Say Cheese

Today was team picture day. By now, you've heard some of what happened. I'll fill you in on the details as I know them and try to fight my natural urge to edit.

Once upon a time...

There lived a baseball player named Corey Belle. Corey was what they call a five-tool player coming out of high school. He could hit for average, hit for power, run like the wind, throw a bullet from left field to the catcher on the fly, and catch anything that drifted his way. Yes, Corey was "the future of baseball," as his high school coach in whatever town in Kentucky Corey came from said.

But there was a dark side too. On a baseball field, Corey could do anything, wish anything, and it would happen. Off the field, well, the opposite. Trouble found him more often than not, starting with sexual assault charges filed against him his senior year of high school (charges subsequently dropped). While in the minors, he routinely broke curfews, got into two bar fights, one "brawl" (not sure the difference between a fight and a brawl, unless we're talking the number of contestants competing to pulverize one another), and was arrested three times. Again, no indictments. He played great baseball through this, and at the age of 20 was in the big leagues.

Fast forward to eight years later, January 22, 2008. Corey is in Kansas City with some good friends. The parking lot of an after-hours club they're at becomes the scene of gunshots and mayhem. A woman running away gets hit by a car. She lives but suffers a number of broken bones, including her back. Prognosis is not good that she'll ever walk again.

Corey's car is stopped by police and a recently fired gun is discovered inside on the floor. Corey and his friends are arrested and charged with three or four different illegalities. This is Corey's third arrest in two years.

Fast forward again to yesterday. Team picture day. Corey is late, but makes it just in time. Lots of folks (meaning guys on the team) are pi*sed off at him. It's not his first tardy appearance at spring training. But, he hit .321 last year with 41 home runs and 129 RBIs. He's allowed (doesn't mean I agree with it).

I'm standing in the second row, next to Lyman Gaye. Lyman, as we know, is coming off a bad car crash last week, a crash caused by his fiance allegedly beating the hell out of him while she drove. Some temper. Two days in a hospital, another couple to recover at his bungalow, and now Lyman's back trying to get ready for opening day next Monday. The last thing he wants is another distraction.

He gets one. It's called Corey Belle.

"Hey, Mr. Photographer Man, how's 'bout you snap some close-ups of Lyman's purse wounds." Laugh laugh. Ha ha. Corey, even though late, thinks he's funny.

A couple guys snicker lightly, but not hard. Lyman, traded to us in December from, coincidentally, Kansas City, is still trying to find his feet with his new team. He seems like a good guy who's another soul misunderstood by every GM he's ever played for. He's usually good for 20-25 home runs, 90+ RBIs, 20 stolen bases and solid defense in right field, so I'm not sure yet why he keeps getting traded. Maybe it's his choice in women.

Lyman doesn't react to Corey's line. I try to use my peripheral vision in as clandestine a fashion as possible. Lyman appears to be looking straight ahead.

Guys like Corey, in my experience, don't like a non-reaction. They offer stimulus and expect it in return. For example, break the law/get arrested.

Moving on.

The camera man starts snapping away.

"Hey, Mr. Photographer Man, did you catch Lyman's dress?" It's Corey again, speaking out from his perch in the back row.

This time, Lyman flinches. But he keeps his cool. He's trying to at least. I whisper something supportive, like "Corey's a *************, isn't he?" No reaction. That's fine. He probably didn't hear me. The anger was probably too close to boil-over stage.

Very close.

We're almost done. "Photographer Man" takes a few more shots, tells us, jokingly, to say cheese.

Corey: "You say want Lyman to get down on his knees?"

That's it. In less than half a heartbeat, Lyman is no longer standing next to me. He's barrelling through teammates, knocking them over the chairs they're standing on, trying to get to Corey. And then Lyman's got his hands around Corey's throat, Corey's throwing punches and making contact with not just Lyman, but the other guys trying to break it up. Photographer Man is snapping pictures as fast as he can, along with some beat reporters who are hanging around. One of them is holding up his phone, taking video of the event.

Gums Murphy, our 80 year old coach emeritus, is in the pile by now, trying to break it up. Corey's elbow knocks Gums in the forehead. He's down. It takes J.D. Bryant, all 257 pounds of him (that's how he can play both baseball and football), to literally rip Corey off of Lyman. Cal Franklin, normally a religious man (a very large one), holds Corey back and begins to rip into him like it's nobody's business. Corey says something. Before you know it, he and Cal are rolling around on the ground, chairs falling on top of them, punches being thrown, spit flying through the air.

One kick ends it. Our field manager, the one whose job is to keep sh*t like this from ever happening, who claims he would've been a star punter for 13 to 14 teams over 20 years in the NFL if he hadn't chosen baseball as his profession, lays one furious, passionate, perfectly timed kick right on Corey's head. BOOM! Corey's done for the day. Eyes closed. Unconscious but breathing harder than a dog after a two-mile run.

Cal gets off and continues to berate the knocked out Corey with words I've never heard a religious man (a very large one) use. He kicks a chair and walks away, trying to cool off.

I look around at the damage. You'd have thought a tornado had just cut a swath in our little picture taking area. Chairs are on their sides. Shoes have been separated from feet. Torn clothing lays about (or is it lies?).

A couple of golf carts are on the scene by now. Two trainers and a stray minor leaguer or two help lift a woozy Corey Belle off of the ground. He's looking at us, looking at Rick. But he's not angry anymore. He's sorry. A little late, but he knows he made a mistake. He is sat down into the cart and it drives away.

Lyman, for his part, is sitting on a chair and joking around (better than choking around). He's got a cut above his eye that's been reopened (origin: his angry, pulverizing fiance) and a new one on his cheek. He's also got little scrapes and cuts on his neck. He talks about Corey's need for a manicure. The guy can afford it, that's for sure.

Rick pulls a chair over and starts to talk to Lyman. And, like kids, we all gather 'round and listen. Even Cal is back, sitting on the grass. Rick tells us about a fight he got into in '87 with Jose Varmes. Jose broke two fingers and three knuckles and missed three months of the season. Rick won that fight the same way he stopped this one: A perfectly placed kick to a spot no man enjoys, even if he's wearing protective plastic.

If Lyman wanted to be our teammate, to get to know us, today was his initiation. He's got a lot of fans on this team now. Like I said, he's a good guy. When we look back in October, maybe this will be the moment that changed everything for him. Maybe this was the moment he came to feel like one of us.

As for Rick, he did a good job today. He ended a fight, and he ended it in a way that showed who's boss. At the same time, he took down the school bully. Good for him.

Corey, well, he was driven the the hospital for tests. The thought is he probably has a concussion and will miss at least a few days. Chances are good the guy will be suspended by the team for a while. This is Rick's chance to really show who's boss. Suspend the guy for 30 games or something, make a statement. It'll show how Rick doesn't care as much about Corey's 40+ home runs as he cares about keeping the team together. Rick ended the fight, but has a chance to now make the deciding blow.

This is Rick's first big time opportunity as a manager to make the team his own. You know what? I'm rooting for him.

Let's hope we all live happily ever after.