"Why the f**k are there so many goddamn baseball teams named after people from Bonanza?!!!" shouted a newly traded, tobacco spewing John Rocker at his locker in Shea Stadium, where the NY Mets were hosting his Atlanta Braves. After some reporters explained to him that Braves and Indians (or Native Americans as they are properly described today) do in fact exist, his scowl diminished.

     Rocker began darting through the lockers of his teammates and trying to avoid reporters. He filled his mouth with an extra twelve ounces of chew, and sprayed us with black chaw juice in response to our queries.

     We then followed him to the airport and boarded his plane for Indiana. While we all knew that the Cleveland Indians did not play in Indiana, missing his reaction upon touchdown would be a true shame. John got off the plane in Indianapolis and, after Cleveland GM John Hart called him on his cell phone to point out the error, the reliever sprinted to an Avis rental car depot.

     We accompanied him on the drive to Kansas City, during which he began complaining about the size of jockeys and girth of sumo wrestlers "they're a bunch of stinkin' elves and doughboys," cried Rocker. He finally reached Kauffman Stadium, ignored stadium security and sprinted onto the dark field in his Braves uniform -- 3 hours after the Indians-Royals game had already ended.

     "This is all your fault, Rogaine!" he cried, as he squeezed my nipple into a purple pulp. "What kind of name is Rogaine anyway?" After several racial epithets -- none of which described me and which I dare not quote in this article -- Rocker began following a pink balloon floating in the humid Kansas City sky. That was the last we saw of him. God help the Indians!

Staff Writer Butch Rogaine hates pink balloons.

		June 26, 2001	Newsletter Signup | Feedback
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