In baseball, a player comes along every so often who, despite not being the best on the field, captures the hearts -- and imaginations -- of the fans.
For me, that player is Benny Rodriguez. I'm sure he might be a favorite player of yours as well.
But the public really knows very little about his career. We saw flashes of greatness early -- his long home run against the tigers, busting the guts out a ball, pickling the beast -- and glimmers of his past prowess late in his career -- his steal of home against the Giants to win the game.
Other than this, however, we really know nothing.
That all changes today.
What follows is the recalling of the life and career of Benjamin Franklin Rodriguez. I have made the best of efforts to tell Rodriguez' story accurately and succinctly. Please enjoy and feel free to contact me with questions.
1927: Vicente and Rosario Rodriguez migrate from Mexico to Los Angeles, Cal., to work in the orchards on the outskirts of the city. Shortly after arriving in America, they give birth to a son and name him after Vicente's father, Carlos.
1944: With war raging on two fronts, Carlos joins the United States Navy at age 17. Before he leaves he marries his high school girlfriend, Tina Vasquez. Carlos works as a mechanic on a destroyer and sees little action in the war. He returns to Los Angeles in 1945 and receives his discharge from the Navy. After searching for a few weeks, Carlos finds a job fixing cars at a Texaco Station. On weekends, he plays baseball with a team of other local immigrants.
1948: Carlos and Tina have their first child, a daughter, who they name Alice.
1950: This is a watershed year for Carlos and Tina. They officially become American citizens Tina becomes pregnant with the couple's second child. After saving every penny for almost six years, Carlos takes the leap and decides to open his own auto repair shop in June of that year. The shop is an immediate success, as Carlos is widely regarded as one of the best -- and most honest -- mechanics in the valley.
Tina gives birth to a son October 8, 1950. They name him Benjamin Franklin Rodriguez, after one of America's founding fathers, who the becomes fascinated with while studying for their citizenship exams.
1960: At age 10, Benny becomes known by area baseball coaches for his skills on the diamond. He confounds them, however, with his unwillingness to play for organized teams, opting instead to play with a group of eight neighborhood friends at an abandoned lot.
He becomes somewhat of a cult figure because of this and tells the local newspaper, which decided to briefly investigate this somewhat strange story: "I just want to play with my buddies for now. I've got my whole life ahead of me to play on organized teams. Right now, I just want to set my own schedule and play when I want to play. What's so wrong with that?"
1962: Benny discovers -- by chance -- that the lot he's been playing on for years in adjacent to the home of former major league baseball player Mr. Myrtle, who played with the Pittsburgh Pirates in the 1920s and was a friend of hall of fame member Babe Ruth. Rodriguez and Myrtle meet one weekend a month to discuss the latest goings in in Major League Baseball. Rodriguez would keep this appointment until Myrtle's death in 1978.
1964: Rodriguez makes his high school baseball team as a freshman. He plays catcher, shortstop, centerfield and pitcher. He also plays basketball and soccer for the school.
1968: As a senior, he leads his team in batting average, home runs, runs batted in, slugging percentage and steals. He also finishes the year with a record of 8-0 with and ERA of 0.67 and 65 strikeouts in 53 innings pitched. He enters the MLB draft and the Los Angeles Dodgers take him in the 8th round. He signs for a bonus of $7,500 and immediately reports to the Dodgers Class A affiliate Tuscon Twisters.
With his bonus money he buys, among other things, a male Bullmastiff and names him Smalls.
1971: In his third year in the minors, Rodriguez reaches the AAA Tulsa Braves, where he hits .309 with 33 stolen bases for the year. He is a September call up to the Dodgers. He records a bunt single in his first at bat and goes 3-4 with two runs scored in the game. He appears in 20 games for the Dodgers in 1971, hitting a respectable .276 with 11 steals in 18 attempts. One rival scout notes of Rodriguez: "This kid's got wheels. For better or for worse, he'll steal on any count or try to stretch any single into a double. Could be an elite base stealer if he picks him moments more carefully."
1972: Rodriguez narrowly misses making the major league roster after a very good spring training in which he showed surprising power and better decision making on the basepaths. Manager Walter Alston tells him to wait his turn, and that it might not be long until he's called up. He's right: Rodriguez joins the club May 30 and platoons in centerfield for the rest of the season, batting .296 and finishing fourth in Rookie-of-the-Year voting.
