Mark Jazzington - a managerial career

[Jazzmosis]

Here we are, the next chapter of Mark Jazzington. It covers only a week, but so much happened that I couldn't cover any more. I promise, that I'll start speeding the season along after this - cover at least to the trade deadline.

[Jazzmosis]

Chapter 7: Team Explosion

The draft was fairly quiet - I was told afterwards that the first few picks were pitchers. One guy seemed close to being ready, he even had a chance for a September call-up if the bullpen struggles continued. It was no secret that the bullpen was blowing leads - in fact, their collective ERA was above 5. Only 3 guys, including Christopher Look, had an ERA under 5.20.

It seemed that Look was the only kudos I was getting as a manager - he led all relievers in ERA with more than 20 innings pitched, at 0.41. He’d only walked 1 person all year, and his WHIP was a phenomenal 0.70. The others couldn’t throw a strike.

The Floridian fans were bubbling with excitement as game time rolled closer. Clifford Isoruko was going to make his first start as a Marlin, and a lot was expected of him. Run support was a question, as the offense had slid dramatically, resting near the bottom of the league with a .255 batting average.

However, that night, Dewberry started things off with a two-run bomb in the 3rd, putting us on the board. Isoruko was mowing the opposition down, giving up one run and striking out 5 by the end of the fourth.

We piled more runs in the fifth inning, jumping to a 9-1 lead. I sent Isoruko out for the beginning of the seventh - and the opposition finally started hitting him. He gave up two runs, until I finally pulled him when there was runners on second and third, with nobody out. I brought in Harold Bennett, who had been hot as of late. He walked the first batter he faced, and promptly gave up a two-run double to cut our lead to 9-5, ending Isoruko’s line.

The tension in the clubhouse was building from our bench, who, like myself, was afraid the bullpen would blow it again. After Herring walked another batter, I signalled to the pen, and brought out recent tater tosser, Clayton Herring. It was a tight spot - bases loaded, and a 4-run lead. Herring talked to Guerra and started to throw. He gave up a cheap single, and a run scored. The next batter rapped a line drive up the middle, scoring another. Our lead was dwindling fast, so I called the bullpen to warm up The Vet and called for time. Turman jogged to the mound for a conversation, and when he came back, he told me he was worried.

“Worried of what?” I asked, watching Herring dig into the mound.

“Herring and Guerra are mixing up the signs.”

“It happens. Just as long as we get out of this jam with the lead, I don’t care.” I responded, sitting back in the dugout.

“I don’t know. . . Herring’s not throwing well right now.” Turman warned, and then walked across the dugout floor.

Herring worked the count to 0-2. Then 1-2. A bunch of balls and foul-offs later, the count was full. Sweat glistening off his brow, I watched him take his wind-up. The batter swung, lacing a hot grounder just out of reach of third baseman Kendrick Rizzo. Two runs scored, and nearly a third. The crowd booed loudly - and who could blame them? We’d just blown an 8 run lead. I walked up to the mound, signalling for The Vet.

“Don’t worry about it, Herring. Just a few mistakes.” I said, trying to be encouraging.

Guerra piped up as Herring walked off the field. “Total ****, skip. Good call on bringing him in.”

I just stared at Guerra. He was partially right, but it just sounded so wrong coming from him.

The Vet somehow got us out of the jam, the game tied at 9. When the team hustled to the dugout, there were fingers being pointed and a barrage of swearing from nearly everyone. However, something much worse had been brewing, and it was about to boil over.

“****, that was awful.” Guerra cursed, looking at Herring the whole time.

“Shut up, man. My stuff wasn’t on.” He snapped back, annoyed.

“If you could just ****ing learn the signals and throw the goddamn right pitch, we’d still have the lead.”

“**** you, Guerra. You’re a little *****. No one likes you on this team.” Herring yelled, standing up and approaching Guerra face to face.

The team went silent - no one moved. All eyes were on what was going to happen next.

“Half these losses are because you can’t throw a ****ing ball straight, Harry.” Guerra spat, puffing his chest out and bumping Herring backwards. Herring immediately lurched forward, his fists striking Guerra so quickly that no team member could move before Clayton landed five on the catcher’s face.

Guerra stumbled backwards, before tackling Herring like a linebacker. The rest of the team jumped into action as the two rolled around the dugout floor, fists flying. The noise was deafening and the bodies were everywhere. I wanted to break it up, but I was too far from the centre, and there was no way I could start moving baseball players out of the way. Before I knew it, other players were throwing fists at each other - they’d taken sides. The combination of losing so many games and building tension had exploded, and players had simply dog piled and punched whatever, or whoever they could see.

As I observed the chaos, one player approached me. It was Jerrold Dewberry, who had never made it to the dugout before all the fighting started. “Skip, you gotta stop this.”

