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Well, I guess its time to re-post something I wrote a few years ago in response to a friend of mine, a Reds Fan, who calls himself GADawg.
Enjoy
Later
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A Baseball Carol
Ebineezer Rose called his assistant, GA Dawg into his office. “GA” he snarled,” it looks like that website you designed for me isn’t working. And the rest of the public relations campaign to get me into the Hall of Fame isn’t either.” He continued, “so, it looks like I’ll have to let you go.”
“But Mr. Rose” gasped GA Dawg, “how will I tell my family that I no longer have an income? How will I feed them?”
“I told you to put ten grand on the Yankees’ sweep, kid.” replied Rose. “But you’re one of those ridiculously naive hero worshipers who still believe I know nothing about betting on baseball. Now, get outta’ here.”
Sadly, GA Dawg packed up his belongings and went home. “How WILL I tell my family?” he wondered. Unconcerned, Ebineezer Rose called his bookie to place a few last minute bets, made a reservation for dinner, and left the office. He made sure not to wear the hat with his website URL on the front.
Once he got home, Rose immediately took off the disguise he was wearing to fool the media. “No sense wasting my time posing for photo-ops anymore” he thought. He slowly removed his suit and put on his old Reds uniform and batting helmet and sat back in his recliner to watch ESPN. He mumbled to himself, “I’ll never watch NBC again” as he slowly dozed off.
A while later there was a knock at the door. Ebineezer rose slowly while trying to think of whether he was up to date in his payments to No Neck Willie. Once he assured himself that he was, he opened the door. It was an all-too- familiar face. He stammered, “I t-t-t-thought you were …. dead.” “ Who, or what, ARE you?” he asked.
An ashen Bart Giammatti seemed to glide into the room. “I am the Ghost of Baseball Past” he replied, “and we are going to take a trip back in time.”
“Not with me, you’re not!” snarled Rose. “We went through all those questions before and you got my answers. I’m not rehashing that stuff again.”
“Don’t worry,” replied the Ghost in a suddenly calming manner. “We’re going to a far better place.”
Suddenly, they were whisked outside, but not just to his front yard. “I sort of know this place,” said Rose, “But it looks different. Where are we?”
“Its Yankee Stadium, about fifty years ago.” Replied the Ghost. He continued “Its Babe Ruth Day, and over 70,000 people are paying their respects to their dying hero.”
“You can’t fool me.” snickered Ebineezer, ” Ruth lived the high life, too. He was always visiting speakeasies during Prohibition, smoking those big cigars, and, with the women….”
“It didn’t matter,” interrupted the ghost, “he never denied any of that activity, even when drinking was illegal. But the fans of his time appreciated the fact that he never tried to hide his actions, and forgave him. More importantly, they realized that he was the person who had resurrected their game from the ashes of the Black Sox Scandal and the boredom of the dead ball era. His records were secondary, though. It was his persona they adored.”
“You look puzzled. What are you thinking?” asked the ghost.
Rose thought a while and replied, “If I had played here, I’d probably have had more homers down that short right field porch. But maybe I’d have lost some hits on the natural grass.”
Ebineezer awoke in his chair. “Must have been a bad dream.” he thought. “I’ll just change into my pajamas and hit the sack. That will teach me to have extra onions on those burgers.” He fell asleep counting his base hits.
The knock on the door startled him. “What now?” he wondered. When he opened the door, he was face to face with one of the most famous people of the Twentieth Century – Fidel Castro. “What the Hell are you doing here?” he asked.
“I am the Ghost of Baseball Future, Senor. And you are going on another little trip.” Before he could protest, they were in the living room of a small house. GA Dawg entered the room with a young man.
“Dad, can we go to a baseball game today?’ the boy asked. “ I thought we’d drive downtown and catch a game. We haven’t done that for a long time, ever since I was captured in the invasion of Liechtenstein. All the time I was in that POW camp, all I thought about was baseball.”
