The new baseball team called day before yesterday. They left a message on my answering machine that they wanted to meet with me downtown. Some beer and burger place I didn't know. They told me not to tell anybody. Said they would know for sure if I did. Anybody finds out and all bets are off. "Fine," I thought. "This is how it's going to go. Let's get it over with."
Cut to yesterday afternoon, and I'm looking for some restaurant that's supposed to smell like onion rings and oatmeal stout. Whatever that smells like. When I find it, these guys are waiting for me in a back room. One of those private deals you can reserve if you don't like eating in front of other people. It's packed with fat guys in suits drinking sweet tea. But that doesn't stop them from flicking fake sugar packets. I hate that sound. Three at time. Thwap, thwap, thwap. Then comes a wet mountain of white powder that sits up on their ice cubes before it disappears. Nasty.
"Do you guys even know what's in that pink stuff?" I ask.
They look at me and say, "We're glad you could make it. We've heard so much about you."
I ask them who talked, and they get quiet. They look at each other like they have a secret, and then they change the subject. "Sit down," they say. "Let's talk baseball."
"You might have the wrong guy," I say. "Baseball's not my bag. I'm more of a UFC man myself. Once you see a man's nose split open by another guy's forearm, it's hard to get excited about a double play. If you know what I mean. Sliding into home base is the big thrill, and that gets you what? Dirty pants? No thank you."
A red-headed guy hands me a manila folder, tells me to open it. "These are the final five names for the new baseball team. We've narrowed it down to these," he says. He assumes I've already heard the names. I tell him I have.
"Reactions have been mixed," he says.
"Yeah," I say, "mixed like half of the people hate them and the other half really hate them."
"Something like that," he says.
I open the folder and look at the list. Rock Hoppers. Hambones. Flatheads. Flying Squirrels. Rhinos. I have my work cut out for me. I still don't know what they want from me.
"We've got until the 15th to make it public," the redhead says. "But you can go ahead and decide now."
"Decide? You want me to decide?" They look at each other and nod and then look back at me.
"You're the one who needs to make this work. You should make the call," they say.
"I'm the one that needs to make this work?" For a minute, I'm still lost.
"We already know that you're good," they say.
And then the room goes dark, and I'm looking at a home video projected on the wall. A birthday party. Yeah, I thought the redheaded guy looked familiar. Footage of the cake and the kids, and then I arrive. That killer triple backflip with a twist. One sweet cartwheel and the kids go crazy. Some of my best work. And tricky as hell in a Kung Fu Panda costume. This makes sense now. Crazy sense.
I'm watching myself fight a giant rubber snake on screen, and I don't even look at them when I say, "I hope you guys know how much this is going to cost you. You can see I'm not just good. I'm the best. I've made kids laugh so hard they wet their pants. Babies dig me more than Cheerios. The parents? I've had parents tell me they want to have more children just so they can hire me for their birthday parties.
"You got the public turned against you? I'll get them back. I'll get them all the way back. I'll make them your best friends. Once I'm through, you'll be begging Richmond to stop loving you so hard."
Then I turn around and really let them have it. I say, "Boys, you just got yourself a mascot. I'd love to hang around all day for free onion rings and pats on the back, but I've got work to do."
After all, the Flying Squirrel costume isn't going to make itself.
