Mark Jazzington - a managerial career

[Jazzmosis]

After buying the game awhile ago, I finally started a fictional league set in present day, in manager mode. Given by how interesting Tib's "David Driscoll" story was, I decided I could/would make a similiar story, but based on my management. I play each game, and I'm only 2½ weeks into the season, but keeping this story alive should be more than enough to keep me playing a least a few games a day. Hopefully you enjoy it. If at any point you're confused about the players or anything, I'll gladly post roster screenshots and the likes.

And a few thanks: Tib for giving me the inspiration with his story, the OOTP developers to make it all happen, and to my computer for not crashing while writing the first chapter (That'd just kill my will). Hopefully I'll be able to write about a chapter a week or two, but that'll depend on the responce it gets here. All criticism is welcome, and if you notice any mistakes either with inaccuracy (I forget my character's features sometimes) feel free to post and tell me.

Coming up: Chapter 1: The Beginning

[Jazzmosis]

I’ve always been a quiet guy. So I had never known how to deal with the media, let alone more than five people at a time. And to be hired so young - I was criticized intensely by nearly every sports radio show, fan, GM, and newspaper around. I hardly could ever answer the questions. How could I? I guess as time goes on, I’ll discover these things.

My name is Mark Jazzington. I know, a weird last name. Well sue me, I didn’t pick it. My life changed while in an amateur league. I played for the Oakridge Reds, a great team in Canada. I wasn’t a pivotal player in the team - more of a relief pitcher. I was, however, the only left-handed pitcher in nearly the entire league. But my pitching talents weren’t what got me noticed. Not when the scouts started to hear about our team and our undefeated season. I pitched on an off during the season, and was horrifically inconsistent. Almost inning to inning, I’d be a different pitcher. Lights out, then lit up. But my real skills were for reading other pitchers. I almost always sat next to my coaches and told them what the pitcher was going to throw next. Curve, change, fastball, whatever - I could figure it out. The small idiosyncrasies that every pitcher had. When scouts came around, questions were asked about how our team hit so well. My coaches talked about their dedication, but when asked what gave them the edge, they pointed at me. I wasn’t even paying attention at the time, I was just catching balls thrown into the infield during pre-game warmups. That’s when it all started.

After that game, a scout approached me. “They say you’re very good at reading pitchers.”

I just stared at him. He hadn’t even told me his name. “Uh. . . I guess so.” Was all I could muster up.

“I’m Roy Pickering. I’m a scout.”

I still looked him, partially sceptical. “Okay?”

Mr. Pickering shifted his weight, as if inpatient and talking to a child. “My management wants to see what you can do.”

By this point, I was trying to figure out if this was just a prank on me from my team. “Who do you work for?”

“The Florida Marlins.”

“Yeah, right.” I responded. The scout pulled out a document and handed to me. On this, was his name, the Marlins logo, and writing that shaped a certificate. He was indeed a scout for the Marlins. I handed it back to him, feeling my heart race. “What do you want with me?”

The scout smiled. “They say you’re very good at reading pitchers. And as you may have heard, the Florida Marlins are looking for some talent - someone different in their ballclub.”

By now, I assumed that they weren’t talking about my playing abilities. “You want me as a coach, or something?”

“We shall see.” Pickering fiddled with some papers as we walked to his car. “My boss wants to try you out.”


I had no idea what he even meant. But I was soon to find out. I received numerous calls in the next few days about how the Marlins were coming to Cincinnati and they wanted me there. They even gave me front row tickets, right behind the plate. And plane tickets to Cincinnati. Finally, I accepted and went - against my father’s wishes. When I got to the game, after getting lost in Cincy twice, I sat in my seats and there was Mr. Pickering, right in the seat next to me. Beside him was another man, one I’d never seen before.

“Ah, Mark. This is the GM of the Marlins, Reynold Fistell.” Mr. Pickering introduced. I shook his hand, but so much was running through my mind that I’d already forgotten his name.

“What do you want me to do here?” I asked, stupidly.

Pickering laughed. “Call the pitches. Do what you do best. This is the tryout.”

“Okay. . .” I trailed off. A one game tryout? For what job? I didn’t even know. They just kept telling me on the phone that they were very interested in my talent.

So I did what they asked. I watched this Cincinnati pitcher throw warmups and the first inning. I was nervous, so I was distracted easily. The GM, Mr. What’s-his-name, piped up. “What’s he going to throw next?”

“I don’t know. It takes a couple innings some times.” I responded. That was a blatant lie. I could figure out pitchers so quickly. But this was different.

