I don’t personally know any of them.

However, with my years of reading the works of L. Ron Hoover of the Church of Appliantology, I decided to do an exercise to figure out a new winning strategy for the Royals by tapping this under-utilized source of wisdom.

After subsisting on low-protein gruel all morning, I emerged from my mother’s basement to sit in the sauna (closed the bathroom door, put a towel over the crack, cranked up the shower as hot as it would go. Sat on the toilet [low-protein gruel has a lot of fibre]), and exteriorized.

I was 3 feet back of my head, then I was floating. I began to fly. Through the walls I went. I was like Horatio Caine without the sunglasses, speeding to where I could get the information I needed. After a quick stop at Hemet, CA, I tripled the speed of sound on my way to South Florida. From far above, I spotted a swampy baseball diamond. Lighting there, I spotted the wise man from whom I would gain the knowledge I needed. The older man in the manager’s uniform—he was standing between my disembodied self and the person with whom I needed to speak.

Yes, it was the young man who had the knowledge I needed. His arms were bearing a pair of bats in one hand, a bag of balls in the other. His face was clear and pale (when not spray-tanned, I gathered), yet when he turned around, I could see what appeared to be scores of pimples through his greasy white practice jersey. Why did a batboy need a practice jersey? I had no time to to ponder such questions, however, as my energy for exteriorization was running low. I know not how he sensed by presence.

“Greetings, traveller,” he drawled. “I gots here the knowledge you seek.”

“You wanna maximize yer pitching talent, right? Well, you gotta tell Moore to stop screwing with yer ‘pen. He’s goin’ backwards. In fact, I thunk it over and I came up with a strategery that will gay-run-tee the Royals will shut the other guys down. Mock it up yourself. If having a real shut-down closer makes the game eight innings, wouldna shut-down set-up guy make it a seven inning game? That what you there had when Zack was setting up for Sora. Let’s carry that reasonin’ out to its logical whatfor. Why not have Meche pitch the seventh? And when Hooch is well-done, he can pitch the sixth! I don’t trust that Bannister fella. He may play the game, but with all the textin’ that fat lil’ fella and the numbers and the nerds in the blogs, I’d trade him fast to free up money what for to re-sign a good defensive first baseman to a big extension. But think about it: Hooch, Meche, Greinke, Soria. That four innings of shut-down relief! I’m not even sure I could hit a rope one out of every six times agin’ those dudes! All you gots to do is get some starters, it doesn’t matter where. John Bale, Kyle Davies, they’ll prolly do. They just needs to go five! And who cares about those parts the game. The closer to the end, the more valuble they is. And you wastin’ ‘em in the beginning of the game! Get those worthless innins’ down to five, and you can gay-run-tee the boys will be dominatin’ like the 1996 Yanks in no time. Hoo-wee!”

I had so many more questions. How would I ever transmit this wisdom to the blog world? Would anyone believe me? After all, although I talked to someone who had played the game a little bit at some point, I had not. As I faded, I faintly heard my interlocutor shouting ”....will explode!!! 1111!!!” (That’s right, I heard the 1s.)

It was dark. Three feet back. I was in my body, re-awakening to my limited, meat body. And then I heard a beautiful, shrieking voice.

It was my mother.

“Devil _. Fingers! You in the bathroom AGAIN, boy? I’m here watchin’ my stories and you either on that computer box downstairs or in this bathroom again. You better not be usin’ my nice towels. I know what you do in there!”

I was home.