Amid a crowd of yuppies and hipsters, Jimmy Rollins set off today to set a world record for the world’s furthest hit baseball. I was there today, and I can tell you first hand that he didn’t even come close. The mark to beat was 576 feet, and Jimmy’s furthest ball landed at a gentleman’s 463 feet from “home.” That’s more than a hundred feet short for those of you at home reaching for the abacus. Now, since I’ve ruined any type of suspense, allow me to tap into my inner Hunter S. Thompson to relay the scene from the Ben Franklin Parkway that took place today.
It was madness 0n the parkway. A man with a bat attempting something that he could never complete, like trying to climb Everest with nothing more than a bindle stick. My compatriot, James, and I had settled some three hundred and fifty feet off to the left. We figured it the most opportune place to be struck with a batted ball so that we could later sue. All around us young urban professionals hung onto guard rails, sweating through their dress shirts and laughing maniacally with each other as they played hooky from work. Even more young hipsters wandered through the crowd, taking slugs from cans of Pabst Blue Ribbon which they kept concealed from the prying eyes of the law in foam “I’m #1″ hands. They had no work to play hooky from.
It was a quarter past noon when the 5′, 8″, 170 lbs shortstop for the Philadelphia Phillies stepped into the batting cage, metal bat in hand, and began to take pitches. His landing strip of asphalt which was the abandoned Parkway was only, roughly, forty feet wide. That distance and another ten feet to the left side where I stood was the only room for error. He began hitting. The metal bat’s yelp of “ping” echoed through the streets. He was off and running, as were the fans. While many balls landed on the vacant corridor of the Ben Franklin Parkway, many did not. Those that were yanked to the left or pushed to the right were sent on a collision course with human flesh and private property. The medics were on hand, but seemed to linger closer to the star attraction then to the private citizens that came to enjoy the warm weather and baseball novelty. No one seemed to care.
Some women began to shield themselves behind the meat of their boyfriends, while the boyfriends reassured them that they would protect them. It was machismo at it’s finest decadence. The balls began to fly further and further into the crowd as Rollins became more and more tired. The crowd was in a fever now. Not for a world record, but for memorabilia. Every ball that landed off the Parkway was up for grabs, and the men in the crowd would be damned if someone else would take was what rightfully theirs. It was manifest destiny for cowhide and yarn. I saw men dressed in checkered shirts and tweed jackets who, no more than an hour ago, were greeting co-workers with sincere smiles and insincere compliments, turn into animals. They trampled each other to get to errant balls that bounced in the street. A man dove, full extension, into the dirt to try and rip a ball from another man who had already wrestled the prize from a third, who was now laying by the wayside. They were like jackals trying to prove that they were the alpha of the pack. It was glorious and atavistic.
The balls continued to fly like shrapnel, and men continued to tear each other limb from limb. Had I ever seen the horrors of war, I was sure I would suffer a flashback. A white orb came off the bat, disappeared in the trees that lined the Parkway and then reappeared in a trajectory that I was sure was destined for my skull. It rifled just a few feet above my head and the wild pack of humanity was off again. It was shortly after this that a young kid, drunk on beer and bedlam, screamed into his phone, “A ball was just coming right at me! I think I could have caught it if I jumped. This is crazy, you have to come down here.”
He was lying of course, there was no way he could have caught the ball, but it didn’t matter because we were all lying. Jimmy Rollins didn’t care about a record. All he cared about was an endorsement deal he had with an energy drink. The camera crews from ESPN that were filming the event were lying too. They were doing it for advertising spots, money, and an hour of television programming. We were lying because we couldn’t care how far Jimmy hit a ball, so long as we weren’t at work.
A half hour had passed and the target mark of 576 feet might as well had been a mile. It was equally insurmountable. Jimmy Rollins stopped swinging, and the balls stopped flying. A closing interview was held, which no one watched. We all staggered away from the world of Red Bull and back to the real world through the streets of Center City, Philadelphia. Men returned to work with bruised hands and bruised egos, ball-less. A lucky few returned with a piece of non-history. The whole scene had nothing to with baseball, but it was good to see that commercialism was alive and well.
And out of the world of Gonzo we come so I can keep the promise I made yesterday to share pictures of the event with you:
Here’s a picture of Jimmy swinging for the world record. Whoops, you missed, Jimmy!
Here’s one where Jimmy made good contact. I think it went 300 feet. Hey that’s almost out at the Bank!
Here’s one where you can see that Jimmy was really happy the people came out to see him shill for Red Bull. Not sure why he went with a cubs shirt, but hey, it’s his show. Nice choice on the helmet, though. Safety first. Tags: Jimmy Rollins, Non-News, The Brushback 1 day ago 4 Comments Short URL Share this post! Share on Facebook Tweet This! 4 Comments
JP says:June 28, 2011 at 1:01 amLove a good abacus reference.
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Weezer says:June 28, 2011 at 1:29 amWho doesn’t?
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Brian says:June 28, 2011 at 4:31 pmGlad to see that Grimace’s creepy green brother was there as well, in that last picture.
ReplyWeezer says:June 28, 2011 at 4:42 pmThat was the best Phanatic they could get to come to this crap event.
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