legend of the rule book

The Adventures of Dr. Wesley Youngblood: The Legend of the Rule Book I learned from my contact on the inside – the woman who answered the phone at MLB headquarters – that the book was held in a solid iron humidor hundreds of feet below the surface at the company's stronghold on Park Avenue. Slipping past security at the front door was no problem, as I was able to obtain a special key called a "visitor's pass" from the unsuspecting gentleman at the information desk. I had nearly escaped the lobby when I was approached by an enthusiastic young man who stood in my way in an attempt to force some kind of "tour" on me. In one lightning quick motion, I slid behind him – a quick snap of his neck put an end to that threat. Don't be fooled by its immaculately clean hallways and comfortable air conditioned offices – MLB is no paradise. As I made my way toward the back of the building, I saw that the lone elevator was out of order, forcing me to use the stairs. 'They're on to me,' I thought. After a long journey down the stairs and a few stops at water fountains along the way, I finally found my treasure: the Book. As luck would have it, the door to the humidor was unlocked, and I could find no trace of the laser security system; perhaps it was being serviced. As I tucked the book into my knapsack, I said aloud, "Well, this was easy. Too easy." I couldn't have been more right. Just as I got to the door, I was accosted by former commissioner Fay Vincent, who demanded to know just what I thought I was doing. I reached back for my whip, but by the time I had it ready, Vincent had been flanked by Hall of Fame reliever Goose Gossage and the notoriously light hitting infielder Mario Mendoza. Gossage drew twin katana from behind his back and Mendoza wrapped a length of piano wire around his fists. He called it his "Mendoza Line." "Give it up, chump," said Vincent. "You're surrounded." I laughed. "I've been in tighter spots than this, Vincent," I responded. "Oh yeah?" he asked, incredulously. "Like what?" I reached my left hand slowly into my pocket, grasping a handful of sand. I keep sand in my pocket because, well, you never know when you're going to need some sand. "What's tighter than this, Vincent?" I laughed again. "I don't know – how about your mom's twat!" Suddenly, I was a blur of deadly force. I tossed the sand in Vincent's face, blinding him. An elbow to the face knocked Gossage onto his back. Some of the sand had gotten on Mendoza's face; he melted instantly. I ran past my assailants, making it all the way to the elevator before I remembered that it was out of service. I looked around. I would have to double back to the staircase, and there wasn't a water fountain in sight. I hadn't climbed a single stair when I heard the alarm go off. I would have to fight my way out. Doors on every level of the staircase flew open. It was a blizzard of cleats, brass knuckles and pine tar. Hank Aaron came at me with a length of steel chain. I dodged his blow and tossed a startled Johnny Pesky at him. I don't think Pesky was aware there was a fight going on. Next it was Mike Schmidt and the reanimated corpse of Thurman Munson. I called Schmidt overrated and told Munson he wasn't half the catcher that Carlton Fisk was. Schmidt consoled Munson as he wept. I was dazed momentarily by a Bob Gibson fastball to the back of my head. Luckily, my skull is mostly steel. I whipped around and fired a flurry of throwing stars at him and his gang of toughs – Sandy Koufax and Bob Feller, who were pulling a catapult loaded with nails and Tris Speaker, who had daggers in both hands and between his teeth. They fell like shards of glass from a busted window pane. Pussies. I was dripping with sweat and blood – some of which was my own – when I got to the lobby. I could see daylight. I smelled freedom, tasted liberty and felt hungry. I was nearly out the door when it hit me. Then there was only darkness. 'It' was the right fist of idiot man-child Reggie Jackson. I had to hand it to him. I always thought he struck out too much, but he threw one hell of a right cross. I knew then my jaw would still hurt the next morning. Hell, it might hurt next Christmas. I woke up tied to a chair in an empty black room, watched carefully by Jackson and Mike Greenwell. Tom Seaver was there too, but he was preoccupied eating a burrito and making a real mess of it. "Did you really think it was going to be that easy, Mr. Youngblood?" The voice came from behind me. It was Him. "That's DOCTOR Youngblood to you, pal," I said, defiantly. Jackson and Greenwell spun me around to face Him. The Commissioner, 'Bud' Selig. He sat atop a throne of skulls, drinking from a chalice of blood. He laughed. "That's right," he said. "'Doctor' Youngblood. Of course it doesn’t matter, as you'll be hard pressed to show me your diplomas when you're dead. Which, as it turns out, will be in a few minutes because I plan to kill you right now." Selig stood up and grabbed a gold plated bat from his side. "Do you know what this is, Youngblood?" he asked. I shook my head. "It's the bat that Bobby Thomson used to hit his famous walk-off home run off Ralph Branca in 1951. You know, the 'Shot Heard 'Round the World'? Since then, it's been used for a number of memorable 'shots,' but sadly they weren't heard around virtually anything, as they all happened in this room, and the walls are very thick because we were sick of getting noise complaints from the Chinese restaurant next door. Also, we usually tape people's mouths shut or something. The point is that it's rather quiet." I was scared. But you'd have never known it by looking at me. "That sounds great, Selig," I said to him. "You go ahead and take your swing. But there's one thing you're forgetting." "Oh yeah? What's that?" He smiled as he ran his hand along the bat's barrel. "I never work alone." With that, I whistled. Suddenly, there was a mighty BANG as the door flew open, knocking Jackson and Greenwell to the floor. Seaver had left to get a napkin. It was Wolf, my trusty companion and battle-bear. Selig barely had time to look up before his head was in Wolf's mouth, his limp body shaking lifelessly back and forth. "Good job, Wolf," I said. "Now untie these ropes and let's get the hell out of here." Wolf made short work of the ballplayers' knots – Wolf was an Eagle Scout and quite good with knots – and we were out of there, Rule Book in hand. Brooks Robinson – MLB's last line of defense – was waiting for us in the lobby. However, he quickly saw that he was overmatched and stepped out of our way. I chopped his head off with a machete anyway. Next thing you know, I'm making my way down Park Avenue on bear-back. "Let's get to the airport, Wolf," I said. Wolf roared. "No, no – LaGuardia. JFK is a zoo this time of year." Wolf roared again. "Sorry, I forgot you don't like zoos." We both laughed as we headed off into the sunset. Disclaimer: The Vince College legal department has asked us to remind our readers that while bears are capable of untying people from chairs, they should not be counted on to do so in emergency situations. Not only are bears self-absorbed and unconcerned with the plight of others, they also tend to panic in pressure situations, not unlike the Cleveland Indians bullpen.