Nightmare Series - 1

Sleep Tight

"This is kind of a serious piece. I wrote it to remind fans that players feel the stress as well. It's slightly based on an old MASH episode."

David Ortiz collapsed into his bed. It was late night in Seattle but he never noticed the sights. Baseball either honors you or torments you and tonight the feelings were grueling. He uncovered the bed sheets and fell into the mattress not caring about changing clothes. He closed his eyes hoping for better dreams.

“Hey kids...are you ducking for a duckie”

“Ya!”

“Then come on down to 'Big Papi's Duckie Burgers'.”

Big Papi stood in front of the T.V. Screen dressed as a white duck with yellow legs as he starred into the audience.

“Mmm...mmmm...you know ever since I stopped playing baseball, I just want to eat duckie burgers...the quacking way!”

“That's right kids. Big Papi's Duck Burgers are quacking fun even for Jason Gabbard...”

“It's KASON...God...even in nightmares they get it wrong!”

“And if you act now, buy a Big Papi Duckie Wuckie Burger and you get a quacking load of Duckie Lucky fries!!!!”

“So hurry down to Bangor Maine's biggest chain of goofy restaurants and get down – get it down you know like the feathers!!”

“Ha...so funny and we have lots of fun at Big Papi's Ducka Waka!...oh my God...this is my future!!!! “

“Hey David don't forget to tell them that the first one hundred kids on Saturday get a Big Papi Duckie toy for their bathtub...it's a quack load of fun!!!”

“AHHHHHHH!”
David sprung his eyes open and heard the shout on the door.

“David...are you OK!”
David sprung out of bed wiping the sweat off his forehead. The hum of the air conditioning was running. He went to the door.

“Tito...what's wrong?”

Tito patted David on the shoulder and said, “I should be asking you that question. You OK?”
Papi smiled. Tito was there for him and it made him feel better.

“Bad dream...”

Tito nodded and said, “hang in there David. It'll get better. Everyone is behind you.”

David smiled but it was forced. He nodded and went back to his bed. He closed the sheets over his head but he feared to close his eyes.

Tito fell back into bed. The life of a manager is the life of a father. All the words in the world can't fix a struggling bat. An ache covered his back. He tried to fight his way around it. He was tired enough though to collapse and taste a night of dreams...dreams...

“Welcome to the Tim McCarver Show. My guest today is 90 year old Terry Francona, former manager of the Boston Red Sox now rotting away at a nursing home in Florida. “

Tito looked up at starred at his gnarled hands and wrinkled face.

“Terry...what is the best memory...if you can remember one...of the Red Sox after you retired in 2020.”

“Ah...what?”

'It's OK Terry. No need to answer that question. I understand. ”

Tito looked around the studio. Cameras were everywhere. He starred at his blanket and then at his body feeling the bones and muscle against the opaque skin of his arms.

“Tito...having failed to ever get another World Series crown and instead bringing the Red Sox down to the cellar...do you feel you owe the fans of Boston a deserving apology for your incompetence!”

Tito shook his head.

“Ya..it's tough being old. I never age though but has-beens are like that! Look at Jason Gabbard...”

“It's Kason...Kason Gabbard. God I'm a freaking subplot in a nightmare!”

Tito crunched his fingers together to make a fist but the pain was so bad he just sat there instead.

“Tito...does it hurt to know that 2007 was the last year for your greatness and that ten year contract you signed was called the 'stomach cramp that won't go away' by the fans of Boston.

“No...no...no...no....no....can't end up like this...NO!”

“Don't worry Tito. I already feel the last of your heartbeats anyway...see you in...wherever washed up managers end up”

“AHHHHHHH!”

Tito woke up hearing the hum of the air conditioning. The room was quiet. The air was stale. Tito turned around and then ran to the bathroom. He looked his age.

“I'm twenty, “he said. “I feel twenty...when did I get fifty. “

Tito splashed water on his head. Nobody understood the pain of being a manager. Nobody understood the constant stress. Boston was all about winning and nothing else.

Josh Beckett sat in the clubhouse. He looked around and at himself. The uniforms were all wrong. Everything was wrong.

“Problem Mr. Big shot? Awww...that's wight. Pawtucket no want washed up loosah...poor baby.”

The rest of the team looked at him and said, “awww.”

Josh looked at the team. It was the Toledo Mud Hens. He was wearing the same uniform...with a duck for a hat.

“It's hat day Mr. Big Shot. Got out there and remember...I got a barbeque tonight so don't #$#$ up and give up your usual 100 runs per game!”

Josh stood in shock. His heart was beating against a very flabby chest.

“Can't be...”

'It is!”

The crowd roared as the team walked out on the field. Josh found himself walking onto the grimy Toledo field. He heard on the loud speaker.

“So get Big Papi Duckie fingers...it's finger lickin feathery fun! Mmmm Papi”

Josh stepped on the mound. The ball felt like a piece of hard lead. He tried to throw it but it landed a few feet in front of him. The crowd poured on the boos. The catcher walked to the mound.

“Just want to be clear Mr. Big Shot...the name is KASON! God now I'm the running joke!”
Josh nodded and saw the tomatoes fly on the field. They all shouted “Mr. Big Shot” as Josh ran off the field but he couldn't. The mound was sinking into the ground. It was now quicksand.