As the innings dragged on, the game saw the Marlins losing by a terrible score of 10-3, or something. However, I had finally caught a rhythm. By the 5th inning, I could call the pitches with at least a 90% success rate. The GM seemed impressed. “How do you know he’s going to throw a changeup?” He asked.

I had become fairly focussed by this point, so his question caught me off guard. Without even looking away from the pitcher, I pointed. “He bends his right knee slightly when he picks up the sign for a changeup.”

“Amazing.” Pickering said. “I don’t even see it.”

But I was right.

The game ended, the Marlins getting blown out by a score of 15-6 or along those lines. I wasn’t really paying attention. The GM shook my hand again and said he’d call me in the offseason. Which was in about two weeks.


The weeks passed slowly. I had nearly forgotten about the whole ordeal, since I hadn’t received any calls since that day. Then, I heard that the Florida Marlins had fired their manager after a disappointing, 80-82 season. I remembered reading that they were supposed to make the playoffs. They didn’t even make third in their division.

It was mid-October when I received a call from a forgotten person.

“Congratulations, Mr. Jazzington.” The voice said.

“For what?” I asked, confused.

“You’ve got the job.”

I thought about jobs I had applied for. “Is this the pizzeria on Stanton Street?”

The voice laughed. “No. This is Reynold Fistell.”

It sounded like a name I should have known, but didn’t. So I faked it. “Oh, yes!”

“We’ve selected you to replace Edward Gregorio.” Mr. Fistell said.

Now that name was familiar. He was the recently fired Marlins manager. “Is this some sort of cruel joke?” I asked.

“By no means.” He responded. “You’re the new Florida Marlins manager.” There was a silence on both ends. “Unless, of course. . . you really are looking forward to that pizzeria job.”

I smiled weakly. “No, not really.” The conversation went on, but I was just given information and when to show up to Spring Training. . . and where Spring training was. Mr. Fistell then told me to call him back and give him what my answer was by the end of the week.


I talked to my father, who had mixed results. “You? What do they want you for?”

“I don’t know - but I have the job.”

“How much are they going to pay you? Where will you live?” My father asked.

In all the confusion and surprise, I’d forgotten to ask about the contract. After lengthy debates, my parents agreed to let me take the job. I called back the next day and confirmed. Also, I asked about the contract, which basically answered every other question my dad had asked. I was to be paid 100,000 dollars for a one year deal. After hearing that, I threw up. That was a lot of money.

----
Please note that my age and the likes will be revealed in the next few chapters.

[Jazzmosis]

This one came much quicker than I expected: I have alot of ideas and now that I've gotten into the season I don't want to forget what I had planned.

I thought that just for reference, in the game my Owner is "Horror" so I did my best to portray that mentality. And the names are all in the game, except for Roy Pickering and Fistell. I made them up to just get it rolling.

Without further delays:

Chapter 2: The team, the media, the ridicule

I spent the winter working out. To this day I still don’t entirely understand why, but it was probably so I wouldn’t be a rookie manager with a big league club that weighed 135 pounds. I managed to balloon to 155 when Spring Training rolled around. I took out a loan with the bank and said my goodbyes to my family. I flew down to Jupiter, Florida, where the Marlins held spring training. I moved into a temporary apartment: a room in a basement. The family that lived seemed nice, but they wanted all the money upfront. That didn’t bother me, since I was only going to be there for a month and a half. I had already begun looking for an apartment near the Marlin’s home stadium. That would consume most of my free time when I wasn’t on the field.

I was within walking distance of the Spring training complex, so I walked there everyday. The first day, though, I got lost. Lost twice in two trips to the USA - not a good start. When I did eventually find the stadium, I met with the GM, Mr. What’s-his-name again. He gave me a pass, one I paid little attention to, but always had on. I followed him to the clubhouse, where I was immediately escorted to the front office. There, I met my coaches. The pitching coach was Raymond Turman. He was only in his second year as a coach. He was also 42. A short, stout man with an amusing goatee and big sideburns from the 70's. . . even though he would be too young to grow them back then. He told me that he used to pitch for the Tigers - retired only 4 years ago. He couldn’t have had a great career, since I’d never heard of him until that day. The batting coach was completely different. Geraldo Johnson. He was a completely relaxed man, casual and joking all the time. Had a decent career. Retired in 1999, hitting .265 as a second basemen for four or five different teams. Won a gold glove in ‘89. It was him that I would rely on more for advice then Turman. I always got a funny feeling from Turman. . . like he thought I was a threat to him or something. I don’t know why, I was only 18 when we met.

