Brock Piccolo wasn't the brightest bulb in the Lite Brite but he knew one thing and one thing only—baseball. He had correctly been second guessing managers for years. He grew up in Holton, Kansas with Bill James and played in the same Little League. He destroyed Bill James and everyone else in the league by throwing his 12 year old version of the Eephus, overpowering mugs with his 65 MPH heater (which roughly translates to low-to-mid 90's if thrown from an MLB mound, as the pitchers in the Majors Division in Little League throw from a 45 foot mound) and mixing in a knuckle curve that he had been working on, on and off, for the better part of a decade.
Brock was the starting pitcher for the Great Plains Region team in the Little League World Series in Williamsport, PA for They had rollicked through the summer all-star circuit with an unheard of run differential of +202. When Brock wasn't pitching he was playing shortstop or center field. He prowled the outfield like an Apache and whenever a ball was hit to him in the infield his coach nicknamed 'Pig' (his father) would yell, "HOOOOOOVER!" (like the vacuum cleaner) as his uppity mother Janet rang a cowbell in triumph. Brock's mother was the first mother ever to write his name and jersey number in soap on the rear windshield of their wood paneled Ford Country Squire.
When his team arrived in Williamsport in the summer of 1961, Brock's reputation as a baller had preceded him. When his caravan arrived at the newly opened Kaba Resort & Nightclub (where his team would be staying while in town) the Williamsport junior high-school jazz band was on-site with EIGHT trombones playing Gershwin's Strike Up the Band. The Indian Guides had painted him a banner on an Iroquois blanket welcoming Brock as an honorary member of their tribe. A macro gaggle of pre-teen girls, all in poodle skirts and chomping on teaberry gum looking to "french" for the first time, showered him with love notes wrapped so tightly into an isosceles triangle that it would take a nut cracker to release the obsessions within.
Brock was used to the spotlight but this East Coast fanfare was entirely novel to him and his head filled with the helium of fame. His mother, aware of the temptations that prominence brings, having succumbed to it herself following her magnificent double-barreled yo-yo exposition on the main stage of the 1934 Kansas State Fair, covered him with a blanket (pop-culture wise a precursor to Michael Jackson covering his son Blanket, with a blanket and hovering him over a hotel balcony) and rushed him through the throngs of idolatry and into what would now be known as a shabby hotel but back then—the very picture of luxury.
"Mom! Those are my fans! They deserve my presence," Brock proclaimed over the somewhat muted but still deafening cacophony of adoration being observed on the other side of their double bolted door.
"These people don't even know you! They don't know the sweet boy who helps out with chores around the farm or the boy that whittled me a pair of shoes from the fallen remnants of Papa Tom's favorite Box Elder. They just want to attach themselves to your fame because they don't have any at all. They are using you to feel good about themselves, you need to stay away from those little hussies especially," responded the jaded pre-menopausal mother.
"Janet, you are ruining my life. You don't know what it is like to be a celebrity and you never will. You're nothing but a washed up yo-yo champion, you plum loco, yellow-bellied coward! I bring the goods!"
Brock's family (little Von, little Susie, Big John, his twin brother Mitt, father Brock Sr. and collie Lasso) gasped in the entropic silence of the Country Suite.
"Did you just hit me? You just fucking hit me!" His eye swelling up on the spot.
A week later and following several impressive victories over the teams from all over the purple mountains of majesty and amber waves of grain, "Black-Eyed" Brock, as he came to be known, no-hit the team from Riverside, California and it would have been a perfect game if little Billy James in right field hadn't been picking his nose in the top of the 6th inning instead of paying attention to the game.
Riverside's slugger, Dusty Baker, luckily ran into a knuckle-curve that was 2mm from it's intended location and lifted it oppo in little Billy James' direction in right field. Little Billy was admiring a giant potato chip shaped booger on his thumb when he heard Brock Sr. yell out in the appalled silence of the recently christened Lamade Stadium, "Open your eyes, you little shit!"
Little Billy quickly looked up in the sky and instantly surmised that the ball had a velocity and trajectory that would put it just in front of the fence. He took the most efficient route possible in order to position himself directly underneath the baseball but as he rose his two arms into the air to catch the ball (with both hands) and insure its safety in his mitt, the booger flew up into the air and eclipsed the baseball as the baseball eclipsed the Sun. The ball fell dejectedly onto the top of his head and bounced over the fence for a HR.
