In a hotel room in the Rogers Centre sits a shadowy figure drinking Crown in a whicker chair. On the floor lies a dead hooker wearing nothing but a White Sox jersey. The décor of the room, by request, had not changed since 1989…the green carpet, the floral bedspread patterns, framed and signed pictures of Joe Carter and Dave Stieb in the nude. It is as if Roberto Alomar had never left for the promised millions of Hamsterdam.
Alomar speaks into a telephone, "Sandy, it appears I may have killed another hooker. I almost couldn't help it, my competitive streak took over. I derive great pleasure from spitting on the corpse. I haven't felt this much pleasure since we defeated the White Sox in the 1993 ALCS. I have been seeking pleasure of this magnitude since 1993. My career following that year was lifeless, I was just going through the motions. I turned to drink and violence thinking the thrill would return but it never did. That is, not until 2003 when I joined the White Sox. I was sure I could bring that city a championship that year. It was the greatest failure of my life."
A sourceless bright light appears in the corner of the room and the doppelganger of Rance Mulliniks appears next to the ghostly figure of Candy Maldonado. They both stare at Alomar with intensely disturbed eyes, saying nothing.
"Sandy, I appear to be hallucinating, two former teammates of mine have appeared unannounced in my room. The room has grown cold and I think I may have just seen the dead hooker's body stir."
Without a sound the two figures advance slowly. In their hands appear two large casks of maple syrup. They pour the casks over the hooker's body, slathering it in sap and the body slowly reanimates itself. It gets up and saunters sexily towards Robbie, swinging its ass in its unbuttoned White Sox jersey. It opens its mouth and leans in to Alomar and kisses him hard but at the same time breathing life into his soulless body. The thrill and zest for life returns to his heart and soul.
Afterwards, the apparitions both turn to Alomar and laugh despicably; a shame filled and mournful cackle. They walk with the hooker into the bright light and disappear. Leaving just the dust flying aimlessly through the late afternoon sunlight that pierced the barely cracked blinds of Alomar's window into his glory.
"Sandy, I don't know if it’s a dream but the talentless hooker is no longer here and I am saddened yet I feel hope in this affliction."
He hangs up the telephone and walks over to the window and surveys the field he once dominated with his uncanny skills. He sighs and pours another Crown. He stares into the FieldTurf and tries to see AstroTurf. In his mind weekly hit groundballs turn into doubles. Hours pass in a daze and when he finally blinks a team in road grays is partaking in some BP.
His sadness returns, his feeling of worth has been decimated. Seeing the young men on the field playing the game he loves more than life itself, fills him with a restless envy. His impending 2nd ballot HOF induction is never far from his mind and it makes him feel worse, he almost feels he doesn't deserve the distinction.
He sips his Crown and turns around to see Kenny Williams watching him closely.
"You feel pretty shitty about yourself don't you? You feel life is unfair. You've had a great career but you are missing something. Well, I have a proposition for you."
"I've jettisoned our lead-off man to the Long Island Ducks for a bag of peanuts. I've promoted our ubermensch Cuban pimpChrist to play left-field. We don't have a traditional leadoff man. It is time for you to be reborn. I am willing to demote Beckham so he can work on his swing in the minors, if only you would man the keystone for us."
"I don't have what it takes."
"Vizquel is a year older than you are and he is still successful. Get your mind out of the gutter for chrissake and scrote up! Sure, your prime is past you but you've kept in shape and could have a few good years left in the sun. You have something to prove to yourself and the city of Chicago."
A revelation occurred in his mind and he realized his depression stemmed from the pleasure he took in defeating the White Sox and subsequently the lack of spark he brought to the team a decade later in 2003. He was put on this Earth to help Chicago and the discovery affected him like a second wind.
Alomar was in the lineup that night and the White Sox ended up sweeping four games from the Blue Jays, eliciting a winning streak that would put the White Sox 1 game out of first going into the All-Star break. His enthusiasm was infectious to veterans and rookies alike.
By August 29th, when the Minnesota Twins rolled into town for a three game set, the White Sox were 6 games up. By the end of the season they took the AL Central by 8 games as they rested most of their starters for the last two weeks of the season.
The Alomar led White Sox made short work of the A's in the ALDS and in the ALCS by defeating the Yankees handily. After hitting a walk-off HR against Cliff Lee in the 9th inning of a 1-1 World Series Game 6, as Alomar crossed the plate and was mobbed by his teammates he experienced a fatal heart attack.
When the dog-pile and infield dirt dissipated there was Roberto Alomar…HOFer…3-time world series winner…lying on top of home-plate dead with a grin on his lifeless face.
His regular season stats in only 4 months with the team--- .330/.425/.450 32 SB 18 HR 89 RBI.
The moral of the story is to never take anything for granted in life and never give up hope that the next day will bring something better into your life. Life is too short to worry about what you cannot control so do not let negativity bog you down. The AstroTurf is always greener on the other side. When life gives you a dead hooker, always remember you can breathe new life into it.