“AHHHHH”
Josh's eyes burst open and he ran to the door desperate to get out of the hotel room. He looked in the hallway. It was quiet and subdued. Nobody understood the pressure of a pitcher. Every day you're expected to win a game. It gets to you. You can't do anything right when you're struggling. It's horrible. He looked around as he heard another scream.

Dustin Pedroia stood in the dugout. Everyone was about nine feet tall. He could barely see their knees.

“Ah...somethings wrong here.”

He looked around and then up.

“Ready to bat Dustin?”

“Dammit, “snapped Dustin. “Why are my nightmares always about being short! Gee...it's not like I'm four inches tall...oh...I guess I am!”
“Hey Dustin...your turn to bat.”

Dustin shrugged his shoulders and started to climb the stairs to the field. One after another in an excruciating effort until he reached the tall grass he had to push out of the way to reach the base.

“Batting second...little tiny Dustin Pedroia.”

Dustin grabbed the bat and held it in his hands. Binoculars were used by the Angels to find him. Dustin swung at the first pitch but it was pointless. The ball was too large to hit.

“I hate this. Every single night I go through this. Glad I'm not insecure.”

Dustin tried again and again until he gave up. The catcher walked towards him. Dustin saw the foot walk towards his head.

“No...you'll squash me. HELP!!!!'

“AHHHHHHH”

Dustin ran out of his bed struggling against the bed sheets holding him like a straight jacket. He ran into the hallway. Nobody was there. He hated the stigma. What would it take to overcome the damn height issue. What would he half to prove and how long would he last in a game where expiration was a walk to the manager's office.

Tim Wakefield stood on the mound. How did he get there? The catcher was waiting for a sign. Tim looked around. A runner on first...bad. Two runners on second...really bad. Eight runners on third...hu? He looked around. The score was 120 to 4. Tim was blowing the game. His stomach hurt. He threw the knuckleball and it weaved and sailed and dipped yet it was hit. It was hit. How was that possible. Eleven runs score...on a single? Tim fell to the ground. He couldn't breathe. He saw the catcher walk towards the mound.

“Hey Tim...it's OK.”

It was Doug Mirabelli, his former catcher now a real estate agent in Michigan.

“Doug...please...help me.”

Doug kneeled down.

“Of course. I can get you a two bedroom suite with an acre of land sitting on the quiet lake for just under $4 million with mature trees or you can invest in a condo with 1560 square feet and...

Tim ran away from Doug and fell on the ground. He looked around at the runners. More and more players were loading up the bases.

“If you don't like that, I sell cabins!”

“AHHHHHHH!”

Tim woke up and ran to the hallway. It was dark.

“Can't pay me enough for this. Why do I do this. The fans hate me, I'm payed crap wages...it's not worth it. Tim fell against the side of the wall. He fell to the floor. He wrapped his body around himself and starred at the opposite wall.

Jason Varitek sat down at the desk. He was now a co anchor on a NESN show called “Old Vs. New.”

“Jason...looking at these young catchers has got to put a lot of excitement in you from your old perspective don't you think?”

Jason looked up. It was Kevin Cash, formally of the Red Sox.

“I mean...in your time before you got old and feeble it must have been a hard road dealing with being an old catcher washed up and ready for the clothesline.

“Ah...”

“I mean...being almost 40 with the aches and pains and big fat belly setting in along with a lousy memory...how were you able to handle it without tons of steroids...”

Jason got up and said, “that's it. I'm not succumbing to this nightmare! Ow!”

Jason felt the back ache and sat down again.

“I am old. I'm really old.”

“AHHHHHHH”

Jason got up and ran down the hallway. There was Tim Wakefield.

“Tim...you OK?”
“I'm OK Jason. “

Jason plucked up Tim as they walked down the carpeted hallway and stepped down the stairs. Sure enough Tito, David Ortiz, Dustin Pedroia, and Josh Beckett were drinking coffee.

“Bad dreams? “ said a sympathetic Tito.

“Ya, “said Jason. “Always a bad dream.”

Tito waved the two to the table.

“All I can say is, “said David. “I hate duck!”

“You love duck, “replied Tito.

David looked at him and said, “it's not finger licking good anymore!”

Tito was confused but David just laughed trying to make light of the nightmare.

“Well, “said Tito, “I'm canceling my interview with Tim McCarver. Got a bad feeling about that one.”

Josh on queue, said, “I'm tearing up my tickets to the mud hens. I never wanna set near Toledo again!”

Tim sighed and said, “I don't ever let me buy property in Michigan...man I miss Doug. He knew what to say.”

Jason nodded and said, “I miss Doug. Funny guy. 2007 was such a good year. “

Tito nodded.

“That's baseball.”

“I will never work for NESN, “ said Jason.

“Well, “said Tito. “Maybe the best thing for us to do is to go back to bed and sooth ourselves in dreams.”
The gang all got up and paused. They paused some more starring at the hot coffee and chocolate and then quickly sat back down.

“Hey...how about some poker. Big Papi brings the game.”

Everyone clapped until they heard the thumping of someone running down stairs.

“Oh crap...I lost my hip. I lost my hip. Has anyone seen my hip!”

Everyone chuckled as Mike Lowell stood at the base of the stairs.

“Well...I see I'm not the only one, “said Mike.

“Nope, “said Tito. “I dreamed I was 90.”

“I dreamed I ran a...don't ask, “sighed David Ortiz.

“Well...got any room for another player?”

Tito waved him into the game. Mike sat down and played with the rest of the gang. It was 2:00 am.