Okay, I’m queuing this one so you’re all unprepared tomorrow.
So, Marco Scutaro. Venezolano. Signs as a free agent in 1994. First makes it to the Major Leagues in 2002. Spends so long as a “player to be named later”, the fodder of late-season trades and butt of a million jokes, that he makes into an actual documentary about the careers of players to be named later in 2005. Scutaro is so unknown that when he first meets his first major league manager, Bobby Valentine, it goes like this:
SCUTARO: Hey, I’m Marco Scutaro.
BOBBY VALENTINE: Oh, hey, kid! It’s nice to meet you. Sit down, sit down. So can I sign something for you? Do you live around here?
SCUTARO: …Marco Scutaro, your new infielder, sir.
BOBBY VALENTINE: …Oh.
Plays for the Mets; is pretty good. Plays for the A’s; is pretty good. Plays for the freaking Blue Jays; is on fire, but it’s the Blue Jays. Plays for the 2011 Red Sox, a team noted mostly for making the Houston Astros look like kings of good decisions. Resigns himself to the fact that he’s been playing baseball for SEVENTEEN YEARS and in the majors for ten and he’s just never going to be anything special. Because he’s an all-around amazing guy, never shows a single frown about this, never gives up. He’s 35. And to top off the indignities, is traded to the fucking Colorado Rockies.
Gets traded at the deadline to the Giants.
Instantly becomes the second baseman we’ve dreamt of for years. Helps us win the division. Helps us win the NLDS, in the sense of “help” that means “practically does it single-handed, although Buster Posey definitely helped as well.”
Game 2 of the NLCS. Matt Holliday, a Cardinals outfielder, slides into second base in the nastiest, most brutal way, and takes out Scutaro like he’s made out of tinfoil and toothpicks. Scutaro refuses to leave the game, and belts a single—straight to Holliday, who totally fucking misses it, allowing three runners to score. Then he is literally dragged out of the game by his manager, who has to actually pry him off the equipment to get him to leave before his hip falls in. The injury isn’t too bad. He’s still hurting. He refuses to play light. He refuses to even consider it. He’s going to keep playing.
He ends up with a .500 batting average for the postseason, which means that he got a hit every other at-bat, which is god damned near impossible. He also plays exquisite defense, including a catch at second base that was described as “the best possible play you could make at second base.” The Giants are down 3-1 (it’s a best of 7 series), but they refuse to be eliminated, forcing a Game 6 and then a Game 7.
And in Game 7, not only does Scutaro hit like a madman…
…the last out is Holliday hitting a pop-up straight to Scutaro’s sweet glove.
Now he’s the MVP of the NLCS, at 36 (his birthday was two days ago). He’s going to the World Series on Wednesday.
And that is why I love baseball.
vaporwave
pixelskylines
blakekathryn
theartofmadeline
turnnoffyourmind
