My hair had gotten too long and I wanted to make it shorter. You see, we have been on the road for…well…ever it seems. Yesterday was only my third home game in the entire month of june. And hair cuts are expensive, so I just hadn’t gotten one in a few months. I usually have Mrs. Disco cut it, but it’s hard to do on the road and we didn’t have the clippers anyway. So today I decided to cut it myself. but I was only half way done when i realize
I have crawled into a hole after revealing to the world the story of me clogging a toilet. As a result, I have “recruited” Mrs. Disco to write this week’s Fan Mail responses so as to not disappoint my fans.
Dude, Mrs. Disco is one hot babe. Does she obey your every beck and call?
Nick D., Cinque Terre, Italy
(ok, Nick isn’t actually from Italy, but he didn’t tell me where he’s from so we’re going to pretend he lives there in order to expand our already growing audience).
First, I’d like to say, why thank you, thank you very much Nicoluccio. I’m guessing you may have wonderful taste if you’re from one of my favorite places in the world, so I’m flattered someone as cultured and foreign as you would call me “one hot babe”. I take it as the utmost complimente. Are you single? Enjoy long walks from fishing village to fishing village? If so, get in touch with me at firstname.lastname@example.org because I’ve got a couple cute single friends. Wink. (Oh, and you can direct all flower and jewelry deliveries to Rosenblatt Stadium, 1202 Bert Murphy Ave, Omaha, NE 68107 Attention: Mrs. Disco).
Waiiit a second. Before you send endless compliments about how smart and funny I am and how lucky Disco is to have landed me think I better tackle the second part of your email. The question part, “Does she obey your every beck and call?”
I’m not sure if you were trying to butter me up right before implying I was a servant of Disco or what, but today’s your lucky day because I’m not going to kick your butt. I won’t even challenge you to a “who can bend into the best yoga pose” contest, either. Today, it was demanded of me, by His Disconess, I not only respond to his Fan Mail questions, but also do it with humor, wit, and as much good looks as he. Whew, tall order, but I’ll do my best.
Merriam-Webster online defines “beck and call” as: “ready to obey one’s command immediately”. And, just so you know, I only come-a-running in response to snapping, animal calls, or “Yo Bratface!”
- Snapping usually means I need to trim raw chicken, season it, place it flatly in a zip-lock bag, and write “Hayes” and the date with a sharpie so he has food to eat at the field.
- Any variety of an animal call usually means he’s out of clean underwear and I better bust my little booty into gear to have clean, non skid-marked underwear, sans-wrinkles ready before he departs for the field that day.
- “Yo Bratface” is more often than not used when Disco is frantically yelling from a bathroom with a clogged toilet and I need to fetch the perfect poop stick. Pronto!
So I guess you can decide whether I obey his every beck and call or not, but the main reason I’m handling Fan Mail Friday today is due to Disco’s extreme embarrassment and shame in sharing his poop-a-boo stories the other day. Hopefully I’ll be able to talk him out of his humiliated state soon… or whenever he snaps for me to jump to his every need.
You have made it clear you are “Disco” because you throw in the 70s. How hard does Mrs Disco throw? One would have to assume she also throws in the 70s. And if you throw 77 or 78 that leaves the possibility she throws harder than you. If so, are you man enough to admit it?
Pieter P., Munich, Germany
Pieter, any chance you are actually Peter Piper, who picked a peck of pickled peppers, with just a weird, fancy spelling?
Wie Gehts Die? Danke Gut! Kann ich bitte pfeffer ausgewählt haben?*
Ha! I’ll bet you didn’t think I’d actually be able to respond to you in your mother language, did you? To save the several hundred thousand fans who read Disco’s blog on a daily basis the trouble of hiring a translator just to enjoy the pure genius of these answers, I’ll spare you and respond in an ancient tribal language. Click. Cclick. Cluck. Click. Cllliick. Cliccckk.
Okay, okay. I swear, I’ll behave and respond to your question, Mr. Pieper. I, Mrs. Disco, throw my fastball overhand 92 on a good day, side arm about 90, and bowling like Disco roughly 82-83. My change up overhand is actually faster than my fastball, topping out at 97. I think it’s because my middle finger is stronger than my index finger, thus thrusting the ball at a greater velocity, lighting up radar guns across the universe. I’m still working on a knuckleball and I hear spitballs are no longer legal in professional baseball, which is fine with me ’cause I’m content just hitting off a tee with our 5-year-old nephew anyway.
And one more thing…obviously Disco is NOT man enough to admit it, otherwise he’d be answering these questions himself.
*Translation: How are you? I’m fine thank you. May I have a pickled pepper, please?
How old is too old to wear your hat backwards? I’ve heard that the general consensus is 27 yrs old. But I’ve also heard that trucker hats with velcro or snaps can be alloted an age much younger than that. Likewise, flex-fits can be worn backwards past 27 but there’s just an overall confusion on the entire matter. Please clarify for the masses before the hysteria consumes us all.
Kansas City, MO
Aaron, Aaron, Aaron. I’m willing to bet you’re 28 and still trying to pull off those dorky trucker hats with white mesh and random logos that sit like five feet up off your head aren’t you? Just kidding. ðŸ™‚ It’s a good thing you asked this question when I was responding because unless Disco was a fashionista (last time I checked I’m pretty sure Disco only had tapered jeans and old man sweaters hanging in his closet before he met me), I doubt he’d be able to give you any kind of sound and up-to-date fashion advice.