1973-1978: In these years, Rodriguez is a regular on three World Series champion teams. He played a crucial role in game 4 of the 1977 World Series when he gunned down Yankees infielder Willie Randolph trying to score from second base on a short single, thus killing a rally that looked as if it would shift the series momentum.
He is known throughout the National League as a top-notch leadoff hitter who punished pitchers by using his speed -- his nickname is "The Jet" -- to turn singles and walks into doubles. His best season in 1978 when he bats .294 with 89 runs scored and 69 steals.
1979: Rodriguez, in the prime of his career, tests free agency and lands a lucrative five-year contract with the Pittsburgh Pirates, but he never really adjusts to playing in frigid Three Rivers Stadium and his career numbers suffer for it. He tears his labrum of his throwing shoulder while diving for a line drive in 1982 and never really recovers. He becomes a non-factor at the plate and is limited mostly to pinch running duty.
1984: Although he's grateful to the management and fans in Pittsburgh, he requests a trade back to Los Angeles before the 1984 season. They oblige his request and he re-signs with the Dodgers for another two years. Plays outfield sparingly for the next two years, batting .264 with 50 steals in two years.
1986: Although he doesn't play much, his local ties and track record with the team make The Jet a fan favorite in L.A. On Sept. 26, near the end of the 1986 season, Rodriguez brushes off the dust and steals home on a suicide squeeze to win the game against the Giants. Although he won three World Series titles in his career, this would be his defining moment. Years later he would say of it:
"You know, that was one hell of a way to go out. I don't think [the Giants] had any idea it was coming, but you know what? They should've; I may have lost a step or two but they should've been looking for some fireworks, they really should have been ... (laughs) ...
"But seriously, what a way to end a career. I used to dream of that [stuff] when I was a kid, and I was luck enough to live out that dream in front of the best fans in the world. The world series wins were great, don't get me wrong, but to go out like that, scoring the winning run, wow, that's why we play this game."
Present: The Jet still lives in L.A. with his family. He still shows up every year at Dodger spring training to sign autographs.
Friday, July 24, 2009
Tuesday, June 23, 2009
Why PED users might not make it to Cooperstown ...
Every so often, someone on ESPN — Gammons, Olney, the rest — has to answer the question on camera: "Should (Sosa, A-Rod, anyone else found to have used PEDs during their career) get into the Hall of Fame?"
The answers vary from "Absolutely not" to "Sure let 'em in, it's common knowledge that many players were using during that era, and the nubmers are tainted." The latter, by the way, is my favorite answer to this question. Every era in baseball has its black eye, so to speak: Black players weren't allowed until 1947, the pitcher's mound used to be taller than it is today and so on and so forth.
My two cents: Let them in. All of them, I really mean it. Now, I love baseball more than just about any adult(ish) male I know. Yes, I'm offended that some of the greatest players of my time cheated (note: I was a big A-Rod fan before he got outed — for steroids I mean). And yes, PEDs have tarnished baseball's reputation for the foreseeable future. But I'm not going to sit on my high horse and say that this handful of players raped our pure and chaste American pastime. That notion is pure myth. Plain and simple
Just a few ways that baseball has been anything but pure since its inception: Ty Cobb (maybe the best player ever?) was a noted bigamist and might have killed a guy once, Mickey Mantle was a lush, Jackie Robinson played in the face of death threats and do I really need to mention Dwight Gooden and Darryl Strawberry's coccaine-laced tenures with the Mets? I could go on and on but a hundred national columnists have done it already.
The logical solution as to how to deal with putting these guys in the Hall is to vote them in and make sure everyone knows that these guys cheated by taking PEDs.
The plaques can read something like this:
"Barry Bonds hit the most home runs ever but was linked to the BALCO mess and blah blah but goddamnit, he was fun to watch."
"Mark McGwire was a Ruthian figure, maybe the nicest guy ever but he was more juiced up than a WWE wrestler. But 1998, the season in which he hit 70 home runs, might have been the greatest in baseball history." (Note here: if you love baseball and can forget about PEDs for like 300 pages, read Mike Lupica's "Summer of '98." Great book.)
"Sammy Sosa: Yes he took PEDs. But like McGwire, he was part of '98 and one of his era's best-loved players."
You get the picture? We know they cheated. Let it be duly noted that they did so, but they belong in the Hall as a part of baseball history.
Now that I've bored you with all that, here's why there's no chance these guys will get in: Shame and Guilt (very Catholic, I know, but bear with me here).