“Gee, GA Pup”, his father replied, “I hadn’t thought about baseball since Ebineezer Rose fired me about ten years ago. I don’t know how to tell you this, but there is no baseball here any more. After the Rose scandal, and all the crying hearts who wanted him reinstated and put into the Hall of Fame, all Hell broke loose. The Commissioner relented, and Rose was made eligible again, even though he never admitted his guilt. When he was elected to the Hall of Fame, the fans were outraged. Then Congress voted to investigate Major League Baseball (Some Senator from Shoeless Joe Jackson’s home state started it, I think. Joe never got in. ). Based on what they found, financial irregularities and such, baseball’s anti-trust exemption was lifted and the owners’ books were exposed.”
“The fans were so shocked, they stayed away in such numbers that the Major Leagues folded. The nearest place where they’re playing baseball today is Cuba. Doing all right in Latin America, Asia and Europe, though. The commissioner of the new worldwide league is someone named Dr. Dooby. Those Communists in Cuba never had a profit motive, though, so the game was played for the sheer fun of it. The fans still love it there. I can’t believe it; baseball’s dead. And all because some ballplayer didn’t face his own weaknesses and admit he’d done us wrong. Anyhow, how about us going to a soccer game?”
Ebineezer turned toward the grinning Castro and said, “I never thought I was going to hurt the game I loved. This is terrible. I’m going to call the Commissioner when we get back and tell him I’ll ask for forgiveness, but leave it up to him whether or not he wants to reinstate me.” He sobbed “I never wanted to hurt the game………..” As they were about to leave, Rose turned to Fidel and asked “Since you’re going to be flying me directly back to my house, do you think we could stop off in your country first and get me a few boxes of cigars?”
“Sorry, nino,” I gave my entire supply to Marge Schott. You’ll have to rough it.” And they were gone.
The next morning, Rose awoke and immediately called the Commissioner to disclose his plan. He then dressed, admired himself one more time in the mirror, took a cigar from the box he never recalled seeing before, and left his house. He drove directly to the house of GA Dawg.
When the door was opened, the men stared at each other for a moment before Ebineezer spoke. “I’m sorry. Can I come in? We have to talk.” The always-polite GA Dawg stepped aside and allowed him to enter. “Why are you here?” he asked.
“I’m offering you your old job back.” Rose smiled, “I called the Commissioner and will be making a public statement admitting to what I did. I have to, for the good of the game. And I’ll need someone to manage the appearances on television and the book deals that may come my way. You did that well before, and I just know you can do it well again.”
“That’s great Mr. Rose, but I don’t need your job. When the word got out that I was no longer working for you, I got a call from the Democratic National Committee. They wanted me to manage Bill Clinton’s Public Relations staff after he leaves office. I accepted. I guess they figured if I could keep the public in the dark about your actions…..” His voice trailed off.
There was another knock at the door. “What the Dickens is going on around here?” GA Dawg asked to himself. Standing in the doorway was a shabbily clad figure. He asked the person who he was.
“I’m Bud Selig. Your other guest has called me a pontificating windbag.” He said, nodding toward Rose, “So I guess that makes me the Gust of Baseball Present.”
After seriously considering slamming the door in the visitor’s face for that terrible pun, GA Dawg let him in.
“I finally tracked you down.” He said, “ I got the message you left. And I’m ready to give you a gift. I guess you could call me Selig-Clause.”
Rose interrupted, “Where did you get that terrible suit?” Flustered, Selig replied “The Sears in Milwaukee.”
“Don’t they have any other men’s clothing stores in that town?’ Rose asked quizzically.
“Nope”, replied Selig, “We’re a small market city, even for haberdashers.”
He continued, “Today’s polls show that while 64% of fans think your numbers are good enough for the Hall, 104% of fans still consider you a reprehensible slug. I voted a few extra times myself. So did Ray Fosse and Bud Harrelson. But its not too late to turn this thing around. If you come to my office immediately and sign the proper paperwork, I will reinstate you and declare you eligible for the Hall. It will be for the good of the game.”
“Wow, that’s great!” shouted GA Pup. “I’m so happy I feel like singing. Mr. Rose, do you know any good songs?”
Rose thought a while, especially about future generations of kids playing soccer, asked “Can I sign today?” and began to sing.
“Hark, the Herald Angels Shout
Screw those guys in Eight Men Out”
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