After a sojourn in Switzerland, where he picked fights with a half-dozen cuckoo clock scions, thus, reversing their neutrality policy, Sandro Colacicco has returned. 

Baseball players are historically known as partiers. After all, it’s one of the only sports where you can actually show up to work hung over and do a good job. Baseball is also surrounded with people from all over the country with different criteria for their job—JD Drew apparently never drinks because he thinks Jesus will hate him, and Wade Boggs was rumored to have drank 30 beers on a cross country plane ride. Go figure. Lord only knows how much the middle relief puts down on any given night.

In honor of Mae West, I present a speculative list of whom you want, and don’t want at your fiesta.

“I don’t know a lot about politics, but I can recognize a good party man when I see one.”

~Mae West

Derek Jeter

You honestly want to hate him, but you can’t. Sure, he hits a million ground balls to the shortstop, and doesn’t pick it like he used too, but hey, he did bring over five girls, and a case of champagne. And look at him, everyone likes him…he could sleep with all five of those girls, your girlfriend and every other female in the room, but he won’t…he brought those girls as party favors for the rest of the male crowd. He’s like Vinnie Chase in season 2.5. And, Derek, you shouldn’t have—a Carl Pavano blow up doll for us to kick in the nuts when we’re hammered later.

Manny Ramirez

Someone has to bring the chronic.

Heath Bell, Clint Hurdle, Cliff Floyd, Luis Sojo and Jeremy Giambi

I don’t know why, but these guys just look like good guys to get a beer with: harmless, gregarious, fun drunks. Call it drinker’s instinct.

The Modesto Nuts

….

“If I were invited to a dinner party with my characters, I wouldn’t show up.”

~ Dr Seuss

Jonathon Papelbon

Papelbon is the man—on the field. He comes in, in the 9th inning and no doubt some retarded girl from Vermont who has “loved the Red Sox ever since she ran into Theo Epstein at a ski lodge,” gets a giant, goofy smile on her face, relishing the joy of a known victory. He huffs, he puffs, he blows the ball by motherfucking batters like Nuke Laloosh in Bull Durham. He also throws on goggles and dances around like an idiot for an indefinite amount of time after games, and screams like he just popped a hemorrhoid after every strikeout recorded.

If Papelbon were to be at your party he would no doubt drink all your beer, puke in your pool, try sleeping with your girlfriend, and then set your house on fire. (Papelbon would do said deeds, clothes optional.) He is, what some would call, a liability.

Any “established” middle reliever

They walk into your party. They approach you graciously and ask if they can help themselves to a frosty beverage. “Of course,” you reply, and point them in the direction of the keg. They have a few beers, and then it dons on each one of them that this light beer isn’t really doing the trick. One of them approaches you again, “hey man, do you have anything a little stronger?”

Once again, you reply with a sober grin and show them where the hard liquor is. At first it starts with a couple mixed cocktails—jack and cokes, a couple vodka sodas and voila, it becomes apparent to these relievers that they probably don’t have work tomorrow. And even if they do, what’s the worst that happens? An inning? 15 pitches at seven o’clock tomorrow evening? The shots start flowing. One of them goes to his car and brings in a case of red bull and suddenly, out of your freezer comes a ten-year old bottle of Jaeger leftover from your college days. Like a pack of crazed hyenas, the relievers become even more restless, searching for more fun. “Fuck it,” one of them says, “we’re playing the fucking Mariners tomorrow, let’s get some coke.” And at this point, all you can do is pray.

JD Drew

The guy dresses how you did when you were fourteen and had to go to church: a plaid LL Bean shirt tucked into khakis, a combed over fresh out-of-the-shower hair cut, and loafers. But not only that—he’s not drinking. God, how people who don’t drink make me uncomfortable. Look at him, chatting up the ladies, with that dorky grin, I wonder what he’s talking about. Bible-thumper. Are girls impressed by that?

A God-fearing man…I guess if being born again gets you girls, I’d consider it. No, no, don’t say that—never say that. Good God, look at him, he’s actually drinking the Hansens natural soda I put out…I put that out for chicks man! Not you! O wait, no, please no, is he getting a number? JD Drew gets more pussy than me…I’m going to kill myself. That’s it, it’s over. No, don’t kill yourself. Remember—don’t get mad, get even. Have the middle relief throw him in the dumpster outside. Yes, now you’re talking.

Milton Bradley

Bradley: “Why the fuck did you put Tabasco in your guacamole?”

Sandro: “I…I thought…..I personally like a little spice in my…..”

Bradley: “Are you fucking nuts? No one puts Tabasco in my motherfucking guacamole! Get me a beer.”

Sandro hands Milton beer.

Bradley: “What the fuck is this? Light beer? You calling me fat motherfucker?”

Sandro: “No, no sir…it’s just all I got.”

Bradley: “Milton Bradley only drinks heavies you stupid little Tabasco eating bitch…I ought to smack you! No, I ought to cut you! Motherfucker!”

Game over.