Surely, most of you know who the Big Tilde is and how he got to this place. However, there are surely a few not familiar with his true story. Since we must get every vote possible for him, we now take the opportunity to tell his life story again. Pass this along to all who do not know his tale.
Magglio Ordóñez was born on January 28th, 1974, in Venezuela as a direct result of the mingling of loins between Diego Maradona and the fertility goddess Oshun. As fertility goddesses are not known for their child rearing skills and Maradona only uses his hands for scoring, their very young child was soon forgotten at a forest orgy by his well dusted parents.
A clan of marmosets recognized the primal power of young Magglio and took him in as one of their own. He ran with them, learning their ways. He learned teamwork; he learned nimbleness; he learned power. He also learned to pick nits.
As he became too large to be supported by the trees, he learned to use the branches that caved under his weight as weapons to protect his much smaller family. At the age of 12, he could launch an opposing clan’s alpha marmoset 400 yards with one mighty swing of his club. The little enemy’s arms and legs would flail, its eyes wide with astonishment as it flew out of view.
One of those swings caught the eye of a Venezuelan White Sox scout on vacation, trying to find himself by getting lost in the woods far from home. Certainly, he was struck by this man-child being raised by tiny monkeys, but he was more impressed with that fluid swing. He had to convince the boy to join him as a baseball player.
Negotiations with the marmoset clan were nearly as tough as working with Boras, not least because of the need to explain humanity, language and the benefits of signing bonuses. Eventually, the deal was done and young Magglio was in a Range Rover on his way back to civilization, tearful but somehow understanding that he was too darned big to be a monkey anymore.
This wild child with the flowing mane of wavy black hair and the inability to speak any known language could still be harnessed and understood when he had a bat in his hand. It took him almost no time at all to master the art of hitting a baseball. After all, what pitcher could throw a ball that moved any less cleverly than an angry marmoset? (Okay, besides Maddux.)
Fielding took some time to explain, but it eventually became natural for the nimble young man. His size forced him to a corner outfield slot, but his animal agility combined with his father’s fleet feet made him fast and sleek.
Having learned the rudimentary bits of language every ballplayer needs (“played 110% today”, “feel part of team”, “screw you, ump; was outside”), he was finally ready to burst onto the major league stage. His decade in the White Sox organization brought him fame, fortune, and the adoration of the South Siders. His legendary exploits will not be repeated here, for they are still trumpeted throughout this land by Around the Horners and the Tonights of Baseball alike.
However, in 2004, tragedy stuck as he injured his knee while saving orphaned kittens from a burning building while fighting terrorists with a burning slab of wood that contained a toxic paint. (Also, Magglio is allergic to cats.) He could not play the game he had grown to love. No doctor knew how to heal it. He was so nervous that his nit-picking became a real annoyance for his White Sox teammates, who did not generally have the types of infestations that required constant grooming from another man.
Out of desperation, Ordóñez flew to the part of Europe that still respects the old ways and sought out a healer so powerful that even saying her name would rid you of head lice. She spent three days treating the knee with herbs, words, and by rubbing her hands furiously above the knee before smacking it back into place repeatedly.
Much to Magglio’s surprise and joy, the procedure worked and he was back to his old self. He could leap and climb and smash the ball 500 feet just by flicking his hair at it. Unfortunately, Kenny Williams doesn’t believe in any treatment not documented in Will Carroll’s database, so he could not bring himself to offer Ordóñez more than a pittance of a contract.
Not Dave Dombrowski, though. He knows the ways of the Old Country. He brought Magglio to Detroit and set him down at home plate. He pointed to the Detroit skyline visible over the outfield walls at Comerica Park and said, “Magglio, son, I want you to break every last one of those windows.”
And now Magglio does so. He does so for his marmoset family he misses so much that he wears a wisp of hair on his face for them. He does so for his absentee parents that made him a demigod at birth. He does so for that old scout and for Venezuela and for Detroit, the city that believed in him. Mostly, though, he does so because he doesn’t know how to do it any other way.