Juan Uribe's Diary

Many batboys died trying to smuggle Juan Uribe's diary out of the dugout, where Juan has been imprisoned all year long without a trial by extended playing time or verified charges of slump brought against him.
His diary was handwritten on discarded Dodger Dog wrappers and binded with dreadlocks left behind by Manny Ramirez.  It was translated into English, possibly not originally written entirely by someone else, and two words marked with * are illegible words that were replaced with the most likely word he would have used, as determined by a simple algorithm.

Dear Diary, Day Unknown;
I no longer fear being cut or traded, because my baseball soul would finally rest. Had I not given up hope so long ago, I might have broken down in tears tonight in Anaheim, and it would have had nothing to do with the rats that nibble on your toes if you sit still for a few minutes. 
How bad is it that I almost didn't notice a broken down catcher like Ramon Hernandez got the chance to play in a real game instead of me?  He didn't even have to play a position, either! Can you imagine that? A world where good baseball players like me get to hit three or four times per game and we don't even have to play any position!

It doesn't matter. Ramon hit a home run, so I won't get much playing time.

Playing time? What does that even mean with this team anymore? They don't think I know how to read the National League West standings, but I do. It would make me so empanada* to get the chance to try and help turn things around.
I have no idea if they’re going to keep me for the full sentence, which was set at three years after my agent negotiated my surrender. It's sort of like the legend of El Chuparrohombroquez in my home village in the Dominican Republic. The one where the guy hits double-digit home runs seven times in his career, then heads south and is never heard from again.

I know I wasn't a very good Dodger for a while. I spent two years hurt or flailing away at balls and strikes with a swing that looked like Randall Simon riding a mechanical bull doing an impersonation of Gary Sheffield trying to impress Andruw Jones. I'm better than that, now! Honest! Empanada*!

Luckily, Juan Uribe has WiFi in the dugout,
so he was able to see all of his stats at
Baseball-Reference and use them in
his diary.
I've been to the plate nearly 100 times this year and I've already drawn more walks (15) this year than I did last year (13), when I had twice as many ABs (83/162). My BA (.277) and OPS (.781) are as high as they've been since 2009. All of that even though I can't patch together a nice, long string of games. I start only a couple of times per week and I get a few more innings on the side as a pinch hitter or defensive replacement.

Mr. Mattingly is a great guy. I just want to do good for him, even though he calls for bunts in absurd situations and sometimes starts a guy like Luis Cruz over me, even though that guy is hitting .122! He lets guys named Shredder and Schu play in the infield instead of me. Does anyone even remember I literally ended the 2005 World Series with back-to-back defensive gems at shortstop and I'm still only 34 years old?

Now, I spend most of my days spot-checking each individual pouch of sunflower seeds to make sure there are exactly 200 seeds in them. If I refuse to do it, then Mr. Colletti will say I'm in violation of my contract for not performing "related functions as deemed necessary."
I wish I could help the team. Until then, my weary baseball soul continues to flicker and I fear it will soon be snuffed out by endless days of removing women's underwear from fan letters sent to Andre Ethier, shaving Ronald Belisario's back and getting Matrix-kicked by Matt Kemp for the amusement of others.


Dodgers team photographer Jon SooHoo has taken on great personal risk documenting Juan's struggle.

Rasmussen "Lil' Rassy" Ruteger.
One of the batboys who didn't make it.

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