How old is too old to wear your hat backwards? I’m pretty sure if you’re not younger than 9 years old, you’re too old to wear it backwards (unless of course you’re a catcher) (or a ridiculously hot guy with a chiseled face and a little bit of scruff) (or my husband in the off-season when he’s allowed to have any facial hair).
Well, my hypothesis failed me. My plan was to show you pictures of the hottest of the hot guys out there who pull off backwards caps like exotic dancers pull off their clothes, but I’ve found my hypothesis to be invalid. It seems all the hotty-hot-hots are so hot they don’t ever go out with a backwards hat, let alone any kind of disguise covering their gorgeous faces. For instance, I scoured the internet and didn’t find any of these gems with a backwards cap of any kind.
So if you’re average looking without amazing hair and impeccable looks like the fellas pictured above (Utley, Hayes, Beckham, Hayes), you can wear a hat at any age. And if for some reason you’re blessed enough with a movie star face, you can wear whatever you want, whenever you want. Got that? Man, I’m getting myself all worked up over here with all these hotties, two of them being my ridiculously good looking husband, I’ve lost my thought process. Where was I?
Ah. fitted hats. Yea, you know, I guess you can wear them as long as they aren’t too tight so they don’t leave a ring around your head. I actually like guys in ball caps, so disregard everything I said above and dress up your head to your hearts desire. (Random side note: A while back before I met Disco, I threw a “Dress Your Head” party… you basically had to do something fun from the neck up. We had everything from pink wigs, to chicken hats, to one guy wearing ah sock. Yea, ‘parently he didn’t get the memo.)
Back to being serious for a second. Anyone can pull off pretty much anything if they’re confident. Confidence rises above all trends of what to and what not to wear. If you’re trying to pull off a rad Hurley trucker hat as long as you carry yourself with confidence (not cockiness, which is easily discoverable) you’re going to look great. Just one cardinal rule, unrelated to hats. Whatever you do, if you’re under the age of 55, please do NOT be seen in public wearing socks with your sandals. Capeche?
I haven’t written as much for a week or so now and I feel the need to explain why.
With the Royals’ Double-A Affiliate, the Northwest Arkansas Naturals, the travel isn’t that bad because you play 116 out of the 140 games within a three hour radius. But when you play outside the radius, it’s way outside. Like Corpus Christi or Midland, TX which are 16 and 13 hours away respectively.
Two weeks ago, the Naturals were at the end of a week long trip to Texas. At the very end of this trip, I got the exciting call up to Triple-A Omaha. On the day the O-Royals embarked on a 17-day road trip (to make room for the CWS in Omaha), Mrs. Disco and I drove up from Arkansas to meet them. So, despite not having a real home, we haven’t even been to our psuedo-home since June 1st and we won’t get to our new one until June 27th. Not that I need to be at home to post a blog, but I’ve had some bad luck with the Internet in hotels and most of our mornings seem to be spent at airports now, so it’s been tough to get stuff out. Don’t lose hope in life in general, though. These are extenuating circumstances and I will continue to do what I can to make your day as often as possible.
Any time you get called up, it’s an exciting time, so I’d like to share the story of my recent promotion to Triple-A with you. Depending on how much a fan you are, you may have a preconceived notion of what a promotion is like for the player. This story is 100% true and hopefully will make you laugh and make you realize, it’s not always as glamorous as it seems.
In Arkansas, Mrs. Disco found a host family for us to live with and the people were amazing. I’m not just saying this because they are probably reading (Hi guys, we miss you, btw!), but honestly, they were perfect hosts for us. They had a gorgeous house, were there enough that we got to know them, but were gone enough that we got to enjoy the house like it was ours. They made us feel comfortable and completely at home. They were generous, thoughtful, and perfect. Oh, yeah, and did I mention they had a pristine pool in the back?
It was a perfect set-up and Mrs. Disco and I thoroughly enjoyed it our entire stay. We loved every minute there and loved every square inch of that house…except for one single incident about a month ago.
Another bonus of the house was the neighbors had three adorable little kids (twins, age four, and a 14-month old). One day we were playing with the kids and 4-year-old Connor told me he had to go potty. Our host parents were not home, so I brought Connor in and asked him if he knew which bathroom he was supposed to go in. He said yes and walked directly to one of the two guest bathrooms downstairs just off the kitchen. I didn’t know how much involvement I would have, so I stayed within ear shot just down the hall. I heard the seat go up and then heard the sound of a tiny stream going into the toilet. I was proud of the little guy and was impressed. I didn’t know how big a deal it was for him, so didn’t want to make it one, but he was doing great. Kids are so easy, I thought.
“Yeah, buddy, I’m here.”
“I need to go poopy.”
“OK, do you need help?”
Unsure what was going to happen, I walked into the bathroom to find a tiny person with his bathing suit down around his ankles looking at me. I put the toilet seat down and he picked up his hands in a motion I knew meant he wanted help getting up on the toilet. I obliged and soon, we were in business again. Ha, kids are so easy.
“Yeah, buddy, I’m right here.”
