“I wonder how long we are going to have to sit here before we get some fucking service?” And thus, my interview with Gabriel Santos had begun. “Jesus H. Christ, let’s just grab a table.” Santos then proceeded to walk into the middle of the restaurant, past the line of people waiting at the hostess stand and sat down in a booth that a busboy was just finishing wiping down. A man in a jacket with no tie came up to the table and addressed Gabriel, “I’m sorry sir, there are a number of people who have been waiting for a table that arrived before you and…” Santos interrupted him,

“I don’t care. I’m hungry and so is my friend here. I have to be at the ballpark for treatment in an hour and I don’t have time to let you guys figure out how to serve food in a timely fashion.”

“But sir…”

“Here’s what is going to happen. We are both going to sit down and you will send a server over to take our order. They will deliver it in a timely fashion. Then you will present us the bill, which we will pay, and then leave. I don’t want anybody except the server approaching the table and every person who asks me for an autograph means a dollar less on the tip. No pictures, no autographs no requests to do your fucking voicemail message. Just bring the drinks. Bring the food and bring the bill. If that does not happen, the next interview I give will center around how this restaurant refused to serve me, a poor Puerto Rican kid from Brooklyn. By the way, my friend here is a reporter for ESPN. Am I clear?

The manager looked around and decided to just swallow his pride and accept that he was dealing with somebody too obnoxious to create a disturbance over. “Yes sir.” said the manager, and slinked away.

“Sometimes you just have to let them know how things are. It saves a lot of time.” Santos folded up his sunglasses and put them in his jacket pocket. “What was your name again?” he asked me. “Peter Barroquerre, New Orleans Times Picayune, not ESPN.” I replied.

I was ostensibly here to interview Gabriel Santos, the outspoken center fielder for the New Orleans Trendsetters. I had been warned that Santos was mouthy and obnoxious, like a Phil Nevin on steroids, but even I was taken aback by just how unpleasant this young man was. “That’s a lot of anger in a 21-year-old” I thought to myself.

“After brusquely giving his order to the server and gracefully allowing me to order before shushing her away with a smarmy, “Chop, Chop!” even though the server was obviously not Asian, we began the interview. An interview that I would never forget for the sheer unpleasantness of it.

“So. I can give you until that sandwich comes and I can finish it.” Santos began. “You know the basics. Born in Brooklyn, went to Bellevue West, drafted 3^rd overall in 2038 (NOTE* He was, in fact, GM Chuck Valenches’ first ever pick.). Made my way up the ladder, made my debut, played stellar CF, could have hit better, which I will this year.” The whole while Santos was talking with a mouth full of a shrimp Po’boy. “Tell your readers I love kids and animal rescues and that I’m single. Definitely include the single part.” I rapidly scribbled down this info. “Gabe, do you have a dog, or for that matter, kids?” I asked. “Hell, No! Actually, I’ve got a kid back in Brooklyn, but I don’t see her too much. Her mother’s a whore. Not even sure it’s mine.” “Do you have a dog?” I asked. “No time. Though I think it would look cool on a poster. Me with a mean looking Pitbull. You can call it ‘Nasty Santos’ or something. Probably sell a million copies.” With that Santos finished his Po’boy, wiped his mouth and stood up. “We good? I’ve got to be somewhere.” He came in for a bro hug, clapped me on the back and walked away.

I sat back down, looking at the table and realizing that he had left me with the bill.

The next day I showed up at the Trendie’s Litchfield Park Spring Training facility. I didn’t have enough material to fill a paragraph. I needed to get some other observations, possibly from a teammate. Otherwise the article would be “Gabriel Santos is a dickweed…..The End.”

Flashing my press pass at the gate I quickly made my way on the field behind the batting cage. There was no sign of Santos. I did see a familiar face. Joe Arnold, who had been with the team for the last four seasons and was the closest thing to a veteran on this increasingly young club. When I asked to talk with him about Gabriel Santos Arnold rolled his eyes. “You mean Bad Santa? He gave a sigh and said, “Yeah sure.”.

“Why the eye roll?”

You’d have to have spent time around him. We used to call him “Topper” because everything you did he did better. You shot 75? He shot 72. You caught a 200 lb. tuna? He caught a 300 lb. tune. It got pretty old pretty quick. Now we call him “Bad Santa” because he is kind of an asshat and his last name is close to Santa. Bad Santa, Bad Santos. Get it?” He looked around searching for Santos who was in the outfield lazily catching fly balls without putting any effort into it. “Listen,” said the veteran pitcher, “The kid has all the talent in the world. He can run, he can throw, he can definitely catch and he might even hit a few home runs before it is over, but he won’t ever be a leader the way he is going. I’m glad he is behind me in centerfield though. Two reasons. One, he can run down anything and covers a ton of ground in the outfield, and two, he doesn’t ever come to the mound during visits and I don’t have to listen to him.” With that he asked if I needed anything else and went on his way.

Other players pretty much had the same opinion. Great talent, loud mouth, kind of lazy. Everybody felt he could be a star if he just concentrated on the game and not on his publicity.

I exited the field and sat down with my notes. I tried to come up with a story that would interest people. Fans love quirky characters in baseball, but they don’t  like jerks. I ripped the notes out of my reporters notebook and crumpled them up. I then pulled out my phone and dialed the editor. “The story is a bust Fletch. It’s no good.”

“Well we need something” said, Fletch.

“How about a story on the mascot? He’s fairly new and the fans love the new costume. A creepy voodoo doll looking baseball head. How about that?”

“Fine Peter, interview the mascot. I hear he’s kind of an asshole though….”