Note: The following text is a satirical and fictional story based on the true outcomes of the regular season happenings of the 2010 Philadelphia Phillies. The text is to be considered as strictly entertainment.
May 18, 2010
Enter en medias res.
The clubhouse, smoky and odorous of incense. Strange sitar music fills the gray air, hiding the men, adorned in men’s boxers, tightly fitting underpants and loose sport t-shirts. They’re each in their own small world of meditation, cupping their hands together, lifting their arms high to the ceiling and chanting one-syllable notes. At center is an elder man, draped in a mosaic of a robe – at first bright orange, but adorned with flower patterns fine in greens and blues. Jewels hang off his prune head, his hair shimmering white like the moon.
“The path to pure enlightenment stems from inside,” he speaks in clear Queen’s English. By his side is a wafer and small cup of African Rooibos, which must be noted, as it’s late in the evening, well past nigthfall, and it’s such a strong, caffeinated tea. The reason: They have lost tonight.
The men chant again as they raise their arms slowly to the heavens. Some are close to a deep trance when, suddenly, the metal doors blast open.
“Team Red Bull is in the HOUSE!”
A smattering of black-shirt-clad young adults, fit with spiky hair and orange skin, flood the room. Their very presence lifts the smoke outside, clearing the space and revealing a collection of half-naked men disrupted and dizzy.
“I do say,” says the man draped in his orange robe. It’s Charlie Manuel, well-to-do manager of the Philadelphia Phillies, “what is the meaning of this materialistic high jinks?”
Into the room, dressed in a custom-fit Red Bull Phillies jacket, is Jimmy Rollins, hardcore veteran and star shortstop of the Phillies. In each hand he carries four Red Bulls and, without warning, begins shooting the cans toward his teammates.
“GET THAT GET THAT,” yells Rollins, as his minions do the very same. Brad Lidge is knocked in the arm.
“That’s another Cortisone shot!”
“Now, now, please, will you just quiet this racket for a moment,” pleads Manuel. “We lost a tragic game this past evening, in which our stud Roy Halladay pitched until his arm nearly fell off. We must find our centers once again. We don’t need liquid refreshment in the form of a spoon of white powder.”
“Excuse me-” interrupts a nervous Ross Gload, “but can we not reference my past, sir?”
“I was talking about sugar.”
“You gotta see, man,” answers Rollins, “that’s the answer! We can’t hit Zach Duke, we gotta change the style! We gotta go hard on that sugar rush, know what I’m sayin’? GET THAT GET THAT.”
Later in the evening, as the men are departing the ballpark for their home lives, Ben Francisco and Shane Victorino ¬– wearing a shirt covered in ironed-on bear feces – are speaking about the disruption.
“I don’t know, Shane, seems like the second he comes off the disabled list, Jimmy is trying to run the team his way,” Francisco says. “It’s like a power penalty kill.” Francisco does not know hockey lingo.
“Oh, oh … I don’t know,” Victorino says hurriedly and quietly, not really paying attention to Francisco. His phone vibrates. “Oh … ah, I gotta get this.”
Victorino stalks away from Francisco, holding his phone tight to his ear, speaking in hushed tones, the night shielding him as he leaves his view.
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