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Odd Man Out: Former Los Angeles Angels washout Matt McCarthy pens tell-all book
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Backstab
tr.v. back·stabbed, back·stab·bing, back·stabs
To attack (someone) unfairly, especially in an underhand, deceitful manner: "Some backstab each other and threaten to settle their differences with a punch" (Thomas Boswell).
back'stab'ber n.
(Source: Dictionary.com)
There’s an extremely fine line for an athlete when writing a behind-the-scenes look into his allegedly tight-knit group of teammates. What ethical guidelines—if any—does the athlete-turned-author follow? Does he announce to his teammates and coaches that he’s taking notes on their shenanigans for a future tell-all book? Does he make promises that some areas are off limits and won’t see the light of day in print?
These questions come to mind with the eminent release of Odd Man Out: A Year on the Mound with a Minor League Misfit, authored by former Angels farmhand Matt McCarthy. If you don’t remember McCarthy, you’re probably not alone. The Halos drafted the left-handed pitcher in the 21st round of the 2002 draft. He never pitched an inning in the big leagues. His memoir details what Amazon.com calls a captivating and hilarious year with the Class A Provo Angels.
I am not accusing McCarthy of backstabbing. In fact, I have not even read his book. But I do know if I had been one of his teammates, such as Joe Saunders, Erick Aybar and Bobby Jenks, I would be ticked off. No one likes a tattletale, as Mr. Brady once admonished Cindy after she was trash talking others.
McCarthy was a molecular biophysics major at Yale, so my guess is that he spends most of the book telling us how much smarter he was than his hayseed teammates and the local yokels in Provo. And maybe a tinge of bitterness is thrown in to compensate for his extinguished dreams. But I’ll probably never know because I’ll probably never get around to reading it. I’d rather read about players who actually made it to the big leagues as opposed to those who failed in their dream. For example, I just picked up biographies on Ted Williams and Sandy Koufax at a used bookstore, and I would much rather spend my time reading about those two legends than Sandy McCarthy or Michael McCarthy or whoever wrote the stinging expose on America’s team—the 2002 Provo Angels.
Odd Man Out is drawing obvious comparisons to Ball Four, penned by the original clubhouse Judas, Jim Bouton. Bouton, though, at least made it to the big leagues. Bouton’s memoir is supposed to detail his year with the laughable 1969 expansion Seattle Pilots, but he spends most of the book unloading his festering bitterness on the Yankees, the team that sent him packing.
Although it caused a great uproar at the time, Ball Four seems pretty tame by today’s hedonistic standards for athletes. I mean, c’mon: no one even makes it rain at any of the high-class establishments Bouton and his few friends frequented.
The best part of the book is actually the epilogue wherein Bouton recounts players’ reactions. Pete Rose, the gold standard of baseball ethics, wasn’t pleased. He heckled Bouton from the Reds dugout with chants of “f*** you, Shakespeare. (How Rose knew of Shakespeare is not revealed. Hmm … maybe there was a racehorse named “Shakespeare.”)
Getting back to Eight Odd Men Out—or whatever it’s called—some might call me unfair—or worse—in my criticism of a book I have not read. (Though I suspect Saunders, Aybar and Jenks might be more sympathetic to my opinions.) If so, please share your comments below—especially for those who are going to read McCarty's rant. In the meantime, check out reviews at OCRegister.com and FutureAngels.com and judge for yourself.
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