It began like any other Wednesday. I awoke promptly at 7:15am. After a hot shower, I threw on some Kenny G while examining how the Darlings fared the previous night.
We actually had a good haul on Tuesday, hitting three homers, knocking in eight and scoring six runs. Everything seemed excellent.
And then I saw it.
Next to the player profile of Everyone's Favorite Man, in a bright red that burned into my very soul, sat that two most heartbreaking letters a fantasy GM can imagine:
D.L.
My heart pounded out of my chest, pulled a quick U-turn and divebombed into the pit of my stomach. I couldn't see straight. The room began spinning. I needed to sit down.
Chad Billingsley can't be injured. He just can't be. There must be some mistake.
I began to hyperventilate and eventually passed out on my bedroom floor.
(By the way, did you know some employers won't let you take a mental health day when your fantasy pitchers go on the DL? I'm sorry, I thought this was America)
I came to twenty minutes later. After a quick shot of Jack Daniels and a good cry, I decided to break the news to the rest of the team.
They took it only slightly better than I did, and in the ensuing chaos we tore through the seven stages of grief at a breakneck pace.
Shock: Placido Polanco took it pretty bad, freezing up worse than when he walked in on his parents doing it that one time.
The bigger the head, the darker the secrets.Anger: Blinded by rage, Pablo Sandoval beat Carlos Quentin to death with a rosin bag. No one seemed upset.
Bargaining: Ryan Sweeney offered to rub Chad down with exotic oils to expedite the healing process.
"Trust me," he said. "It's science."
Depression: Poor Jon Rauch just sits by his locker and listens to The Cure.
Testing/Reconstruction: This stage is marked by attempts to move on. We've picked Carlos Zambrano off the waiver wire to replace Chad in the interim, bringing us to...
Acceptance: And here we are.
For the time being, we must press on.
Many times in the face of tragedy, you are told to go about your daily life as if nothing is wrong. "That's what so-and-so would want," they tell you.
And like the selfless warrior that he is, Chad has asked---nay, demanded!---that we move forward.
(That's not how I roll, though. When I go, drop what you're doing and mourn for weeks. And if at the funeral you want to throw yourself on my casket and wail, "Don't put him down there, take me instead," by all means, feel free)
But Chad, buddy, pal, we can't just pretend you aren't here with us. You're too important to the team. So everybody chipped in and we got you something nice.
No, no, stop. It was nothing. We're happy to do it. Hanley Ramirez ordered the bouquet, it should arrive in the morning.
Felix Hernandez even drew you this picture:
Everybody signed the card, too. Here are a few excerpts:
Dear Buzzsaw:
Hey man, hang in there. The guys really miss you. Heck, I miss you. I'm a mess without you.
I miss your laugh. I miss your musk. I think when all of this is over we should get an apartment together.
I'm still working on those t-shirts we talked about. I think "Chadburg" is a killer name. Talk to you later, bro.
Signed,
Strasburger with Cheese
* * * * *
Chazmaster:
Groin injury, huh? Bet I know how that happened!! LOL! You the man! Rest that groin! ;-)
Signed,
* * * * *
Dear Chad,
Fun fact: I'm on the disabled list, too. Yep, been here about a month with a back injury. No flowers or blogposts or poems for 'ole Brad, though.
No big deal. I've just started an All-Star Game and won a World Series. Hurry back, Chad. God knows we need you.
Love,
Brad Penny
P.S. I wish you were dead.
P.S. I wish you were dead.
* * * * *
As you can see, Chad, it's rough without you. You're the straw the stirs the drink. The captain that steers us through rough waters.
Basically, you're our Mufasa.
So get well soon, big guy. We miss you already.
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