What if Trump were commissioner of baseball?

Imagining Trump's new rules: 'No more bat flips. Very disrespectful. You hit a home run, you celebrate the way a man should—by sleeping with the pitcher's wife.' (Illustration by Kagan McLeod)

As spring training approaches, let’s look ahead to the first Opening Day after the U.S. election, when a new president will take the mound at Nationals Park—a baseball in one hand, a microphone in the other.

OK, first pitch, Opening Day. And it’s a huge honour—a yuuuge honour for you to be seeing me. I had other offers—better ones, to be honest. Fancy outfits, very famous people. But I said, “No, I should drop by and see the average schmucks.” So, you’re welcome.
Vice-President Palin wanted to come too, but she’s out hunting wolves with a B-1 bomber.

It’s been, what, 75 days since I became president? Phenomenal start. Already I’m up there with the greats: Washington, Jefferson, the wheelchair one. I said I’d solve the Middle East thing in two weeks. I did it in two minutes. And in 20 years, when the radiation dies down, I’ll be the first one there. Trump Tehran Hotel. Five stars all the way.

Now, before I throw the ball—and I was a very good baseball player as a kid, the best, in fact—but my whole thing has been: Make America great again. That’s my slogan. We put it on hats. Tom Brady, very good friend of mine, had one in his locker. What’s on your hats here—a stupid W? Great work, geniuses. No wonder the Chinese are killing us out there.

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So, to make America great again, I’m changing some things about baseball. And I know what you’re thinking: “But the owners! The players! They need to approve!” Not true. Forget it. I just issued an executive order making me commissioner of all sports. Football. Golf. Trump literally controls it all. Starting tonight, hockey is played by ladies only. The Lingerie Hockey League. Sexy, but very classy. Zero bum cracks, OK?

As for baseball, first thing: No more bat flips. Very disrespectful. You hit a home run, you celebrate the way a man should—by sleeping with the pitcher’s wife.

Second, no more trainers. I walked into the clubhouse just now and it’s like Canada in there—free medical care for every bruise, every hangnail. This is America: You tear an ACL, you pay for the surgery yourself or you walk it off.

Now the big one. Pujols, Cano, Cabrera—huge stars, right? But you hear their names and you think: foreigners. Illegals, probably. Suddenly, every batting order in baseball is “Jose This, Jose That, Jose Jose Jr….” And we just sit here while they take away good jobs from middle-class Americans who can hit things with a bat. Ridiculous.

And by the way, I know people say: “Puerto Rico—it’s a U.S. territory.” But you know what? There are people who say the climate is changing, too. Losers say all kinds of dopey things.

So right now we’re building the wall along the border with Mexico. Extremely tall, very impressive. Makes the Great Wall look like dog crap, frankly. The Chinese are very worried. And when we’re done, we’re going to build a wall around every Major League stadium—to keep out the Juans and the Pedros who want to steal jobs from the Steves and the, I don’t know, the Garys. [Looks to visitors’ dugout.] You hear me, Puig? Comprende?

Remember David Ortiz? Had that big farewell tour in 2016? Well, right this very minute, we’re giving him another farewell tour—a farewell tour of America. He’s in a Secret Service car on the way to the ocean. There’s a rowboat there. Go home to Haiti or wherever. Happy paddling, Big Papi—if that is your real name.

Anyway, let me throw this thing and everyone applaud and love it.

[The ball hits the ground halfway to the plate and rolls to the catcher.]

Laugh it up, Puig. There’s room for two in that rowboat.

This story originally appeared in Sportsnet magazine.

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