“Mommy wipes me cause I don’t know how to yet.”
I walked back into the bathroom to find the little guy still sitting on the toilet. I didn’t know what was about to happen, but didn’t want to seem confused. I knew I would need toilet paper at some point, so I wrapped my hand and upper arm in toilet paper, took a deep breath and was ready for action. I looked at him and he looked at me. He didn’t move.
“Yup.” He took a quick look back at his bottom as if to say, “It’s still there, isn’t it?”
If you wake up in the middle of the night and the room is pitch black, your familiarity with the room is key. If it’s your bedroom and you’ve lived there for years, you can get around without even a hint of a light on. If it’s a hotel room and you just checked in late that night, odds are you’re going to walk into a wall.
I sighed and reached behind him. I was 100% in a foreign hotel room and walked smack into a wall. As a complete novice, my hand had no idea where it was going or what it was doing and before I knew it, I realized it was under water. “Poopy” water. I had gone too deep, overshot the target I was unfamiliar with, and dunked my hand in kid-poop-water. It was mostly cold. I made eye contact with Connor. He was smiling. His feet were dangling off the edges of the toilet, his little bathing suit resting on the ground below.
I didn’t know whether to laugh, cry, dry heave, or play poop-a-boo with my little potty buddy sitting there inches from my face. He seemed to be enjoying this thoroughly.
By the time this charade was over, Connor probably had some remnants between his cheeks, but I can guarantee you I had more between my knuckles after dunking my hand on two (and a half) occasions. Connor threw his bathing suit back on and ran outside to go play some more. I threw up in my mouth and ran to the sink to find some bleach for my hand. My right hand, no less! It took close to a week for me stop getting nauseous when I was half-way into brushing my teeth and something would trigger the poop soup memory. With every flashback, I would condemn that one toilet as being the only part of the house I would have a bad taste for when we left. I cursed at it and grew a disliking for the room every time I passed it on the way to the kitchen.
I told you that story to tell you this one:
It was a normal day at our host family’s house; the first one in a long time, for that matter, as we had just gotten back late that night from our road swing in Texas. After a nice breakfast with Mrs. Disco, we were sitting in the kitchen catching up with the real world and the on-line world on our computers. I don’t know if it was the granola or the yogurt or the eggs, but I got the urge to go to the bathroom and had the foresight to know I wasn’t going to have time to get upstairs. So, for the first time since we had moved in two months prior, the same bathroom I had cursed for weeks was my only salvation.
The gravity of my bathroom choice went unnoticed at first because it was out of such necessity. But once I was settled and the situation was under control, I started to ponder the implications of being in the very bathroom I had shunned my entire stay. It was a weird feeling to be in Connor’s shoes this time around. After a while, perhaps my fears had subsided some, but I began to notice all my hatred had perhaps been unfounded as the bathroom really wasn’t that bad. It was decorated with soft colors and an interesting decor that made it surprisingly pleasant. I had hated this room for weeks, but now began to think it was all for naught. The entire house was amazing, why would I think this one room was out to get me. I shouldn’t let one bad experience ruin this room, right?
I stood up with a feeling of
a new sense of appreciation for the bathroom and flushed. I felt in-touch with my fears and emotions and for this I was grateful and proud. As I stood up, I felt taller than when I walked in.
I pushed the lever down and the normal flushing sound was absent. Instead, I heard the sound coming from the toilet that makes your heart sink. The sound is disheartening enough when you are in your own home, but as a guest, it can cause panic. Thankfully this morning our host family was out of town on vacation for a week, so I didn’t have that embarrassment to endure, but regardless, it’s never a good feeling to see the level of water rise around your own waste instead of flushing the slate clean. It had taken weeks, but eventually the bathroom had it’s revenge! I gave it the opportunity and it did not waste any time in getting back at me for all the bad things I had to say about it.
Revenge is a stinky cologne.
My heart began to beat quickly and my mind raced to come up with a solution. Sadly, a quick scan of my memory told me our host family had not outlined where to find a plunger. A second and third attempt to flush did nothing, so I decided there was nothing I could do and I returned to my computer to see if Father Time could work some magic for me.
I collected myself, after all, though the situation was not improving, thankfully it was not getting any worse, so I returned to the kitchen. As I sat at the my computer, the phone rang and our manager broke the great news I would be moving up to Triple-A! Just like that the course of my morning took a 180-degree turn and everything sprung into action as the cheers and happy phone calls and hugs led to packing up and loading of the car to go to Omaha! The clogged toilet of doom could not be further from my giddy mind. Over the course of the next few hours Mrs. Disco and I happily skipped around the house packing our belongings and removing any fingerprints to leave the house looking the way it did the day we moved in. After all, with our host family out of town, we wouldn’t even be able to say goodbye to them, we had to leave the house as nice as we found it. Estimated Time of Departure: 3:00pm.
As the afternoon wore on and we got closer and closer to being ready to make the drive to Omaha, I ran a checklist in my head to make sure we had gotten everything out of the house. Man, it was a big house. ETD: 4:00pm. As I gave mental clearance to the beautiful rooms on the first floor, I got past the kitchen and my eyes settled on the bathroom from hell. It was far from fingerprint-free. It immediately earned it’s way out of my good graces. What a short-lived stay.
