Inserting Delmon Young’s Name Into Works of “Literature”

Death, my friends, is a part of life. Specifically, it is the last part. The part where life stops. Yea (and Yay!), with the Tampa Bay Rays eliminated last night, Delmon Young’s 2013 is dead. Delmon finishes his 2013 with a .260/.307/.407 batting line that’s suspiciously similar to his career .282/.316/.423 mark. He struck 11 baseballs so hard that they traveled beyond the outer barrier designed to illustrate the differences between the ballplayers and the rabble, and to keep said rabble in their place. He was also, for the third year in a row and the sixth year (out of seven) in his career, at or below replacement level.

In the postseason, he was a hero in the Wild Card game, hitting a home run off of Danny Salazar to give the Rays a lead they would never relinquish, and he knocked in two runs in the Division Series. All in all, Delmon may have done enough during his 70 plate appearances with the Rays to get a guaranteed contract next year, though woe is to the team that gives it to him.

And so, in celebration of not having to watch him anymore, it is thus that the royal We insert Delmon Young’s name into a shitty representation of the Western Canon, thus diminishing these works even further into the flammable morass of Lake Erie that is reality-TV-based popular culture.

Today, Delmon Young is sea-faring explorer Dirk Pitt, catting about the Antarctic, investigating the mysterious deaths of a bunch of sea mammals, and about to be drawn into an international mystery,  in Clive Cussler’s thrilling ocean adventure Shock Wave:

Giordino looked up from the puzzle again and stared into the falling snow. “Delmon should have been back by now.”

“How long has he been gone?” asked Van Fleet.

“About forty-five minutes.”

Giordino screwed up his eyes as a pair of vague shapes took form in the distance. “I think he’s coming in now.” Then he added, “There must have been funny dust in that cheese sandwich I just ate. I’d swear he’s got someone with him.

“Not a chance. There isn’t another soul within thirty kilometers.”

“Come see for yourself.”

By the time Van Fleet had capped his specimen jar and placed it in a wooden crate, Delmon had thrown open the entry hatch and helped Maeve Fletcher climb inside.

She pushed back the hood on her orange jacket, fluffed out her long golden hair and smiled brightly. “Greetings, gentlemen. You don’t know how happy I am to see you.”

Van Fleet looked as if he had seen the Resurrection. His face registered total incomprehension.
Giordino, on the other hand, simply sighed in resignation. “Who else,” he asked no one in particular, “but Delmon Young could tramp off into a blizzard on an uninhabited backwater island in the Antarctic and discover a beautiful girl?”

Later, Delmon would give that comely lady a replacement-level rogering she would quickly forget, because it was not exactly memorable.