The Sports Daily > Cards Diaspora
A Cardinals Clubhouse Conversation

Cards ClubhouseAlbert Pujols:  So guys, we really need to hone in and start focusing on our consistency.  While we’ve managed to stay in contention, there are small things all of us need to work on if we want to be a cohesive unit and pull ahead in the divisional race.  Each of us should think about what we can do to help generate or contribute to team chemistry.

Matt Holliday:  So, uh…does that apply to me? (Gazes absentmindedly at reflection in a hand mirror.)

Pujols: Yes, Matt.  That ESPECIALLY applies to you.  I don’t mean to complain, but you’re the highest paid player on this team and you haven’t really been very effective lately.  I mean, no offense, buddy…but this is starting to get frustrating.

Ryan Ludwick:  Seriously, dude.  You may be better looking than me, but I am absolutely better at my job than you right now.  And I don’t get paid DICK. 

Pujols:  Ryan, try not to be vulgar.  Let’s all be mature adults here.

Ludwick: Sorry, Al.

Holliday: Guys, I don’t want to sound ungrateful, but do you know the PRESSURE I am under?  It’s like I have the weight of $120 million dollars on my shoulders!  Plus, do you guys know what this St. Louis heat and humidity does to my hair?  IT’S JUST SO HARD!!!!  (Puts face in hands, weeps openly.)

Pujols:  Matt, you DO have the weight of $120 million dollars on your shoulders.  I’m not sure where the confusion is coming from here.  And I don’t understand how the weather is relevant.  You’re bald.

Yadier Molina: Can I interject?  Matt, I don’t even care about your so-far-unjustifiable salary.  More to the point, do you know how much I hate the fact that you’re just out there wandering around the outfield like an idiot while I’m stuck in a goddamn OVEN, crouched behind home plate and having to catch pitches in the dirt from jackasses like Blake Hawksworth?  I can’t even believe this shit!  You want to talk about heat and humidity?  I’ll SHOW YOU heat and humidity!  (Stands and lunges at Holliday.)

Pujols: (Intercepts Molina’s attack.)  Hey, Yadi, let’s keep our emotions in check.  We’ve been friends for a long time and I support and respect you unconditionally.  But we all know that Matt is a couple of DVDs short of a boxed set.  (Looks over at Holliday who is grooming his imaginary facial hair.)

Molina:  Jesus.  I can’t handle this. 

Adam Wainwright:  Um, guys?  Can we talk?  I don’t want to sound needy, but do you think you could help me and Carp out?  I mean, I think we’ve been throwing the ball pretty well, but it’s not every day that we can pitch a shutout.  (Chuckles nervously.) Any chance we could talk you into some run support?  Not, like, crazy amounts, but maybe 4 or 5 runs?  Just sometimes?

Chris Carpenter:  I swear on my life, you assholes make me want to light fire to my groin.  Waino and I cannot do EVERYTHING OURSELVES.  Big Al, you know what I’m talking about!

Ludwick:  Hey!  What about me, jerk off? 

Carpenter:  (Rolls eyes.) Right.  Sorry, dude.  How could I forget you and your perfectly bulbous head? I mean, bat?  I mean…yeah, whatever.

Jaime Garcia:  (Stares meekly at his feet and whispers to himself.) What am I, ground meat? 

Dennys Reyes:  Did someone say meat? I thought I just heard someone say meat. (Gnaws on raw 24 ounce rib-eye.)

Holliday: (Sits filing fingernails.) So, can someone wrap this up and just tell me what I’m supposed to do?  I have a soiree to get to.

Carpenter:  A what?

Pujols:  A soiree.  It’s a party. 

Wainwright: This is unbelievable.

Ludwick:  Does that mean a party for gay dudes?

Jeff Suppan: Wait, what?  There aren’t homosexuals on this team are there?  Oh, please, no!  SOMEONE DISINFECT THE LOCKER ROOM!

Molina:  Oh for the love of god, Jeff, not this crap again.

Suppan: I will pray for you, Matt.

Carpenter: Sorry buddy, but you ought to probably save those prayers for yourself.  Since you went to Milwaukee you’re not so much  Cy Young as you are CY OLD, amiright guys?  (Smirks and holds up his palm for a high five which no one returns.)

Ludwick: (Stares blankly.)

Molina: (Stares blankly.)

Wainright: (Stares blankly.)

Holliday: (Applies Vaseline to his teeth.)

Pujols: Please shoot me.