Manager's Journal: April 10, 2009

Fielder ate the map. Hamilton and Chris Davis, walking behind him, had begun taunting him with cries of "herbivore, herbivore," and finally Fielder spun around and said, "Hey, is paper a vegetable?"

"Herbivore!" shouted Davis, who had gotten carried away.

Fielder smiled grimly, pulled out the map, unfurled it into the wind, and then stuffed it in his mouth. Hamilton and Davis gaped at him. Carlos Lee saw what Fielder was doing and charged toward him, but Carlos was not drafted for speed and he was too far away to stop it. The map was gone. Under other circumstances it would have been impressive, the swiftness with which that amount of paper disappeared, something that we might all have chipped in a few stolen bases to see at a carnival sideshow. Fielder shouted at Davis to back off or he'd eat him next, because by the time Fielder was done with him he'd be a vegetable too.

I fined Fielder three RBIs even though he has only one. I told him to get the other two from Hamilton.

(Later Hamilton and Davis came to ask me whether paper was, in fact, a vegetable. It does come from trees, Hamilton pointed out, but a vegetable? That doesn't sound right. I kicked them out of the tent.)

The home run drought continues. By now I have begun to doubt whether they even exist, and are not some fairy tale told for the comfort of children who still believe that it is possible to make gains in five categories with one swing. At camp—after another punishing day in a seemingly endless series, a 3-for-25 monstrosity that left everyone dejected and drained—the hitters all stood around waving their bats in the air, trying to hit rocks off into the weeds, missing more often than not. Some were holding their bats at the wrong end, or even in the middle, but I said nothing, not wanting to embarrass them. Morale is low enough as it is. Carpenter's unexpected run at a no-hitter helped, but even as we cheered for him we all realized that it would not be enough, not nearly.

Pujols' OPS has given us a slight respite, retreating to 1.397, but coupled with the .500 batting average it still feels like the wrath of an angry and terrible God bearing down on us. Last night the men broke down and wept and told Pujols that if he would only relent, they would change their ways, they would build monuments and statues and worship at his feet and hit higher than .183. Now Jorge Posada—Jorge Posada—has added his own 1.302, and Aramis Ramirez is at 1.143, and Lance Berkman is at 1.062, and we have no map, and dear God, we are lost.