The only happy person in the stadium was Dusty Baker rounding the bases pumping his arm again and again with his trademark toothpick dancing around his lips. (Incidentally a 4-year old Kirk Gibson was in the stand's watching all this and he has credited this celebration as the reason he behaved in the fashion he did after hitting that homerun off Dennis Eckersley in the 1988 World Series.
The whole stadium erupted with dismayed sounds of disbelief, almost immediately the official scorer grabbed the public address microphone and said disgustedly, "Error on Little Billy James, he ruins Brock Piccolo's perfect game. What a disgrace. How shameful."
Rotten vegetables flew in little Billy James direction as his coach Brock Sr. led him off the field by his ear and sat him violently on the end of the bench next to Ogilvie the teenage statkeeper nerd. Once the grounds-crew had cleared the field of debris, the game continued and Brock struck out the ginger kid with the freckles and curly hair to complete his no-hitter. Instead of celebrating their 7-1 victory and their birth in the World Series Finals the team stormed off the field and crowded behind Brock who was standing above little Billy James in an imposing manner at the end of the bench. Brock Sr. and the assistant coaches decided to leave the dugout to allow this impromptu Kangaroo Court to proceed.
"What the fuck?! Maggie LaCroix told me that she would show me what a blow job was if I pitched a perfect game today. Now I may never find out! You are the worst baseball player I have ever seen and the biggest fucking dickweed this side of the Mississippi, you pecker! Not only did you cost me a prefect game but you cost me a blow job from a 15 year old, you assmunch!"
With which little Billy James replied, "It takes one to know one!"
Following a team-wide surprised moment of reflection, the shortstop on the team, Jimmy Willickers, stepped forward in front of the still shocked and frozen visage of Brock and said, "Brock's rubber and you're glue everything you say bounces off of him and sticks to you!"
"Damnnnnn! You just got dissed!" the catcher Walt Haskell chimed in.
At this time Brock snapped out of it, spit in little Billy's face, kicked him in the taint and told him, "You are off the team. Take your ass back to Kansas, slapnuts!"
Little Billy didn't move, time passed around him quickly but he didn't move. He didn't even think. A few hours later he snapped out of it after the stat-nerd Ogilvie poured a bucket of cold water over his head.
"Billy, snap out of it."
"Oh, thanks Ogilvie."
"Don't listen to these people, your life will go on and you will do great things. These other kid's, their peak is right here, right now. This will be their claim to fame."
"Look, the route you took to that ball was the most efficient route I have ever seen under the circumstances. Your on-base percentage is the best on the team. They'll lose without you tomorrow against Chinese Tai-Pei. I know you hit ninth but you should be leading off, the team has won in spite of that fact and of course, unfortunately Brock is a World Class twelve year old talent."
"But I have the lowest average on the team. I'm only hitting .380."
"Yeah but your on-base percentage is the best, you know how to work a count and take a walk."
"But all the other guys say I am a wuss for not swinging."
"Don't listen to them, you know that's not true. You have the eye of Ferris Fain."
"Who is Ferris Fain?"
"Walk with me young Billy…"
Back in Williamsport, Brock was surrounded at Doc Nelly's soda fountain by his teammates and hangers-on, everyone braying like sheep at his anecdotes, quips and muscle man poses.
"With Billy out of the picture, I plan on throwing a perfect game against those zipperheads tomorrow. It will be a easy peasy-lemon squeezy, criss-cross applesauce," exclaimed Brock with the foam of a Chocolate Ice Cream soda on his lips. "Another round on me Doc Nelly!"
"Sure thing, boss but Chinese people aren't Japanese."
"Shut your mouth old man, you know what I mean. Alright everyone, I gotta drain the main vein but when I'm done I'll come back and regale you with the tale about how I hit five homeruns in the Regionals against that prick Al Hrobosky up in Oakland."
While leaking his lizard, Brock herd the bathroom door lock behind him. He finished up and turned around to see what the fuss was all about. There in front of him was a tall pallid man in a long black trenchcoat and wire rimmed glasses. Billy thought he looked like one of the Nazi guys he saw in his history book about the Nuremberg Trials.
"What gives, mister?"
"My name is Bart Slugworth. I am a booster and trustee of the University of Southern California. I am in charge of ensuring that the baseball program at USC selects and signs the best baseball players in the country in order to continue our dominance."
"Woah mister, you guys just won the NCAA Championship. Whattya want with me?"
