate for warm bodies that I got picked up anyway.  

Now, don’t think poorly of me when I tell you this, but when I heard I was claimed off waivers, I wasn’t thrilled.  It’s a lot like when you get summoned to jury duty.  “F**k,” I thought, censoring myself with stars even in my subconscious mind.  “How did they find me?” 

I can’t just be getting claimed off waivers whenever some subpar team feels like it.  I’m in an ultimate frisbee league.  I play poker on Wednesday nights.  I got shit going on.  

So I initially considered getting off of waivers the same way I’d get out of jury duty: by acting really, ludicrously racist.  I called up every owner in the league and said some things about Eskimos I’m not proud of.  I kept at it until a troubling thought dawned on me – If I act too racist, they’re going to send me to Wrigley field.

It was time to change course, and I knew just the thing.  I’ll fake an injury.  Better yet, I’ll fake a handicap!  No team is going to want some cripple out there on the rubber.

Look, ma -- one hand!

But then Jim Abbott popped into my head (that’s what she said).  Abbott was born without a right hand and still had a 10-year pro career, including a stint with my White Sox.  Speaking of sox, Jim would have to take his off just to count how many years he was in the league. 

Some say a one-handed pitcher is inspirational, and that we should give thanks.  Yeah, okay, I’ll give thanks.  Thanks for nothing, Abbott.  You ruined my best excuse yet.  

Asshole.

I was officially out of schemes.  Downtrodden, I checked the waiver wire to see who had added me to their roster.  It was the Indians.  I swallowed my pride, plugged my nose and headed to Cleveland.  The first order of business was a meeting with soon-to-be-fired manager Eric Wedge.  He squirmed when I addressed him as “soon-to-be-fired” manager Eric.  I guess he prefers Mr. Wedge.  

“Glad to have you on board,” Wedge announced, “We need a live arm to shore up the back end of our rotation.”  When I stopped snickering at “back end,” Eric was kind enough to show me around the stadium and explain the rules of the clubhouse.  After each regulation, I’d interrupt and ask, “Now is that a team rule or a Wedge issue?”  

To my surprise, he didn’t find that funny.  Decent enough guy, but he needs to loosen up, laugh a little.  Get a Thai massage, watch a Tyler Perry movie or something.

Speaking of Tyler Perry, I watched a “Meet the Browns” marathon on TBS in the hotel room before bed.  That’s all for now, readers.  It’s been a long day, and I need my sleep before the pennant race heats up.  For other teams, not for the Indians, of course.  I’ll check in with updates from the road to tell you all about my crazy new life as a professional athlete.  Or as my grandpa would say, livin’ la vida loca.  

Yours truly,

Daniel