NotGraphs Creative Writing Awards, AL MVP, Pt. 2

José Bautista’s story is truly an amazing one.

But let’s get it straight from the pen of the man himself, complete with, um . . . line breaks?

At his best, he’s Joey Stache, breaker of bats, hearts, and records.

My Mind, a Laser

by Joey Bats

When I am on the streets,
or when I am driving
responsibly with deafening
turn signals
waving to the elderly and
all shaggy pets
from my modest
Mercedes,
people often stop me, even
stop traffic, yank
my ears, rub my stubble,
ask me:
Joey B, how come you don’t
suck no more?

Classes in International
Business, I tell them.
They don’t believe me.

It happened so old
to me they say,
It must be steroids;
Must be Viagra
(behind my back);
Must be a robot,
a cokehead,
a crackpot:
got hold to the wrong stuff
some time back in Baltimore.
(Omar never messed wit’ me
belie’e dat.)

No no,
I say. I just get up
earlier; start my swing earlier;
twist my hair curlier; cut my
Eliconi twirlier (yeah
I make my own at home—I’ll cook
you some).

But some still say José is Spanish
for juice.

Girardi, et al. say we, the Jays,
steal signs. Stealing is
wrong. Check my home/
road splits—check my walk
rate, feel me click esp.
now that my BABIP’s stable.
If I’m stealing signs, playing god, rigging
it all, why
why would I hit more singles?

He’s probably really a pissed off old
wookie, they say.
You don’t hit HR on 22.5% of your FB
swinging an average bat;
he must swing a droid arm he ripped
from its socket.

I say, Look: Malcolm
Gladwell said that Anders
Ericsson said 10,000 hours
or repetitions brings success. By
late 2009, I’d seen just about
10,000 major league pitches, bitches.
I’ve watched 10,000 swings on tape
with a deep-seeded hate for
imperfection. Now look at
my laser beam HRs.

But because it happened so old to me —

But you all heard of Ernest Borgnine, right?