Now, I debated not sharing this story at all because social norms would suggest it’s a bit “too much information” and an over-the-top embarrassment. There was a point for close to a week where I had actually convinced myself not to tell the tale.
But I began to think, “why do they sell plungers?” If, in this story, I was the first guy EVER to plug a toilet, plungers would not be mass-produced. There’s a number of Plunger CEO’s somewhere who have very nice houses that have been built by clogged toilets. This eased my inhibitions a bit. And not to get into too much detail, but I will add this disclaimer. I am of the impression this toilet of doom is predisposed to clogs due to a small intake. True, I have based this on one incident, but I can tell you my offering did not seem overly over-bearing.
Despite my reasoning that plungers are mass-produced, I was still apprehensive about posting this. What finally made up my mind in favor posting was when I reminisced about the time in college when I ran into a girl I knew from class as I was checking out of Walmart at 11pm with only a plunger in my hand. Nothing says, “I eat a lot of fiber and bran and have healthy bowels and stay very regular, and as a result, may or may not have my own feces seeping across my bathroom floor as we speak,” like being caught buying a plunger. I felt terrible for myself and wanted to crawl into a hole (though, with my luck, I probably would not have fit), but had to feel even worse for the girl. She had to make small talk with me as we waited in line at the only open register. “Come here often?” Doesn’t really work in that situation. I think she went with, “what do you normally buy here?” to try to change the subject but I brought everything full circle when I started talking about the knock-off Grape Nuts I had just discovered earlier that morning. It was a traumatic experience for me, and my classmate as well. But, if I can survive 5 minutes holding a plunger in line with my classmate, I can survive telling this story. I just hope my audience can fully enjoy my embarrassment this time. So don’t feel bad for me, besides, admit it, you’ve been here before!
Remembering the mess in the bathroom prior to leaving was bittersweet; I was grateful I remembered because I don’t know how to describe what it would have been like to be half-way to Omaha and remember I had left a toilet clogged for our amazing host family who would not find it for another week. “Thanks for letting us stay in your amazing house for two months, guys, we left a little floating token of our appreciation in the toilet just off the kitchen…” On the other hand, I had no desire to go in to the war zone and make amends. ETD: 5:00pm.
I entered the bathroom with much the same approach I had weeks before with Connor: I didn’t really know what I needed to do next, but I knew it wasn’t going to be fun. I had no idea where a plunger was in the house and didn’t want to spend the time or money to go buy one at the store. I tried flushing again; again to no avail. I wanted to rip the toilet out of the wall. It seemed to be smiling at me, thrilled to have gotten it’s payback.
I stood over the toilet weighing my options. No plunger. Flushing was doing nothing, but thankfully didn’t cause the water level to rise so I decide to try flushing a few more times. The water level stayed the same, but none of the problem went away. I had been packing all day and this was not the way I wanted my call-up to go. I was so excited to get to Omaha, but this clog was standing in my way. It had taken a year of success at the Double-A level to get to Omaha, did I really need this one road block?
Twenty-four hours later, I approached the mound in Des Moines, IA as the bases were loaded with no one out and the heart of the Iowa Cubs order coming up. “Tough situation” our manager said and handed me the ball. As the catcher walked back to the plate to receive my warm up tosses, I had a second to reflect on the statement and couldn’t help but think back…I couldn’t help but smile as I thought, “if only these eight thousand people could have seen me just a day ago.”
The pool looked as pristine and perfect as ever as I walked past it to the bushes in the back yard. Within seconds of arriving at the bushes, I found the perfect stick. Moments before, while embarrassingly weighing my options with Mrs. Disco, she suggested the “poop stick” method of breaking up the blockage. It seemed to be the best option available at the time. So I went in the back yard and found a stick about two feet long and about as thick as my pinky in the back yard and walked back into the house. My day had gone from the penthouse to…well you know where this saying goes. For Mrs. Disco, however, the day was looking up. She had to spend several arduous hours (ETD: 6:00pm, btw) packing her pretty little heart
out, but now she was able to reap the reward of watching her husband use a poop stick. She was laughing hysterically in the kitchen as I walked by, scowling.
In the bathroom, I shoved the stick into the toilet and started moving it around (ETD: 6:30) to break up what needed to be broken. I was thrilled to have a tool to aid me this time, but I couldn’t help but be upset at the toilet of doom. Mrs. Disco couldn’t help but be doubled over at the waist slapping her knees. In a sick, karmic kind of way, though, it was a beautiful closure of our stay in the house. As the sweat started to form on my brow, I did my best to effectively execute the PS method, all whilst not picturing what was taking place at the other end of the stick. After what seemed like an hour (ETD: 7:00pm), a beautiful, resounding flush was successful!
I stood, Rocky-esque, with my hands up over my head (I left the stick sitting in the toilet to minimize drippage), victorious. Mrs. Disco caught her breath and rubbed her sore abdominal muscles, which had been convulsing for the length of the procedure.
I washed the poop stick in the now-clean toilet and carried it outside to dispose of it where I found it. As I walked to the bushes to lay the stick to rest, Connor came running up to me from next door, “Mr. Chris, what are you doing with that stick?”
