Ball Five Pt. 4

Editor's Note: John Rocker, the maligned former closer for the Atlanta Braves, has signed a book deal with Regnery Publishing (publisher of such bestsellers as Unfit for Command: Swift Boat Veterans Speak Out Against John Kerry) to chronicle his comeback attempt. Regnery and Mr. Rocker have graciously agreed to post some of the pitcher's entries here, as they happen. On June 28, Mr. Rocker elected to leave the Long Island Ducks. Below are his parting words.

My daddy always said there'd be days like these. Went to pound some Michelob's after a crap day at the office, lost $20 at Golden Tee to some douchebag with a face like a pizza milkshake, spilled a Baybreeze on my favorite polo and my sloshed ass hit on a tubber for like 15 minutes without even getting blown. It was a bad day gone badder, the kind that always ends with me shouting at myself in some shattered bathroom mirror for two hours, snot dripping from my nose like the clap.

It was pretty close to rock bottom that night. I can see that now. But just as the bottom started to come up at me like a screamer off the fat part of a bat, someone saved me. A blonde. Huge tits, hot bod, dressed real nice. One minute I'm puking up beer nuts under a barstool and the next I'm playing naked Jenga with this babe and three of her friends in some penthouse apartment in New York. I'd never experienced anything like it. And before I knew it we were suddenly in a private plane headed to Florida while they gave me a "stress test," which I thought would be something kinky — ya know? — but ended up being a, um, stress test.

I dunno what it was, but while they were talking to me everything just started to make sense. At first I thought it was just that I was skunk-drunk on a fancy-ass airplane with four fine-ass naked ladies standing over me and my brain needing oxygen, but looking back now in the cool light of day, I understand that that euphoric sensation was simply my body releasing its thetans thanks to the teachings of Mr. Hubbard. You heard that right: I'm a Scientologist now.

Back when I went to a Baptist church as a kid, I was always fascinated by how Saul became Paul. What would it feel like, I would wonder, to have that heavenly light bulb go off? Well, now I know. You look at yourself in the mirror and you don't have this weird feeling like you want to flex your pecs and cry at the same time. You don't feel so angry. Instead, you just feel relieved to finally be out from under Xenu's thumb. Every muscle in your body just aches to return to your starship, which is probably idling off of some kick-ass planet you've never heard of.

You've probably heard that I quit the Long Island Ducks. Well, it's true. If I'm to bring my race back to its rightful intergalactic prominence, I can't be spending my time striking out wetbacks in Rhode Island. I have a new mission now, and so do you: go see War of the Worlds. It totally kicks ass. Over and out.


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