A broken team

The scene: The locker room of "Slick", a team named after its owner. The players' uniforms are as creative as the team name -- a drab shade of gray with a thin black stripe down the trouser leg. The letters of the team name are feebly ironed on the front of the jersey, in small Helvetica letters, printed from an Epson inkjet that was purchased on sale at Sam's Club.

Lance Berkman sits on two cinder blocks in the locker room, which is dimly lit by a single, yellow light bulb that hangs from a chain in the ceiling. He glances at Gil Meche, who is attempting to re-fasten the "c" to his jersy with a safety pin.

Berkman: Hey Gil, any idea why [Michael] Cuddyer is playing again today?
Meche: No. He just keeps getting penciled into the lineup. Again and again.
Berkman: I don't get it. He's -- he's in no shape to play.

Berkman shifts his eyes to the corner of the locker room. He looks back at Meche. Then again the the corner of the locker room. Meche follows his gaze.

There we see Michael Cuddyer, slumped into the corner. He is not breathing. He also has a dislocated right index finger.

Young outfielder Luke Scott sits nearby. He has not played in a game this season for Slick. The team has also failed to provide him with shoes, so his brown loafers starkly clash with the ill-fitting, gray polyester uniforms.

Scott: I don't know why I can't get into the lineup. I know it's early, but I have a 1.061 OPS.
Jim Thome: Sample size, my friend. You know how savvy Slick is about those kinds of statistical trends.
[everyone laughs]
Joe Nathan: Hey, speaking of Slick. Where has he been lately?
Joba Chamberlain: I don't know. I haven't seen him since April 5.
Juan Pierre: Yeah, he just came in that day and filled out a lineup card, left it on the table, and said we should follow it until further notice.
Dontrelle Willis: Yeah, I've been the top starter all season, and I'm hurt.
Nathan: Also, you suck!
[more uproarious laughter]

The room quickly quiets. Moments of levity are rare for a team that has been abandoned by its management. Players whisper about wanting trades to better teams like Uncle Phil and Fukkake.

Near the front of the clubhouse, Albert Pujols picks at the pre-game food spread, which consists of a jar of olives, a half-eaten box of off-brand Triscuits and two packages of bologna, both past their use-by date.

Adrian Beltre sits near his locker. He softly weeps.

When asked why he cries, Beltre talks of his lost passion for the game.

"I used to love baseball," he says. "I used to have such fire. But playing here, it is like a death sentence. I feel dead inside. I can't even get an erection anymore. My wife is totally unsatisfied with my sexual performance, and I fear that she is now cheating on me with other men."

Jered Weaver, the current staff ace, says he just wants to know someone cares.

"We haven't brought in one new player all year," he says, pulling on an old sanitary sock. Worn by time, the sock rips and Weaver's toe pokes through.

"I just want to know that someone in the front office cares. All of the other teams are trying to compete; they're making changes. We have some talent here, but nothing is happening. It's like no one believes in us."

He adds, "I can't get a boner either, dude. I think it might be that old-ass bologna."

Just another day for the players of Slick.