6/28/2014: Joplin, MO – “Please kill me,” he whimpered softly.

The young second basemen lay motionless on the trainer’s table, ashen, his nearly lifeless eyes staring blankly into the unknown. An IV ran into his left arm.

“Please kill me,” he whimpered again softly.

“I warned him,” said Joplin Red Racers SP Orlando Maldonado softly as he shook his head. I followed Maldonado as he walked away and asked him what exactly had happened. He obliged by filling in the details.

It had started innocently enough. The Red Racers were in Jersey City to play the Chilltowners on June 25^th, 26^th, and 27^th. A group of players went out to eat after the game on June 26^th, choosing to dine at El Sabroso, a highly recommended Mexican restaurant on Central Avenue in Jersey City.

Among the group of players dining that night was Ángel González, at the time the Red Racers second basemen. With him were C Emílio González, SS Randy Blake, and Maldonado.

When it came time to order, Ángel González, a native of Austin, Texas, asked the waitress for the hottest item on the menu. She informed him that while it was not on the regular menu, the cook did have a special “Three Bean Death Burrito” that was extremely powerful.

“I told him, ‘Don’t do it,’” said Maldonado, a native of nearby New York City. “I told him the Three Bean Death Burrito was legendary, that only a real man could handle it. He scoffed. You know; that Mexican macho stuff. He could handle anything, he says.”

According to Maldonado, the Three Bean Death Burrito is legendary for its ability to bring any man to his knees. It’s more than just a bean burrito. While the full ingredients aren’t known except to those few who hold the recipe, it is widely believed to contain the Wild Desert Tepín Pepper, otherwise known as the “gringo killer”.

When the meal was served, González apparently handled the Three Bean Death Burrito without a problem. He grinned widely as the group left the restaurant to return to their hotel. But Orlando knew. He knew all too well. Just because you can eat the Three Bean Death Burrito, that does not mean you will survive the Three Bean Death Burrito.

In the morning, Maldonado called González’s room to check on his teammate. Everything was fine. But Orlando knew better. He knew.

Orlando kept a close eye on his friend all day, joining him for the cab ride to the ballpark. He watched his teammate go through batting practice and the ritualistic pregame warm-ups. There was no sign of any ill effects.

But Orlando knew.

The game began on time at 7.05 p.m. González was in the lineup at 2B and batting second. Josh Willard led off for the Red Racers. González was in the on-deck circle.

Maldonado watched his friend as González took his warm-up swings. Everything seemed normal. Could it be, he thought to himself, that González had survived the Three Bean Death Burrito with no ill effects?

Willard drew a walk, and González strode confidently to the plate. González proceeded to line a 2-2 pitch down the left field line, which Jersey City left fielder Javier Soto misjudged and let get into the corner. González scooted into third with an easy RBI triple.

Then, it happened.

González began motioning to the bench. He wanted to come out of the game. He was looking a little green. Manager Rafael García was puzzled.

González began motioning more frantically. Maldonado whispered something into his manager’s ear. García sprang from the dugout and dashed onto the field, asking the umpire for time. Almost simultaneously, González dashed off third base and into the dugout, never touching a single step as he leaped straight into the tunnel and disappeared.

Maldonado waited for his friend to return to the bench. After about 20 minutes, he decided to go check on him. He walked down the tunnel and entered the clubhouse. He could hear whimpering at the far end of the clubhouse. It sounded like it was coming from the trainer’s room. He also noticed a trail of various parts of a uniform leading from just inside the clubhouse door to the door of a bathroom. Cleats. A stirrup. Pants.

As he walked towards the trainer’s room, he also noticed a large puddle of water near the sauna. That was peculiar, he thought.

As he neared the trainer’s room, team trainer Jacques Trappe emerged and closed the door behind him. He glanced up and noticed Orlando.

“What happened? Where’s Ángel?” asked Maldonado.

“Oh, he’s in there,” replied the trainer. “He had, um, a little accident.”

“A little accident?” asked Maldonado.

“Yeah,” replied the trainer. “Well, sort of an accident. It’s my fault, really.”

“Your fault?” asked the puzzled Maldonado.

The trainer then recounted the entire story to Maldonado. How González had come tearing into the clubhouse like a streak of greased lightning. Literally a streak, he said, as González was shedding his clothes as he ran. Trappe then heard a loud scream just moments after the bathroom door closed behind González, followed by what sounded like the whimpering of a little girl, interspersed occasionally with what sounded like the yelps of a wounded puppy.

Eventually, the trainer knocked on the door to ask González if he was okay. González claimed that his butt was “on fire” and he needed some cream. The trainer had obliged, only he had unwittingly handed the victim the wrong tube. Instead of handing him the tube of Preparation H, he had handed the tube of Icy Hot. This was followed by a now-screaming González streaking out of the bathroom, across the clubhouse, and doing a poorly timed Fosbury Flop into the sauna.

Maldonado pressed the trainer for details on the “poorly timed Fosbury Flop”. “Well,” said the trainer, “he sort of stuck the landing. As in one cheek entered the water while the other caught the edge of the tub, which led to some unnatural stretching of the gluteus.”

“And what, pray tell, does ‘unnatural stretching’ mean?” asked Maldonado.

“He will be out for two weeks with strained buttocks,” answered the trainer.

I thanked Maldonado for providing me with the details. I walked back to the trainer’s table to check on the victim. Another unfortunate victim of the legendary Three Bean Death Burrito.

“Please kill me,” he whimpered again softly.