“How?” I asked.

Dewberry nodded, agreeing silently that there was nothing either of us could do.

The fight raged for about a minute, before the security guards managed to start prying our own players off each other. The umpire approached me and told me that if we didn’t get out there immediately, we’d forfeit the game. I told Dewberry, who bellowed it out to the rest of the team.

Slowly, the team skulked off and the game resumed. Herring had two black eyes, numerous bruises on his cheeks, and he’d cut the skin on his knuckles, but he was still conscious. On the other hand, Guerra had lost a few teeth, had a nice big black eye, and cuts across his face. And he was on deck.

Other players had bruises, but nothing serious. I hadn’t realized it until then, but there was a lot of bad blood between some of these guys.

The game went to extra innings, but finished on a high note when Dewberry, the only guy in the dugout smart enough to not get involved, smashed his second home run of the night, a 2-run shot that gave us an 11-9 win.

We also didn’t make an error, stopping that pathetic streak at 10 games.

Turman and Geraldo Johnson suggested a team meeting to me - and I agreed. I wasn’t going to watch that happen again, and I made it very clear as we all sat in the clubhouse afterwards.

“I don’t know what the hell happened tonight, guys, but that was total bull****.”

The team mumbled in response.

“You embarrassed yourselves as players, individuals, and a team tonight. And the cameras caught it all.” I said, making a conscious effort not to stutter as I spoke.

“Skip.” Guerra rose his hand. It was the first time he’d actually asked my permission for something.

“In a moment, LG. I’ll let you guys talk later.” I retorted, and continued. “It doesn’t matter who blew the lead, regardless of how many runs it was - we don’t start throwing punches every time something bad happens. All of us, and I mean all of us, have had bad stretches at some point in our professional careers. And I don’t care if we’re down by fifteen runs in the second inning, we do NOT act like that again - are we clear?”

The team nodded and mumbled in response.

“Good. Now let’s put this behind us and play some good ball tomorrow.”

I never bothered getting to Guerra’s comment.


The media hounded every player for days, and questions and speculations were all over the papers. Everyone knew about this - and the Executive of Baseball Practice and Discipline (EBPD) handed out fines to Guerra and Herring for misconduct on the field. The fines were pretty hefty, too.

Canon analysed the tape of the fight, lecturing me about what I should have done. It was all too easy for him to say, but I’d like to see him pull 20 grown men off each other.


The clubhouse was silent for the next few days, but we were playing better baseball. I got tossed on the third, fifth, and sixth, to raise my total to 11 ejections. I was only three shy of the record, with about 100 games remaining.


Some good news rolled in on the fifth, as Jonas Sarabia was activated from the disabled list and placed back on the active roster - however, it resulted in the release of The Vet, who refused an assignment to AAA. No big loss, since he was mediocre at best.


However, the best game of the year was easily June 7th. Timothy Cortinas, one of the more reliable starters, had the start - and he made it the best of his professional career. After five innings, he had a perfect game going, and it was a 0-0 deadlock. He got an out in the 6th before walking a man, but a double play erased that. In the 7th, a two out triple ended his no-hit bid. He got out of that with a groundball, and the game remained at a 0-0 tie. The game went to the ninth, tied at nothing and Cortinas still on the mound. Then, the game went to the 10th. I sent Cortinas back out there. He gave up a hit, but got out of the inning.

Howard Hanover broke the silence in the top of the 11th with a leadoff double, and scored on Dewberry’s single to give us a 1-0 lead.

I sent Cortinas back out there, 101 pitches thrown, and he gave up a lead-off single. I immediately pulled him for the only guy in the bullpen I could trust - Look. He gave up a single, to put runners on first and second with nobody out. A bunt put runners on second and third - but with a drawn in infield, Look got a groundout, leaving the runners where they were. And he ended the game in a grand fashion, with a strikeout. The team rejoiced, swarming Look, all smiles for the first time since the brutal fight. Look lowered his ERA to 0.38, and picked up his 12th save.


Things were stumbling along, but the team was beginning to put aside their differences and play together - and I had learned to be more hard-nosed when it came to lecturing them. They all gave me a little more respect, and for once, the media praised my decisions.

We were still in third, however.


Personally, Lacey and I were starting to get close. I was making an effort to be with her more, and I noticed she was becoming a tad more clingy - which was fine, considering she was the only woman my age I’d talked to since arriving in Florida 4 months ago. I vowed to change that in the offseason.


It was hard to stay optimistic, since the bullpen was so bad - they’d lost more games than the starters. However, Dewberry’s continued pranks on me kept me on my toes, and gave me the laughs I wasn’t allowed to have during the game. He’d pulled so many that I had to get him back.


