The Future Was Burright, And Then

I wanted to write about this card because not only does Larry have a big ol' chaw of tobacco in his cheek and it looks like a paper airplane got stuck in his hair, but his action shot is definitely fixin' to creep up all slow like on that there raccoon and kill him some dinner. Hell, his nickname was Possum. But that was before I found his full career stats on Baseball Reference.

Sure, he looks optimistic, scanning the stands for blondes, contemplating when he should re-shave the line from his hairline to the bridge of his nose, but let's get one thing straight right away. Before the baseball gods built Mario Mendoza to remind man that hitting a baseball is hard, they needed a prototype. And his name was Larry Burright. And he was bad.

In 1961, after performing well at the Double AA level, he was promoted to Triple AAA and celebrated by connecting for just 2 hits in 52 plate appearances. And for his struggle, he was rewarded with a trip to the big time. I'm not sure what the Dodger brass was thinking, except maybe Junior Gilliam was getting a little too creaky-kneed or something, but Burright didn't exactly light it up. I don't have it in me to sugar-coat Larry's futility at the plate. I'll leave that to the Topps copywriter:

During the first half of the 1962 campaign, Larry was one of the N.L.'s top 10 batters.

Really? He finished the season with a .205 average. In all actuality, his fall down the leaderboard was fairly spectacular. Burright knocked the cover off the ball in May as the Dodgers' starting shortstop, cresting as high as .375 on May 20. Too bad the season didn't end there. On June 2, he was hitting .324. And then the bottom fell out: Burright did not get another base hit until June 30, finishing up the month with a .248 average. By July 28 he was at .214, and from the beginning of August until the end of the year, he was pretty much a late-innings defensive replacement, coasting in at .205.

On top of being a terrible hitter, Burright was not too great when it mattered defensively: his error in the top of the ninth inning of the one-game play-off against the Giants allowed a run to score and turned a close game into a hopeless situation for the Dodgers. Or as the Topps copywriter put it:

He has good range and makes difficult plays look easy.


Uh... let me re-write that blurb for you:

What started as a stellar 1962 campaign as the Dodgers' everyday shortstop crashed and burned in spectacular fashion, like a slow-motion train wreck. 

Choose Your Own Adventure - Card #223

Warning: Parental advisory for violence, blood, foul language, and Bud Selig. This is a set of Choose Your Own Adventure cards by PunkRockPaint. If you have reached this page by accident and want to start at the beginning of the story click here.



Knowing the horrors that await on the field, you blurt “He’s probably gone to the offices. Let’s go!” You run, following Yount up the staircase, his spikes clanging loudly with every step. Each step sounds like a zombie dinner bell in your mind. Bursting into a dimly lit hallway lined with doors, you notice a flickering light from under the one at the end of the hall. Sprinting toward the light, Yount arrives two full strides ahead of you and slams his shoulder against it. The door explodes open, and he tumbles into the room. Bud Selig looks up in surprise, “Good! I… I know a way out! Wait just a minute…” he rifles through the desk’s top drawer. Yount has moved to the open doorway, listening for pursuers. You come stand next to him, holding your breath as you, too, listen to see if you have been followed. Whack! You are struck from behind and fall to your knees, as the world goes black. The last thing you see before drifting off is Selig with an arm around Yount’s head, emptying a syringe into his neck.

Go to Card #540

Choose Your Own Adventure... Card 201

Warning: Parental advisory for violence, blood, foul language, and Bud Selig. This is a set of Choose Your Own Adventure cards by PunkRockPaint. If you have reached this page by accident and want to start at the beginning of the story click here.



As you and Yount stand back-to-back in the dugout, he says, “It’s quiet out here... Too quiet.” Maybe ten player/zombies are shuffling around the field. It doesn’t seem that they notice your presence. A ghastly growl from near home plate changes that. A creature that may have once been Dale Sveum has looked up from the umpire he was gnawing on, and is staring at you. As you inch toward him, bats raised, an undead falls from the dugout roof above, landing on Yount. Then another, and another.

You want to help, but dozens more flood down, and he is engulfed. From the field, zombie-Ron Robinson nears, with a streaming wall of undead behind him as they fill the field from all sides. You throw the bat at the ginger ghoul, the glass catches his chest and sticks, tearing the skin off with his shirt as it falls. He seems to smile as he continues at you. He is only feet away when a hand bursts through his chest, then his head, then he disappears in a mist of blood and bodies as the mass behind him rips through him, and a hundred hands and mouths tear off your flesh. 

That's an ugly way to die... Start over? Click here.