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DIR EXCLUSIVE: PREISLER'S (IMAGINARY) GUEST SPOT ON BASEBALL TONIGHT

I was at my desk staring at the wall with a pencil between my teeth. I'd put the pencil between my teeth because I was afraid I might have a fit and swallow my tongue. I was afraid I might have a fit and swallow my tongue because I'd just hung up the phone after discussing a proposal for a new series of novels with my editor.

Now, I love this particular editor. I really do. She's smart and enthusiastic and receptive, all of which are qualities many editors have nothing to do with. So, for the record, she is my favorite editorial person on earth. But every working relationship has its occasional frustrations. After meeting with her publisher, it was decided that my conceptualization of the proposed series needed a teensy-weensy tweak. Well, okay, maybe slightly more than teensy-weensy. They'd liked my main character's name, but the rest pretty much had to go.

This made me miserable. The proposal had been almost ten thousand words in length. I'd worked on it for two weeks and put a whole lot of thought into it. I'd thought it was a great proposal. And now I was back to square one.

I hung up the phone and somehow managed to keep my aggravation down to a teensy-weensy minimum. Well, okay, I tried. In fact, my heart was pounding, my blood pressure was soaring, and my cheeks were twitching. As foam started brewing from my mouth, I quickly shoved the pencil into my mouth and told myself to calm down before I had a stroke.

I'd been staring at the wall for about five minutes when I imagined hearing my phone ring, and then imagined picking it up to hear my agent's voice in the earpiece.

"Jerome, dude, I heard about the proposal and figured you might be kind of upset," he said in my mind.

"Tell me about it . . . dude," I snarled very clearly despite having a pencil in my mouth. Hey, I know that's improbable. But it was my fantasy. All mine. And that made it impervious to editorial fiat.

"Look, enough with writing books, I got a deal that'll make you happy. You've just been offered a gig as guest anchor on ESPN's Baseball Tonight."

"Yeah, right. Listen, I'm not in the mood-"

"I'm serious, man. If you're interested, you better hustle on down to the studio. If not, say so right now and I'll contact the Fellow Author. He knows a good offer when he sees one."

I was silent a pretend moment. "Wait. Hold on. You're saying somebody wants me. Jerome Preisler. To anchor Baseball Tonight."

"Uh-huh. Got it."

"What happened to Karl Ravech?"

"Nothing. He's just taking off . . . they told me he's sick to death of the show."

Makes two of us, I thought.

"And who're my panelists?"

"John Kruk and Steve Phillips are your definites. Then there's the rotating third man. He might be Fernando Viña or Orel Hershiser. Or maybe that Perez guy."

"Eduardo Perez?"

"Right."

"What's that half-baked slugger have to say that anybody ought to care about?"

"Hey, he got a couple of hits off Rivera back in '05 and parleyed that into an extra season in the majors. So it could be he's savvier than you think. And look at it this way-compared to the guys I mentioned, you might even come off like you've got a brain in your head."

I considered that, shrugged. What the heck, I thought.

"Okay. I'm game. But under two nonnegotiable conditions."

"Shoot."

"First, I want Dennis Eckersley added to the panel. I realize he's a regular on the NESN's Boston Red Sox pre-game show, but I've got a question or two to ask him, and he can't be that busy. Second, I want you to call the people at YESNetwork.com for me. Tell them I want this week's column to be about my appearance on ESPN. If they balk, promise I'll keep its length down for a change. I give 'em two thousand words, tops, to deal with, they'll jump for joy. Especially Jen Royle, who got stuck with double that count last time."

Another quiet moment passed. My agent made a throat-clearing sound, then sighed.

"I'll contact Eck's people soon as we're off the phone," I imagined him saying.

___________________________________________

"Hello, everybody in TV Land! Hi Sue!" I say, obeying the stage manager's instructions to grin at a red light on the camera. "My name is Jerome Preisler, and I'll be guest hosting the show tonight! Besides our standbys, Kruk, Phillips, and Viña, let's welcome Dennis Eckersley, who's taken time away from his analyst duties at NESN to appear with me."