Whose shame and guilt you ask? The Baseball Writers Association of America. Yep, you heard me. These are the people who decide which players enter the Hall and which do not, and as a group, they will not elect these known cheaters. No way, no how. And it's all because of shame and guilt.
Shame and guilt they feel for missing or ignoring the PED train when it started coming down the tracks in the late '80s and early '90s. Who hangs around the batting cage during batting practice? Beat writers. Who kicks it in the clubhouse with the players after the games? Beat writers. You're telling me not one of these writers noticed anything fishy? I don't buy it.
(Small side track: these guys are supposed to be journalists! Journalists whose task it should be to stamp out corruption or unfairness or evil wherever and however they see it, regardless of who they grew up rooting for. They were supposed to be our — the fans — eyes and ears, our "watchdogs," just as White House reporters keep an eye on the president or a business reporters keep an eye on Wall Street.
The journalistic failure here cannot be overlooked. Can you imagine members of the Obama Adminsitration smoking meth in the West Wing and the hoard of reporters at the White House just keeping mum about it. "Hey, I know they're using ilegall drugs here, but it sure is fun to watch." Hyperbole, obviously, but is it really that far off? I think not.
Listen: Maybe the writers — reporters, remember — were awed by the bulging biceps or the mammoth home runs that were so prevelant in the '90s and early 2000s. Maybe they just got caught up in the undeniable excitement of it all. Who knows. All I know is that they failed in their jobs as journalists to report to us what was really going on. Shame on you all for that).
So, to come to what I'm really trying to say: Bonds, McGwire and the rest might not gett into the Hall of Fame because it's the last chance that these baseball writers have to do something about the whole PED mess. They know it got out of hand. It's not their fault, they — presumably — weren't injecting anybody with anything, but they should've spoken up and did something, I don't know, did some investigative reporting, before it became the epidemic that it did.
Now, retroactively, they can try to fix their mistake(s) by casting ballots for "clean" players only. They can't go back and change what they didn't do, but they can do this. We're going to see evidence of this in the near future: McGwire got slaughtered on the last ballot. The same will go for Clemens, Sosa, et. al. The writers who turned a blind eye in the first place will now give a last-ditch effort to do what should've been done years ago. Oh well.
It's sad that it's come to this, it really is. Two of the things I love most in the world — seriously — baseball and journalism, have a lot of ground to make up.
We'll see how they do.
The answers vary from "Absolutely not" to "Sure let 'em in, it's common knowledge that many players were using during that era, and the nubmers are tainted." The latter, by the way, is my favorite answer to this question. Every era in baseball has its black eye, so to speak: Black players weren't allowed until 1947, the pitcher's mound used to be taller than it is today and so on and so forth.
My two cents: Let them in. All of them, I really mean it. Now, I love baseball more than just about any adult(ish) male I know. Yes, I'm offended that some of the greatest players of my time cheated (note: I was a big A-Rod fan before he got outed — for steroids I mean). And yes, PEDs have tarnished baseball's reputation for the foreseeable future. But I'm not going to sit on my high horse and say that this handful of players raped our pure and chaste American pastime. That notion is pure myth. Plain and simple
Just a few ways that baseball has been anything but pure since its inception: Ty Cobb (maybe the best player ever?) was a noted bigamist and might have killed a guy once, Mickey Mantle was a lush, Jackie Robinson played in the face of death threats and do I really need to mention Dwight Gooden and Darryl Strawberry's coccaine-laced tenures with the Mets? I could go on and on but a hundred national columnists have done it already.
The logical solution as to how to deal with putting these guys in the Hall is to vote them in and make sure everyone knows that these guys cheated by taking PEDs.
The plaques can read something like this:
"Barry Bonds hit the most home runs ever but was linked to the BALCO mess and blah blah but goddamnit, he was fun to watch."
"Mark McGwire was a Ruthian figure, maybe the nicest guy ever but he was more juiced up than a WWE wrestler. But 1998, the season in which he hit 70 home runs, might have been the greatest in baseball history." (Note here: if you love baseball and can forget about PEDs for like 300 pages, read Mike Lupica's "Summer of '98." Great book.)
"Sammy Sosa: Yes he took PEDs. But like McGwire, he was part of '98 and one of his era's best-loved players."
You get the picture? We know they cheated. Let it be duly noted that they did so, but they belong in the Hall as a part of baseball history.
