After batting practice, we retreated from the hot desert sun to enjoy a snack and a break before the start of the day’s game. The clubbie put out a spread, the guys beat upon the vending machine until everyone got a Gatorade, and text messages were returned.
Pickles picked up his axe and went to turn on Guitar Hero, but I stopped him. There were more important things to be done during this break. There was Kangaroo Court. Today was the first paycheck of the season.
Kangaroo Court is a team-created legal institution made up of peers and elected judges. It’s how the team regulates all the stupid and unprofessional things that happen during a season, using a system of fines and mock legal proceedings to embarrass transgressors.
There are no real laws and no set fines, and the whole thing is one big social normalizer. When we believe someone has broken an unwritten law of the Kangaroo Court, aka did something stupid, we write down the stupid act, suggest a fine, list a witness, and put the written offense in the Kangaroo Court Fine Box (an appropriately marked shoe box) located in the middle of the clubhouse.
During court, a chosen player empties the fine box and reads the offenses to a panel of peer-elected judges, typically composed of a pitcher and a fielder and one other player to break ties. The act is weighed for its stupidity, comedic value, and relevance. It is then fined accordingly. If an accusation brought before the court does not cover all the requirements, with special emphasis on making the team laugh, the judges can vote down the stupid act, in which case the person who wrote the offense must pay the fine for wasting the court’s time. This ensures that players make their fines as entertaining as possible, the real point of why we have court.
The accused can contest a fine, in which case the court will hear his plea. If he does an excellent job of refuting the accusation, meaning he makes everyone laugh and embarrasses the person who wrote the charge. The judges may overrule the case, effectively reversing the fine. The judges may still fine both parties even if the whole case is funny, just because they can and because the collected money goes toward a party during the All-Star break.
The court recognizes that not every player is a natural, comedic speaker. This is why lawyers can be purchased. If the party in question cannot afford a lawyer, the court will appoint one for him. The accused has the right to remain silent as all misspoken admissions to drunken stupidity can and will be used against him in the Kangaroo Court of Law. In the Kangaroo Justice System, the players are represented by two separate, yet equally important groups: the players who investigate crime, and the vindictive pack of minor league degenerates who prosecute the offenders. These are their stories.
Last year’s group of players, now the Double-A team, had such great chemistry that Kangaroo Court became a prime-time event. Full-out legal battles with reenactments and key-witness testimony were brought in. Though usually held the same day paychecks were dispensed, we began making up excuses to have “emergency sessions” of Kangaroo Court.
Last year, a player on the team by the name of White Chocolate, named because he was the blackest white guy any of us had ever met, got caught with porn at his host family’s house. If the offense had been written as simply as I just described, he may not have gotten fined. Instead, those crafty court masters who made last year’s legal proceedings so much fun exhausted every avenue of humor they could.
When the emergency sessions were held, the prosecutors, who also happened to be roommates of the accused, asked White Chocolate to his face if he was doing anything perverse in his host family’s office. He said no.
“Did you look up porn on your host family’s computer?”
“I haven’t done anything you guys haven’t done.”
“Answer the question, please. Yes or no. Did you look up porn on the host family’s computer?”
“Yes.”
“What did you do after you looked up the porn?”
“I went back to my room.”
“Did you try to do anything else on the computer?”
No answer.
“Did you do anything else on the computer, and need we remind you, you are under oath.”
“No.”
“Did you turn off the computer and exit the room.”
“Yes.”
“You didn’t masturbate in the room before you left.”
“Hell no! Come on dude!”
“Did you print anything while you were on the computer?”
“No.”
“No?”
“NO!”
“Your honors, it’s true when White Chocolate says he did not print anything off the computer. The fact of the matter is, he tried and the computer would not print.” The prosecutor turned and gestured to all in a very theatrical manner. “Sometimes computers and printers don’t connect like they should. Chalk it up to Windows. Sometimes the printer receives the instructions to print and saves it in its memory until the computer is restarted and whatever signals were crossed work themselves out.
“As it would happen, just today, we, along with our host mother, went into the office to look something up on the Internet for her.” Chocolate’s head sunk. “When the computer turned on, the printer began printing items stored in its memory. At this time, we would like to submit the following evidence to the court.”
The roommates’ lawyers handed seven printed photos of nude, extra dark chocolate women. Each in an exotic pose: spreading, bending, begging. The lawyers laid the pictures down before the courtroom to the roaring laughter of everyone present. Judges fell on each other laughing. People in the court rolled onto the floor. White Chocolate turned to red chocolate.
“Chocolate, are you serious?” a judge asked.
“It wasn’t me,” he offered.
“Yeah, right. Who else lives there and is obsessed with black women?”
At this point, one of the guys on the team who was black came over to inspect the photos and declared, “I know you like black ladies and all, but damn, Chocolate! At least you could have looked up some good-looking ones. This here is some fucked-up shit!”
