We all like to hear about the guy who gets his shot at greatness and smacks it out of the park. But, as I’ve learned, people don’t like to hear about the guy who smacks it out of the park 26 out of his first 152 tries. One day you’re the toast of Kansas City — Budweisers on the house, hotties in your lap — and the next you’re unceremoniously kicked to the curb like yesterday’s garbage. There’s no rhyme or reason to it. Blink and it’s gone; there’s no stopping the pendulum from swinging the other way. So Jeff Francoeur, Mr. Toast of Atlanta, I have this to say: enjoy it, asshole.

I’ve lived that life, and while the highs feel like you’re riding one of those hanging curves you just smacked into the dark sky, the lows feel like your 186 career strikeouts, the bat catching nothing but air. It’s hard to look at yourself in the mirror after getting cut by the Royals, Tampa Bay Devil Rays, San Diego Padres and St. Louis Cardinals. Sure, the Cardinals I can understand, but the Royals? The Devil Rays??? How’d that Greg Vaughn experiment work out down there in Tampa, Lamar? You fucking douchebag.

But hey, at least I made almost a million dollars during my run — more money than my parents ever saw in their lives. Only all that smoke GMs and my agent blew up my ass inflated my head so big that it’s all gone now. And what do I have to show for it? A piece of property outside my hometown in California and a real fucking swell collection of monogrammed cleats. You read that right: monogrammed cleats. We all have our weaknesses.

And Mr. Francoeur — who I fully expect to see standing next to me at some bullshit fantasy baseball camp trying to shake the cobwebs from another malt liquor hangover to dull the pain away in two years or less — you have plenty. No walks in 87 plate appearances? You think that’s going to fly?

I know you play in Atlanta where they’ve embraced statistics like they embraced desegregation in the ’60s, but that shit matters these days. I racked up a whopping 56 walks in my entire “career,” so I can’t afford to be too sanctimonious, but if nothing else, know that GMs pay attention to that sort of thing now. You’ve got to think about your future if you don’t want to end up like me. Or, even worse, fucking Shane Spencer. Dude came up with the Yanks mashing home runs like hippie protestors, but these days he’s mashing begonias into my mom’s front lawn. Try going from “yard work” to real goddamned yard work in five years. You think that shit don’t sting like a post-Tijuana piss?

To sum it all up, Jeffy boy, try to pinch a little more penny and little less titty. Right now you feel like you’ve been buried in the world’s greatest pussy for the past month, but you can’t squeeze off the inevitable forever. Somebody’s gonna get knocked up. Just make sure it’s not you.

Mark Quinn played in the Major Leagues from 1999 to 2002. He hit 45 career home runs.