After all the formalities, I gradually met the pitchers and catchers. However, the very first player I ever met was neither of those two. He was named Jerrold Dewberry, and he was the starting first baseman. I didn’t know what to say when we shook hands. This was a real major leaguer, one I’d seen on TV countless times. He hit 41 homeruns back in 2001, but had been criticized recently for his struggles against righties. Dewberry was a 33 year old weathered veteran - and he taught me a lot of how to deal with the media during my first year at the helm. The first pitcher I met was Christopher Look - a 34 year old fireball reliever. After watching him in Spring Training, I made a highly controversial decision and declared him my closer. The media harped me like crazy until the season started - then they couldn’t say enough about my decision.

The rest of the team I met as they came in. Most were easy going, except for one player that thought I should be playing in some bush league instead of managing this team - Luis Guerra. He was an offensive catcher. Couldn’t catch worth a damn, though. I met a lot of young prospects, too. One guy was a first rounder from last year named Albert Ellingston. He was only two years older then me, so I clicked with him during our brief spring meeting. He could play third like nobody’s business. And man, could he hit. I wanted to take him to the active roster, but upper management quickly lectured me for even considering that. He ended up starting the year in Single-A. But he didn’t stay down there long.

It was only a matter of time before the media found me. I had managed to avoid them for a week thanks to Dewberry’s suggestions, but they caught me when I was watching some drills from the sidelines. I had no idea how to answer most their questions. They asked me about players, about the expectations of the team, and about myself. I couldn’t answer any without stuttering. It was a reputation I had to shake quickly, but never could. As spring progressed on, I found out that the media hated me. They called me “a baby in still in diapers”, “a kid in over his head”, and many other humiliating names. I even got called to go on a baseball talk show, which I foolishly accepted. They slammed me for the whole night. However, I did manage to get a few good comments in about the team.

God, how I hated the media. But I had to accept it was going to surround me, for as long as I was a big league manager. Every move I would make would be watched, every decision dissected by critics and fans alike. But I had a job to do, and ignoring the media was just impossible. I still tried, though.

Spring eventually ended, and myself and the coaches had to make some tough decisions. When I talked to Turman, he told me we lacked starting pitching. Boy, was he right. But an even bigger concern was the offense. The outfield was solid, as was Dewberry, but I quickly found out how cold the rest would start out. What made matters worse, was the owner. He called me into his office just two days before the season started with an introduction and a lecture I would never forget.


“Jazzington. I’ve wanted to talk to you for so long. I’ve been busy all spring with offers and the likes, that this is the only time I could arrange to talk to you.”

“Uh.. Hello.” Was all I could respond with as an introduction.

“Yes, yes. Enough with the hello’s. I’m going to tell you straight out - the GM and Pickering may like you, but I don’t think you’ve got the balls to make it here.”

It took me looking as his desk placard to find out his name was Erwin Canon. “Then why did you hire me, Mr. Canon?”

“Pickering and Fistell recommended you - said you could read pitchers real well.” News about that had spread quickly, I discovered.

“Okay?” I responded.

“I’ll be straight forward with you. I lost money last year and patience with Gregorio. That’s why I fired him. This year, I want you to pilot this team to the playoffs. Anything less, and you can kiss your a** outta here. Understand?” Canon sat in his chair, hardly looking at me. His attention was on his computer, and he was constantly sipping coffee.

“Yes.” I was consumed by shock and anger. He was too busy to even meet me until the end of March, and then he dropped that bomb on me right away? I was fuming inside but I forced myself to stay cool. “I’ll do my best, sir. I can guarantee you that.”

“If by ‘best’ you mean playoffs, then fine. Otherwise you better shape up.”

“Okay?” I responded, unknowing of what to say.

“Good. Now get out, I’ve got business to conduct here.” He pointed to the door and went back to typing on the computer.

I wanted to punch Canon already. It turned out that he was like this to most people, especially the coaches. But to me, a young guy? I suppose it was the business, but that meeting started a massive hatred between him and I.

That meeting was in the back of my mind as opening day rolled around. I wanted to throw everything in his face. My success, everything. I had a lot to prove that year. And failing just wasn’t an option. I had to succeed - for the sake of my career, my pride, and to say “take that” to the media and Erwin Canon.

[RMXO]

good read so far. can't wait to see how this turns out. i enjoy reading about a person or a grp of ppl compared to a team as a whole......

forgive me for asking you of this but can you make more paragraphs? its easier to read.......

keep up the good work........

[Jazzmosis]

No problem - I was actually thinking the same thing. I'll separate the paragraphs better in the next few chapters. Thanks for the comments!

[Jazzmosis]

Here's the next chapter. I tried to get up to speed in my season, and I'm only a few days behind now. Some interesting things happened though, to make for some interesting following chapters!