That night, I called Lacey and Look to my apartment to plan the biggest prank on Dewberry. It was genius, and foolproof. And the look on his face made it the thing I remember about that year the most pleasant. It involved a rubber hose, a keg, whipped cream, and Look’s wife. She agreed, although cursing us when Looky told her she was going to the Olive Garden and we ended up at the clubhouse 3 hours before game-time. Dewberry was always early on home games - I guessed it was to escape his wife’s constant nagging.

We started by hiding his uniform. When he came to his locker, he saw me there, when I broke the news that it was accidentally colour-dyed in the wash in the morning. He bought the excuse, making a joke about it. I ran a drill with him, making sure that he worked up a sweat while Look put his uniform back in the locker.

“Okay Jazzy - I need to shower up before the game.” He said to me, walking back towards the clubhouse.

“Sure thing, Dewwy.” I responded, holding back a snicker.

He walked into the locker room and undressed. I had stayed behind, not wanting to blow the prank.

When Dewberry walked into the shower stalls, there was Look’s wife, in a bikini. I don’t know the specifics of what she said, but apparently it got Dewberry confused long enough for Look to walk in on the “altercation”.

While acting angry at a defensive Dewberry, I ran into the locker room, garden hose feeding out the door, attached to the keg’s tap. Lacey then opened the tap, and the beer flowed through the hose, spraying Jerrold from head to toe. He was covered in booze, but Look than pulled out the whipped cream from behind his back, and sprayed it on Dewberry’s head to complete the prank.

Dewberry didn’t quite understand it, and to be honest, neither did any of us, but we all laughed ourselves hoarse.

That game, Dewberry smelt of booze - apparently the smell wouldn’t come off in the shower. I waited for Jerrold to get me back for that one - but he never did. In fact, after the game, he showed up at my apartment, complete with Look, his wife, Lacey, and a keg of beer - and we all got hammered.

I don’t remember anything after that until the next night’s game.

[cknox0723]

But...but...I wonder what the hell Guerra was going to say.

I smell a Malamudian twist coming on.

[Jazzmosis]

Sorry about the long delay, but I've been very busy with essays and University work. So busy that I've only managed to play a week past the last installment. I have to finish off an essay for Wednesday, but after that I should be free for the next few days and I'll play up to the trade deadline to see what happens.

Things aren't looking too bright for Mark Jazzington, though. Not right now, the team is on a brutal losing streak. Hopefully that'll turn around soon.

Stay tuned - it may be a week late but I'll have a new installment of Mark Jazzington out soon.

[Jazzmosis]

At long last, here is the next chapter of Mark Jazzington. I tried to play up to the trading deadline, but the All Star Game seemed like a better place to stop.

However, I did manage to get ahead in the season, and this week should provide time to write and (hopefully) get ahead of my writing.

For those wondering, I write on par with my season, scribbling down anything interesting that happens during the game on a notepad. It's the easiest way, but I do neglect a lot of the other league's happenings. At the end of the year, I may post a picture of the final standings and the final stats of the Marlins.

Anyways, enjoy this chapter, and tell me what you think..

[Jazzmosis]

Chapter 8: In the Middle of it All

The next game was a blur. People streaked as they walked by me, I didn’t know what pitches were being thrown, and I had to go to the bathroom every inning. Dewberry seemed fine, the bastard. I cursed him for holding his alcohol so well, and not having a hangover.

However, over the month, a trend started to arise. We were stumbling through the year, and closing in on mid season. Jonas Sarabia, the lefty starter who could actually do his job, started pitching very well. On the 10th, he pitched 7 innings and gave up 2 runs. We won that game in the 13th inning when Howard Hanover, the suddenly not-so-light hitter tripled to leave off and scored on a wild pitch.

Two days later, I was told that Hanover signed a two year extension for 3 million dollars a year. I couldn’t complain. I’d experimented with where to put him, and he’d blossomed in the leadoff spot, raising his average 30 points in two weeks.

I crept ever so much closer to the infamous record I was bound to inherit on June 13, when I was ejected for a 12th time. The bullpen continued it’s woes, blowing that game. We also continued our quest for the worst team fielding in the majors, by once again committing three errors in one inning. We were tied for second last in fielding percentage at .976.

Erwin Canon also had some words for me the next morning.


“Mark -” He now called me by my first name. “I want to talk to you about your managing.”

As per the usual, he didn’t look up from his computer monitor.

“What about it?”

“I don’t think you remember our chat at the beginning of the year.” He coughed, and tapped his clawlike fingers on the desk. “I want this team in the playoffs, or you’re gone. And right now, my team that I work so hard for is in third, and six games below even.”
Your team that you work so hard for?, I thought to myself, considering hurling his placard at him. “Okay.”

“I’m not finished.” He blurted, and rambled some more. “I don’t care how much you’re liked in the clubhouse, or if the fangirls think you’re cute. I want you to do what I paid you to do. There’s talent on this team, and you can not put it together. That’s why you lose. That’s why the fans aren’t showing up as much.”