“Your honors, I would like the court to know we were present as each photo printed painfully slowly in front of our host mother. She was so embarrassed, we had to escort her from the room. We would like the court to take her pain and suffering into consideration when it rules.”
“Do you have anything to say for yourself White Chocolate?”
“What can I say? I like black women. I didn’t know it would print out like that though. It’s not my fault.”
“You really must have been horny,” one of the judges said. “You printed it out seven times.”
“Five,” another judge corrected. “This one is crawling, that one is doing splits—the other one with the lollipop is a repeat.”
“Got a thing for lollipops, Chocolate?”
“How does the court rule?” a prosecutor asked, pleased with the production.
We convened to discuss the issue. It was an open-and-shut case for our cybercrimes division.
“Chocolate, here is your fine. A buck for each picture you printed out and three bucks for embarrassing yourself and your roommates in front of your host mother. You owe your host mom an apology when you see her again, and you owe your roommates dinner for dragging them into this.”
“I didn’t drag them into this. They were the ones who made a big deal.”
“Chocolate, seriously?” an incredulous roommate of his asked. “You tried to print out hard-core porn in front of our host mom. Why would you even print it out?”
“Well, I wasn’t going to do my thing in her office,” he said, making a lewd gesture.
“Why would you even look it up on her computer?”
“Because, bro, I’m a man. I got needs.” More laughter came from the crowd.
“Chocolate, just don’t say anything. If you keep talking I’m sure the fine will get worse.”
The first case of today’s court, the first court of the season, was against Slappy. Go figure.<
br />
The official court reader, Maddog, pulled the complaint from the box and spoke, “Okay, this fine is on Slappy.”
“Guilty!” Slappy yelled, jokingly. The courtroom, which was our locker room with three judging players sitting to one side of it, chuckled.
“Slappy stands accused,” Maddog continued, “of making out with girl at the Diamond Club and then losing her to another guy.”
“What? No, no, no—that’s not something I should be fined for.”
“Hold on Slappy, we have rules here. How do you plead?”
“Not guilty, of course.”
“It says on the complaint that the team witnessed this.”
“I’m saying not guilty because I made out with her. Maybe that’s all I wanted to do.”
“But she was ugly, dude. Ugly and fat.”
“That’s not what I’m being charged for, though. I’m being charged for losing her.”
Seth was on his feet and ready to prosecute. “That’s the whole point, Slap. You don’t just make out with ugly chicks because you like kissing them. You have to go all the way. And that’s only because it’s part of busting a slump or something. I mean, unless you like fat, ugly chicks, the only purpose they serve is health related.”
“That’s true, Slap. Fat chicks should be used for medicinal purposes only.”
“It was the beginning of the year, bro. I was just getting warmed up. I’m not in mid season form yet,” Slappy countered.
“That’s no excuse for you to lose her to another guy,” Seth said, pushing the issue.
“Why am I the one getting fined? Buschmann should be getting fined, since he stole her. He went out of his way to take an ugly chick from me! That’s real desperation, stealing a fat chick from a teammate! I’d like to cite the law of Bros before Hos here!”
“I don’t think it applies in this case,” a judge said.
“This is a mockery of justice!” Slappy wailed.
Brent’s hand when up. “If it pleases the court, I think Buschmann should get a credit under his name for stealing Slappy’s girl.”
“That’s bullshit!” Slappy wailed.
“And that’s one dollar, Slap. No swearing in Kangaroo Court—we’re professionals here.” Maddog wrote down a dollar fine for Slap.
“Fine, that’s bullcrap,” Slappy rephrased. “What kind of teammate steals another player’s chick, regardless of how nasty she is?”
“Personally,” Frenchy said, “I think she had a chance to upgrade from a bad body reliever to a starter and she took it.”
“Maybe we should give her a credit too,” Brent said.
“That is a veteran move.”
“She’s got a big one,” Rosco said.
“I think the court has heard enough to render a decision.”
Slappy was fined three dollars, one for illegal use of a potential slump buster, one for losing said slump buster to another player, and one for swearing.
“Next fine.” This was for Lunchbox. “For making the comment, ‘It’s a good thing dolphins don’t have hands or they’d probably take over the world.’”
“Did you really say that, Box?” a judge asked.
Lunchbox stared at the court with a dull face of wonder. “What? I was just saying that they’re smart, I think, like the smartest mammals on earth, right? If they had hands, like us, I’ll bet they could challenge us.” Blank expressions as the entire locker room stared back at Lunchbox. “You guys don’t think so? Like, they’d be dangerous if they had fingers and thumbs?”
“Box, you might want to think about appointing a lawyer. Would anyone like to represent Lunchbox?”
Seth shook his head. “I’m not even going to touch that one.”
“What? If they had fingers, they could use guns.”