I didn’t know where to start. The same smiley eyes that I had been inches from weeks before had no idea what I was doing with the stick. Connor seemed genuinely confused as to why we had said goodbye just after lunchtime
and yet were still here playing with a
(poop) stick in the back yard past his bedtime. I debated telling him the story, but looked at the clock and saw it was close to 8:00pm. He wouldn’t get it even if I did tell him, I thought.
So instead, we said goodbye and Mrs. Disco and I were finally able to get on our way to Omaha and tackle the next “tough situation”.
Had an “off” day today in which we traveled from Albuquerque to Memphis. Spent most of the day in the airport which was a bit frustrating, but by the end of the night, it turned out to a nice off day.
We arrived in Memphis and Sidney Ponson, who is rehabbing with us, invited everyone on our team out to dinner at a Brazilian Steakhouse in town. It was the best meal I’ve ha
What’s up? I enjoy the blog, but I haven’t read anything for a few days, what’s going on with your stylings and groovings?
Here’s a question: Do you guys ever get tired of playing baseball? It seems that you get to travel and go to a bunch of places, make tons of money, and get to play the best game there is day in and day out. Does that take a toll on the guys in the locker room at all? I know if I had to spend each day with my co-workers without my cubicle walls up, I’d get annoyed almost each day, not to mention having to shower with them, that would be rough.
Stu D., Mission Viejo, CA
To Stu and the rest of my fellow fans: I appreciate the concern around the premonition my baseball career continues to skyrocket, which will inevitably cause my blogging career to crash and burn. I know it sounds impossible and perhaps improbable for both careers to continue to take off, but I plan to defy the odds and do just this. If not, I’ll start advertising and use the revenue to pay someone full-time to blog for me. You’ll never know the difference.
The clubhouse is a very fun place to be. It does potentially become repetitive, but there are a number of things that can be done to change things up and keep them exciting. For example, we often watch classic movies like Yellow Submarine and 20,000 leagues under the sea. It really makes for great bonding and we love it day in and day out.
In some clubhouses we don’t have access to a DVD player, so we are struck watching TV. We always stick with Sponge Bob Square Pants because his episodes are hilarious.
It seems every sponsor has something to do with being under water or under ground. Any reason for this? Why not a sponsor that has something to do with “Disco”?
Alright, fine…the sponsor thing didn’t really work out that well. It did, however add to my “tons” of dollars I make, which you referred to. After cashing my last paycheck for $483.50 (which covered two weeks in which we played a game each of the 14 days), I have gone to the bank and gotten 48,350 pennies and weighed them. Unfortunately they came out to only 267 lbs which means it will take 7 more paychecks for me to say I made a ton of money.
Maybe I should try to figure this sponsor thing out a little better. So, listen to sportsradio620.com on Saturdays from 10 to 11 ET to listen to Jason Benetti interview yours truly!
I’ve been considering changing careers and becoming a professional athlete, and would like your advice on what to pursue. The best options seem to me to be a) NFL kickoff specialist (no field goals, just touchback after touchback), b) long snapper, or c) knuckleballer. Your thoughts?
Grant, Lee’s Summit, MO
I like your options, Grant. Has anyone made any funny jokes based on Grant being from Lee or any kind of play on those names? If so, have them email it to email@example.com because I couldn’t really come up with anything solid.
I’m sad NBA bench towel-waver was not included in your options, but I understand there isn’t an NBA team in Kansas City, so I’m guessing you didn’t mention it because you would like to play close to home. That being said, your options are the Chiefs and the Royals, who share a parking lot, which means the logistics and travel to your office will be identical. So it’s going to be your lifestyle once you’re at the office that’s going to have to make this decision.
First, we’ll explore the Chiefs option. They were 26th out of 32 teams last year in scoring which may make for ‘A’ and ‘B’ being pretty cozy options. After a quick search to see who the Chiefs drafted this year, they spent their first 4 draft picks on defensive players, so we may be looking at a paid vacation for a Kickoff artist or long snapper. However, further inspection shows they drafted “Mr. Irrelevant” Ryan Succop in the 7th round and though I can’t say I’m a fan of his nickname (maybe Mr. I and I can get in touch and we can work on something “Disco-esque” for him), he sounds like a real brown-noser, so you may struggle to ta
ke his spot. I’m giving the edge to long snapper over the kickoff specialist.
So it’s long snapper vs. knuckleballer which leads me to a discussion on the pluses and minuses of pitching for the Royals; something that may lead to me choosing ‘B’ if I don’t choose my words carefully.
Final answer: If you have baby blue eyes, go with ‘C’ and become a soft-throwing, dreamy home day-game specialist. If one or more of your eyes are not blue, go with ‘B’.
What am I thinking? If I instructed one of my fans to become a pitcher throwing in the 70s for the Royals, I’d be kicking myself for all of eternity. Long snapper it is!
Does it make you mad when people say you look like Zack Grinke?
Jeff S., (military in Vegas) originally from Missouri
This Grinke fellow sounds like a total heartthrob. I don’t get to see the tabloids all that often, but I am picturing his countless beach photos with countless abs and a nice spray-tan gracing the racks at the grocery registers. On a side note, is “heartthrob” really one word?
Another side note: Did you mean Greinke? Perhaps you did because we both have boyish good looks, a Hollywood smile, and a fastball we can dial up to 97mph if need be. Except for the fastball. And the Hollywood part. And the good part.