Chapter 3: Ejected, Rejected

The Florida Marlins season, and my managerial career, started in Atlanta. I revelled at the sellout crowd in Turner field, the screaming fans when the Braves were introduced. There was a fair number of Floridian fans at the stadium as well, something that surprised me. My Marlins had been highly televised and criticized in Spring Training, the butt of the speculation thrown in my direction. I had heard about a poll circulating on the internet about who would the first manager that got fired. I had something like 77% of the votes. It just drove me to succeed more. I had slated superstar Gilbert Wright for the opener - it was a no brainer. He had been signed as a free agent in the off-season, and was supposed to be the anchor for a weak staff. Just before the anthems, Jerrold Dewberry came up to me with some encouraging words.

“You’ll be fine, Skip. We’ll bag you a first win.” He said, with a pat on the back for me.

“Thanks, Jerrold.” I responded.

“Well,” he cracked a wide smile. “As long as you don’t get ejected.”

I faced him, returning his grin. “In my first game? I don’t think so.”


Well, it didn’t take long. The first inning came, with leadoff hitter George Aiken striking out. My shortstop then grounded out. Then, I ruined my credibility - comically. The left fielder, veteran David Yoshii, hit a line drive to the outfield, a ball that the right fielder dove for and caught - apparently. In reality, he just trapped it.

Yoshii was very annoyed, and began arguing the call immediately. I hesitated, then rushed out to defend his argument. After all, it WAS a trap. Yoshii gave up, but I found myself getting caught up in the heat of the argument.

“That was the worst call I’ve ever seen. He clearly trapped the ball!” I yelled.

“Look, I saw it as a catch. The call stands.” The first base umpire retorted.

“You’ve got to be kidding me! Are you blind, or just stupid?” I screamed back.

First game. First inning. I got tossed. I was angry about the call for the rest of the night, but when I finally gave up and walked towards the clubhouse, I saw Dewberry in hysterics, repeating, “Way to go, skip!”

I had to smile. I didn’t know what to do in the clubhouse except eat some chips and watch the game. We lost, 7-2.

The media had a field day with me after the game. There were insults mixed in the laughter, but Dewberry bailed me out, leaning on my shoulder during most of the interview saying how much of a comic I was.

The next few weeks went smoothly. Dewberry and I were getting along great, and he was on absolute fire. The bullpen was pitching well, but we were only playing just above .500. The owner kept calling me in to discuss my failures as a manager and person, and how I would never lead this team to playoff berth if I didn’t shape up. I never said anything back, but it was getting harder to bite my tongue each time.

Luis Guerra hadn’t said much to me - at all. He thought I was bush league, so he didn’t listen to anything I said. He listened to Geraldo Johnson though. And Johnson listened to me, although my strength wasn’t in offense.

I’d managed to pick up most opposing pitchers well. Dewberry just sat beside me, every game, watching what I pointed out. Hanover, the shortstop, dropped by to listen in sometimes. And a starting pitcher asked me how I figured this stuff out so quickly. Slowly, I was gaining the players trust. Turman and I didn’t have much in common - we always just talked business.

The team was starting to heat up, until April 19th. That day, the wheels just fell off. One of my most solid relievers, Shannon Mathew, pulled his arm and was put on the 15 day DL. The bullpen almost instantly went to hell. ERA’s jumped. This Dominican, Anibal Pena, had his ERA go from 1.08 to 5.68 in one game. Upper management called up a 21 year old to fill Mathew’s place, but gave me instructions to only use him in dire need, and no more often than once every 5 days. They also sent down a utility infielder that hadn’t had a hit yet. I had to be the one to tell him. He accepted it, telling me he knew it was coming. He was replaced with some veteran pitcher. I couldn’t pronounce his name, so I just called him “The Vet”. He barely spoke English. That surprised me considering he’d spent ten years in the majors.

The flurry of movement started a tailspin. Half the hitters went cold, and the bottom half of the rotation couldn’t throw a strike. We lost 4 games in a row, and the owner gave me hell for it. I just took it.

Dewberry did his best to cheer me up that night, dropping by my apartment with a case of beer. “You’re not old enough to drink, but nobody cares.” He smiled as I let him in.

“Shouldn’t you be at home with your wife?” I asked quietly.

“Told her I was going out for the night.” He responded with a grin. Out of all the players, he was quickly becoming my favourite. He was in a situation similar to mine. . . just with 14 years of experience on his side. The media was always on him because he couldn’t hit righties. So far, he was hitting over .400 with 7 home runs against them. He was also criticized for his injury-prone past, many saying that it was ‘just a matter of time before his ankle gave out and ended his career’. He always came back with a witty response when questioned about it, saying things like he’ll buy a new foot or clone himself and play the game forever. He always supported my decisions as manager, something I needed in my first month steering that team.