“Excuse me.” I interrupted, not caring if he’d stop talking. “There’s talent on this team yes, but not enough.”

Startled that I talked back, he looked up at me. It was now that I discovered he had a lazy eye. “No. You just can’t manage them. I should fire you right now.”

I stepped back, annoyed and somewhat hurt. “Listen to me. If you want this team to win, tell the GM What’s-his-name to trade for some relief. That’s what the problem is here. You know who in that pen I can count on? Two guys. Sometimes three. I don’t know why you think these guys are god given bullpen aces, but when the pitcher I send into the most games has a plus 7 ERA, don’t you think that something should be done? I can’t just march 3 guys out every game and hope for the best - that’ll blow their arms. If you want this team to succeed, make some damn trades - sign some jerk, I don’t care - just give me a better bullpen to work with!”

Canon stared at me, speechless. Silent. I had finally done it. My bubbling frustrations about the team and where the games were going had boiled over, and now he knew. After a long silence, he ordered me out of his office. Which I gladly agreed to do.

For a week, I didn’t talk with Canon, or hear anything about him. I was annoyed at first, then depressed. I was just waiting for the press conference telling me that I’d lost my job. Even Dewberry couldn’t cheer me up. I hadn’t told him what was wrong, though. He assumed it was something with Lacey - but she was great. I had distanced myself from her the past week, not wanting to bring her down. The road trip we were on helped. I didn’t go out, I didn’t leave my room unless there was a game or a meeting. My managing was uncharacteristic - in fact, I let Turman make a lot of the pitching changes. The team tailspinned, and before we knew it we were ten games under.

I got the wake up call I needed on the 19th. We had just returned from the road trip, and Lacey had left 40 messages on my answering machine at my apartment. And about 20 emails asking why I hadn’t talked to her on the road. Dewberry had gone so cold at the plate, and hadn’t hit a home run since the first of the month. Look finally proved he was human, blowing two saves and having his ERA jump a run.

However, it was an unlikely hero that knocked me out of my funk - in an unusual way, as well. Rightfielder Anthony Buehler, who had been struggling and had been platooning with an upcoming rookie, provided the spark. The batter before, veteran David Yoshii, mashed a two-run homer, and Buehler followed that by getting plunked. Without wasting any time, he rushed the mound and tackled the pitcher, and within a few seconds the benches cleared.

Luis Guerra was the first into the fracas, ripping the opposing team off Buehler. After all the dust settled, and the ejections had been placed on the starting pitcher and Buehler, I asked him what he was thinking.

“Fighting, Skip.” Anthony puffed. “Gotta fight for everything these days.”

I know he meant it in a different way then I took it, but I realized that this team had been terrible without my management. Turman didn’t know what to do with pitchers, he was just a guy that could make suggestions. I returned to form, making decisions for the first time in a while. We won that game.

I even called Lacey and apologized for ignoring her.


The next day, Dewberry informed me that there was another trade. I don’t know how he heard it before me, but he did dump a cooler of water on me when I entered the clubhouse that morning.

Apparently Fistell had traded Andrew Allredge, a AAA nobody, Myron Snider, my backup infielder, and 10.17 ERA Clayton “I signed a multi-year extension” Herring to baseball's best, the Chigaco Whitesox. Herring hadn’t been able to do anything in the last. . . year, so I thanked Fistell silently for trading him. Who did I get in return? 37 year old Lawrence Maurice, a lefty specialist better than Herring. And some cash was thrown into Canon’s pocket. I guess he did take some of my angry rant in.

I was going to test him out that night, but Jonas Sarabia threw a 3 hit shutout, striking out 8 in a 1-0 win over playoff contender St. Louis. Our offensive woe continued, as we only managed 2 hits of our own. 4 walks helped, however.

Another week passed, until Dewberry finally broke out of his slump and hit a bomb on the 28th. Too bad Shannon Mathew, one of my more reliable relievers, gave up a 9th inning home run and we lost 5-4.

I had made a conscious effort to learn more about the team. I started with Howard Hanover, who had been tearing it up in the leadoff spot.

“How do you think we’ll do this year, HH?” I asked on the morning of the 29th.

“Depends - we’re not playing well right now, but, you can’t give up. If you give up, then you know it’s over.” He replied. Hanover was an interesting character - he spoke fast, sported a great glove at shortstop, ran well, and hit the occasional blast. He was a short ballplayer - just 5'10. Sometimes I had trouble understanding him. He also spoke Portuguese fluently. Strange, for a 28 year old African-American.

