Rebel Without a Clue
Drew loves the Red Sox (and therefore, by definition, hates Bucky Dent), but was denied a contract from the Yankees because of a pair of Umbro shorts? If it's discombobulated, it must be Drew Time.
By Drew Gallagher
HUMORIST
Many people hold the mistaken belief that I was never drafted by the New York Yankees or became a chess Grandmaster because of limitations in my physical ability or mental acumen. I, too, held this belief until recent news articles made me reconsider my life paths and how playing baseball professionally or playing chess in orphanages (thank you, Queen’s Gambit) may have been possible if not for how I presented myself to the world.
Recently, I learned that the world’s greatest chess player was kicked out of a championship and fined for refusing to change out of the jeans he was wearing during a match. Magnus Carlsen walked away from the board even though the administrators of the tournament said they would give him ample time to go up to his room and change into Dockers.
Carlsen, flexing like he was Madonna in a cone bra, refused to submit to the strictures of the international chess dress code, did not finish his match, and gave up an opportunity to win another chess title because Carlsen is apparently a man of principle, and that principle is denim. (The world chess fashion authorities soon realized that Carlsen is, essentially, the chess equivalent of Madonna in a cone bra, and told Carlsen he could play in future tournaments in jeans and four days later he was back at the board…in jeans. His Magnus Opus.)
The problem with my budding chess career appears likely to be related to my attire at the time my father taught me the game. I recall the moment — he was watching a Phillies’ game and that is probably why I never learned how to properly “castle” — because Mike Schmidt was getting more attention than I was. I do not recall my attire on that summer day, but I was likely wearing a pair of Umbro shorts. Umbro shorts were the preferred attire for budding soccer players of that era (I was doing a lot of budding in the 1970s), and I liked them because they were shiny. You would think that Umbros, which featured a subtle chessboard pattern, would be acceptable chess attire because of the motif, but if jeans are out, I have to believe that bright red soccer shorts would be frowned upon.
Of course, there is a lot more to being a chess Grandmaster than how one dresses, but a few years later, I showed that I had the mental stamina to compete against the world’s finest chess players when I took up Dungeons and Dragons and could sit for 8-12 hours in Chris Malinowski’s kitchen and go home, sleep for a little bit, and return for another 12-hour shift in Castle Amber. (Coincidentally, this use of weekends and snow days was not that far removed from the kids my age who smoked weed and watched porn because they too were entranced by Amber, but she was probably Amber Waves and not Castle Amber. An important distinction.)
Being able to roll a 20-sided die and keep it from falling off the wooden kitchen table is no small feat, but it’s not quite the same as the E4 opening and attacking your opponent’s center in chess. Especially when I typically opened any chess match by moving my rook’s pawn two spaces because I didn’t have to remember how many spaces a rook could move or which direction.
My skill on the baseball diamond, however, was not compromised by such failings and Mrs. Archer can attest to that.
Mrs. Archer was my Den 3 Cub Scout Leader and her son, John, played Little League with me on the Boscov’s team in the Exeter minor leagues when we were 9 and 10. Mrs. Archer once told my mother while sitting in the stands that the best scenario for Boscov’s while on defense was for the pitcher to walk a batter and then have the next batter hit it to me at shortstop because I always got the runner out at second. Some might question Mrs. Archer’s understanding of baseball strategy and its reliance upon walking a leadoff hitter, but in her eyes, I was good enough to be drafted by the Yankees. (I believe her respect for me dimmed considerably during the offseason when I was the last Cub Scout in her den to earn my Wolf Badge and then made the painful decision to not walk across the bridge to become a Webelo. The impressive bridge span leading young boys from Cub Scout to Webelo was constructed by John and Mr. Archer. It was quite fortunate that the same bridge was not constructed by me and my father because I can assure you that no one would have crossed over into Webelo status that night without first heading to the emergency room to be treated for injuries associated with a collapsed bridge. I believe I also failed Mrs. Archer when we sang our Den 3 Fight Song which was:
To Look Good, be a Den 3 Cub
To Feel Good, be a Den 3 Cub
To Be Good, be a Den 3 Cub
We’re the Best Den in the USAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
There was no way we were the best den in the USAAAAAAAAAA as long as I couldn’t get my wolf badge and could not properly knot my yellow Cub Scout scarf without her help.)
George Steinbrenner, owner of the New York Yankees during my prospect era, could not have cared less if I could knot a scarf or build a bridge that could withstand 75 pounds for a 6-foot span as long as I could hit a baseball … and promised to never grow a beard. I once went an entire Senior Babe Ruth baseball season only striking out twice and one of those was on a pitch that was 10 inches off the plate, and I let the umpire know of my displeasure. The other was when I froze on a nasty 3-2 curveball, so a tip of my cap to that 15-year-old ace hurler. In short, I could hit a baseball even if it was not with much power or against major league pitchers. All Mr. Steinbrenner had to do was look out at shortstop to realize I was a similar ballplayer to Bucky F**king Dent.
But I am indeed lazy when it comes to shaving. Ever since I first tried to shave sideways above my upper lip with a straight edge, I have not had an affinity for the practice. The Yankees have always had a policy strictly forbidding facial hair except for finely-trimmed mustaches. I may have been able to hit like Bucky Dent (a paltry 40 homers over 14 major league seasons), and I may have been the apple of Mrs. Archer’s eye until I had to do something other than field a ground ball and step on second base, but I was never going to shave regularly.
The world may have held more promise for me, but I believe I was always destined to saunter through this life in jeans and a few days’ worth of stubble. A rebel without a clue.
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