Scott Rolen and Tony La Russa: The Final Act

A look back on one of the most tumultuous player-manager relationships in the history of baseball...

THE FINAL INTERACTION BETWEEN SCOTT ROLEN AND TONY LA RUSSA
A Play in One Act
by Ty Uranga-Foster

An office. Afternoon. Sun pours in warmly through the blinds, casting long, friendly shadows. The walls are smartly decorated with various baseball-related photographs, plaques and trophies; a glorious sporting life is on reasonably humble display here. Behind a stately mahogany desk sits TONY LA RUSSA, 63, his hands folded in front of his mouth. He wears a weary look of decidedly masculine self-contemplation, as though working through all the problems of his life at once. “The gears are turning,” so to speak. Enter SCOTT ROLEN, 34. He stands just inside the doorway for several moments before speaking. LA RUSSA does not flinch.

ROLEN: You wanted to see me, fuckface?

LA RUSSA: (Beat) Yes. Hi, Scott.

ROLEN: Die.

LA RUSSA: Yes. Well. Scott, I’m gonna get right down to it. You’ve been traded to Toronto. (Beat. Waits for a response that does not come.) I’m sorry things didn’t work out better between us. I thought…well. (Clears his throat.) I thought we had something kind of special going on there for a time, Scott. Out on the field at least.

ROLEN: Eat my dick.

LA RUSSA: Yes. (Sighs. Clears his throat.) I understand you’re, uh, fairly…upset, uh, with me, these days, and, uh, as I said–

ROLEN: (Interrupting) No, I mean, seriously. Gobble on my taint. Choke on a dick, please.

LA RUSSA: Now if we could just–

ROLEN: (Again interrupting) Put a large mastodon penis in your mouth and then suck on it.

LA RUSSA: Ok. Well. I guess that’s that. If you could just go ahead and clean out your locker– (ROLEN wheels around and EXITS suddenly. Long beat. LA RUSSA opens a large drawer, removes a bottle of fine scotch. He admires it silently, sadly, for a moment before removing a red sports bottle from the drawer. He fills the bottle, taking his time. In a violent motion, he throws his head back and fires scotch into his mouth for fifteen or so seconds. He gulps. Breathless for a moment, he regains himself. His speech is scarcely above a whisper.) Oh, Scott Bruce Rolen. We hardly knew ye. We hardly knew ye.

ROLEN: (Muffled, from the other room.) Yeah motherfucker! Go Blue Jays!

A single tear runs down LA RUSSA’s cheek.

CURTAIN.