That quote was best exemplified that night. We were losing 5-2 in the 5th to Colorado. Robert Applin, an under-the-radar type centerfielder, tied it with a 3 run home run. We added three runs in the 6th, but lost that lead in the top of the 8th. The fans booed loudly, as the bullpen losing leads was something all to common for the club. However, a 8th inning Dewberry home run tied the game at 9, and I sent Shannon Mathew out for the top of the 9th. It was a similiar situation, but this time he pitched through it without letting in a run. The crowd applauded his quick rebound, and he thanked me for giving him the chance.

Hanover led off the bottom of the ninth with a double, and Kendrick Rizzo followed with a walk. David Yoshii, a man not known for his clutch hitting, dug in with nobody out and Dewberry on deck.

Dewberry never got to bat, as Yoshii launched the first pitch into the stands for a thrilling 12-9 walkoff home run victory. The team swamped him at the plate, and the crowd screamed and partied in the stands.

We lost the next game, which took us to the mid point in the season. I got other interesting news, as two players got the call to the All-Star Game. Guess who one was?

Luis Guerra.

In an effort to make up our rocky relationship, I personally congratulated him. He thanked me, but nothing more came of the conversation.

The other was a no-brainer. Clifford Isoruko, who also got the start.

The AL hammered him and the NL, leading them to a 8-3 victory. Guerra had one of the four NL hits. I was going to take Lacey to watch the game in Houston, but she had gone on vacation with her parents. Cancun, or something. That week without her was brutal. 3 days off, no Lacey, no Dewberry, nothing but the internet and watching movies.

Come to think of it, it wasn’t that bad.


Through half the year, there were some obvious leaders on the team. Timothy Cortinas lead the team in innings with 117, wins with 7, and strikeouts with 81. Isoruko would have led all of those, but he hadn’t qualified yet as a Marlin.

Look obviously led the team in saves with 13, and the relievers with a 2.23 ERA. And remember Jonas Sarabia? His ERA was second in the NL at 2.96.

Harold Bennett sported a team leading 40 games, but also a team failure 7.03 ERA. Just shows you how bad the bullpen was.

Offensively, Howard Hanover had a big lead in average, hitting .295. Dewberry led everything else with 21 home runs and 57 RBIs. And he didn’t go to the All Star Game. Figures. George Aiken led the stolen base attack, one thing this team was good at, with 28. However, his batting average was .214 and put him in the 8-hole.

The Marlins also sat in 3rd in the NL East, half way through the season, 11 games back from the “only East team above .500" Atlanta Braves. Our win loss record? 36-45.

That would change in the second half. I wanted this team at .500, and be damned if it wouldn’t happen.

Be damned, indeed.

[cknox0723]

Glad to see this return...and the team's picking up, it seems, thanks in part to Buehler. Nice cliffhanger...

[jjguards]

dude that is awesome
yet you never told me about this lol

[Tib]

Nice job. Keep it up. I want to read Canon's reaction when you break the ejection record.

[Jazzmosis]

Hello again, the next chapter will be coming soon (I'm writing it right now).

I spent a 9 hour binge of playing a few days ago, so I got a healthy chunk of the season done.

However, what I'm contemplating is whether or not I should put up screenshots of the final stats (or the "Roster Report") and the standings page at the end of the season.

Tell me what you think, if you would like to see it or not.

Stay tuned...

[cibl commish]

Always love to see screen shots, but the writing and the story here are absolutely awesome!

[Jazzmosis]

Here we are, after a day delay - Chapter 9 of Mark Jazzington.

This is split into two parts because there was simply so much information and story that I wrote. In these two parts I divuldge a little more into some of the unknown players on the Marlins and deal with the trading deadline.

Also, my conquest for the record as a manager for ejections. And in this chapter, there's a tribute to a certain person. Enjoy!

[Jazzmosis]

Chapter 9: A swirl of Changes, Part 1

The team trudged back to the stadium on July 5th. Some players were relieved to be back to playing, others relieved to be away from their wives. A few players were hung over from four days of solid drinking and partying. Dewberry had spent his time off with his family, and later in the month I found out that his wife was pregnant - again.

It must have been some sort of tradition, because his kids were born nine months after this date.

We started the second half of the season against San Francisco, who had a record slightly better than ourselves. Not wasting any time, I inched closer to the ejection record with my 13th ejection in the sixth inning.

On the 7th, Sarabia threw his name into the Cy Young contention box, with his second shutout of the season, another 1-0 victory. He lowered his ERA to 3.06, 3rd best in the NL.

We travelled into Houston, in the middle of our road trip. Our 85th game, and the starter was Antonio Vargas. Whenever there was an important or meaningful game, there he was - our most inconsistent starter. Rumours were beginning to swirl in the papers and on the TV about his trade - apparently Kansas City and the New York Yankees had interest in him. Fistell was constantly on the phone, so I couldn’t get any information from him, and Canon had stopped talking to me since my explosion a while ago.