We spent hours playing a baseball simulator and drinking beer.

“This game is horrible!” Jerrold complained, after I beat him in a round. “Whoever programmed me in this game should be fired!”

I laughed. Playing as himself, he’d struck out 3 times. “It’s true, Jerry,” I jeered. “You just can’t hit the righties!”

He chuckled. “I don’t see your name here, Jazzy.” He cracked that signature grin I was getting used to.

After a while and an ordered pizza, he and I just began talking. “What made you take the job, Mark?”

“The money. I’d never seen that much before.”

He laughed as he chewed. “Peanuts. When we get to the playoffs you can demand any money you want and the Canon will give it to you.”

I stared at him. “Canon hates me.”

“Of course he does.” Dewberry responded. “He hates everyone. But you know what? He hired you for the job.”

“I guess so. But why does he have to be such an ass about doing business?”

He leaned in close. “Look. Canon likes to get under guy’s skin. He’s ruined players careers before. Don’t let him get to you.”

I stumbled for an answer. “Yeah. . . but why?”

“I dunno. He’s an idiot. Cares more about himself then anyone in this club.”

I nodded in agreement.

“Next time he gives you hell, do me a favour and stand up for yourself. Okay?”

I nodded again. Jerrold was right. I was nervous about losing my job so much that I never said anything back. But this was my team to manage, and I decided that I was going to let Canon know it next time he lectured me. No matter what the consequences were.

[Jestor]

The spacing's evidently not coming through, because the paragraphs are still grouped together... As a general recommendation, I'd go back through your prior posts and fix the spacing on them and continue it on through.

[Rasmuth]

I like it...original. Good writing too.

[Jazzmosis]

Chapter 4: That’s Baseball, That's Life

I came into the clubhouse on April 24th, 2004, the team riding a four game losing streak. To top it all, we were playing the red-hot Pittsburgh, who was in a three-way tie for first in the central with Milwaukee and Houston. We’d stumbled into third, behind Atlanta and the Mets, who were tied for first. The team seemed down in the clubhouse, and I did my best to motivate them. “Listen guys. We’re not even one month into the season. If you’re ready to give up on this game now, let me ask you why you ever started to play baseball as a kid. We don’t just give up. We fight for every run, we take each game one pitch at a time. One break - that’s all we need. We’re not even playing poorly.”

The club just looked at me in silence. Some seemed to be taking what I was saying to heart. Others, Luis Guerra being one of them, were hardly paying attention. I didn’t know what to do. I wanted to cuss them out in front of the rest of the team, but I was sure that would have some consequences. So I let it slide, once again.


The game started, and Pittsburgh jumped on Jonas Sarabia with two runs in the first. He came into the dugout, and immediately tossed his glove in anger. I hated that. “Sarabia - don’t throw things in the dugout.” I warned.

“I’m pitching like ****, MJ.” He responded.

“Well if you think you’re going to get rocked, you will. Go out there and attack the hitters with your best stuff. If they poke a few hits, big deal. You’re not going to get a shutout every time.”

He just sat there and stared at the field. He’d probably heard that speech before. He was a veteran, after all, and he had signed as a free agent to the Marlins in the offseason.

I don’t know if my speech actually had any effect, but he pitched the next 6 innings giving up only a few hits, one run, striking out eight, while walking only one. In the bottom of the eighth, my team plated a run, putting the score at 3-2 in Pittsburgh’s favour. I could hear the fans building up excitement. I could feel the tension in the clubhouse building. I left Galliard in for the ninth, and he K’d two and got a ground out to hurry us back into the clubhouse.

Pittsburgh trotted out their fireball closer in the ninth. The crowd was into the game. I was sweating, nervous with anticipation. Backup centerfielder Billy Bassett was leading off the inning, and he was hitless all day. I left him in. He was batting just .190 in limited play. He fell behind quickly, 0-2. I was sweating so bad that I probably needed a towel. The closer, Joseph Bench, then threw a 101 MPH heater on the inside corner. Bassett took a hack and drove it down the rightfield line, just fair. The crowd screamed so loud I couldn’t hear myself yell, but I still cheered as Bassett peeled around second and beat the rely throw to give us a leadoff triple. The team went insane, and so did I.