"Well, we can't win NCAA Championships without good players but we also can't win championships without money. I am prepared to offer you a full scholarship to play at USC starting in the 1967 season. We figure that is when little Tommy Seaver will head to the bigs, so we will need a Friday night starter of your caliber in order to continue our tradition."
"Where do I sign!?"
"Well, you have to do something for me before I allow you to sign. You have to agree to lose the game tomorrow against Chinese Tai Pei."
"No fucking way mister, I am pitching a perfect game tomorrow and Maggie LaCroix is gonna show me what a blow job is!"
"I guarantee you that being a player at USC will guarantee you multiple blow jobs on a daily basis. What I intend to do is bet one million dollars on the 7-1 odds that the Chinese Tai Pei team has been given and build this program the NCAA way, through cold hard cash."
"Daily blow jobs? That does sound pretty good…you're on!"
"You can't tell a soul about this though, Brock. Do you understand?"
Brock kept his word to Slugworth and he threw the game. He had a perfect game going into the 6th inning but he feigned an elbow injury and took himself out of the game. He convinced his dad to pitch Ogilvie's little brother Max and the Chinese team won 9-8. Brock's ego wouldn't allow for him to be the losing pitcher and he thought he might be able to convince Maggie LaCroix that he threw a perfect game after all.
After, the game Maggie LaCroix shunned Brock underneath the stands and he snapped his fingers in dismay and misfortune. Slugworth approached him in his funeral director manner.
"That was a close call young man, I don't appreciate it but fair is fair—we'll be seeing you in 1966—your senior year in high school. Stay healthy young man and practice makes perfect. You're a Trojan now!"
Time went by and Brock's legend grew but his freshman year of high school all the other players began to catch up to him physically and he started to burn out on the game a little bit. The coach and him didn't see eye-to-eye. The coach wouldn't give anyone a free ticket, even the great Brock Piccolo.
He was benched for behavior detrimental to the team here and there and he grew obese and even more uncouth. His senior year of high school he managed to hit 10 HRs but he struck out 40% of the time. He hadn't pitched since his junior year because he felt a twinge in his elbow against Manhattan and decided to shut himself down to save his stuff for USC to the dismay of his friends, family and team.
USC coaches came to every game and just shook their heads in revulsion at his behavior and play but they were bound to the agreement Slugworth had made even though they thought this kid didn't look fit for even a community college junior varsity squad.
Billy found himself back in Kansas and found work as a groundskeeper at the Mount Calvary Catholic Cemetery. No one in town believed that that LSD wasn't his, even his own father Brock Sr. The family disowned him and he drank himself silly on Ten High whiskey every night at the Stop Light Bar.
The years passed and little Billy James gained some national renown for his work in sabermetrics. Brock told anyone who would listen how big of a cotton-picking sissy Billy James was and that he couldn't believe that anyone would ever think he knew anything about baseball. The original arguments against sabermetrics are archived on the Brock Piccolo Memorial website.
One fall day in during the 2004 World Series Brock typed some characters into b2/cafelog on a stolen Gateway PC and made a blog called The Second Guesser, for which he gained national notoriety for correctly second guessing every single decision every major league baseball manager ever made.
Throughout the years he had become very adept at having 20/20 hindsight vision when it came to on the field baseball management. His favorite manager to berate became Robin Ventura of the Chicago White Sox. He wrote a letter to Rick Hahn trying to convince him to hire him as the White Sox manager as he was sure that he could win the White Sox at least 20 more games based on on-field decisions. His website reached 1 million hits as this story somehow went public. Brock's renewed fame generated public verbiage towards the White Sox franchise that became more grim and psychopathic by the hour.
A cease and desist letter from the Chicago White Sox was actually in transit to his hovel in Holton, KS when he dropped dead from a heart attack due to an untreated high blood pressure issue in the summer of 2014. The police found him two months later when the mailman had finally cared to notice that Brock hadn't gathered his mail from his PO Box. It was hard for the mailman to notice anything was amiss because he never received any mail from anyone. The mailman noticed the cease and desist letter he had delivered had not been touched and alerted the authorities.
The police found a gigantic list of user names and log-ins for a site called southsidesox.com next to his stolen Gateway, . The police alerted the managing editor of southsidesox.com Jim Margalus that they had found a troll dead and the troll's list of usernames was eighty deep.
From that moment on, the southsidesox.com commentariat returned to it's glory and everything was fun and happy again.
Brock died having never received a blow job.