Sportsman's Daily


Mike Hargrove's Resignation "Shocking But Not Completely Unexpected"

Once known as the "Human Rain Delay," seeds of Hargrove's inner torment were evident during his playing days, though most attributed his interminable at-bats to a deep-seated, though benign form of anal retension

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Leering Indians mascot listens in on Mike Hargrove's mutterered recitation of Molly Bloom's orgasmic soliloquy from "Ulysses": "I was a Flower of the mountain yes when I put the rose in my hair like the Andalusian girls used or shall I wear a red yes and how he kissed me under the Moorish wall and I thought well as well him as another and then I asked him with my eyes to ask again yes and then he asked me would I yes to say yes my mountain flower and first I put my arms around him yes and drew him down to me so he could feel my breasts all perfume yes and his heart was going like mad and yes I said yes I will Yes."

Seattle, WA (The Sportsmans Daily Wire Service) – To manage or not to manage, that is the question.

Seattle Mariners manager Mike Hargrove resigned on Sunday, ending a season-long existential crisis, though few saw any signs of the dread and self-doubt that gnawed from within. Reactions ranged from stunned to shocked to flabbergasted; even Hargrove himself wasn't sure what prompted his decision.

"I don't expect people to understand it, I really don't, because at times I don't understand it myself."

Hargrove did cite his dimished "passion" after 37 years in baseball, even though he was helming one of the game's hottest teams.

"At first I was as stunned as everyone else," said Toby Harrah, a former teammate when both played for the Cleveland Indians. "But then I thought back to his playing days and his never-ending at-bats. Most people thought it was just some weird and deeply annoying fixation that brought games to a standstill. But once you got to know Mike and watched him up close, you realized he was one tormented dude. If only you could have recorded his interior monologues as he stepped out of the box to adjust and re-adjust his batting was tough to watch, particularly when you're squatting in the on-deck circle, within earshot."

It turns out that excerpts of Hargrove's tormented interior monologues were caught on tape. Late Sunday, Rodney Phelps, a forensic sound technician, came forward with several"digitally enhanced" sound clips he claims to have recorded while attending three Indians home games during the 1982 season.

"When I recorded it we didn't have the tools that we have today. Listening to the enhanced version you realize there are several stream-of-consciousness monologues going on at any given time. One moment he's reciting items his wife asked him to pick up on his way home from the park, the next he's talking to an imaginary, apparently hard-to-please authority figure -- perhaps his dad, maybe a former Little League coach. But there are some moments where he just veers off and seems to talk in complete gibberish."

Phelps played two snippets, which we transposed as follows:

"Nice kind of evening feeling. No more wandering about. Just loll there: quiet dusk: let everything rip. Forget. Tell about places you have been, strange customs. The other one, jar on her head, was getting the supper: fruit, olives, lovely cool water out of a well, stonecold like the hole in the wall at Ashtown. Must carry a paper goblet next time I go to the trottingmatches. She listens with big dark soft eyes. Tell her: more and more: all. Then a sigh: silence. Long long long rest."

"Steeerike! Two."

"Huh? Wha? That was three inches outside."

"Get back in the box Hargrove, you're driving 50,000 people crazy with your shit."

Hargrove appears to ignore the ump and continues his rambling, seemingly random narrative:

"Heavenly weather really. If life was always like that. Cricket weather. Sit around under sunshades. Over after over. Out. They can't play it here.Duck for six wickets. Still Captain Culler broke a window in the Kildare street club with a slog to square leg. Donnybrook fair more in their line. And the skulls we were acracking when M'Carthy took the floor. Heatwave. Won't last. Always passing, the stream of life, which in the stream of life we trace is dearer than them all."

On a hunch, we Googled each snippet and were surprised to learn they were lifted verbatim from "Ulyssees," James Joyce's notoriously hard-to-follow, stream-of-consciousness novel, published in 1922.

"I guess it kind of makes sense," said Harrah, when we related our findings. "Stream-of-consciousness, whether it's your own or from some other source, can really mess with your approach and your swing. Borrowing from a writer like Joyce, whose literary puns and deft allusions are kind of wry and amusing once you puzzle them out, was a smart choice. Just imagine if he went with someone more dark and difficult -- like a Poe, a Strindberg, even a Celine, for instance. Trust me: you don't wind up a career .290 hitter working the count with the 'Pit and the Pendulum' rattling around your head."

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