Eckersley smiles, waves in my direction from the far end of the desk. "This guy Preisler's sick, man. I mean, like, whoa, I gotta tell you. Off the charts, Hall of Fame, sick!"

I stare at him a second, exhale. At least, I think, he's no different in person than he seems on the Sox pre-game.

"Okay, let's move on ," I say. "Being how I'm a Yankee fan and write a column for YES . . . and also being how I'm the one imagining all this . . . I've decided to make tonight's show a Yank-centric installment. So we'll start with this hypothetical question for the panel: Assuming the American League East-leading Red Sox can be overtaken in the pennant race, which team presents the biggest threat? Krukkie, you want to lead off?"

Kruk nods. "That's easy," he replies. "In order, I'd say the Devil Rays, Baltimore and Toronto."

I look at him. "Huh? Krukkie, I think maybe you forgot about the Yankees."

"I didn't forget about the Yankees. They just have no chance. Not against the mighty Red Sox."

"But they're only four games out of first place in the loss column. As compared to the Orioles, who are about twenty-five games out. And the D-Rays, who're twenty-six-"

Kruk cuts me off with a dismissive flap of his hand.

"You spoiled Yank fans always point to the standings this time of year. Like they mean anything. .The fact is, the Yankees are old. Meanwhile, the D-Rays are young. And Baltimore's even younger thanks to all the kids they're bringing up from the minors. My prediction's that the Yanks crap out and the D-Rays make a push. But they'll fall short because of Curt Schilling."

I look at him. "Schilling?"

"Yeah, Schilling. He's the man. He's the difference maker. I say it every season and you'll never make me stop."

I scratch my chin. As an occasional viewer of Baseball Tonight, it was my policy to ignore Kruk altogether. That seems as good an idea now as ever, I decide, and then look at Steve Phillips "Steve? Want to weigh in?"

Phillips nods, faces the camera's red light, and smiles winningly.

"I've been looking at run differentials and aggregate WHIP stats, and I'd agree with Krukkie that it's the D-Rays. Or maybe Baltimore or Toronto. Just not the Yanks. They've got nothing."

I look at him. "But the other night you told Ravech that Andy Pettitte was the most clutch pitcher in the American League."

"Right."

"And that Derek Jeter was the most clutch position player."

"Right."

"So how is it that the Yanks have nothing?"

Phillips turns his smile on me. I only imagine myself imagining it's full of condescension.

"Jerome, you should understand that I used to be a major league general manager. It's what qualifies me to be on this show. And as a former GM, I implicitly know things about building a team you'll never be able to grasp. The Red Sox are unbeatable. They've got the pitching, and they've got the style. But if anybody takes them down, it's Tampa Bay."

Silence. I keep looking at Phillips.

"Ah, Steve, no offense," I say after a second. "But when you general managed the Mets, you put together some putrid teams. Especially toward the end there when you spent a fortune acquiring a decrepit Mo Vaughn and Roberto Alomar, plus brought in Tsuyoshi Shinjo. And then there was all that seriocomic discord and losing the next season, which happened to be your last. So quote all the bogus stats you want, I'm not sure you really know any more about baseball than the average Joe. Or average Steve, for that matter. Which I think is as good a cue as any for me to shift over to Fernando, who at least happens to be a former player." I take a breath. "Fernando, who do you think has the best chance of beating the Sox in the American League divisional race?"

Fernando swivels toward the camera. His posture is very straight, his beard impeccably trimmed. If I must say so myself, he looks dashing.

"My pick," he says, "is the Detroit Tigers."

I tug at my earlobe. "Huh? The Tigers?"

"Yes. With Sheffield back in the lineup after being on the DL, and Kenny Rogers returning to the pitching rotation, and Zumaya in the bullpen, Detroit is unbeatable."

"But, ah, the Tigers are in the American League Central, not the AL East. If we were talking potential Wild Card winners, which I'm hoping to make my next topic, I could see your point. Even though that's still a tall order for the Tigers."

