A Drunk Dial from Dom Brown’s Old Batting Stance

Hey, you’ve reached That Balls Outta Here.  We inexplicably use an old school answering machine instead of a voicemail.  If you got this phone number off the bathroom wall of The Good Dog, I assure you, any sexual favors you were promised are only going to be a disappointment.  Anyways, leave a message.

*BEEP*

Hey.

It’s me.  Dom Brown’s experimental low-handed batting stance.  Guess you’ve heard by now.

*Deep, heavy sigh*

It’s… (begins sobbing) over.

When we first got together, I told him I didn’t want to just be another rebound.  Everybody saw him and that high-handed stance having the time of their lives through Double and Triple-A.  Their chemistry was undeniable.  The air of Reading and Allentown was thick with their mutual amorous  success stories.  We knew how great they were together, and we knew how great they’d be in the future.

*Sound of a muffled argument in the background.  Somebody shouts the phrase “LAST CALL”*

… and then he hits the big time and they split up.  And he comes knocking on my door, and I’m like, all right, whatever, let’s get together.  I knew it could be just a fling, something to convince people he was all right without the old stance, just as long as the cameras were running all spring.

*Hiccup, burp.  He’s clearly been drinking*

That’s when the hitting started.  I knew I was at his wit’s end–0 for 15 would turn even the cuddliest rook into a bloodshot mess.  I didn’t make them stick microphones in his face and demand to know what the problem was.  Then he… then he breaks my hamate.  And I’ve got start getting all these looks from the neighbors, like “What are you doing with this guy?”  And we take a trip back to Philly, just the two of us.  I kept telling him, “Be patient, we’re young.  We can figure this out.”

There I am, holding our morning coffee, and it’s a little hotter than usual, and I’m like “Dom, this coffee’s pretty hot, you’ll burn your tongue.”  And he just ignores me, like I’m the cat or something; even though if a cat told me that, I would be pretty impressed.  I’m like, “Hey man, I’m your batting stance. I may not have gotten you here, and I may be causing you trouble, and I may actually be broken at the moment, but you can at least show me some respect because I love you.”  And he’s like… he’s like…

"“Forget it. I’m going back to what got me here.”"

I couldn’t believe it.  He’s getting back with that wobbly-handed slut that he left behind.  They’re just… back together.  Just like that.  And what am I supposed to do.  Stop existing?!

*Sobs.  Someone in the background shouts, “Buddy, we’re closing.  Stop putting money in the juke box.”  After several seconds of silence, ‘At This Moment’ by Billy Vera and the Beaters is heard playing.*

So here I am.  Alone in a Fishtown bar at closing time, surrounded by confused hipsters who don’t know what I am or whom I represent; unwanted, unnoticed, and undesired.  Nothing left for me to do but disappear into the tranquility of night time in Philadelphia.

*Sound of blaring car horns and incoherent screaming.*