Hype*
2003-03-28, 02:03 PM
Welcome to the Bizzaro Clubhouse
By Jim Caple
ESPN.com
The most overrated element in sports is clubhouse chemistry. Some teams win even though their clubhouses are as bitter, nasty and mean-spirited as the House of Representatives. And some teams lose even though their clubhouses are as nurturing as the Ronald McDonald House.
That's because the only thing that matters is what happens on the field, not what happens in the clubhouse.
Of course, if you're producing a reality show, it helps if the clubhouse chemistry is a little more like The Osbournes and a little less like The Osmonds. Which was the case when Off-Base gathered together baseball's most "intriguing'' personalities and invited the cameras into their clubhouse for a little show we call ...
"The All-Snarls''
(The episode opens inside the All-Snarls clubhouse, where we find catcher Mike Piazza sidling up to Barry Bonds, who is lying in a leather recliner. Bonds' personal p.r. assistant feeds him peeled grapes and fans him with an ostrich feather)
Piazza: Hey, Barry! How's it hanging? Jeff Kent just bet me $5,000 I couldn't get three words out of you.
Bonds: You lose.
(Across the clubhouse, manager Buck Showalter storms out of his office in a rage.)
Showalter: Where's the @#$@@&& clubbie? Anyone see the @*$#@&& clubbie? I distinctly told him I wanted yellow mustard, but what did that incompetent SOB bring me? Dijon! And in the 24-ounce jar when he knows I require the 32-ounce squeezable jug! God! Am I the only one who cares about winning around here?!?!
And you! Griffey! How many times have I told you everyone must wear their cap at all times!
Ken Griffey Jr.: But Skip -- I'm in the shower!
SHOWALTER: I won't tolerate insubordination! You're on the bench tonight!
(The camera focuses on an obviously hungover David Wells sitting in his locker. He looks like Nick Nolte's mugshot, only his hair isn't as carefully combed. His eyes are bloodshot. His mouth gapes open. His skin is clammy. His pulse races. Sweat drips down his forehead. His painful moans echo through the clubhouse.)
Wells: Well, I think I'm about ready to pitch today.
(He leans over and vomits into Roger Clemens' locker. The brooding Clemens doesn't notice. Instead, he just stares maniacally ahead.)
Clemens: Red-Rum! Red-Rum! Red-Rum! RED-RUM! RED-RUM! RED-RUM! RED-RUM!
(On the opposite side of the clubhouse, second baseman Jeff Kent sits by his locker, wearing a neck brace, his arm in a sling, his legs in a cast, his face heavily bandaged and an IV drip hooked up to his wrist. He is mumbling to a reporter through a broken jaw.)
Kent: I don't know why the club won't believe me. I swear, I fractured my arm washing my truck, dislocated my shoulder opening my mail and I broke both legs raking the leaves.
Reporter: But what about the stomach lacerations and third degree burns over 80 percent of your body?
(Kent pauses for a moment.)
Kent: Ironing my clothes?
(Back at his locker, Piazza begins strapping on his shinguards.)
Piazza: We must be getting close to first pitch. Hey, Barry. What time is it?
(Bonds glares at him silently while his personal p.r. assistant manicures his nails.)
Piazza: No, really, Barry. I left my Rolex at home. What time is it?
(Bonds just glares at him.)
Piazza: C'mon, Barry, I need to know. Will you just give me the time of day?
(Bonds just glares at him)
P.R. assistant: I thought I told you to scram.
(Pete Rose meets with Commissioner Bud Selig by the clubhouse door.)
Rose: So, you're saying that all I have to do is sign this paper admitting that I bet on baseball and then you'll let me into Cooperstown?
Selig: That's right Pete. You've been punished enough.
Rose: (Signing the document) And I retain the auction rights to sell this on eBay, right?
(Showalter storms out of the bathroom.)
Showalter: What moron ordered single-ply bathroom tissue when I distinctly ordered coreless double-ply ultra-soft? How can you build a champion with single-ply tissue? And this is just unbelievable -- they installed it with the tissue facing inward! God! I must as well be working for the Devil Rays!
And hey you -- Griffey! Consider yourself fined $5,000 for leaving the toilet seat up! I won't tolerate that!
(By the trainers room, owner George Steinbrenner speaks with a crowd of reporters.)
Steinbrenner: Yes, I know the young man has helped us win quite a few games over the years. But his work ethic suffered last year. My sources tell me Derek overslept last year because he was out so late. He's lucky I didn't fine him and blast him in the tabloids.
Reporter: But wasn't that incident during the offseason? On Christmas Day? After he had been to midnight mass?
Steinbrenner: That's no excuse, young man. Commitment to excellence is a 24/7/365.
(Back at his locker, Wells scribbles in a notepad.)