“He’s there for you! Bring him in!” I kept yelling, as backup 3B George Sampson stepped up the plate. He’d been swing a hot stick, and had two hits that night. Bench walked him on four pitches. The winning run was on first. With the pitcher Galliard due up, I put pinch hitter Eric Harris to the plate. He was hitting a pathetic .143, so I was praying. He did have a lot of power. Bench fell behind 2-0, and was worried about Sampson stealing second. The next pitch, Harris rapped a single straight up the middle to tie the game, Bassett holding his hands in the air as he crossed the plate. Then, George Aiken, the starting second baseman, dug in. The crowd cheered at a deafening tone. He worked a 3-2 count. On the payoff pitch, Aiken blooped a single to rightfield. Sampson took off, running through a stop sign from the third base coach. The throw to home was dead on - Sampson was right there, and he collided with the catcher, sending the two bodies sprawling. The ball skipped loose from the catcher’s mitt. Sampson had scored. We had won, against all odds. The team poured out onto the field, swamping Sampson.


That game started a turnaround. We played well and reached .500, dropping under just near the end of April. Even Canon couldn’t say anything bad. Dewberry had pounded the ball, with 11 homeruns and 25 RBI.


My life was getting better. Especially on April 26th. Dewberry, Christopher Look and a few other teammates held a get together, and invited me. Here I was, 18 years old, hanging out with a bunch of professional ballplayers. Even now as I look back on it, it still blows my mind. There was a few other people I’d never met before, and some pretty good looking girls. Of course, Dewberry’s wife was there to make sure her ‘beloved’, as she put it, didn’t get into any trouble with the younger girls. Jerrold always laughed at that - he was a class act, no matter which way you looked at it. The barbeque was great - and held in Look’s backyard. I didn’t know it until that day, but Look lived right near the ballpark. In a mansion, no less. However, despite all the amusing stories from the professionals and all their adventures throughout their years, someone else had my attention. She was a stunning girl - and actually looked about my age. She was the daughter of Look’s friend. Of course, at first I was far too shy to talk to her, until Look brought her to me while I was sitting in a lawn chair, talking to a player’s wife. I didn’t know what to say.

“I’m. . .”

Look laughed. “Dammit Jazzy, she knows who you are. Everyone on the planet knows who you are.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Right.”

She smiled in an adorable way. “I’m Lacey.” I watched the wind gently blow through her chestnut brown hair, and hoped I wasn’t drooling when I looked at her tanned white skin and her sky blue eyes. I probably was, though.

She noticed that I was doing something, because I hadn’t responded in a little bit. She shuffled nervously. Luckily, Look bailed me out once again. “I’ll just let you two kids get to know each other. Hey Jazzy - tell her about those three ejections you’ve got this month!” He turned, chuckling and pointing over his shoulder at the two of us.

I eventually offered her a seat and we began talking. It turned out she was my age,but born in January. Still in highschool, as well. However, she made note to tell me that she was graduating that year. A lot of chemistry was between us, but I was too young and stupid to figure that out. But, just before the end of the barbeque, I managed to get her number. I remember it clearly, as I stumbled through the question. “Hey. .”

“Yes?” She faced me with a sweet innocence I can never forget.

“I. . . do. . .you. . . have a boyfriend?” I felt and looked like a complete idiot.

“No.” She smiled.

“Um. .” I felt the nerves build up inside me. “Can. . can I call you sometime?”

Lacey blushed slightly, but nodded. “If you have my phone number, yes.”

“Oh . . right.” I looked down at the ground. “Can I have your number?”

She smiled and wrote it down for me. Dewberry ribbed me for days about my ‘smooth moves’. But I called her the next night and asked her to a movie - which she graciously accepted.


Erwin Canon didn’t like me having a girl though. He never said anything directly but repeatedly said that “I should be 110 percent committed to the success of the Marlins.” Man, what an ass. I decided I was going to steal his placard - not for any reason - I just wanted to get back at him.

We rolled into May, finishing April with a 13-15 record. Look, the new closer, hadn’t blown a save yet. And Shannon Mathew was nearing his return. We were in third, but the new month gave a fresh face, and some optimism to boot. I was trying to insert Bassett in the lineup more, since his bat was hot. And on the 30th of April, he stole second base - four times. I also got ejected for a major league leading 4th time that game. I was just waiting for the media to start burning me about that.

And burn me they did - in a way I’ll never forget.

[Tib]

Terrific so far. Keep it up.

[Skywalker76]

Really nice keep it going !

[Jazzmosis]

The next installment may be slightly late becuase I've been having some troubles with the game crashing int he first inning - plus I'm on vacation for a week.

Although I would say the next chapter will be posted before September 9th. Which gives me but a few days after vacation to play roughly a month of baseball and see what happens.

Thanks for the comments, though! They are appreciated and inspiration to keep writing!

[Jazzmosis]

Here we go - after much delay, the next installment of Mark Jazzington.