To answer your question, no it doesn’t make me mad. It’s nice to be able to flatter a guy like Zach. He’s may have a SI Cover under his belt, but under my belt, I have sculpted, tanned abs.
What is your favorite movie monologue? Mine is Terrance Mann’s “People will come” from Field of Dreams.
Chris B., Meridian, MS
Maude [from Harold and Maude]: “A lot of people enjoy being dead. But they are not dead, really. They’re just backing away from life. Reach out. Take a chance. Get hurt even. But play as well as you can. Go team, go! Give me an L. Give me an I. Give me a V. Give me an E. L-I-V-E. LIVE! Otherwise, you got nothing to talk about in the locker room.”
A lot of firsts this monday. first flight with a pro team. first travel in AAA hence the first flight. first time i can remember going through securtiy without my trusty backoack. first time ever on a plane with a tucked in dress shirt. wore somthing called “slacks” which are like pants.
Mrs. disco was able to find a ticket to new orleans that happened to be the same flight so we got to travel together. she got bumped from second leg of trip, so i had to carry my glove instead of hiding it in her bag which caused for a lot of “rookie” comments from teammat
I wrote this a week ago and saved it as a draft, but with the fan mail and donut mayhem, I didn’t really have a decent time to post it. I figure I’m due for a non-scheduled post (meaning not a 1 minute Monday, wife Wednesday, or fan mail Friday) and with all the foreigners writing in this Friday, it was fitting to post this. I have another post coming about my promotion to Triple-A and the surrounding “glamor.” Hope you enjoy…
A few days ago Gilbert De La Vara and I were asked to sign autographs on the concourse an hour before our home game started. Every day, two players, typically bullpen pitchers who are unlikely to throw in that night’s game, head to the concourse for 30 minutes to sign for kids and adults alike. We sit in a booth that should say “The Dr. is IN” but instead says nothing.
A lot of guys don’t like going up to sign because it takes away from their typical routine and perhaps they have something better to do with their endless hours in the clubhouse than sign autographs in public. For me, I try to make it enjoyable by saying funny things to kids. And then seeing if they get my humor. Most of the time they don’t but I chalk it up to nerves on their part and keep my chin up. I’ve signed on three occasions so far this year and have enjoyed every one of them. This most recent I enjoyed the most, though.
Typically my fellow signer is a little less vocal and sticks to smiling and signing. I, on the other hand, try to ask kids where they’re from or how old they are or if their dad really thinks those shorts are flattering. I think it breaks the ice for everybody a little bit and makes fans feel comfortable asking the big famous baseball player for an autograph.
As the half hour ticked away, a highlight was having a lady come up to me with a huge smile and ask me to sign a picture of me throwing a pitch. As I started to put the pen to the paper she stopped me, “No, please sign those amazing calves.” She asked, with now an even bigger smile. A blog fan! In the flesh, right before my eyes! She proceeded to tell me she checks the blog every day. So, sorry I didn’t ask for your name, but a big hello to you and thanks for putting a smile on my face. It made my day.
And then, thankfully, I had the distinct privilege of having my day made for the second time by the guy a few feet behind the calf lady.
He was wearing a hat and sunglasses. He approached our station and asked me to sign a picture and a ball for him. I said, “Of course,” and started to make small talk. I asked him if he was a regular at our games, asked where he was from, and who his favorite big league team was. We talked about his son’s little league team and about our game the night before. Then, once we were done chatting and his paraphernalia were signed, he sidled a few feet to his left and stooped his head down a few inches to make eye contact with the eyes below Tucson-native Gilbert De La Vara’s brim.
In a slower, more deliberate manner, and nearly shouting, he asked Gilbert, “And what country are you from?” It was all I could do to hold the laughter in. I mean, it’s a reasonable question, there are plenty of Latin American baseball players, but Gilbert had been right next to us speaking in perfect English the entire time. In fact, Gilbert often gets made fun of when he tries to speak Spanish because it’s so broken. I was so grateful just to be a part of this awesome interaction. I also was excited to soon share with my teammates the conversation they were all missing. It would be a nice case to bring up in Kangaroo Court, too. The fan had asked it in the tone of voice you’d order Mongolian Beef and a Sprite: “What…COUN-try are YOU… from?” And then it got better. In every sense.
“Arizona,” Gilbert replied. Again, in perfect English.
Disco, what do you think about your wit and hilarity becoming a distraction to the blue collar work force of America? I know for me personally, I can’t go 16 seconds at work without thinking, “What would Disco Hayes say about this situation? Let’s see if he’s updated his blog,” and then I proceed to spend the better part of my day browsing through your endless volumes of comedic gold. Isn’t a distraction from productivity the last thing this struggling American economy needs?
Taylor W., Lawrence, KS
I get this question all the time…at least every 16 seconds, so I figure it’s about time I answer it. The President was nice enough to scratch my back last week when he named last Friday “National Donut Day” for us, so it’s only fair I scratch his back in return by setting our lackluster economic performance straight.
Before I do that, I will say it sounds like you have a pretty fun workplace. I mean, you get to walk around and think about Disco all day? Come on, most people would kill for that. Which is why the lack of sales of our WWDD bracelets has been such a shock. Maybe it’s because we ordered 100,000 of them to be manufactured in Thailand and haven’t received any of them. Well, we all know how popular my blog has been to the Thais.
