Overcompensation, Part I

Chipper sat in the empty locker room with his head in his hands. He turned and slammed his fist hard next to the metal locker behind him, catching a glimpse of Playboy pinup inside, then returned his face to his hands, choking on a sob.

The words of that know-it-all Caray rang in his head. "Ball out to short...Chipper's looking at Veras...Veras is looking at Chipper..." He could still hear the hesitant pause in Skip's voice and imagined Don Sutton nudging him in the ribs with his elbow up there in that goddamn booth. With a smile in his voice, Caray said uncertainly, "Somebody better look at the BALL."

There was a sound at the opposite end of the room. Chipper's heart raced and he prayed it wasn't Quilvio. It was Rosa, the cleaning lady. She set down a bottle of Windex (which she used to clean the mirrors spic and span) and ambled over and put her hands on his shoulders as always. He shrugged her off, unduly irritated. She smiled a little -- a little too knowingly, he thought--and continued with her cleaning.

Chipper grabbed a jock strap and snapped it against his forehead to snap out of his reverie. "I am NOT gay for Latino men!" He screamed silently. But there was no answer.

Skip Caray Outed Me!

The clubhouse smelled sweaty 24/7 during the season. He loved it. It was a homey, familiar smell that hadn't changed since 1985. Fancy colognes made him sneezy and faggy-feeling, but he knew he had an image to project, sort of. Sharon liked him to wear Ralph Lauren Polo Sport, which he thought smelled pretty nice. But he had received a gift bottle of Dolce & Gabbana Pour Homme in his cubby, and he sprayed some on. If it made it into his cubby, it might be from someone in John's office. He'd been in the weight room doing flies when an intern, a young, sexy black teenager, had entered in her Braves polo and short denim skirt to say John would like to see him at two, if it was convenient.

He put on black Abercrombie slacks and a white Armani t-shirt with a blue Merona blazer. Tucked his $12,000 gold chain inside the t-shirt, cause he didn't want to look too flashy, or like he had more money than he knew what to do with. Slipped on some size 12 black leather JCrew bucs over thick white socks. Picked up his duffel bag and waved at the guard.

"Whassup, Chipper," murmured some secretaries and interns around John's office, trying to hide their glances and even blushes. He wasn't in the mood and barely smiled. John liked to keep you waiting. Chipper decided not to sit down or even put his bag down. He wasn't gonna sit in no waiting room.

"Chipper!! Come on back!" John waved him in but stayed on the phone. Some shit about Furcal. Chipper sat down, knees spread wide, and gazed out the window. Rollerblades, goddammit. She wanted him to get Chip rollerblades. Did they even make rollerblades for little squirts? He'd send her a check.

"Sorry to keep you waiting, Chipper," said John, and looked at him for a moment before smiling. "Have a nice lunch?"

"Aw, sure, I just had Malia pick me up some--some wings. You?"

"Bacchanalia with Tommy. A bit bland, you know, but hey, a nice change."

"Yeah." Chipper cleared his throat. "Sir?"

John's face got serious and he handed Chipper a piece of paper. "Would you mind reading this?" Chipper took it and looked over it, and then smiled. "Read it out loud, would you, son?"

Chipper took a breath and read flatly:
"Girls... All I really want is girls. And in the morning, it's girls. And in the evening it's girls. I like the way that they walk. And it's chill to hear them talk. And I can always make 'em smile. From White Castle to the Nile."

He looked up and grinned at John. "It's all true, isn't it? Could you keep reading, son?"

He laughed nervously. "Girls should do the dishes, should clean up my room, should do the laundry, and then the bathroom. All I really want is girls. Two at a time I want girls. With new wave hairdos I want girls. I oughta whip out my--girls, girls, girls, girls, girls, girls, girls, girls, girls."

He looked up and grinned again, his whole face lighting up. "I mean, it's great! Isn't it so me, don't you think? I took out the middle verse cause it didn't make sense, like, in relation to me."

"It's no good, Chipper."

"What are you talking about? I love that song!"

"Well, I'm sure you do, but you have to realize that given your place on our team, and in its image, and the fact that we're trying to keep baseball inoffensive, and, well, some aspects of your past..." Chipper dropped his eyes.

"Well, it's not gonna fly."

"Dammit, John!!" Chipper stood up. "Don't you try to throw all that shit in my face!! I'm not your poster child!! I can say what I wanna say and you can't stop me!" He gestured at the paper. "This is ME, for God's sake! What if THAT's the message I want to send to the fans? I love girls, John!!!"

"You're not supposed to love girls, Chipper, you're supposed to love your wife. Now just relax, I've talked to Bobby about this and you're not walking to the plate with this sexist bullshit playing."

"You watch me!!" He hissed. "You want me to play some pussy Third Eye blind shit like Millwood? What do you want from me?" John's eyes widened as he saw spit rolling from Chipper's lower lip. "Quit trying to control me! I am my own man with my own sexuality!!! Don't suppress me!!! Girls, girls, girls, girls, Wahoooo!!!!!!!!" He tried to dance around the office.

"Dr. Schaumberg?" John faced away from the singing Chipper, shielding the phone. "Could you come up here immediately, with some Xanax? Chipper Jones' toe is hurting."

Click.