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Then came the ghastly Twitter-versy. In August, Morrison took a silly jab at the team president by posting a photo of a grinning, slightly dorky fellow with the caption, "Is this David Samson? Yes or no? Vote now."
Samson had already gone on record as considering Morrison's racy tweets to be "scary." Three days after he posted the photo, Morrison was demoted to the minors. "He needs to concentrate on all aspects of being a major-leaguer and work his way back," Beinfest declared.
In September, Morrison filed a grievance against the Marlins, a ballsy move for a young player. "It was embarrassing," he says. "I just felt wronged." (The grievance has yet to be resolved.)
Morrison is presumably back in the majors. This season, Morrison vows, he'll stonewall the beat reporters who made a living at his locker. His new strategy: "Short, simple answers," he says. "If they want to talk about other players, go ask them, because I'm not going to lie to you. It's hard to get across that you respect every player but that you fear no one."
He's still a kid. Last Christmas, he begged his mom for a Tumi suitcase to bring on road trips. His agent, Fred Wray, monitors his tweets. There will be no ribbing of the Marlins president this season. "We don't want it to be an issue," Wray says. "Morrison, rightly or wrongly, provided the spice last year. He's not going to provide it this year."
Having spent the day bouncing around hills on a golf cart and swigging domestic beer, Morrison flops onto a leather couch. Two women in tight T-shirts and short skirts, who could probably be classified as cougars, laugh madly at him for refusing to nosh on a golf club buffet because the food isn't organic while at the same time drinking Miller Lite.
Morrison appeals to a burly Marlins staffer. "They're laughing at me, Big John! Kick them out!" Then he turns to the ladies. "If I told him to kick you out, he'd kick you out," he says earnestly. He rears back on the couch, clutching a beer in one hand and making a headbanger symbol with the other, and screeches, "Because the guy that pays me pays him! Just say it!"
Morrison and his Miami Marlins teammates are at the Miccosukee Golf & Country Club before this week's opening-day battle royal with the Cardinals. Baseball players in golf shirts and handlebar mustaches are wandering around sunburned and drunk.
It has been a very Logan Morrison spring. He's battled his postsurgical knee, which has swelled uncomfortably. He's costarred with Bryan Petersen in The Petey & LoMo Show, in which they formed a two-man moped gang, toilet-papered a condo where three teammates lived, and caught Bieber fever. And he's been snared in a minicontroversy: The relatives of late Marlins president Carl Barger are pissed that Morrison has been given the No. 5 jersey — George Brett's old number — which was previously retired in Barger's honor.
Beat reporters have been lurking around the golf club, dying to ask him about the jersey flap, he says. If they had, this would have been his response: "Fuck off. I'm over your shit. I'm over it!" he booms from the couch. "You will not twist these words."
Then the conversation turns to The Franchise. Showtime cameras have already begun following the Miami Marlins circus — including Ozzie Guillen, who has thus far lived up to billing by getting ejected from one of the spring's first exhibition games — and the program will debut midseason. Speculation is rampant about what sort of antics Morrison might have up his sleeve. "There's going to be some crazy shit, don't get me wrong," Morrison says. "I don't know what I'm going to do."
Wearing golf shorts, he reclines and spreads his legs in sultry fashion. "It's not like I'm going to be like, 'Hey, let's do a naked camera interview right now. I'm just going to have the shades on — is that cool?' "
Then he gets a potentially hazardous question. Call it spring training for Morrison's new regimen of thwarting reporters by using clichés.
Just how in hell will thin-skinned Jeffrey Loria and contemptuous David Samson handle this roster full of crazy? "I don't really know," says Morrison, struggling to provide a safe answer. "Is there a clear-cut plan for our team? No, there's not, but I think that's how he wants it. Other than the clear-clut plan — the clear... cut —"
As he trips over the phrase, a fan asks him to talk to his 12-year-old son on his cell phone. Guillen stops to give him a fist bump. Heath Bell, the Marlins' new closer and another joker, strolls by in a green argyle golf getup.
Five minutes later, Morrison has been sobered by the attention. Before he jumps up from the couch to join his new teammates in the parking lot, he enunciates, "The only plan that I know [Loria] has is for us to win a World Series. Other than that, I'm not sure, but I don't care."
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