Speaking of global economies and my blog, there have been some interesting trends. My blog has been banned from viewing in India and China. Sad for their inhabitants, but their economies have reaped the benefits in productivity. Since March 1st, the Rupee has been up 7.5% on the USD. In that same time frame, the Chinese yuan has gained something like 0.06%. Granted, 0.06% is not that impressive, but we’d have to assume the Chinese people are spending their time trying to find pirated copies of my blog which is inhibiting productivity.
Other countries have taken a laissez faire approach and rolled the dice. Take Canada, famous for their dice rolling, who has allowed visitors to read my blog. On Friday, June 5th, I posted a blog which mainly referenced donuts but had a side reference to Canadians being half donut, half French or something. The mention is irrelevant now, but what’s important is after my post, during the next trading day, the Canadian Dollar lost 4% to the USD. 4%! In one day. From one comment. The global impact I have is a scary responsibility. With that in mind, I should list every country, so there are no global market lapses this week due to the Disco Effect. Man, there’s almost 200 countries. Nevermind. That’s insane. Europe, Asia, Africa, India, and the Americas. There you go.
I’m only one global force–er man, that’s it, “I’m only one man” is what I meant to say–so please do your part with me. Only you can help bring prosperity to the countries around the globe, so please subscribe to my RSS feed so that you will be informed immediately when I have mined more comedic gold from my fingertips. This way the guessing game will be cut out. As for the uncontrollable laughter and Disco shrine-creation, that will ensue, I don’t know what to tell you.
Hi Disco. I really enjoy your erudite comments. I’m sure you can help me with something that’s always bothered me. Why is it when a baseball player throws underhand he’s referred to as a “submariner”? What does an underhand motion have to do with water? Do you think it might have to do with the fact that “underhanded” carries connotations of cheating? Help me out here, Disco.
Pat D., Leawood, KS
Pat, you’ve set the record for number of questions in one Fan Mail question. And my mind is going around in circles. So you help me out here, Pat. If I gather what you’re getting at, it’s a reasonable question. If I think about how you perhaps suggested a derogatory term for my throwing style and then applied it to call me a cheater, I’m less inclined to help you. I’m in a good mood, so I’ll forgive you the second and third questions and will answer your first.
I think submariner comes from the fact that we throw way below the average arm slot and submarines navigate way below the surface of the water. My only other guess is if you were to grade my velocity on a letter scale it would be well below “C” level.
I’ve lived in England for the last 4-years and was just wondering if you had any feelings on the lovely sport of cricket. Playing with a few Australians in college I became intrigued. Then moving here I became more interested…but in 2005 England won something called the ‘Ashes’ and…now I love it!
Tyler S., Her Majesty’s Country
That is a lovely question, Tyler.
I had to use the word ‘lovely’ in a sentence for the first time in my life to see how it went. Test drive it, in a sense. You know, put my fans’ shoes on for a minute and see what it’s like. It was lovely.
On to your question. To me, cricket makes about as much sense as folding a sports bra. Seriously, guys, try pulling a sports bra out of the dryer and folding it. Girls, try watching cricket. It’s kind of like other things you’ve done or seen before, but it’s just twisted enough that you have no idea what in the world is going on. And it takes way longer than it should.
Last week you discussed in great detail (kudos for it) about the best choice of donuts for a fantasy draft), well me and my friend (should that be my friend and I?) were discussing what’s the best type of snack food we should eat during a game. We both live in the UK so games tend to begin at 12:05 (5 hours ahead of ET) and so we need something that will keep us awake, but something which will also help us get our heads down after the game has finished, so we can relax and sleep peacefully after our teams’ victory. Also what if we aren’t hungry during the first few innings, but innings 6, 7 the hunger strikes, we’d also need something that we could eat if games go to extras. Now my personal favourite is popcorn and Oreos, Jimmy prefers crisps [or as you call them chips] with a beer, or half coated chocolate biscuits [cookies in your language] with a cup of tea. Seeing as you were really helpful with the donut topic, could you please help us find a solution to this dilemma?
Maccie and Jimmy, near Birmingham, England
Man, what is it with the Brits this week? I’m predicting economic woes are on their way across the pond to the Queen’s Majestic Land or whatever Tyler called it.
Additionally, I see you’ve added the ‘u’ in favourite, Maccie and Jimmy. Again, I’m going to try it out like I did with louvely earlier and see how it goes. Huh, not so baud so far. I can feel my confuidence elevating to unseen levels. It does leave a bit of an arrougant aftertaste in my mouth, thowgh.
I assume we are dealing with cricket again, so this may be difficult for me to answer because I’ve never watched a cricket game, nor have I been able to stomach your food. I am dedicated to my fans, so I’ll do my best. From what I’ve heard, cricket matches last days at a time (I’m basing this on my last laundry attempt which began on Tuesday and has resulted in poor Mrs. Disco resorting to ace bandages) so we will have to stick to non-perishables. You say hunger strikes in the 6th and 7th and I believe many matches last well into the hundreds, so we’re going to need lots of food. Donuts tend to go bad in the sun, so I’m going to say stick with Twinkies. Chips and beer always go well, but can only take you so far. Some q
uick googling has led me to suggest “bangers and mash”, but I’m pretty sure that’s a reference to the middle of the lineup hitters or an alt rock band. Man, I’m trying to think of what else you could snack on that won’t go sour or stale in 100 innings.