"Hear me, Preisler. I don't care what you say. I spent most of my career in the National League with the Milwaukee Brewers and Saint Louis Cardinals. They were terrible, terrible years. For all of them I watched the Yankees win, and win, and win, while my teams lost, and lost, and lost. So as long as I appear on this program-it doesn't matter if it's with you or Ravech-I will never pick the Yankees to win anything. Detroit is going to be the American League East Champion if the Red Sox fail . . . and I promise you, they will not."

I bite my lip. It's becoming apparent that this show's as wearisome and pointless from a participatory standpoint as it is when you're watching it on the tube. I imagine myself thinking that I should have stayed in my office to work on my revised proposal, and contemplate walking off the set. But then I realize I still need to solicit Eckersley opinion. He came all the way from Boston to join me, after all.

"Eck, your turn," I say. "If anybody in the AL East beats the Sox, who's it going to be?"

"Nobody." Eckersley says. "I mean, you guys can't beat us. Yeah, Chamberlain throws heat but he can't keep doing it, we're gonna take that guy down. And Alex Rodriguez is sick the way he's hitting but we know how to handle him even if we don't. And Roger Clemens is old and stinks, and even if he doesn't stink we've got Matsuzaka who also stinks, sure. Lemme tell you, though, he can take you guys down even if he can't. And another thing while I'm at it. That guy Rivera's old too, and isn't what he was, even if he pitches like he is what he was-which, he does, I gotta admit. But we've got Papelbon and he's nasty. And then there's Pettitte, who also isn't what he was. He is what he is, sure, and maybe that happens to be pretty good, but we can take that guy-"

"Eck, I'm getting a headache from you! You're rambling, contradicting yourself, and generally making no sense whatsoever."

Eck sits bolt straight in his chair. His eyes are wide, glaring at me from between his mullet and mustache.

"Who says I gotta make sense? I'm a Red Sox pre-game commentator, remember? My job's just to talk tough, say your guys stink whether I believe it or not, and use the homer we a thousand times a minute."

Which, I have to admit, does sort of explain things to me. Though it also begs the question I've been meaning to ask him.

"Eck," I say. "You began your pitching career as a starter with the Cleveland Indians. Then you got traded to the Red Sox around nineteen-seventy-eight, and had an okay career there for a couple of years before you bombed out. And after that you went to the Cubs for a couple of years and, well, kind of bombed out again before being traded to Oakland. That's where Tony La Russa resurrected your career by making you a closer. That's where you had your greatest success. That's where your uniform number was retired, and that's the team whose cap you wore when you were inducted into the Baseball Hall of Fame. Am I right so far?"

Eck nods. "Yeah, so?"

"So what's with that homer 'we' anyway? I mean, never mind it being unprofessional for a supposed analyst, it strikes me as kind of phony. I mean, you were an Oakland Athletic for over a decade-"

Eck suddenly rises from behind the desk and leans threateningly over toward me.

"Shut up, Preisler. I know who's buttering my bread, and the initials are N-E-S-N. I also know you're a Yankee shill 'cause some guy with no life wrote it in his Red Sox blog. But we're gonna take you guys down, we're -"

I look at Eck as he rants and raves. Look at Krukkie, Phillips and Viña. They all share the same expression as they face me, and I instantly realize it's one of intense dislike-and then come to another crucial realization.

I don't like them, either. Not a bit. Nor, come to think, do I like Baseball Tonight. As a viewer of the show, or as its imaginary host. Furthermore, the column about my dopey fantasy's already looking like it'll run over two-thousand words, and Jen Royle's liable to break down in tears if the task of editing it falls on her lap.

"Boys, I've had enough!" I declare.

It isn't quite as dramatic as tapping my heels together three times and saying, there's no place like home. But it works, and snaps me out of my little fantasy, and gets me back to writing my revised proposal . . . which, I recognize, is what probably I ought to have stuck to doing in the first place.

As Popeye might say, "I am's what I am's."

Better that than what I ain't, I guess.