David Price faces off against Alex Cobb at the Trop today. The two men are friends. What happens when you find yourself in a battle with your boys? You want to bury them.
I came up with former MLB All Star Robert Fick. He was my roommate for several years. In AA Jacksonville, he hit third, and I protected him in the four slot. Our personalities were near opposites, but we became crazy tight. I was on base the night he hit the final home run at Tiger Stadium, and we embraced at home plate.
I was dealt to the Rangers that winter, and our clubs met in Arlington the following summer. Robert was catching a bit less and playing first base a bit more, but that didn’t prohibit me from dreaming about a potential encounter with my close friend. I even had a specific visualization:
I stand on second base after a double; Robert is catching. He peers around the pitcher trying to make eye contact. The edge of Old English D on his chest peeks out from behind his gear. In my mind, Royce Clayton lines a single up the middle. I get a good jump and know I’m scoring. I push hard off third base with my right foot and take a direct line to home plate. Juan Encarnacion, the Tigers center fielder, uses his rifle to fire a one-hop strike. The ball winds up safely in Robert’s glove, directly in front of the plate, a split second prior to my arrival. Boom! My shoulder hits him square in the chest, dislodging the baseball and his mask. As they spill towards the Tigers dugout, I see more of my former teammates staring in disbelief. Safe.
My fantasy never played out quite that way, but now you know the answer to what David Price was dreaming about last night. He has a deep love for the men in the Tampa Bay Rays clubhouse. They are family. That will never change. Neither will his desire to destroy them while wearing a different uniform. They can hug it out in street clothes.