Now that I've bored you with all that, here's why there's no chance these guys will get in: Shame and Guilt (very Catholic, I know, but bear with me here).
Whose shame and guilt you ask? The Baseball Writers Association of America. Yep, you heard me. These are the people who decide which players enter the Hall and which do not, and as a group, they will not elect these known cheaters. No way, no how. And it's all because of shame and guilt.
Shame and guilt they feel for missing or ignoring the PED train when it started coming down the tracks in the late '80s and early '90s. Who hangs around the batting cage during batting practice? Beat writers. Who kicks it in the clubhouse with the players after the games? Beat writers. You're telling me not one of these writers noticed anything fishy? I don't buy it.
(Small side track: these guys are supposed to be journalists! Journalists whose task it should be to stamp out corruption or unfairness or evil wherever and however they see it, regardless of who they grew up rooting for. They were supposed to be our — the fans — eyes and ears, our "watchdogs," just as White House reporters keep an eye on the president or a business reporters keep an eye on Wall Street.
The journalistic failure here cannot be overlooked. Can you imagine members of the Obama Adminsitration smoking meth in the West Wing and the hoard of reporters at the White House just keeping mum about it. "Hey, I know they're using ilegall drugs here, but it sure is fun to watch." Hyperbole, obviously, but is it really that far off? I think not.
Listen: Maybe the writers — reporters, remember — were awed by the bulging biceps or the mammoth home runs that were so prevelant in the '90s and early 2000s. Maybe they just got caught up in the undeniable excitement of it all. Who knows. All I know is that they failed in their jobs as journalists to report to us what was really going on. Shame on you all for that).
So, to come to what I'm really trying to say: Bonds, McGwire and the rest might not gett into the Hall of Fame because it's the last chance that these baseball writers have to do something about the whole PED mess. They know it got out of hand. It's not their fault, they — presumably — weren't injecting anybody with anything, but they should've spoken up and did something, I don't know, did some investigative reporting, before it became the epidemic that it did.
Now, retroactively, they can try to fix their mistake(s) by casting ballots for "clean" players only. They can't go back and change what they didn't do, but they can do this. We're going to see evidence of this in the near future: McGwire got slaughtered on the last ballot. The same will go for Clemens, Sosa, et. al. The writers who turned a blind eye in the first place will now give a last-ditch effort to do what should've been done years ago. Oh well.
It's sad that it's come to this, it really is. Two of the things I love most in the world — seriously — baseball and journalism, have a lot of ground to make up.
We'll see how they do.
Tuesday, June 16, 2009
Dance to the rhythm of love ...
Tired as hell this morning, really didn't want to be at the gym, but once again I found a song to carry me through. This easily goes in the pantheon of great '80s videos. Seriously one of the all-time greats.
The year: 1986.
The "band": Wang Chung
The song: "Let's Go"
Please enjoy and feel free to leave your thoughts.
My observations — riddled with snark, of course.
The year: 1986.
The "band": Wang Chung
The song: "Let's Go"
Please enjoy and feel free to leave your thoughts.
My observations — riddled with snark, of course.
- Imagine the production meeting for this video: Wang and Chung — I assume those are their names? — have just finished recording this killer song (I like the song, P.S., very catchy) and they're super excited to make the accompanying video. They walk in, sleeves of their colored blazers pushed up, hair moussed, and meet the director. Here's how I imagine the exchange went:
Director: "Hey Wang, hey Chung, so happy to meet you guys. I'm such a big fan."
Wang/Chung: "Hey (director's name). Glad to be working with you. We're looking forward to seeing the artistic direction you have in mind for the video."
Director: "Well, I know you guys are gonna love this. (Really enthused, like 'I just drank six pots of coffee' enthused) Two words for you: sushi and origami. What do you think? Huh?"
Wang: (Stammering, with a look of utter disbelief on his face, like he just found out his dad is gay) "Well, um, I'm really not sure ..."
Chung: (Busting in before Wang can finish — haha) "We love it, let's get started right away!"
Wang: (To himself) "Kill me now, God."
- Moving on. The blond guy — not sure who's Wang and who's Chung — is fake Will Forte, or "Stefan, from the record company."
- This one starts out with a sushi background, which made me like it right away. It also features a guy in an origami suit of armor. Enough said.
- There is a couple waltzing behind Wang and Chung on some sort of lunar landscape. The '80s were peculiar. All kinds of strange.