Wells: Hmmmm. Let me think. I guess 50 percent is about right. Nah. That sounds too high. Better make it 40 percent. No, 36.7 percent. Yeah, that sounds well-researched.
Next, onto the chapter about my teammates. Hey, Rocket. How do you spell "psychotic''?
(Clemens continues to brood at his locker.)
Clemens: Smoke good. Fire bad!!!
(Outfielder Carl Everett walks into the clubhouse, two hours and 18 minutes late.)
Everett: Look, I don't want to hear any crap from anybody about being late. I'm homelearning my kids and what with all the lies in the public school system, it took me all afternoon just to convince them that dinosaurs never existed, that man never walked on the moon and that women shouldn't have the right to vote.
Piazza: Gee, Carl. Are you sure? The fossil records sure seem to indicate the existence of dinosaurs during the Jurassic period of the Mesozoic ERA approximately 200 million years ago.
Everett: You want want to start something, mother *&*$#@@????
(Back at the entry, Selig shakes hands with Rose and prepares to leave.)
Selig: Good luck, Pete. I hope we can put the past few years behind us. We are where we are and it's good to have you back in the game. Just remember, baseball is a social institution, so we all have to be socially responsible. Don't let us down.
Rose: No problem. By the way, my cell phone battery is dead, so if you need to get ahold of me for anything tonight, just have me paged at the Solid Gold Lusty Lady Gentleman's Club. I'll be there until about three in the morning.
(Wells puts down his notebook, staggers toward the field and bumps into a clubhouse boy on his way out. He belches.)
Wells: Be sure to keep the Gatorade jug filled today, Eddie. I'm going to need it.
Eddie: Heinekin or Budweiser, Mr. Wells?
(Clemens continues to brood by his locker.)
Clemens: "Well, hello, Clarice. Would you like some liver and fava beans?''
(Showalter storms out of his office again.)
Showalter: I saw that Griffey! You just put a plastic recyclable in the glass recyclables bin! Don't you have any pride? Maybe a one-week suspension without pay will bring you to your senses!
(As everyone leaves the clubhouse to take the field, outfielder Ruben Rivera lingers to grab Piazza's wallet while Rose shouts a last word of encouragment.)
Rose: Kick their ass boys, I've got five large on you tonight. And hey! I'm meeting Strawberry and Canseco after the game to go to a cockfight. Let me know if any of you want to join us.
(With everyone gone, the clubhouse manager places a call to the local taxi company)
Clubbie: Yeah, I'm going to need 25 cabs after the game ...
By Jim Caple
ESPN.com
The most overrated element in sports is clubhouse chemistry. Some teams win even though their clubhouses are as bitter, nasty and mean-spirited as the House of Representatives. And some teams lose even though their clubhouses are as nurturing as the Ronald McDonald House.
That's because the only thing that matters is what happens on the field, not what happens in the clubhouse.
Of course, if you're producing a reality show, it helps if the clubhouse chemistry is a little more like The Osbournes and a little less like The Osmonds. Which was the case when Off-Base gathered together baseball's most "intriguing'' personalities and invited the cameras into their clubhouse for a little show we call ...
"The All-Snarls''
(The episode opens inside the All-Snarls clubhouse, where we find catcher Mike Piazza sidling up to Barry Bonds, who is lying in a leather recliner. Bonds' personal p.r. assistant feeds him peeled grapes and fans him with an ostrich feather)
Piazza: Hey, Barry! How's it hanging? Jeff Kent just bet me $5,000 I couldn't get three words out of you.
Bonds: You lose.
(Across the clubhouse, manager Buck Showalter storms out of his office in a rage.)
Showalter: Where's the @#$@@&& clubbie? Anyone see the @*$#@&& clubbie? I distinctly told him I wanted yellow mustard, but what did that incompetent SOB bring me? Dijon! And in the 24-ounce jar when he knows I require the 32-ounce squeezable jug! God! Am I the only one who cares about winning around here?!?!
And you! Griffey! How many times have I told you everyone must wear their cap at all times!
Ken Griffey Jr.: But Skip -- I'm in the shower!
SHOWALTER: I won't tolerate insubordination! You're on the bench tonight!
(The camera focuses on an obviously hungover David Wells sitting in his locker. He looks like Nick Nolte's mugshot, only his hair isn't as carefully combed. His eyes are bloodshot. His mouth gapes open. His skin is clammy. His pulse races. Sweat drips down his forehead. His painful moans echo through the clubhouse.)
Wells: Well, I think I'm about ready to pitch today.
(He leans over and vomits into Roger Clemens' locker. The brooding Clemens doesn't notice. Instead, he just stares maniacally ahead.)
Clemens: Red-Rum! Red-Rum! Red-Rum! RED-RUM! RED-RUM! RED-RUM! RED-RUM!
