Saturday, June 03, 2006

Brito's Boner

Eude Brito woke up at the Pasadena Ritz-Carlton this morning with a little friend. He picked up the phone on the nightstand and called Chollie the Manager.

Hefe,” he said, flush with excitement. “Come up to my room! There’s something I want you to see. Andele! Andele!”

When you’re 62-years-old and hungover, that’s not any easy trick, but Chollie threw some trousers on and hurried to his starting pitcher’s room.

“Just what I needed,” Old Backwoods huffed as he shoved $400 in his Armenian hooker’s hand and hustled her out to the hot East Valley air. “It’s not like I don’t already sing lullabies to Jelly Roll every night. Now I’s gotta burp my Brito.”

Little did Chollie know what was in store for his gentile West Virginny eyes. There in his bed lied Brito, naked, with an erection that looked like a shiitake mushroom cap.

“Look, hefe, look! I’m ready to pitch.”

“Oh, no you ain’t,” Chollie said, knowing full well that boners are best handled long before game time. “Now do something about that damn stiffy before I do.”

Chollie scrunched his face and thought for a moment about what he had just encouraged.

“Wait one Dominican minute,” he told Brito. “Git some clothes on and y’all come with me…uh, I mean go with me in a cab to Dodge-a Stadium”

The cabdrivers outside the Ritz-Carlton are a lively lot, so Chollie was sure he could pull this one off – or have his driver find someone who could. They approached a garish Crown Victoria outside the lobby door and tapped on the shaded window. It rolled down to reveal the happy countenance of Park-soon Kim. Despite playing six seasons in Japan, Chollie still couldn’t tell the difference between a Japanese and Korean.

Ko-nazi wah,” he stammered, trying to recall the few words he learned as a Yakult Swallow.

“I speak English, you dumb fucking hick,” the driver answered, a little annoyed to have his morning kim-chi and ginseng break interrupted by a hairy barbarian. “What the fuck you want? I only go to the airport. And I don’t haul fags.”

Chollie, realizing his politically incorrect boo-boo, figured a little diplomacy was in order. He took two hundred dollar bills out of his pocket and threw them in the front seat.

“Good morning, sir,” Kim said. “And what may I do for you today?”

“Find me a hooker,” Chollie told him.

Old Backwoods pushed Brito into the back seat and jumped in beside him. The clanky cab busted down the 110 Freeway south to downtown Los Angeles. At 5th and Main, in the heart of Skid Row, they found their tonic. There, standing in front of a portable toilet, was a Senorita plying her wares in the hot morning sun.

“How much?” Chollie asked. No answer.

Hefe, this is L.A.,” Brito said. “Nobody speaks English. Let me try.”

Brito turned to the skinny sperm depository with the doorag on her head.

Cuando cuesta?” he asked. That did the trick.

“Well what she say, Bright-O?” Chollie asked his pitcher.

“Twenty bucks and a rock,” Brito explained.

“Gaw-dang!” Chollie blurted. “For what I paid last night, I coulda had twenty a her!” he said, peeling off a twenty.

“I need ten for the rock, hefe,” Brito said to Chollie’s consternation. “Fuck, Ew-day. You better not smoke that shit. Do you?”

“Only Cuban cigars, on occasion,” the rookie replied. “Now let me do my trabajo.”

Brito and the Senorita entered the Johnny-On-The-Spot and closed the door. After about a minute, Brito re-emerged, smiling and no longer hard.

“Now let’s go to the game,” Chollie said. “Kimmy-san – take us to the ballpark.”

Once there, the manager headed for Rick Dubee's bottle and Brito to his locker stall. He pulled on his uniform, then became aghast after he noticed a cumstain had bled through his jockstrap. His teammates refused to switch trousers with him. (Worse, after the game began, they refused to hit for him). Despite his sartorial faux pas, the Dominican set to get going with his warmups. Sans erection, and a little buzzed from the second-hand smoke in the Johnny, he told Chollie he was ready to go.

Brito took to the mound and proceeded to get shredded: four innings, six runs on nine hits and two walks to boot. Needless to say, Team Vomit lost the game, and could muster only two hits against Brad Penny and two unremarkable relievers. It was 4-0 by the end of the first inning, and it was effectively over. By the end of seven, it was 8-0 and a downright embarrassment beamed regionally by national television.

Brito was seen leaving the clubhouse and walking toward a taxi in the parking lot. It wasn’t headed toward the hotel.

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