I didn’t want to do two of these so close together, but then Delmon Young had to go and sign with the Baltimore Orioles this week, meaning it’s once again time for the royal We to insert Delmon Young’s name into a shitty representation of the Western Canon, thus diminishing these works even further into the flammable morass of Lake Erie that is realty-TV-based popular culture.
Today, Delmon Young plays the part he was born to play, as a terrible baseball player searching for someone, anyone to guide him, in Notgraphs-subsidized Internet GIF-maker and notable quitter David Temple’s favorite book, The Kid Who Only Hit Homers*:
*By the way, having re-read the first couple pages of this book for the purposes of this post, I just want to say that the ghost of Babe Ruth comes off as a total pedophile. No child should ever read this book again lest they be encouraged to accept “private coaching” from complete strangers after practice.
The Baltimore Orioles were having their third practice session of the spring season, and Delmon Young, a right-hander, was batting.
Bud Norris hurled in the first pitch. It looked good and Delmon swung.
Swish! He missed it by six inches.
Just meet it, Delmon,” advised coach Jim Presley. “You’re trying to kill it.”
Delmon tried to “just meet” Bud’s next pitch and fouled it to the backstop screen. He hit the next one to Bud. It was a dribbler that took almost ffive seconds to reach the mound.
“Hold it up for him, Bud!” shouted Ryan Flaherty, the club’s second baseman.
“Think that would help, Ryan?” yelled Nick Markakis.
A rumble of laughter broke from the other players on the field. Delmon didn’t let it bother him, though. He was pretty used to it by now.
“Okay, Delmon,” said the coach. “Lay it down and run it out.”
Delmon bunted Bud’s next pitch down to third and beelined to first base. His stocky build and short legs didn’t exactly help him be a very fast runner.
He had hoped that by now he would show some improvement in his playing. If there was any, it was so slight no one seemed to notice.
His performance in the outfield wasn’t any better than it was at the plate. Mr. Russell, the bench coach, was knocking flies out to the outfielders and Delmon missed three out of four that were hit to him.
“Remind me to bring you my mom’s clothes basket at the next practice” said
AndrewAdam Jones (note: the author is dumb), one of the outfielders who was sure to make the starting lineup. “Maybe then you can catch it.”
The next afternoon, he sat in the bleachers and watched the Baltimore Orioles practice. No one seemed to miss him on the field. No one that is, except Chris Davis, who ran over from first base after batting practice.
“Delmon! Why aren’t you on the field?”
“I didn’t sign up,” answered Delmon.
Delmon shrugged, “Why? To warm the bench? Anyway, I don’t care that much about playing when the Jews are controlling the league anyway.”
Obviously, Delmon is then approached and magically assisted by the poorly disguised “Junior Calvin,” who unlocks Delmon’s latent ability to hit and gives him the confidence to become one of baseball’s great anti-Semitic superstars.
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