Perfection is a beautiful thing. Not much in this world is perfect, especially when you are a baseball fan in South Florida. It was dangerously close to midnight by the time our Florida Marlins put to rest the Padres of San Diego. It has been a tradition of ours for at least two games to leave in the last inning to wait by the traveling team’s bus to try to get photographs of the ball players. A name like Greg Maddux and Wally Joyner may not mean much to a TMZ or Entertainment Tonight but in the world of sports fans, they mean the world. While waiting by the buses with my wife a woman in a dark red, tight dress popped into the corner of my vision. Her perfume was the fancy type and very subtle but her looks were not. This woman put the Marlins Mermaids to shame but she was not a dancer and most certainly not a fan of the game.
“Oh God, there goes that asshole Hanley” was the first sentence out of her mouth, spoken at no one and everyone at the same time. Out of curiosity and perhaps even a little pity I politely questioned her about the comment she made just loud enough for everyone to hear. In no time this girl, no older than 21 was telling me things I didn’t know and could have not cared less about. Late night, alcohol-fueled parties, sexual encounters with ball players, and even dirt on my beloved Marlins like which one was the faithful one. Yes, I said the faithful one, not ones. This woman was as starved for attention as a collector is starved for a case of Topps Allen & Ginter but before I could politely turn my head and continue waiting for the players she kept on and on. Washington Nationals, Chicago Cubs, St. Louis Cardinals, this woman had a boyfriend on each one of those teams and only one of them didn’t have a wife and it was because he “swung both ways” she admitted next to a group of children, none older than 12.
The more this woman spoke the worse I felt about my baseball idols. Were these guys ball players or just party animals who occasionally made time to play a little ball and ignore their legion of fans 162 times a year? I was ready to walk away and go home with a sick feeling in my stomach and then out of the dark a giant man showed up and changed my feelings about the game, about the players, and about what this woman had just revealed. His name is Tony Clark and yes, despite being close to the end of his playing career I only wish other guys could show the dedication to the fans that this man did on that cold night. After our awesome moment with Mr. Clark I looked for “Rosemary” somewhat out of curiosity and perhaps to get one final look at this baseball black widow. One could only imagine what tales she tells after a couple of drinks in her system. Someone else will have to find out because as I took my final glance she was getting into a white Mercedez Benz being driven by a certain Marlin who shall remain nameless. After all, this is Wax Heaven, not Deadspin.