- A great '80s video would just not be complete if it didn't feature two guys pretending to play the guitar. Classic move there — and a tribute to the Monkees, no less.
- How about the guys with the red Shriner's hats and mustaches. Whatever they are, they look like they're related Super Mario.
- Sumo wrestlers? Check. Cheerleaders? Check. A line of black people playing instruments, carrying a coffin with a skeleton levitating above them? Check. Wow, I can't believe I just wrote that. Just wow.
- And the video's biggest WTF moment: The weird floating head?! What purpose does she/it serve? And why is she wearing a white glove? I need to know these things.
To finish, I'll add that this might be one of the happiest songs ever recorded. Can't you just feel the optimism during the chorus? I can. Anyway, after multiple viewings, this one stand out as a hall of famer. I don't know about you guys, but I'm definitely going with.
Friday, June 5, 2009
I am the warrior ...
Wow.
The video I saw this morning might never be topped. Seriously, the most stunning display of "eightiesness" I've ever seen. Absolutely lights out.
"I am the warrior" by Scandal. Watch it please. I think it's form 1984. You will not be disappointed.
My thoughts:
The video I saw this morning might never be topped. Seriously, the most stunning display of "eightiesness" I've ever seen. Absolutely lights out.
"I am the warrior" by Scandal. Watch it please. I think it's form 1984. You will not be disappointed.
My thoughts:
- Really, I don't need to comment on this at all. If you watched even part of it, you know how great it is. But this is my blog and I'll comment if I want to. So ...
- The video seems to be about a ninja in weird makeup and a costume fighting some other ninjas who are also wearing weird makeup and costumes — why are some of them draped in nets?
- The creepiness of the vid is amplified by the fact that it's narrated by a scary-looking geisha lady whose makeup and hair change halfway through the song. Did the editors not notice this?
- What was with the '80s and the weird obsession with martial arts? Come on! This song? "The Karate Kid"? "Road House"? What was with that? Maybe it was all the cocaine. Someone should look into this. If I had been a history major — almost was, actually — I would've titled my senior thesis, "It's a Blizzard out there: The Effects of Rampant Cocaine Abuse on the Pop Culture of the 1980s in America."
- Is the black and white stripes guy supposed to be the referee?
- Patty Smyth's "bang-bang" hand motions at the end of the song are cringe worthy. Awful.
Overall, the top '80s video I've ever seen. Definitely requesting this song next time I find myself at Shout House.
As always, I hope you enjoyed the video and my somewhat insightful, mostly annoying comments. Thanks much.
Wednesday, June 3, 2009
I hate to admit this ...
Apparently I like being angry.
Katherine Kersten writes for the Star Tribune again. Ish. It's only a Sunday column, but still, it's Kersten. During the last two years or so, no one has infuriated me more often than her. I frequently found myself railing against her columns on this blog, in my Facebook status, etc. She upsets me.
But you know what? I missed her. I really did. I rejoiced when the Strib axed her (even if it meant Nick Coleman leaving as well) and called it the best move the paper made in a long time, but I was wrong.
When I read her column this week, I did something that I hadn't done in a long time: I got mad ... in a good way. For the first time since she left, something I read really got me fired up. I liked it. Reading her beliefs — so different from my own — caused me to affirm to my own. What a wonderful feeling.
(IM sent to my Special Lady Friend about how much I enjoyed reading Kersten again: "It's nice to remember what you care about.")
That, my friends, is why it's so important for a newspaper to have:
Katherine Kersten writes for the Star Tribune again. Ish. It's only a Sunday column, but still, it's Kersten. During the last two years or so, no one has infuriated me more often than her. I frequently found myself railing against her columns on this blog, in my Facebook status, etc. She upsets me.
But you know what? I missed her. I really did. I rejoiced when the Strib axed her (even if it meant Nick Coleman leaving as well) and called it the best move the paper made in a long time, but I was wrong.
When I read her column this week, I did something that I hadn't done in a long time: I got mad ... in a good way. For the first time since she left, something I read really got me fired up. I liked it. Reading her beliefs — so different from my own — caused me to affirm to my own. What a wonderful feeling.
(IM sent to my Special Lady Friend about how much I enjoyed reading Kersten again: "It's nice to remember what you care about.")
That, my friends, is why it's so important for a newspaper to have:
- Columnists with viewpoints different from one another. I'm a liberal guy, but it's irresponsible for a paper (or any news outlet) to have five Nick Coleman types. It would get old.
