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Veteran Clubhouse Presence by Pat the Bat: Retirement Package (part 1)

(Photo by Jim Rogash/Getty Images)
(Photo by Jim Rogash/Getty Images)
Getty Images

Editor's note: TGP reached around one more time to our Special Correspondent, Pat the Bat, in hope that he would sit and spit again at our digital recorder, now that retirement is upon him and he is free of his contractual obligations. We tip our hats again to Pat's representatives, Mike and The Guy, for helping with the logistics. Links to previous episodes of Veteran Clubhouse Presence can be found at the end of this Very Special Installment.

The transcript follows.

You guys are just like so many sad little easily bangable "ill" groupies with the big hair and the clearly visible navel rings. I thought you had all crawled between the hinges of your pathetic laptops and died after the Cardinals kicked your team's sorry butts because they couldn't get on base like men. You know I've taken satisfying, late Sunday morning-with-a-cuppa craps on Carpenter, Garcia and Lohse, don't you? Don't you?

But anyways, now you sad hairy sacks want to know what it all means, now that Pat's up and decided he's gonna leave the game. Well, sit back, nerdos and nerditas, and let me uncoil and sing my:

Uncaged Melody, or: How I Became All Retired

First: Hope you close observers all got a laff when I showed up in the Cardinals' clubhouse after the Series. Well it was game SEVEN, blogarogadingdongs, so a party was guar-uhn-teed, and you all know how I roll. And a certain bearded reliever, no doubt you realize the acquired taste I'm talking about here, was all, "Yo Machine, Taco Bell wants me at this Series, but I gotta jet out after game 6. It's all first class. Fill in the blanks, Pat."

And I was like, "Roger that, Chaloompa Loompa. White on rice. Make sure you buy your beard breakfast after you sexually abuse it into your BLACK OPS world, loser." Then we both gave each other the finger over our iPhones for a solid two minutes and had a good long laugh. You may disagree, but he's all right in my book. So off to SFO I went.

Read more, blogarogadingdongs....

Gotta admit, game six was more my style, but game seven came close, I was pretty stoked, and it was great to see another bench dog, Nick (Silent P)unto, get his ring on. He and I stayed pretty tight after 2003 when that curlyass-haired cuss-machine of a manager screwed the clubhouse louder, harder and worse than my lousiest post-Irish Pub, limp whiskeyed lay. And while those Saint Louie boys partied hard, all big muscles and Midwestern-like, and I probably got more chest bumps that night than the other two clinchers combined, I gotta say: the pickings were slim. The beer was fresher, if you catch me here.

It was the first time I was at a big-time baseball party where I kept coming up from behind these well-dressed blonds with some great-looking rear views only to come to find out these ladies were like in their fifties, maybe older. It was like some weird-ass horror flick or something, because once I tapped a shoulder and said hello, it was like, buh-bye fifteen minutes of quality boozy groping, 'cause these old cougars saw me as a party boy toy, and would not shut up, and I was not planning on being that drunk. By the time I was suitably hammered I wound up consoling myself with the Pat(TM)ented firm cornerfeelup of the hottest chick I could find until I got tapped on the shoulder, at which point I pretend to be all boozy and say, with hands up, "Whoa, sorry, I thought you were my girlfriend. God, I'm sorry, really, whoops." I'm guessing it was either Freese's wife or Allen Craig's girlfriend (note to Allen Craig - I could be wrong, except for I'm not. But I didn't really get the sense from her that it had to end as soon as it did. Happy marriage there, buddy).

After that it was just kind of a bummer, just a one-off night kind of feel. I had a little fun with Punto and one or two arb-eligible guys explaining my "hide the poo" gambit in Mozeliak's office, they gave me a wide-eyed, hearty drunken laugh but didn't seem convinced that I had really done it to Amaro last year. Nobody was getting up off the seat, the beer was wearing on me, and it wasn't my kind of crowd. I mean, I'm supposed to get down with Theriot and Schumaker like they're Myers or Huff? I don't know these punks. At some point even LaRussa cornered me, and he was telling me all about OBP this and OBP that and how he was a pioneer, blahblahblah, and I was just his kind of player, he had such respect for me, and then he just sat down in a chair and cried until I kinda slowly backed away. And just like that, all of a sudden I started missing people.

It was on the borderline, maybe 3-4 a.m., but I just felt it wasn't my year, wasn't my team, and not my town, so I cabbed it back to the hotel and just put a raincheck on the sexytime circuit. It was an odd feeling, usually I'd been really turned on to take advantage of a partying town in all its young, skyward-pointing nippled excitement, but that night, as I could hear the streets below rage on, I ordered up some pay-per-porn as background noise to help me fall asleep while I just kind of stared at the ceiling, remembering everything. The good times. And as I drifted off to sleep, my goddamned right foot started barking at me, and I couldn't figure out why until I did the mental math and added up the hours I'd been standing.

In my dreams that night I kept coming up from behind all my favorite baseball people, Hurricanes - Phillies - Giants - hell, even Rays - and tapping them on the shoulder. I could read the names on their jerseys, and when they turned around, they were all old platinum blonde sixtysomething ladies who wanted to deliver pizza to me, fix up my condo, and then have sex with me. I woke up way earlier the next morning than I had in years and stared out at the mess on the street below. Whatever those dreams were all about, I knew a few things for sure: One - Evan Longoria is an oddly hot old woman. Two - my goddamned foot was still sore. And three - It all felt like an ending

Next Up on Veteran Clubhouse Presence by Pat the Pat:

Parts 2 and Possibly Even 3: Bringing It All Back Home to Mrs. The Bat; Pay(It)back Time

Previously on Veteran Clubhouse Presence: 


Word is Bondage

Giants-Phillies Pennant Throwdown Pervue

Week 3 Diary: Beating the Bushes

Week 2 Diary: Longer, Deeper

Week 1 Diary

An Earnest Appeal to Pat the Bat

Bonus Fanboy Beat Poem Homage: BURL

Disclaimer: The views expressed in this blog entry are purely those of the writer, who wishes all the best to the inspiration behind his mockumuse, and shares those wishes with his fellow fans, no matter which coast you hail from. The content and allegations contained in this piece are merely inspired by actual events by current or former major league baseball bats or players, one of whom I used to think might provide better content than I could, but has since taken on a wonderful life of his own.