The game started smoothly, the Marlins taking a small 2 run lead. In the 7th, a name got etched into history. Kendrick Rizzo, trying to catch up to George Aiken’s stolen base lead, was thrown out at second trying to steal his 23rd base. He immediately disputed the call, and I had to hustle out to calm him down. I thought the call was terrible as well, but I had a record looming over my head I was trying to avoid. After Turman blocked Rizzo from 2nd base umpire Roy Western, history wrote a new chapter.

“You sure that was a good call there, Blue?” I asked, trying to come off as casual instead of argumentative.

“The tag was placed before he got his hand on the bag.” The umpire responded, hoping that would be the end of it.

I glanced at Rizzo, who was walking away cursing, Turman at his side.

“I don’t know. He seemed safe.”

“He wasn’t.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“Personally, I think you missed the call.”

The home plate umpire came over. “There a problem here?”

Roy Western explained his call quickly.

“I don’t think it was a good call. Rizzo’s hand clearly beat the tag.” I argued.

“You sure?” The plate ump asked.

I was trying to hold back my growing frustration. “Yes, I’m sure. See, the tag caught his shoulder, and his hand was on the base.”

“No, the tag got his wrist.”

“What??” I stepped back. “You’re joking.”

“The call is staying, so if you don’t mind, we’d like to continue the game.” Winters responded, and turned his back to me.

“F***ing joke.” I muttered as I began to walk away.

Winters must have heard me because he immediately called my name and gave me the toss.

“What!?!” I whirled around as the crowd roared. “You’re joking!”

Winters didn’t acknowledge me. I came after him, stepping around him so I could face him.

“What? What for! What did I do?” I screamed, as Turman suddenly abandoned Rizzo to pull me off Winters.

“Please, Skip, leave the field.” Was all Winters repeated, over and over.

“This is the worst decision ever! You need to go back to umpiring school and learn when to recognize a tag!” I wanted to take a swing, but Turman grabbed me and pulled me away. I struggled, but Turman was stronger then I was, and eventually 'convinced' me to just walk away.

I had tied the ejection record.


A few days later, with no word from Canon about my infamous ejection record, Fistell gave me word about backup CF and pinch runner Billy Bassett. He’d signed a 3 year extension, which totally 3.4 million over that span. Not bad, since he’d stolen 22 bases in 23 attempts in only 100 plate appearances.

We had been playing .500 ball in the month, which was our best so far. However, we’d only played 6 games.

I’d been fooling around with the lineups, and most of it was working, except I had nobody to play in the 2-slot. Aiken was comfortable batting 8th, and had picked his average up slightly to .223. What resulted was Kendrick Rizzo batting second, complete with his .250 average, 3 home runs, and 26 RBIs. He was still an error machine, and Fistell had openly stated to the media that he wanted to trade him.

I could understand his struggles, since he told me there was a lot of pressure on him to perform for 29 other teams. I did my best to motivate him, and on the 14th he pulled off a suicide squeeze. Too bad it was only the 3rd inning.

July 16th rolled in, with the club still playing .500 ball. Clifford Isoruko had been struggling mightily since joining the club, posting a 4-4 record and a plus 5 ERA as a Marlin.

He showed me why Fistell gave up so much for him that night. It was a rout by the 5th inning, as we led 8-0. However, Isoruko was cruisng, with no hits.

Six inning passed. 9-0, no hits from San Diego.

Seven innings passed. 9-0, no hits from San Diego.

Eight innings passed. 11-0, no hits from San Diego. Guerra also had 3 home runs.

The bottom of the ninth came, Isoruko with 2 walks, 8 strikeouts, and 105 pitches. First batter: Ground out to Rizzo at third. Second batter: Ground out to Dewberry at first. The team on the bench stood on the fence, watching silently. I watched, wondering if Isoruko would pull off the greatest feat in his young career.

He walked the next batter. The crowd cheered loudly for the 3rd man to reach first base. Isoruko worked a 1-1 count on the next batter. Then, the next pitch was hit in the air to centre field. The crowd roared - Applin, the flawless fielder, ranged back. The dugout watched in silence. He ranged back to the track. The fence. The ball soared, Applin leapt, reaching his arm over the centre field wall. The baseball flew down, and for a moment, everything went in slow motion. The no-hitter baseball went over the wall, down, and disappeared - with Applin’s glove also dipping out of sight behind the wall. His body, still in motion, continued to collide with the wall, and Applin bounced backwards - back on to the field, his body thumping into the warning track dirt.

The runner and the batter stopped, the crowd went silent. Applin stood up, brushing the dirt from him with his free hand.

“Show the ball, Robby!” I heard a voice say from behind me.

Applin couldn’t - because he didn’t have the ball. In all the sensationalism of his attempt, the ball had simply been out of his reach.