This one is more of a set up for a long haul - so much chaos happened in the first few weeks of the season for me. Over the next few chapters, I will hope to move things along.. get a few months done, and ready for the playoff run (assuming I'm still in it.)

Hope you enjoy this - alot of character development.

[Jazzmosis]

Chapter 5: Going for the books. .

May started with a press conference. Canon had pushed me into it - to this day I think he just wanted to watch me fail. At first, the questions were simple, and I thought I answered them well. It probably didn’t sound like it, since I stuttered so much. However, one reporter seemed to have a bone to pick.

“Mr. Jazzington. Are you aware that you have been ejected more than any other manager combined this year?”

“No.” I responded. “Why would I know a useless fact like that?”

I got a few chuckles from the crowd, but this reporter was ruthless. “Maybe it’s the little facts you ignore that is leading your team to failure.”

I stared at him briefly before answering. “If you think I ignore anything on my team, you’re wrong.”

“Well, given your record, I’d say you’re heading for an early retirement from managing.”

I was starting to become annoyed. “You’d be wrong again.”

“Well you ignore things like the intentional walk. You’ve only called for it once this year. And it’s burned you repeatedly. If I was managing this team, I’d give more respect to dangerous hitters.”

I was boiling over by now. “I trust my pitchers - they get the job done.”

The reporter smirked. “Not well - at least not with you behind the helm.”

That was enough for me - I wasn’t going to take any more of that crap. “I don’t see you managing this team. If you could do such a better job, why didn’t Canon call you? Maybe it’s because you’re just a reporter that doesn’t know how to do anything but write your worthless columns. Next time you want to question my decisions, get a job as a manager and prove to me that you can. Until that time, shut up.”

The room went silent - and I took advantage of that by ending the conference early. “This is it for today. Next time, ask me questions worth answering.”


Every paper, television station, and radio show had my outburst. Erwin Canon called me up to his office that day, 20 minutes before the game.

“What the hell was that conference?” He shouted, still not looking away from his computer screen.

I just left his office. “I have a game to manage.”

Canon, for the first time ever, looked up at me - but only saw my back. “Where do you think you’re going?” He screamed.

I didn’t respond. I even took the stairs so I wouldn’t have to listen to him while waiting for the elevator.

The game was pretty uneventful. There was a bad call on Aiken, which I argued - and of course, I got tossed. 2 games in a row. Apparently I was bordering on a fine. Luckily, I was avoiding it by not being violent - just mouthy.

The second game of the month was substantially better. We were deadlocked in a 3-3 tie against playoff hopeful St. Louis. They were in a 3 team tie for first in the Central, so any win they could get was a plus. However, we were in a race too - just 2 games back from Atlanta and New York. St. Louis’ best hitter, Powell, launched a ball to deep right in the 7th. The crowd went silent as Anthony Buehler tracked it. Just as the ball cleared the wall, he leapt and snagged it, pulling it back in from the bullpen. The crowd went insane. The dugout went insane. That sparked a shift in momentum - that the Marlins finally capitalized on in extra innings.

In the bottom of the tenth, backup outfielder Eric Harris, or “Mr. Clutch”, as I was beginning to name him, rapped a leadoff double to the wall. I subbed in pinch hitter Gerald Sampson, who grounded out. Slick fielding, poor-hitting shortstop Harold Hanover cloned Sampson's display. I was nervous with anticipation, as this was becoming all to familiar again. We hadn’t been capitalizing or scoring runs. To top it off, Look was stepping up to the plate. I couldn’t pinch hit him - I didn’t have anyone left on the bench. I crossed my fingers as he stepped into the box for only the 4th time in his career. He pulled off a walk, on 9 pitches. Then, red hot Dewberry stepped into the box - he lead the team in hits, average, home runs, RBIs, and slugging. He also was a massive pull hitter. On the first pitch, he knocked a shot down the line - the first base line. It got by the diving first baseman, and Harris scored easily. As the team rushed out to swamp Harris and Dewberry, I slipped on my own sweat that was pouring off my body.

As if that wasn’t enough tension, on May 4th, Jonas Sarabia, my strikeout whizz, pulled his tendon - and was done for 5 weeks. The pitching was bad enough already, but now I didn’t have a number 2 guy.

After a phone call to Canon, he finally got off his ass and made a deal. By the next morning, Canon had traded Guilles Ramos, my number five man, and two AA prospects to Kansas City for ready-for-majors prospect John Torkelson.

That day, I got ejected for a major-league leading 6th time. Apparently I was on pace to shatter the one-year ejection record for a manager, which was 16, by current Colorado manager Eppstein Hepablap, in 1995. His name always made me laugh.