- Columnists with some damn conviction. A week or so ago, one of the Strib columnists wrote about T-Paw cutting GAMC. Coleman would've hammered him for this. Kersten would've praised him unequivocally. This woman was, let's say "white bread" about it. Very blah. I dislike KK but I give her credit for sticking to her guns. She's a far-right conservative and she sticks to it. That's commendable.
So here I am, waiting for this Sunday's paper so I can read KK's next column. I'm mildly giddy. It's not that I'm excited to read her bash homosexuals or rip into Muslim schools or whatever else she's known for, I'm excited for that adrenaline rush that comes when I disagree with someone vehemently. I'm excited, like I said above, to remember exactly what I give a damn about.
Thank you, Katherine Kersten (stabbing my own thigh with a pen as I type this).
Friday, May 22, 2009
Oh, Sherrie ...
Today's inspiring '80s music video: "Oh, Sherrie" by Steve Perry. Hey, that rhymes. Anyway, great song.
Enjoy
My thoughts:
Enjoy
My thoughts:
- Apparently the initial idea for this video was something very medieval and very Catholic. (Notice the guy in the sweet red hat), but Steve Perry doesn't go for stuff like that because, well because he's Steve Effing Perry.
- The intro before the song starts is classic. Very '80s. Steve Perry wearing a crown. That's pretty much all you need to know about this video.
- After walking out on the shoot, we get to see how tough Mr. Journey's life is, you know, with all magazines wanting to write about his life and such. Must be really, really hard.
- Because he's so distraught about his life, he retreats to a stairwell and belts out a romantic ballad. Who among us hasn't done this? All jokes aside, this guy was a seriously good singer.
- Willy Wonka makes a cameo appearance.
- And last but not least: Steve Perry plays air guitar on a broom and his girl comes to the rescue. That right there is every guy's dream.
I'm done for now. Hope you enjoyed the video as much as I did.
Thursday, May 21, 2009
Fixing the Twins pitching woes ...
The pitching has been pretty bad as of late, especially the bullpen. They boys need help, and badly. A friend of mine at work, a life-long Twins fan, actually skipped out on the depressing game last night to watch the finale of "American Idol." Barf.
I pine for the days when the bullpen was the least of our concerns. We had a juiced-up Juan Rincon protecting leads by shutting down hitters in the eighth inning and handing the game over to Joe Nathan.
Looking back at the Rincon Era got me thinking, and I've come up with a solution for the Twins' bullpen problems. Bring him back.
Yep, you read that correctly, bring him back. He's a free agent, so let's go get him.
"He's terrible," you're saying. Yeah, he has been pretty bad, but only after he got off the juice.
Here's my evil plan: sign him to a one-year deal at the league minimum of $390,000. Then, hook him up with the best 'roids guys in the land.
Say to him: "Juan, listen, your career is just about in the bag. There's not a lot of gas left in the tank. We want to juice you up and throw 96 mph again. Take the one-year $390,000 contract and agree to get on the 'roids again. You might get caught, you might not. We're also going to pay you another $610,000 in cash (making the whole "deal" worth $ 1 million), under the table. This money is yours to keep, regradless of how this shakes out."
What do you think? Don't think for a million the Pohlads don't have another million to throw around.
Wow, I'm desperate.
I pine for the days when the bullpen was the least of our concerns. We had a juiced-up Juan Rincon protecting leads by shutting down hitters in the eighth inning and handing the game over to Joe Nathan.
Looking back at the Rincon Era got me thinking, and I've come up with a solution for the Twins' bullpen problems. Bring him back.
Yep, you read that correctly, bring him back. He's a free agent, so let's go get him.
"He's terrible," you're saying. Yeah, he has been pretty bad, but only after he got off the juice.
Here's my evil plan: sign him to a one-year deal at the league minimum of $390,000. Then, hook him up with the best 'roids guys in the land.
Say to him: "Juan, listen, your career is just about in the bag. There's not a lot of gas left in the tank. We want to juice you up and throw 96 mph again. Take the one-year $390,000 contract and agree to get on the 'roids again. You might get caught, you might not. We're also going to pay you another $610,000 in cash (making the whole "deal" worth $ 1 million), under the table. This money is yours to keep, regradless of how this shakes out."
What do you think? Don't think for a million the Pohlads don't have another million to throw around.
Wow, I'm desperate.
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