And so the no-no was lost, and the Umpire signalled the home run. The crowd roared after their hesitation, and the batter circled. Isoruko was stunned at first, but regained his composure. The game ended on the next batter, with a ground out to George Aiken at second.

We swept Chicago from July 17th-20th, and the hope was starting to raise amongst the clubhouse. We’d picked up steam, and after faltering to a tie for fourth at the beginning of the year, we’d put ourselves 1 up over Washington DC below us. New York was struggling in second, but we were playing even with Atlanta, and rested 12 games back. However, the team was excited for the 23rd to the end of the month, as we played Atlanta three times, Washington three times, and the NL worst Philadelphia twice.

However, after the media hounded me for the record-tying ejection on the 8th, they were waiting silently for my inevitable 15th.

It was a home game on July 20th, against San Diego. After that near no-no from Isoruko, they were looking for redemption against (you guessed it) Antonio Vargas. We were down in the fifth inning 3-1, and San Diego manager Frank McKeller came out to argue a stolen base called in our favour. Seemed fitting that he got ejected, and the crowd roared as he left the field in an angry stupor.

I laughed at him, remembering that my 14th ejection happened in a similar fashion. However, in the 7th inning, I made managerial history. Robby Applin was batting, and having a good night at the plate. We were down 3-2, with a runner (Dewberry) on second base and two outs. Applin was in a fierce battle at the plate, taking on his ninth pitch in a full count. On what definitely seemed to be a ball, the plate ump David Driscolli rang him up. R.A. immediately turned and started shouting, and I hustled out there, Geraldo Johnson at my side to pull Applin away.

“Off the corner, Blue!” Robert yelled as Johnson grabbed him.

I took the helm. “He’s right, Mr. Umpire. That was way off the plate.”

Driscolli gave me a look that just screamed ‘hello number 15’. I just stared back, almost acknowledging the bond us two would have should I get thrown.

“I saw it as a strike.”

“Then you need to check your sight, cause that was terrible.” I snapped back.

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me.” I paused briefly, expecting the thumb right then. However, Driscolli seemed to be slightly more patient about my idiotic, uncontrollable sayings when I was upset. “You ring him on that pitch and take us out of the game. A guy on second and you took us right out.”

“Look - the call was borderline, but your batter should have swung. It was a strike, and that’s my call.”

“Fine.” I turned away, giving up, hoping to leave with my dignity. But not before whispering a comment, stupidly. “Bastard needs to open his eyes.”

He must have heard me. “Skipper, you’re done!” David Driscolli yelled, doing a dramatic wave of his arm that must have had his finger scrape the dirt and then fly four feet above his head.

I turned at stared at him, but I didn’t say a word. I knew why - and a part of me was glad that he heard me. As I walked off the field, the announcer’s voice came over the stadium speakers. “Ladies and gentlemen, that was our very own Florida Marlins manager, Mark Jazzington’s record 15th ejection! Let’s give him a huge round of applause!”

The crowd of 23,356 fans roared, some giving me a standing ovation. I wasn’t sure if the announcers were mocking me, but I lifted my cap and raised it to the crowd, who cheered even louder. This was my moment, and as pathetic of a record as it was - it was mine. I walked down the steps of the dugout, and virtually every player wanted to shake my hand. Even Guerra did.

The media tried to grill me after the game, but I took it in good stride. I garnished the nickname “The Angry Jazz”. It faded in the offseason and made a brief appearance the beginning of the next year, but it was a one-half wonder for the most part. I did get a cover story on an Independent Miami magazine called “Miami Today”, which conducted an interview with me asking how I felt about the record and the team’s chances of upstaging Atlanta despite being under .500 and well back.

However, the thing I remember the most about the whole ordeal was Erwin Canon’s reaction. He called me up to his office the next day, one day before Atlanta came to town.

Next week (probably Saturday): A swirl of changes, Part 2

[Tib]

David Driscolli?

[Jazzmosis]

Welcome to the next chapter of Mark Jazzington, which is actually just the second part of the last chapter. Those of you waiting for Canon's reaction will get it.

And for anyone wondering, I've finally got ahead of myself (chapter wise) so there will be some consistency of chapter releases in the next few weeks.

Enjoy!

[Jazzmosis]

Chapter 9: A swirl of Changes, Part 2

I knew something was different right away. He wasn’t sitting, and he had two glasses on his desk. And a bottle of liquor.

“Mark Jazzington.” He said, pouring the booze into a glass. “Mark. . . Jazzington.”

“Yes?” I asked, near the doorway.

“15 ejections. 15. Quite the feat.” He downed the glass in one gulp.

“What about them?”

“I made myself a pact, when I heard first about this.” He poured another glass, which explained his lack of clarity at the time. “First. . . heard about this ordeal.”

