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Logan Morrison Serves as the Wild Child for the Already Loony Miami Marlins

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Rodriguez, whom Loria had circumvented in the Mallee firing, felt a storm brewing. "I was trying to tell him," Rodriguez says of Morrison, "that you can be honest, but sometimes you don't have to express your opinion."

But Rodriguez himself resigned soon afterward, replaced by octogenarian interim manager Jack McKeon, who took to calling Morrison "Twitter."

"As long as he's not doing Twitter at the ballpark, that's the only thing I was concerned about," says McKeon, who doesn't think much of social networking. "I'm not about to let the whole world know what my business is."

Morrison became the mama sow for reporters on deadline. "Some of the guys followed him around to milk him for salacious quotes," Miami Herald sportswriter Clark Spencer says. Morrison didn't disappoint. Last June, word leaked that he had berated Hanley Ramirez for chronic tardiness. When reporters then asked him if Ramirez was a team leader, he took what was termed a "not-so-subtle jab" at the injured superstar, responding, "It's 162 games. It's not a 100-game season."

Morrison says he was just stating the facts: "He was our best player last year, and he was hurt."

"They butted heads one time behind closed doors, and the beat reporters made it into a larger issue," says Morrison's agent, Fred Wray. "It's like a husband and wife. If you get in one argument, that doesn't mean you're going to get a divorce."

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."

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Gus Garcia-Roberts