FanPost

Ben Revere's Post-Draft Phone Call

The following transcript is from a phone call recorded by MLB undercover agents. It began at 7:47 AM on Tuesday, June 5th, 2012.

(ringing)

VOICE #1: Hello?

VOICE #2: Hello. Is this Roger Clemens?

VOICE #1: Who wants to know? (scuffling sounds, a toilet flushing)

VOICE #2: Um, you don't know me . . . I'm an outfielder for the Minnesota Twins.

VOICE #1: Beg pardon, who?

VOICE #2: Ben Revere. I play for the --. . .

VOICE #1: For the who?

REVERE: The Minnesota Twins -- . . .

VOICE #1 (loudly): For WHO?

REVERE: The Minn -- . . .

VOICE #1: You mean the "Yankees' Bitches."

REVERE: I'm not sure I understand what you want me to -- . . .

VOICE #1 (menacingly): Say "I play for the Yankees' bitches." Say. It. Now.

REVERE (softly): My name is Ben Revere, and I play for the Yankees' bitches.

VOICE #1: Well, yes, this is Roger Clemens. How can I help you, young man?

REVERE: Oh -- ahem -- yes. Well, as you may know, the baseball entry draft was held -- . . .

CLEMENS: Jesus! Where did these spiders come from? Get them off, get them off, THEY'RE ALL OVER ME!

REVERE: Are you -- what's happening -- is everything okay?

CLEMENS: Woof! That was wild! Sorry, I decided to clean out the toolshed today -- I haven't opened that door in years! The thing is covered in spiders, dude, it's all like "Chamber Of Secrets" up in there, totally gross. I might have to hire an exterminator. Know any?

REVERE: Um, well, no, sorry, ah . . . well, the reason I called is in the draft yesterday, the Twins -- . . .

CLEMENS (quietly): The who?

REVERE: The Yankees' bitches, the team I play for, they drafted -- . . .

CLEMENS: Dammit! Why can't I get this up anymore? What the hell's wrong? I never had this problem before . . . (sound of choking back sobs)

REVERE: Is this a bad time, Mr. Clemens? Maybe I should call back later -- . . .

CLEMENS (sniffling): Oh, it's all right, man. I was just checking the mailbox. The stupid little red flag is stuck. Probably needs some WD-40. And I just wrote fifty letters to little kids with incurable brain cancer. Breaks my heart, to think the postman might skip my mailbox and those poor noble children might have to wait another day for their reason to go on living. Mind if I go inside and mix myself a protein shake, maybe throw on some TV? I'm a bit emotional. Man ain't a real man if he don't have the strength to cry, am I wrong?

REVERE: Oh, certainly not. In fact, that's kind of the reason I called you. Of course, we all know how you -- well, um -- managed your strength conditioning program with so much skill, and since the Tw -- since, ah, my team, drafted a player who -- . . .

CLEMENS: No. No! You DID NOT find those! There's no proof! None whatsoever! I totally refuse to believe that! It's not true! Where are your credentials? You're nothing, I say, you've got nothing! It'll never stand up in court!

REVERE: Seriously, if there's a better time for us to talk -- . . .

CLEMENS: Everything's fine. I'm catching up with the new BBC "Sherlock" on TiVo. I get so into it. Benedict Cumberbatch's Holmes is just crazy smart and mad hot, dontcha think?

REVERE: Not -- haven't gotten around to that one yet. Mr. Clemens. Roger. My team drafted an outfielder who is projected to out-hit, out-throw, and maybe even outrun me. I need some power. I need some arm strength. And I thought, well, you -- . . .

CLEMENS (coldly): Yes?

REVERE: Well. You -- you have a certain reputation, and maybe you could help me with -- . . .

CLEMENS: Revere.

REVERE: Yes?

CLEMENS: Mr. Revere. Mr. Ben Revere.

REVERE: Yes?

CLEMENS: We're on a cellphone here. Attempt to be cool.

REVERE: Of course -- yes, of course.

CLEMENS: OK. I'll tell you what I'll do.

REVERE: I'm listening.

CLEMENS: I'll hook you up with a bro of mine. He's a straight dude, you won't have any worries.

REVERE: That -- that's exactly -- . . .

CLEMENS: Save the stammering, puss. My guy can solve your issues. He'll teach you to value your inner strength, and not be obsessed with external validation. Baseball is nothing; awareness is all. We pass unremarked through this existence like autumn's leaves covered by winter's snow. All glory is fleeting, and we shall each be replaced. Sooner, later, it matters not. If you learn one thing from this life, learn than your life means nothing -- save to the extent you can pass goodness onwards to the lives of those that follow.

REVERE: Well. Well. I can't honestly say this is what I expected when I called, but -- but, seriously, Roger, you've given me a lot to think about.

CLEMENS: I give nothing more than other, wiser souls have given me.

REVERE: Thanks. I really mean this . . . thanks.

CLEMENS: No proble -- . . . (sound of glass shattering) What the S**T! You disgusting B***H! (Repeated slaps and screams of pain.) I told you, I told you, I TOLD YOU, no goddamn salt on the rim of my Bloody Marys! Christ, do I have to get out the BELT again! Aren't there any f**king servants who can make a decent a**-licking cocktail? (More screaming, new sounds of leather on skin.)

REVERE: I -- I -- I should really check out Mauer's high-school yearbook, he's been asking me to sign it for ages, might be a good time to hang out and play some video games, gotta go, it's been -- . . .

(phone disconnects)

End of transcript.

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