CHAPTER ONE:
Bingo is my Name-O
I may not have the most control, the best stuff, or the coolest head in the draft, but one thing is for certain: I’m the best looking mother f*cker out there. Coaches always give me grief about the frosted tips, countless Nike wristbands, and gold cleats, but like I always say, “If you look good you feel good, if you feel good you play good.”
How do I describe my game? I’m a crazy S.O.B. on the mound. I got only two pitches, a blazing 98 mile-per-hour heater and a dawdling, pedestrian changeup lunging toward the batter from the left side of my body. I have accrued a rather impressive police report as well. In eighth grade some pigs caught my friends and I egging houses. Sophomore year I got busted with a half-O of marijuana in the glove box of my pickup and was sentenced to a week in prison. I’m still on parole from the incident. Mom says I carry the off-field nonsense with me onto the field, but I think I just have anger issues. I lack poise, but what’cha gonna do, shoot me?
My temper has really been causing problems for a long while. It definitely affects me on the mound but most of all colleges have overlooked me because of my off-the-field issues. No school seems prepared to commit four years and $100,000 in scholarship money to a “drug lord.” I have received just two scholarship offers, but their baseball programs are so abysmal the chances of me taking my game to the next level after time spent in their program is slim to none. I want an education, yet I do not want to sacrifice my baseball career for one, so I decided to declare for the 2004 ABCB (American Bi-Coastal Baseball) draft.
On draft day you couldn’t tell the difference between me and Mr. Bush on 9/11. I know, it’s a bad analogy considering the repercussions of the horrific day, but I just did not know how to react after that first phone call. “Bingo? It’s Amanda. Just wanted to wish you luck and remind you not to forget me when you get famous.” I snapped. I should have thanked her and got off the line ASAP, but instead went on a rant “explaining” the importance of the day and notifying her to leave me the f*ck alone. My nerves got to me, and I proceeded to go for a walk to the local Starbucks to quell my lingering attention deficit disorder. I brought my cell.
Most people describe their draft day as an otherworldly experience shared with family and close friends. I shared this day with six strangers in the Starbucks and two confused teenagers behind the counter making my double-chocolate mocha latté. When Chris (I read his name tag) handed me my specialty drink I hugged him. “Really sir it was nothing, just my job.” No one realized the beautiful stud standing in front of them had just become the newest member of the Wichita Witches.
Former Oklahoma City great Scott “Wild Thing” Utterback, now Wichita General Manager, rang my phone. “Hey, is Bingo around?”
I know it sounds corny, but my childish instincts surfaced as I shouted, “Bingo is my name-o” into the phone.
“Uh,” he paused, a little confused. “Welcome to the Witches. We selected you with the second pick of the fifth round (106 overall) this afternoon.”
Before I could thank Mr. Utterback I was in a friendly embrace with complete stranger Chris. “That’s great Sir, I promise to give you my all.”
With that call “it” happened. That call ushered my professional life to the forefront of my attention. I was a professional ballplayer. I was a Witch.