Brett Myers walked back to his car, after spending the morning speaking to at-risk youth. There weren't many positives to his extended stint on the disabled list, but the ability to serve the community on a daily basis was certainly one of them. Myers had so much to be thankful for, and was glad to have the opportunity to give something back.
As Myers reached his car, he caught a glimpse of a masked assailant behind him. Myers deftly dodged, as the assailant smashed his fist into the side of the vehicle. The future Phillies reliever had already driven away, by the time his attacker was ready to consider throwing a second punch. Myers knew he could have dispatched the attacker quite easily, but wasn't about to risk even the smallest of injuries. He knew better than that. He had a team that needed him. He had an important rehab start tomorrow night. As Myers navigated the streets of Ft. Lauderdale, he thought to himself, "that masked dude punched just like Billy Wagner."
Myers liked the arcade, and he enjoyed the playground, but giant, singing, robotic animals? Not so much. Of course, the robots were his son Colt's very favorite part. So Myers, dutifully, took his 4-year-old to Chuck E. Cheese this, and every, Friday afternoon.
Myers, nursing a Mr. Pibb, and his son sat in the front row, watching the melodic gyrations of a family of beavers. At least until the largest of the beavers approached, glaring menacingly. Myers jumped to his feet, ordered his son to go to the car, and stood between the ill-intentioned robot, and the other children. The beaver was quickly corralled by a combination of robotic animals, and well-trained Chuck E. Cheese associates. Myers left the confines of the family-fun restaurant, without further incident. At least until he reached the parking lot.
Myers didn't hear his son exclaim, "Dad! Catch!", until the baseball had bounced off the left side of his face. His rubbed his left eye, thinking to himself, "Sometimes I wish he didn't throw harder than Moyer."
Myers also didn't see the unfortunate conclusion to the non-robotic beaver's employment with Chuck E. Cheese's, Pizza Time Theater Inc. As Mets General Manager Omar Minaya, wearing all but the head of a beaver costume, was forcefully escorted from the premises by the authorities, he muttered to himself, "This still worked out better than Oliver Perez."
Myers was about to call it a night. He had enjoyed a quiet dinner, and two (or three?) beers, with his wife, his nanny, and two friends. As the party rose to leave the watering hole, a burly townie yelled at Myers, "Happ's success is due to his low BABIP!" As a professional athlete, Myers had plenty of experience, in dealing with such instigators. Myers replied calmly, "His BABIP is regressing to the mean, but Happ has sustained his high level of success." Another patron yelled, threateningly, "It's his mechanics! He hides the ball! Like Randy Wolf!" Two groups of local roughnecks approached Myers' party, each from opposite sides. Flanked by his two buddies, Myers liked his chances in the inevitable altercation. But he had a responsibility to his ballclub. Myers and his party quickly withdrew, as the two opposing parties converged. With sabermetric fury evident in the eyes of one group, and anti-statistical malice filling the hearts of the other, the ensuing battle would be a ferocious one.
Myers woke up on his concrete driveway. The last thing he remembered was relaxing in the back seat of the Escalade, as his nanny drove home. His wife, Kim, exclaimed, "We opened the door, so we could wake you, and you fell right out!" The nanny handed Myers a towel, which he used to dab the blood dripping from his wounded left eye. "As long as it's just my eye, and not my arm, I'm still pitching Saturday", Myers thought to himself. "It's nothing", Myers told his wife. "I'll call Ruben tomorrow."