A Hoggers Tale

One might wonder how Adam Dunn became the Godfather of Diamond Hoggers. After this little wonderful but true tale, one will wonder no longer.

The year was 2003, and to the baseball fan in Cincinnati, things were all but overwith. Adam Dunn’s last at-bat of the season, and I’ll never forget it, was a walk-off homerun, the first of his career, in which he basically broke his wrist and it was all over.

A large group of my fraternity brothers got together to head to see the Cincinnati Reds take on the Milwaukee Brewers late in the season. The great thing was, the tickets were free. One of our frat brothers’ fathers worked with a company that got free Reds tickets, so everyone was piling into a car one night in a large amount, and making the 2+ hour drive to see the Cincinnati Reds play. Not me, however. Not this time. I had a ton of shit to do, and being a junior in college, I can tell you there was no shortage of nights in which I would drink until I’d be running around like a wildman and saying things I regret. Not on this night. I told a couple of my best buddies, who were also my teammates, Tyler and Mike, that I had to ‘sit this one out’. Besides, I didn’t give a shit that we didn’t have practice or a game that night. I had an exam or two the next day, and Dunn wasn’t playing. I had a study date with adderal.

So the night progressed and the ballgame went on, after a few rain delays. I had a missed call from my friend Tyler from the ballpark. Usually I’d answer but I knew that chances were that he was probably just calling to abuse me for not coming. I would get notification on my phone that I had a voicemail, along with a few random text messages until midnight reading only ‘you’re a pussy’ or ‘you’re a twat for skipping out on us and the game’, yadda yadda.

Later on, I’d bring myself to check my voicemail and it was short and sweet surprisingly, from my buddy Tyler, who like me worshipped the great Dunner due to the fact he was a boozin’, sluggin’, dipping ballplayer.

“Dude you are not gonna believe what the hell happened at the game tonight. I’m going to have to wait to tell you tomorrow but it was during a rain delay and it involves your boy Dunn. You won’t fuckin’ believe this story man. You’re going to be mad you missed this one bud. Go Redlegs.”

And that was that. I went on studying through the night and probably didn’t end up making a whole lot of headway since I probably talked myself into several study breaks in short order that consisted of me playing MVP baseball and working on my fantasy team, and reading shit like this blog all night.

The next day at lunch, I saw my frat brother Brian, whose dad got the tickets for the brothers. He was mad, thinking I snubbed them all to do something better, as if I didn’t wanna go. I mean, fuck off, I had school work to do! That’s how lazy they all were, they couldn’t possibly believe that I was actually doing work. They just thought I was better dealing them. You see, I contracted senior-itis in the spring of my junior year, due to the fact I was friends with mostly seniors who had the same problem.

“Man you really missed some cool stuff, have you talked to Tyler yet? Oh you haven’t!? Wow man. You’re going to love what happened.”

I ate my chicken tenders and tuna sandwich (A Phi Psi delicasy), and headed up to Tylers room. He was laying on his couch nursing a hangover, looking at me with a Wylie Coyote ‘I just fucked the roadrunner’ grin. Oh yeah, this is gonna be a good one, I thought.

“Yeah man check out whats on my desk,” he said to me.

I looked over and saw a Copenhagen, Fine Cut tin sitting on his desk, about 3/4 full but with some taken out of it.

“I didn’t think you dipped Cope man. Let me get that story from you,” I said to him.

“Alright man, you’re not gonna believe it. So we’re chilling during the rain delay, and we’ve got seats on the Reds dugout, first row. The players are visible on the dugout steps and we see Dunn, and we start yellin’ at him and he gives us a waive. He goes into the dugout and we kept yelling. He comes back out, and we say ‘Yo Dunn, give us a dip dude.’ He looks at us and we make the signal, you know like we’re packing a dip. He starts laughing and then Larkin says something to the effect: ‘Dunner give those guys a dip,’ So Dunn throws his tin, that tin right there up to me. I take a dip, shit we all took dips (3 of these guys are pussys, never did it in their life, and they’re taking dips of COPE FINE CUT). Then Dunn asks for it back and we wouldn’t give it back. We had to bring it home to you. So there it is man, that’s for you. That’ll teach you not to miss another Reds game with us.”

And that was that. That tin seemed to last for weeks as we told the legendary tale to each man who would take from it. As if the cup was the holy grail they were drinking from, stolen from King Arthur’s court. When the Tin was finally finished, I put it in my desk and promised that I would pass it down to start a tradition of sorts, you know like to the next most deserving junior hogger on the baseball team. That was a great idea but I lost the tin. Fuck.

Nevertheless, that night, this blog’s Godfather became enshrined, and a Hogger’s Tale was born.