I Feel I'm At My Best, Artistically, When On The Disabled List

Chipper is resting comfortably at Piedmont Hospital with a Hustler hidden behind a Chop Talk.

He thinks it's hidden, but there are cameras catching it, cameras meant to catch parents in the hospital with their kids suffering from Munchausen by Proxy syndrome.

Oh, and Chipper's face is smeared with sauce from those ribs he's nibbling on, and he just grabbed someone's ass, he can't remember who, and he blushed when he had to sign a form "Larry." He quickly uses a handiwipe to get the ribs sauce off his face because Joe Simpson and the WSB Crew just came in to tape Chipper Jones Diary.

Later, in a thoughtful moment, he shooes everyone out of his room and sits up in bed, fresh new spiral notebook on his knees, and chews on the tomahawk end of a felt-tip pen, and tries to write.

I hit a home run last night(scratched out)
I'm really glad we got Furcal (scratched out)
Sometimes I feel a lot of pressure (scratched out)
expectations upon me (scratched out)
I said something mean about Rocker and I feel bad. (scratched out)
My ankle hurts. (scratched out)
There were two girls behind first base last night (scratched out darkly)
Dear Diary, (scratched out)
I don't feel like paying child support this month (scratched out)
I am going to throw Chip a big party at ESPN Zone for his birthday (line drawn through)
I wish I had better triceps (scratched out)


The summer of 1987. It was a summer he would never forget. Every afternoon, his friends and him would never forget. They would ditch class and go to the beach and drink beer and smoke marijuana and make out and play games and he especially liked it when they would throw a baseball around because he was really good at that. (Scratched out and pulled out of notebook, crumpled, thrown in general direction of trash receptacle.)