“Where are dolphins going to get guns, Lunchbox?”
“Submarines.”
Lunchbox was fined one dollar. Someone helped him count it out.
Chapter Twenty-one
The boys showed up at the park early because of the scheduled bus trip. We were on commuter time. Our destination was High Desert, with service to Modesto following the game. This marked the first day of a four-game road trip.
We changed into our uniforms at the park, halfway at least, not bothering to tuck tops in or put hats on—certainly no spikes. There was no reason to look game ready since we were just going to hop on a bus for the next two hours. Suitcases were packed for the overnight portions; Padres-issued equipment bags were stocked for the day. We, a gang of half-dressed baseball bums, lugged our cases and bags to the curb of the stadium’s parking lot and waited for the arrival of the team bus.
When the bus huffed and puffed into the parking lot, all the future occupants sprang to attention and began forming a line at the presumed point where the bus, or rather the door of the bus, would stop. Everyone jockeyed, shoulder to shoulder, nudging and bumping each other almost in front of the bus itself for a chance at prime seating. As soon as the bus rolled its last inch and its pneumatic brakes exhaled, signaling a full stop, the doors folded open and the gang burst into it like zombies in a cheap horror flick. I got on last. There was no reason for me to rush.
Part of being the oldest guy on the team with higher-level time is I get whatever seat I want, regardless if someone else has it or not. It’s baseball tradition that older guys get the pick of the seating litter, and always has been. I’m not sure where the tradition originated, but it is what it is, and I for one was not going to challenge it.
I walked up the steps to the bus aisle proper and stared down it like Death looking for his next victim. The occupants who had already gotten comfortable held their breath as I made my way down the aisle. Some players pretended to look away, as if I didn’t exist. The age hierarchy of priority seating was law, and it was mine to enforce however I saw fit. I came to a stop in front of the seat I usually take, the one with the few extra inches of precious legroom. It was occupied by Matt Bush.
Bush was the 2004 first pick overall. He was made a millionaire three times over by the draft and wasn’t even twenty yet. However, not even a month into his professional career, he fell out of favor for some stupid stuff he did off the field involving underage drinking and anger. He wasn’t performing as the Padres hoped he would, thus his exploits off the field were his most notable career achievements. Partially the business, partially his own fault, he was under tremendous scrutiny and pressure. I felt sorry for him, actually. Just not sorry enough to let him have the good seat—not this year.
“Beat it, Bush,” I said, like a king throwing the jester from his thrown.
“Come on man, are you serious?” In his defense, no one, regardless of the round they were drafted in, would be happy about this.
“Hell yes, I’m serious. I’m the oldest guy in the Cal League. Now gimme my damn seat!”
Bush rolled his eyes, then retreated to another location. He was definitely irritated, but he didn’t bite me or anything. It felt good to push a first rounder around.
As the time of departure drew near, those players who came late were punished by having to double up with other players for the trip. In order to make their seats seem less inviting, the players already seated spread out as if they had spontaneously gained weight. Some were stretching uncomfortably over the seats, arranging their backpacks, iPods, and magazines in ways that screamed “no room for rent.” Some even pretended to be asleep, hiding under their dark sunglasses.
“I can see your eyes, dude. Just let me sit down and quit faking it.”
“For fuck’s sake, why don’t you just show up on time!”
“It doesn’t matter if I did—there aren’t enough seats for everyone to get his own. Someone was going to double up, so deal with it.”
“Well it didn’t have to be me! God…I hope you get beaned tonight.”
I believe this reaction is why things like seat hierarchies are created.
When everyone is on board, the bus is supposed to go forwa
rd—supposed to. Occasionally, some things will occur that alter the normal series of events. Things like breakdowns or late players. Or things like what happened today when the bus driver got on the mic and began talking to us—
Baseball players are not nice, tame animals. Especially not in packs, when they feel safe to bark and snarl and spit thanks to their superior numbers. When the bus driver turned around, the first thing we all noticed was that he was cross-eyed, severely cross-eyed, noticeable even to me sitting in the back. The next thing we noticed, by the excitable way he breathed and groped the bus’s built-in tour-guide microphone, was that he was a baseball fan.
“Uh, hello everyone. I really hope you guys win today. I’ll be cheering you on from the bus. If you play hard, I know you’ll all be winners. Do it for your love of the game and stay positive—”
“Get off the mic!”
“Drive the bus!”
“Turn around.”
“Stop looking at me that way!”
He looked at our team’s manager, who pretended he was asleep.
“Uh.” The bus driver tried to figure out what was happening. He forced out some nervous laughter, wringing off the microphone chord. “You guys are all winners and—”
“Are you a coach or a bus driver?”
“Why are we still here?”
“We pay you to drive.”
“Sit down, Ralph.”
“Turn the air-conditioning on, Steve.”
The Bullpen Gospels Page 16