The 4th Molina Brother

Friday, June 26, 2009

Everyone has one; that family in their neighborhood where each and every kid is always tucked in, each and every kid is always ready for dinner - on time - and each and every kid is exactly the same. Perfect.

Well, not for the Molina family.

For Joe and Linda Molina, life was far from perfect. There was Benjie - absolutely everything a parent can ask and wish for. There was Jose - a true gem and a heck of a well-mannered kid. There was Yadier - a boy who was up at the crack of dawn helping his Ma with the dishes and his Pops in the yard. Ahh, pure happiness from the boys - who might I add had killer arms and monster swings..

Or most of them, at least.

Meet Bartholomew Molina; the boy who was destined to be the local librarian.

And the local librarian he was.

Bartholomew never liked baseball growing up ("it's a boring sport with no promise") and believed all circular objects were just plain old evil ("Einstein would agree," he shouted). Ah, yes, Poor Bartholomew had not many friends and was often shunned from the public eye by his embarrassed family. At family pick-up games, Bart (the name his brothers referred to him by) was usually found at the foot of the tree with a large book plopped in his lap. "I'd break my glasses," he'd say, "exercise is 3 quarters mental, you know." Bartholomew, as you can tell, was special.

Bartholomew was quite the ladies' man though. He was often seen chatting up ladies in the nursing room, helping them with their wheelchairs, and always reminding his 85-year-old "friends" that "true arm strength is used to hold open doors for elderly people."

Many times reporters from all over Major League Baseball have asked Bengie, Yadier, and Jose about their youngest and less gifted brother but they constantly reply, "no comment" or "next question" in fear of the world finding out about their secret; the one that currently lives in their parent's basement.

It's not an easy life for the Molina brothers, despite making a lifetime collective 60 million dollars. The failure that is Bartholomew resides in the crevices of their brain each and every time they attempt (and succeed) to throw a runner out at 2nd base, each and every time they tuck their jerseys in and each and every time they show up to the park in punctual fashion. You see, Bartholomew, although being as athletic as a Hungarian grandmother (which, if you don't know, is not very), sticks it to the other 3 boys each and every time he happens to see them.

How so? By waving that one little pointer finger, reminding them that even with gold gloves, silver slugger awards, championship rings and team banners, they still, and never will be, number one.

You go, Bartholomew.