Monday, March 31, 2008
I know what you're thinking from the title, what the fuck? Please, allow me to explain. I believe I've earned that right after 399 amazing blogs (yes, this is #400). Anyway, with the baseball season beginning this week, I thought that I'd dip back into my personal archives of childhood memories and spew a ton of pent-up rage that has been building up inside of me for way too long. We're going back to a time when there was no eBay. The internet was just something that nerds used. You could even get into Canada without having your ass torn apart. That's right, the beautiful early 1990's. This cautionary tale of sports douchebaggery stars a young, aspiring blogger and his arch nemesis, former Yankee, Blue Jay, Oriole, and probable necrophiliac, Dickhead Jimmy Key.
Jimmy Key, you've been ducking me for somewhere around 15 years now, but today your uppance has finally come. I'm going to enjoy dishing out this week's Middle Finger. Out of all the "birds" that I've given out over the last year, no one has deserved it more than you.
A little background on this epic tale; back when I was growing up, the family used to plan little weekend getaways to semi-close major cities when the Yankees were going to be in town. Such places included Chicago, Baltimore, and for the setting of this story, Toronto. So we're up in Canada for a weekend series, enjoying our stay, and trying to take in the new SkyDome and all the strange intricacies that it offered. Today, it is considered pretty ordinary and I will never call it the Rogers Centre, but at the time, it was a wild experience. I mean a McDonald's inside a baseball stadium??? Insanity!
Anyway, not to toot my own horn or anything, but I was kind of a dynamo at getting autographs from the players during my youth. I guess it was my incredible 12 year old charm. Trust me, those that have never been to my boyhood home, there are autographed balls everywhere. Well, somehow on this trip, my dad had found out which hotel the Yankees were staying at (I'm still not sure how this information was obtained, it may or may not have had anything to do with Alvaro Espinoza. I'm not joking, he used to get my dad tickets while still keeping his awesome look). At this point in my autograph-seeking career, I had realized that trying to get the job done at the park was a disaster, yet the hotel market was wide open. Seriously, there was no one there. You could have your pick of the litter.
So after one of the games, we head back to their hotel and are hanging out in the lobby (like I said, this was the early 90's, you could do anything), when the players come strolling in. I was all over the place with my Sharpie, just kicking ass. I had one last target, who just so happened to be having the best season of his career, and he was waiting for the elevator...Jimmy Fucking Key. He was just standing there by himself, wearing a pair of cowboy boots I shit you not, and our conversation went something like this:
Little Money: Mr. Key, can I please have your autograph?
Dickhead McGee: No, get away from me, kid.
My life had officially changed. I was no longer the same wide-eyed kid that admired all professional athletes and would do anything to get a signature. A part of me died that day. But, like I said earlier, it comes to an end now. It's time to bury that chapter of my life. I will not let you hold me back any longer, Jimmy Key. You stole my innocence once, assfuck, but now I have the power. I have a blog! My story is now told. Fuck you, Jimmy Key. You really do suck.
How in the hell does a pro athlete turn down what amounts to be 2 seconds from a 12 year old kid? I can understand it if I was a 50 year old man with a big stack of photos and wanted him to sign all of them. But I only had a baseball, a marker, and respect. I wasn't asking him to be my best friend...I just wanted 8 fucking letters. You know, I never had this problem with known crazy people like Rickey Henderson, Juan Gonzalez, and Raffy Palmeiro, but Jimmy fucking Key gives me shit. What is his fucking excuse anyway? How many auction sites were out in 1993? Give me a fucking break, dick.
Now, I know what you're thinking, what is the fucking point of all this? Why have you been holding this in for all these years? What are you trying to say? And you know what, I'm not really certain. But one thing is for sure, Jimmy Key is an asshole. And one of these days, I'm going to break into his house and get my revenge on him. I'm going to drunkenly stumble into his room while he sleeps and give him my autograph. By autograph, of course I mean that I'm going to piss all over him...much like he did to a certain 12 year old kid way back when. Remember those weirdo snake-skin boots I told you that he was wearing on that fateful day? Well, when he's trying to come to grasps with why he is covered in my recycled Bud Light, I'm going to shove those boots up his ass sideways. Whew, come on Money, relax. Let's take this blog home before the FBI comes knocking on your door.
I'm curious, though, do my readers have any similar tales of athlete douchey-ness? While I don't consider this story to be on the same level as my battle with Mr. Perfect on the mean streets of Toledo, Ohio, this event needed to be shared. At least for me it did. It's been held in for too long. So, once again, FUCK YOU JIMMY KEY...enjoy your Middle Finger.
You know that you deserve much worse. Never disrespect a blogger. You are a chicken fucker, Jimmy Key.