(On the opposite side of the clubhouse, second baseman Jeff Kent sits by his locker, wearing a neck brace, his arm in a sling, his legs in a cast, his face heavily bandaged and an IV drip hooked up to his wrist. He is mumbling to a reporter through a broken jaw.)
Kent: I don't know why the club won't believe me. I swear, I fractured my arm washing my truck, dislocated my shoulder opening my mail and I broke both legs raking the leaves.
Reporter: But what about the stomach lacerations and third degree burns over 80 percent of your body?
(Kent pauses for a moment.)
Kent: Ironing my clothes?
(Back at his locker, Piazza begins strapping on his shinguards.)
Piazza: We must be getting close to first pitch. Hey, Barry. What time is it?
(Bonds glares at him silently while his personal p.r. assistant manicures his nails.)
Piazza: No, really, Barry. I left my Rolex at home. What time is it?
(Bonds just glares at him.)
Piazza: C'mon, Barry, I need to know. Will you just give me the time of day?
(Bonds just glares at him)
P.R. assistant: I thought I told you to scram.
(Pete Rose meets with Commissioner Bud Selig by the clubhouse door.)
Rose: So, you're saying that all I have to do is sign this paper admitting that I bet on baseball and then you'll let me into Cooperstown?
Selig: That's right Pete. You've been punished enough.
Rose: (Signing the document) And I retain the auction rights to sell this on eBay, right?
(Showalter storms out of the bathroom.)
Showalter: What moron ordered single-ply bathroom tissue when I distinctly ordered coreless double-ply ultra-soft? How can you build a champion with single-ply tissue? And this is just unbelievable -- they installed it with the tissue facing inward! God! I must as well be working for the Devil Rays!
And hey you -- Griffey! Consider yourself fined $5,000 for leaving the toilet seat up! I won't tolerate that!
(By the trainers room, owner George Steinbrenner speaks with a crowd of reporters.)
Steinbrenner: Yes, I know the young man has helped us win quite a few games over the years. But his work ethic suffered last year. My sources tell me Derek overslept last year because he was out so late. He's lucky I didn't fine him and blast him in the tabloids.
Reporter: But wasn't that incident during the offseason? On Christmas Day? After he had been to midnight mass?
Steinbrenner: That's no excuse, young man. Commitment to excellence is a 24/7/365.
(Back at his locker, Wells scribbles in a notepad.)
Wells: Hmmmm. Let me think. I guess 50 percent is about right. Nah. That sounds too high. Better make it 40 percent. No, 36.7 percent. Yeah, that sounds well-researched.
Next, onto the chapter about my teammates. Hey, Rocket. How do you spell "psychotic''?
(Clemens continues to brood at his locker.)
Clemens: Smoke good. Fire bad!!!
(Outfielder Carl Everett walks into the clubhouse, two hours and 18 minutes late.)
Everett: Look, I don't want to hear any crap from anybody about being late. I'm homelearning my kids and what with all the lies in the public school system, it took me all afternoon just to convince them that dinosaurs never existed, that man never walked on the moon and that women shouldn't have the right to vote.
Piazza: Gee, Carl. Are you sure? The fossil records sure seem to indicate the existence of dinosaurs during the Jurassic period of the Mesozoic ERA approximately 200 million years ago.
Everett: You want want to start something, mother *&*$#@@????
(Back at the entry, Selig shakes hands with Rose and prepares to leave.)
Selig: Good luck, Pete. I hope we can put the past few years behind us. We are where we are and it's good to have you back in the game. Just remember, baseball is a social institution, so we all have to be socially responsible. Don't let us down.
Rose: No problem. By the way, my cell phone battery is dead, so if you need to get ahold of me for anything tonight, just have me paged at the Solid Gold Lusty Lady Gentleman's Club. I'll be there until about three in the morning.
(Wells puts down his notebook, staggers toward the field and bumps into a clubhouse boy on his way out. He belches.)
Wells: Be sure to keep the Gatorade jug filled today, Eddie. I'm going to need it.
Eddie: Heinekin or Budweiser, Mr. Wells?
(Clemens continues to brood by his locker.)
Clemens: "Well, hello, Clarice. Would you like some liver and fava beans?''
(Showalter storms out of his office again.)
Showalter: I saw that Griffey! You just put a plastic recyclable in the glass recyclables bin! Don't you have any pride? Maybe a one-week suspension without pay will bring you to your senses!
(As everyone leaves the clubhouse to take the field, outfielder Ruben Rivera lingers to grab Piazza's wallet while Rose shouts a last word of encouragment.)
Rose: Kick their ass boys, I've got five large on you tonight. And hey! I'm meeting Strawberry and Canseco after the game to go to a cockfight. Let me know if any of you want to join us.
(With everyone gone, the clubhouse manager places a call to the local taxi company)
Clubbie: Yeah, I'm going to need 25 cabs after the game ...