All I can think of is chew on why I misspelled thowgh earlier. It’ll keep you busy for hours and leave you satisfied.
I know I have taken donut analyses to a level probably unseen before and even more likely to levels undesired by anyone who hasn’t commented at least 3 times on the aforementioned entry. So, if you made the mistake of reading the entire donut entry and now see a headline with donut in it again, I’m giving you the heads up this one is not going to include any more analysis.
It is, on the other hand, a wonderful follow-up story.
For those of you who haven’t read the infamous donut debate, I will sum it up quickly here. I had a group of Harvard grads email me asking what was the ideal assortment of donuts to buy for their fantasy baseball league’s annual draft. As a side note, think of it as a field study, they also asked what would be the perfect assortment for my team’s clubhouse. I went into some lengthy research and in-depth formulas to create the “perfect combination” taking into account variety, health, quantity, and preference of donuts. It took hours and culminated in me running from our clubhouse in Midland, TX after our game had ended (where we were about to board a bus to Frisco, TX) to a nearby hotel so I could get Internet access to post my answer before the clock struck midnight on Friday night (June 5th, which happened to not-so-coincidentally be “National Donut Day”).
After posting my discussion and conclusions, I ran back to the bus and by a matter of minutes avoided being left behind. We arrived safely in Frisco and I pitched the first game of the series on Saturday. Sunday afternoon at the field, as I always do, I asked our pitching coach for the game chart from the night before so I could make a copy and keep it for my records.
It was about 3pm on Sunday, and just before heading out for batting practice I asked our clubby to make a copy of the chart for me and put it in my locker while I was outside. He said it wouldn’t be a problem and I went out for BP. Within 10 minutes of batting practice beginning, I noticed the clubby walking across the field towards me with a sheet of paper in his hand. I rolled my eyes a bit and thought to myself, “what does he expect me to do with this copy of the chart while I’m shagging batting practice in 95-degree heat?” As he got closer, he started to say something to me in a wavering voice. “Um, the home clubby said, well…this is weird, cause we’re the road team and….um.” I perceived it as a nervousness that was brought about from confusion and an uncertainty of what to say. I almost blurted out loud to save the guy the embarrassment, “If you can’t get a copy made, it’s not a big deal, I’ll figure out another way to get it.”
But at the moment I was about to speak, he handed me the sheet of paper. I saw it wasn’t the game chart from the night before. He continued, “We’ve been here 2 years and we’ve never seen a guy on the road get a package delivered, but…” As he stuttered, I looked at the sheet he had handed me and it was a list. As I moved my eyes down the list I saw familiar notations: “Chocolate Frosted – 11, Sugar Raised – 11, Glazed – 11, Boston Kreme – 8,” and so on. My mind and the clubby’s ability to convey what he was finally trying to say converged at came together at the exact same moment.
“You had 10 dozen donuts delivered to your locker,” the clubby said as I saw on the top of the delivery sheet at which I had been staring blankly “John W.”
I laughed so hard, I coughed. I smiled so big my cheeks hurt. I was on cloud nine for the rest of batting practice, so excited to see my assortment before my eyes. I couldn’t believe how thoughtful and downright hilarious it was for John to send the donuts. When we got back into the clubhouse, sure enough, in the EXACT quantities I had specified would be appropriate for the clubhouse, there were 10 boxes of Dunkin Donuts awaiting our team.
I promised I wouldn’t do any analysis on this post, but I will say, in practice my assortment worked perfectly. 9 of the 10 dozen were gone by the end of the game that night. By the time we showed up to the field the next day, the last dozen was grabbed by guys on the way in. There was a good variety all the way down to the end, so it wasn’t like there were eight Sugar Raised left over that finally people had mercy on and ate.
I was so touched by the thought and effort John W. put in I took a number of pictures so I could post in case you are in as much disbelief as I was while shagging BP. Though I’m an insanely picky and healthy eater, as you can see I did indulge in one cinnamon cake donut as promised in honor of John.
Notice in the first picture (you can click on all of them to enlarge, btw) I couldn’t even fit all the boxes on the table. There’s 3 more dozen under the first box. On the right, you can see the donuts starting to disappear.
I posted my donut analyses at almost midnight on Friday night. By Sunday, that’s right, Sunday! (less than 48 hours later), at 2pm, there were 10 dozen donuts at my locker. These Harvard guys don’t mess around.
As the word spread about where the donuts came from, I have had a number of teammates request I begin writing blogs about TV’s and pool tables I think are appropriate for the clubhouse. If anyone wants to jump the gun and get a call on my blog, you can send all gifts to:
c/o Chris Hayes
3000 S. 56th St.
Springdale, AR 72762
Phew thank goodness the donut debacle is over….well, kind of. the harvard guys have taken over my blog and held it ransom until further research is done on the efficacy of the distribution in parctice. or so they claim on my comments (highest output of comments on any blog so far, so that’s a good sign i gues…i’m coming to get you Reed!) I have a hilarious twist in the donut story I can’t get into enough detail in a min, but expect more in the nex