The Goo That Drives Elijah Dukes

I interrupt the chatter about the Washington Nationals bringing Livan Hernandez back to Washington to bring you the following:

I hate Elijah Dukes.

Now don’t get me wrong; I’m not talking about his impregnating women, instigating fights, hanging with the wrong crowd and general bad manners.

I can live with all of that, assuming of course, he hits above .270. and hits at least 20 homers.

Do you remember Ronald Reagan's "Trust but verify?" Well, in Dukes case, it's "Forgive but produce."

What I’m talking about is all of that oozing, bubbling lava that lies just beneath the surface of his thin-skinned persona.

It reminds me of the material from which spawned all of those screaming, howling, particle charged, madness driven invisibly visible barely viable monsters from all of those 1950’s horror movies.

But if you take that stuff and you love it, and you pet it, and you tell it how cute it is, it pretty much turns into Jessica Simpson, scary but harmless.

Or, if you’re a trekkie, it’s like a tribble. Love it and hold it and pet it and it coos with a soothing song that pacifies those it comes in contact with. Feed it grain, however, and it grows into a giant monster that eats all the food meant for a dying planet.

Yeah, that was a stretch. I’ll give you that.

But that dark matter that makes Elijah Dukes an angry, mean, arrogant son-of-a-gun that causes parents to lock their daughters in the basement when the Nationals are in town is the same stuff that, if harnessed, can turn him into Hank Aaron.

Seriously.

Tick him off and Elijah Dukes will stare you down to the point where wetting your pants is a best-case scenario.

But let him get ticked off at the ball streaking towards him in the batter’s box and that same magic goo fills his biceps with iron and his forearms with forged steel. His bat speed goes from ridiculous to the sublime.

If you're a fan of “Spaceballs,” then his bat speed goes to plaid.

I mean, he hits baseballs so hard that they have to be put out of their misery.

But when that gurgling glop turns nasty, Dukes not only loses his humanity, he also loses his ability to hit a curveball.

You’ve seen it. He stands at the plate, seeming bewildered and incoherent. Head down, bat up, body leaning into the plate, he waits nervously for his pitch.

And here it comes, slow, inviting, curving, and six-inches outside.

Dukes, fighting his inner beast instead of riding it to stardom, moves his left foot outside of the box, lunges towards the ball and swings upward while almost falling. His best hope in that situation is to pop the ball up to second.

But last night, Dukes played with his savage friend and not against it. Picture Al Pacino saying, "Say hello to my little friend!"

The manly monster within him slithered into his eyes and helped him see his way to two walks. It then massaged his back and lumbering limbs and helped him slap a double into the left field corner, driving in a run.

But as he landed on second, his alter ego whispered into his ear, “There’s going to be a bad throw, run, Elijah, run!”

He ended up on third.

But his goo-friend didn’t stop there. Dukes came to bat with the bases loaded in the fifth inning and faced new pitcher Aaron Heilman.

Heilman swung his aging arm forward and placed the ball just where he wanted, low and outside, just off the plate, impossible for any hitter to elevate with power.

Dukes, like he had done a hundred times before, dropped his head, lifted his bat, and lunged at the well-thrown ball.

This time, however, Dukes didn’t pop the ball up to second. With a flick of the wrists, something human baseball players just can’t do, he pulled the ball deep to left-center, landing the ball 15 rows over the fence for his first career grand slam.

Wait, let me think for a minute: ball outside, Dukes pulls it to left for a homer.

No. That’s just not right.

It must have been the goo.

The Elijah Dukes we all saw last night is the player who is destined for stardom. When he concentrates, when he focuses, whatever you want to call that thing inside him elevates his play.

In other words, when he’s playing well, he’s a good guy. When he’s playing poorly, he’s a jackass.

That “stuff” can only do one thing at a time, I guess.

I’ve always believed that Dukes has the potential to hit .300-35-100 if he can just tame that tiger within him. He’s shown us that he can, at least for a while. He’s also shown us that he can’t, at least for a while.

Will Dukes’ “ying” defeat his “yang?” I don’t know.

Maybe he should, like Captain Kirk did in “The Enemy Within,” grab his dark-side demon and find the nearest transporter room, using all of that molecular mixing stuff that goes on to create a single, honorable being.

That could happen. But until it does, my daughters stay locked down in the basement.

That evil goo stuff scares the beepers out of me.