However, the real story was that I had silenced some critics and put us back at .500. The pitching was coming together, although Torkelson wasn’t scheduled for his debut until the 9th. By May 7th, we were in a three-way tie for first, and one game over .500. However, we visited Colorado for 3 games - and got swept. Canon was furious. I didn’t know what to say - I hardly listened to him anymore. Dewberry was slumping, although still leading the team in everything offensive. Torkelson impressed me, and many others when he made his debut - a complete game, which should have been a win, except for a walk-off home run with two outs in the bottom of the ninth.

I tried to console him, but he was upset for a few days. I told him things like that would happen from time to time. Come on, he had pitched the first complete game for the Marlins this year, and the first of my managerial career - a 5 hitter with one mistake. We lost that game 3-2.

However, the sweep from Colorado, who was 26-12 to our 18-20, bumped us back to third, two games from Atlanta.


Personally, Lacey and I were having a great time. I was completely lost for what to say most of the time, but she didn’t seem to care. We were taking it slow, which was perfect - I had so much on my plate that I didn't want to worry about her all the time. Look and Dewberry always jeered me about that barbeque. I wanted to jeer back, but how could I? Look had a 0.68 ERA and 3 wins in 13 innings with no walks, and Dewberry was the cornerstone of the offense. Besides, I would need to get to know them better before I could really start playing pranks on them. And yes, I was still waiting for the right moment to steal Erwin Canon’s placard.


My dad had called me for the first time since I moved out. He lectured me about my temper and told me about my sister becoming engaged. When I look back on it, there was so much that I missed at home - but I never regret leaving.

Coming soon: Chapter 6: Rolling along

[cknox0723]

Excellent reading...now get the team to pick it up!

[BigTallAggie]

I must admit, ever since finding the Dave Driscoll post, this dynasty-as-a-story setup is really interesting. Keep up the great read and here is hoping you can keep that Florida job, not to mention Lacey.

[Dougiestyle]

Amazing stuff.

[Jazzmosis]

Here we go - the next chapter of Mark Jazzington. This one wasn't as long as I'd hoped (time wise), but I focussed more on some different, rising issues rather than pure stats - as it turned out, the chapter came rather difficult.

Hope you enjoy.

Chapter 6: Rolling along

When my editor and I sat down to discuss this book, we had quite the discussion about the title of this chapter. We finally agreed on the title you see before you - but be warned, it is not titled the way you would want it to be. Yes, we were rolling along - but rolling down a hill, into a fiery inferno of chaos. To say we simply stumbled would be an understatement - absolutely nothing went my way. Virtually all of my decisions backfired. When a pitcher had a good start, we’d be shut out. Whenever the offense hit the ball, a pitcher would implode. And speaking of implosions. . .


Gilbert Wright, the undisputed ace of the Marlins, saw his ERA rise not one, but two full runs over the second half of the month. He simply could not throw the ball by the batters - they peppered it all over the field. This was a big part of our demise.


On May 20th, we started a shameful record that had been held for 25 years. In this same game, we also tied another record for mediocrity. New call-up Jesus Soriano, a 23 year old fire-baller, was making his major league debut. Well, we welcomed him to the majors by playing like a R team, committing 3 errors in the first. First Guerra threw a nubber into right field, which second baseman Kendrick Rizzo, a gold-glove calibur fielder until that point, followed by throwing a ground ball out over Dewberry’s head, allowing the first runner to score. Not to be outdone by his comrades, utility infielder George Sampson hurled a ball from third base, complete with two outs, further over Dewberry’s head than Rizzo. The ball skipped into rightfield, for a third time, costing rookie Soriano four runs - all unearned. When that pathetic display finally ended, Dewberry came into the dugout, noticeably upset - the first time I’d ever seen him angry. “Guys, I’m not a ****ing acrobat here - we just threw away an inning.”


I seconded his thoughts. “We just made a great impression on our starting pitcher, fellas. This isn’t some amateur leagues - you guys are getting paid millions, and you come up with that display? Let’s get our heads back in this and play like we’re capable of.”

Guerra piped up, speaking in his light Spanish accent. “I don’t see you making these plays, chief.”

I wasn’t in the mood for backtalk - not after that. “Shut up, Guerra.”

The team mulled around in the dugout in silence after that. Until then, I had been positive almost all the time. Perhaps this shocker was what the team needed to pick up the game. How wrong I was. Another error was committed in the 7th, Totalling four on the night. And in the ninth, I blew my top on a stolen base call - and like clockwork, was welcomed to my seventh ejection.

The next day, I was greeted to some interesting news - Clayton Herring, the lefty specialist, signed a four year, 1.1 million dolla