“Ordeal?” I asked, trying to be as passive as possible.

“This that you were to be breaking the ejection record.” He downed his second glass of the minute.

“Mr. Canon, how many drinks have you had?”

He smiled, baring his yellowish, jagged teeth. “I know not - eight.”

Eight and he’s gone? I thought to myself. Lightweight.

“Eight. Eight. Eight. Since eleven.” It was 11:13AM.

“How many in total?”

“17.”

“Uhhh... maybe you should stop then?”

“Nonsense! I’ve got a sandwich in my drawer, I’ll eat that and be fine again.” He opened his drawer, which was empty.

“What do you want?” I asked, amused and annoyed at the same time.

“Oh yes. You. I pact made that when I heard about this record that if you broke it I wouldn’t re-wire you.”

“Re-wire?”

“Re-hire.”

I was shocked. “You’re firing me over a stupid ejection record?”

He laughed, which was gurgled by his 18th glass going down. “I didn’t fire you - you can finish the season but you aren’t a manager after this.” He began pouring another glass. “Unless you wow. . . me.”

I stood there, my hopes dashed. What would I say to Dewberry? What would I say to Lacey? My family? “Wow. . .you?” Was all I could choke out.

“Win a lot.” He downed another glass, and sat in his chair. “Why are you here? I’ve got conduct to business.” He pointed at the window, thinking it was the door. But I got the message. And I’d be lying if I said I didn’t think of just jumping out that window right then and there.

But no - I decided my only chance to keep this job was to wow the bastard.


A flurry of changes struck the Marlins like a bat to the face as the trading deadline approached. Fistell called me on the 26th to tell me of a trade involving the replacement backup shortstop Enrique Altares. He’d been put on waivers and a claim had been made, but a trade was worked out. Altares, Alberto Barrott, who had literally been signed the day before, and some minor league nobody for 100K in cash and some other minor league nobody. Altares wasn’t missed, since he’d hit .125 in his tenure.

However, we did take 2 of 3 from Atlanta, winning on the 23rd and 25th. We won that night’s game against Washington DC, which started a sweep. On the 28th, we won our 4th game in a row, and broke a franchise record with 6 straight hits in 6 at bats.

Fistell woke me on the morning of the 30th with a phone call to tell me about his two deals that had just gone down. The first was with Minnesota. Fistell had traded a mid-range outfield prospect for thirdbaseman Frankie Devries and 500K of cash. Devries was to take over the everyday third base role, bumping Rizzo to platooning at second with Aiken. Then, the trade with Los Angeles. Coming our way was badly needed relief help in Alfred Walker, going to Los Angeles was AAA’er pitcher Alofonzo Aguirre, recent callup backup leftfielder Jesus Sarabia (Not Jonas, thank god.), and the biggest name, right fielder Anthony Buehler, who had gotten hot recently - and now was gone. This bumped Eric Harris, the young right fielder, into the everyday role. Not too shabby, since I’d been trying to give him more playing time. The only problem was that Buehler had been growing on me, and had publicly expressed interest in returning to Florida next year.

He signed an extension with Los Angeles the next day. So much for loyalty.

And finally, just before the game, Fistell rushed downstairs to tell me that he’d picked up another reliever - this one from Baltimore. Frank Felix, a young right handed reliever was coming to Florida for failed rookie reliever Anibal Pina. I did not understand the trade, since Pina was six years older and his ERA was 2 runs higher. I didn’t complain though. Felix’s ERA with first-place Baltimore was 4.06, compared to Pina’s 6.15 before his demotion to AAA.

I knew that after the deadline, my bullpen would look drastically different.
Mopup reliever Preston Lee was sent back down to AAA to make room for Felix.

However, we won that night, and the next, to push our wins to 6 in a row. The starters had the 3rd best ERA in baseball, and overall the pitching staff was ranked 6th for ERA. People started talking about how I could communicate well and understand the pitchers better than the hitters. I was building a reputation as a pitching manager - fine by me.

We finished July with a 15-8 record on the month, pushing us to 51-53 on the year. We’d tied the struggling Mets for second, and the clubhouse celebrated.

It was a great start to the second half, but there was still two months of baseball left to play, and we were 10 out from first and 9 out of the wildcard. And with Canon’s drunken confession at the back of my mind the whole time, I was hoping that this trend would continue and he’d be wowed.

I still hadn’t stolen his placard either, and I was losing my nerve to go through with it.

And Lacey? She and I were still together, but her job was taking up most of our time. Ironic, since I was the one on the road all the time. I was having doubts that it would work out, but I kept my hopes up. I wasn’t going to lose everything.

August begged to differ.

Tune in next week for Chapter 10: Opposites DON'T attract

[Tib]

Nice. Well done.