soft hands.


from btf's death of derek jeter thread:

25. Guapo Posted: October 19, 2006 at 11:54 AM (#2217810)

One morning, Derek Jeter awoke to discover that he had transformed into a giant cockroach. The clutchest cockroach ever. He rolled out of bed, ignoring the screams from the nubile Maxim covergirl lying next to him, and quickly donned his uniform as best he could in his current condition. Today was opening day and he had to go to Yankee Stadium to play against the Tampa Bay Devil Rays.

A quiet murmur circulated through the stands as the Yankee fans contemplated Derek fielding practice grounders before the game. The only indication that this was, in fact, the Yankee captain that they had grown to know and idolize was the familiar "2" on the back of his jersey. In the press box, Michael Kay looked down at the giant cockroach and felt a certain kinship that he couldn't quite explain.

The game began. The Yankee fans began their usual roll call of the players, but instead of "De-rek Jet-er" they chanted "Gi-ant ####-roach." Obviously, they had decided to go with it. Derek discreetly tipped his hat, revealing two long antenna that bounced around slightly in the cool April breeze that blew through Yankee Stadium.

The leadoff hitter for the Devil Rays, a short, unhappy man who secretly desired to be a concert pianist, grounded a ball sharply up the middle. In the past, this had been Derek's only weakness, the groundball that required him to range to his left and dive. Now, however, as a giant cockroach, diving was no longer necessary. Derek deftly scuttled to his left, cleanly picked off the ball with his glove, and fired a strike to first, beating the runner by half a step. As the crowd roared its approval, Derek fist-pumped three of his legs. It was going to be a good season.

43. Jack Keefe Posted: October 19, 2006 at 01:16 PM (#2217917)

Well now Al it is a contest to see who can write a story about Derek Jeter like Jeter is talking only he talks like a famous writer. So here is my story DEREK JETER by Jack Keefe.


Well Al here I am leading off for the Yankees my name is Derek Jeter we are at Yankee Stadium and playing the White Sox and Johnny Demon is on second and the pitcher is a tall handsome drink of water I do not reckognize at first but as he turns his back to go into his motion I see his name KEEFE which looks very crisp on his road greys Al. Now when I try to swing at Keefe's first pitch to hit a home run like I always do it breaks past my bat and I am oh and One and then I take a pitch high but the umpire is a Sox fan so I am 0 and Two. I choke up a little and get set to powder the next pitch but it is a changeup and I am so far out in front I fall to earth and give a little noise and Mr. Torre comes out and stands over me but I am not dead Al I am thinking of a way to stand back up and punch that Keefe in the nose for making me look bad in the story I am writing about my self well I guess I have to go back into the club house and blame it on my 3rd Baseman off the record Al.

45. OneAlou Posted: October 19, 2006 at 01:54 PM (#2217950)

In my younger and more vulnerable years my manager gave me some advice that I've been turning over in my mind ever since.

"Whenever you feel like criticizing anyone," he told me, "just remember that all the people in this league haven't had the advantages that you've had."

He didn't say any more but we've always been unusually communicative in a reserved way and I understood that he meant a great deal more than that. In consequence I'm inclined to reserve all judgements, a habit that has opened up many curious rookies to me and also made me the victim of not a few veteran retread bores. The abnormal mind is quick to detect and attach itself to this quality when it appears in a normal person, and so it came about that in the minors I was unjustly accused of being a politician, because I was privy to the secret griefs of wild, unknown pitchers. Most of the confidences were unsought -- frequently I have feigned sleep, preoccupation or a hostile levity when I realized by some unmistakable sign that an intimate revelation was quivering on the horizon -- for the intimate revelations of young ballplayers or at least the terms in which they express them are usually plagiaristic and marred by obvious suppressions. Reserving judgements is a matter of infinite hope. I am still a little afraid of missing something if I forget that, as Joe Torre snobbishly suggested and I snobbishly repeat, a sense of the fundamental decencies is parcelled out unequally in the amateur draft.

And, after boasting this way of my tolerance, I come to the admission that it has a limit. Conduct may be founded on the infield dirt or the outfield grass but after a certain point I don't care what it's founded on. When I came back from the Yankees this autumn I felt that I wanted the world to be in baseball uniform and at a sort of moral attention forever; I wanted no more riotous excursions with privileged glimpses into the human heart. Only A-Rod, the man who gives his name to this book, was exempt from my reaction -- A-Rod who represented everything for which I have an unaffected scorn. If baseball is an unbroken series of successful statistics, then there was something gorgeous about him, some heightened sensitivity to the promises of life, as if he were related to one of those intricate machines that register pitch speeds a hundred feet away. This responsiveness had nothing to do with that flabby passivity which is dignified under the name of "plate discipline" -- it was an extraordinary power stroke, a swing of smoothness such as I have never found in any other person and which it is not likely I shall ever find again. No -- A-Rod turned out all right at the end; it is what preyed on A-Rod, what foul dust floated in the wake of his dreams that temporarily closed out my interest in the abortive sorrows and short-winded elations of baseball.

65. Zagg Posted: October 19, 2006 at 03:51 PM (#2218058)
'Twas Selig, and the slithy gloves
Did Mickey, Dimaggio and the Babe;
All Bronxy was the borough,
And the home run out of play.
'Beware the Jeterwock, my son!
The bats that hit, the gloves that catch!
Beware the Blue Jay bird, and shun
The frumious Halladay!'
He took his maple bat in hand:
Long time the fastball foe he sought--
So rested he by the batting tee,
And stood awhile in thought.
And as in clutchish thought he stood,
The Jeter, with eyes of flame,
Came swinging with the Louisville wood,
And dribbled foul it came!
One and two! One and two! And through and through
The maple bat went snicker-smack!
He left it dead, and with its head
He went a-trotting back.
'And hast thou slain the Jeterwock?
Come to my arms, my beamish boy!
O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!'
He chortled in his joy.
'Twas Selig, and the slithy gloves
Did Mickey, Dimaggio and the Babe;
All Bronxy was the borough,
And the home run out of play.

stopping before i quote the whole damn thing.


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