Blake Daly sat in the comforts of his chair, sipping on some Scotch. He remembers what happened last year in Tijuana with the pseudo-Houston Astros. Long story short, it was an anti-climatic 1985 USFL closing...then team was sold back to MLB for one cent. He swore that wasn't going to happen again. My heart is in this one - this is for the people of Fairbanks. They were the ones that made the Pittsburgh Pirates airlift their team overnight from the border of the decrepit Allegheny River to the calming Tanana River.
A quiet rapping came to Daly's door.
"Come in,"
Coach, I'm ready to play the beisbol for the Miners," said a short, stout thick beast of a man.
"Who might you be? I thought we had our roster of players set?"
"The names Sheridan. Tank...er, Teddy. My friends call me Tank."
"Jesus, you're built like one." Daly couldn't help but stare at the stocky specimen that stood in his doorway, his rippling muscles poking through his Under Armour shirt.
"Dude, you gay? You're staring at me like I'm a piece of meat."
"No..uh, no. I swing from time to time."
Daly thought to himself, fuck this is awkward. If there was a way to kill this....
Another knock at the door. "Come in."
In walked the exact polar opposite of Sheridan. Meaning a giant of a man, with skin as dark as night. The large darker man spoke, given his English was extremely spotty, "my name is Juan Osmany Menendez Casablanca, Jr. I come to you from Cuba because of the beisbol. I known as el bocadillio gigante....large sandwich."
What in the blue blood fuck is this, Daly thought to himself. Instead of Miguel Cabrera, he gets the Giant Sandwich? Oh Good Lord.
Daly stood up from his desk, "So, you guys want to play the baseball? Get ready to work your asses off. Sweat, blood, tears. 6am lifting. 7am BP, 8am conditioning. 11am games, intersquads, everyday. You will grow to hate me but you will respect me."
"Mr. Daly? A word, please..."
"Now who the hell might you be? I've got the second coming of a freak show here."
"My name is Dave Johnson. They call me Super Dave. Now I know what you're thinking...I'm gonna jump off a motorcycle and stuff. But no. Me and my son, Charles Lucas, might be the only straight arrows you have on this team. We're looking just for that final chance to shine."
"Bout damn time some regular brains came in here. Good to meet you boys. Here's the freaks, Tank and the Giant Sandwich." Daly led the Johnson's over to meet Tank and the Giant Sandwich.
Suddenly what was an empty room was filled with players from all over the world. Daly's head was spinning by the end of the day as he met the nucleus of what could be the 2014 World Series champions. From Ecuadorian all-star Cristobal Huaranga, who mashed balls at a 9000 foot pedestal to Roger Murdoch, Jr (fuck, was he the offspring from the couple in the movie Airplane!?), Daly met all walks of life. Don Drain, who sucks up balls in the outfield. Or so he says. Ernie Heist...the name says it all. Better lock my shit up with a guy like that around here. But these guys are my team now. All 25 of them. And it's my job to lead them to gold, glory and women. In what order those things were to occur...well, only fate knew.
