Ah, for those days when smiling was an old hat I liked to wear. Right now, I am besides a hard place and a resignation that grows even harder the more I sit on it. What I have resigned, for at least one more year of calendars, is my future as a full-time player in the Major Leagues. It is a devil-may-care bargain that struck me., a fuel smoldering me with the fear that, when I expect the least to happen, it will fire back . But I will let someone else’s words enter my mouth, in the person of Mr. Joe Sheehan:

It’s established by now that the baseball industry simply doesn’t like Hee Seop Choi, who has been defined by what he cannot do rather than what he can by two organizations, and who hasn’t been given a fair shake outside of a half-season in Florida in 2004. Even in a difficult 2005 season, however, Choi put up a line of .253/.336/.453, good for a .274 EqA in Dodger Stadium. At worst an average defensive first baseman, and heading into his age-27 season, it seems certain that he would be a better choice than [Nomar] Garciaparra in 2005.

Let’s make this clear: the Dodgers are replacing Choi with a player Choi out-hit last season (and posted comparable numbers to in 2004), a player who’s likely going to be inferior defensively, who will cost more money, and carry a greater risk of injury and decline. They’re getting a more famous person in the deal, one whose aggressive approach at the plate may play better than Choi’s disciplined one, but whose edges are all stylistic.

Truth like this is hard to come by, and even harder for some to swallow, let alone keep down. Faced with these opinionated facts, I ask myself questions that I imagine might not have been asked by the newest front office personage in the Dodger staff, would they even bother thinking about such questions. Did Mr. Colletti ask if I, indeed, could handle the job that I have handled from time to time for the past 2 years, and handled as well as I was allowed? Did Mr. Colletti ask if I was malignantly deposed by Mr. Jim Tracy, despite Mr. DePodesta’s supposed faith in me, because of the former’s faith in his own sense of righting wrongs and the former’s lack of faith in the latter’s mathematical regimentation? Did Mr. Colletti ask why I, a young player with a fair record of success and nearing my peak physical height, have not been given the chance to buffer my credentials with fuller statistical proof of my potential largess? Or did he deign to question that I clearly have voiced my displeasure with pinch-hitting, the role that has been left stale for me, through my lack of hitting in the pinches I have squeezed through? I fear the answers to such questioning will only raise more questions that will never be answered correctly. I only wish Mr. Sheehan could put his mouth where Mr. McCourt hides his money, so that I may be of some use to some team that needs something more than what they have.

My only hope for the year to come, regarding my current affair, is that Mr. Garciaparra – he of the charming smile, the spry groin, and a boot-like nose as well – will follow the suit he has worn these past two years, which is why my resignation with the Dodgers for the following year seemed not inappropriately hopeful. But then I imagine Mr. Grady Little – a seemly clone of Mr. Tracy, without the faint whiff of erudition that his precedesor exhumed – will follow in his predecessor’s ill-fit suit, and play anyone that was born in the United States’ continent before chancing upon a foreign body that is partially unknown due only to circumstantial evidence. After all, this is a man whose ability to pull triggers slowly lead the darned Boston Red Sox down the road of crow they have eaten all too often. No doubt any trigger attached to a pen that writes my name in Dodger blue shall remain holstered, even after the final shot has rung my bell.

What is maddening me more is to see other teams fill the land around my corner of the diamond with low grade dirt. Those Red Sox are supposedly hunting for J.T. Snow with snipe and water pistols. I think of shuddering to think how the Giants will replace Snow’s irreplacable mediocrity. Given they believe Matt Morris to be holding aces in his tattered arm, and are paying Mike Matheney to catch outs with his bat, mindless boggling will undoubtedly ensue. The dethroned Kansas City team has given their franchise to a first basename whose most desirable quality is the business end he gives to his jersey tailors. A former team of mine, quickly returning to the dust they once sucked, have finally rejected the barbaric flailings of Jeff Conine, though they have been expectorating any warm form that has any taint of professionalism on their person. One hopes (if one is Jeffrey Loria) that this Mr. Jason Stokes fans whatever dying embers remain on the scorched earth in Pro Player Stadium. And their foul fish friends floundering in Tampa Bay are once again choosing a glove and tall drink of water over ability to set fire to the wood they try to swing. If that team’s Travis Lee truly proves to be more than a belly itcher, then I will gladly pitch myself out of my own league.

This would be the piece of dialogue where I cry to be free, but everything has its price. To dismay me, my sticker seems to be too daunting for any team to pay or play, except for the one team willing to pay without play. Still, my chance for love of this sport remains high, as long as I am able to lace up my gumption and keep both feet reaching for the extra base. I hope your chances are equally lofty this seasonal holiday. I have come a long way to find myself in the same place I began, though I have traveled a great deal, and have many more steps to take for granted. And I am glad that you, dear unknown reader, have taken advantage of my trial misfortune, for the both of us. Remember – this story has yet to find an ending, and there are many more stories that need someone to tell them, so until the book is closed on me once and for all, I will write you off this year. Until then!