Wayne Scheer
The Outing of Polonius Pete
Polonius Popoutsky was his unlikely name, but everyone called him Pete. He came up through the Diamondback's organization and led the Single A's two consecutive years in on-base percentage, even though he never batted over 300.
He'd walk or get hit by a pitch, the latter his real specialty. He perfected an exaggerated Ricky Henderson-type crouch, so there were only inches separating his knees from the letters on his jersey. And he learned from watching Don Baylor to let his left shoulder hang over the plate, daring pitchers to hit it. When they tried not to hit him, he'd take his four balls and walk to first with a grin so big you could count all his teeth. When he'd face a pitcher who threw a 95-miler not caring what was in the way, Pete just closed his eyes, thought of the first time he reached under Mary Lou Fattlemore's skirt, and let the ball bounce off him.
He'd have that same shit-eating grin on his face when the umpire sent him to first.
By the time Pete Popoutsky got to Triple A, he had groupies eager to massage his aching shoulder and anything else that needed attention. But Triple A pitchers were more experienced, and they knew big league scouts were watching how they handled Pete. They didn't worry about his shoulder: they went straight for his head.
"That's why the good Lord made helmets," Pete told his teammates. "I'll take fast balls to the noggin as fast as a wolf eats a pork chop if it means gittin' on base."
For it was on first base that he really showed his stuff. He'd do a little dance off the bag, making like he was going to second, and then stop. Sometimes, while the pitcher took signs from the catcher, Pete would dance and sing Irish folk tunes, although a medley from Oklahoma was his personal favorite. Anything to annoy the pitcher and force a rushed throw. And if the throw was wild, he'd take off to second like he had a jet pack attached to his ass.
When he'd slide and hear the umpire shout, "Safe," Pete would calmly call "time," dust himself off, and do an Ozzie Smith back-flip. Apparently, there was nothing in the rulebooks about back-flipping after sliding into second. The fans loved it.
But Pete had a problem. When he flipped, he usually lost his cap.
"The good guys don't lose their hats in cowboy movies," he told reporters. "I need to find me a way to keep my hat on."
This became a major issue in towns like Tucson, where he now led off for the Tucson Sidewinders.
Local talk radio hosts were tired of defending the war, and programs on the budget deficits were about as exciting as watching hockey without a fight. Besides, most talk show hosts had been communications majors in college in order to avoid taking Economics 101. So Pete's hat problem became a perfect talk-radio issue.
One caller said, "Tell him to glue the hat to his hair," but when he tried this, he had to shave his head to get the hat off.
"Wear a hat that's two sizes too small," another suggested. But Pete turned blue by the fourth inning, and nearly fainted while chasing a ball in the outfield.
Fortunately, Pete's favorite groupie, Tiffany, created a special cap for him, with a gluey substance that would adhere to his skin and peel away without causing hair loss or an unsightly rash.
His problem, now solved, made him and Tiffany famous throughout Arizona. Pete even appeared on the cover of the Sidewinder's program in a skintight uniform Tiffany designed for him, which was glued to Pete's naked body with Tiffany's special concoction.
He became so notorious, in fact, that the Sidewinder organization asked him to wear the skintight uniform in the opening game of the new season.
In his first appearance, Pete felt foolish standing at the plate, especially since he couldn't even wear a jockstrap. Apparently, the opposing pitcher was even more distracted, and Pete walked.
Pete danced off first, even went into a specially choreographed version of Arizona's state song. He had the pitcher so spooked he threw wild to first, and Pete made it to second with a belly slide. After his obligatory back flip, the capacity crowd cheered as if he had scored the winning run in the World Series. Unfortunately, two strikeouts and a ground out kept Pete from advancing. Still, he had time to perform a spike-shoed tap dance to Tiptoe through the Tulips.
At the bottom of the inning, the adrenaline rushed through his veins as he trotted out to centerfield. An unusual amount of dirt stuck to his new uniform, but he gave it no thought. Playing baseball was always a thrill for Pete, and today rumor had it that a Yankee scout was in the stands watching him. He wanted to go all out, make every play count.
As luck would have it, the first pitch was hit deep to center, and Pete turned and sprinted towards the ball. It was heading for the stands, and he gave it everything he had, jumping and crashing into the wall. The ball hit the tip of his glove and rolled down his arm onto the field.
But Pete couldn't get to the ball. He was glued to the centerfield fence. Flailing his arms and legs like a two year-old throwing a temper tantrum, Pete couldn't free himself.
Long after the runner scored and time was called, baseball history was made. For when Polonius "Pete" Popoutsky was peeled from the wall, the front of his uniform still stuck to it, and the nearly 10,000 fans, including the Yankee scout, finally learned how to pronounce his last name.
©2004 by Wayne Scheer
