I wasn’t sure what I’d stumbled into there in Anaheim. The fog rolling through Orange County may have disoriented me or maybe Chuck Lamar had slipped something in my frappucino. When I walked into Tippy’s Diner, hoping for a decent chicken fried steak, it took me a moment to realize I was the tallest guy in the room.

A short guy, somewhat dirty and disheveled, stood at the head of the table. Another bunch of short, dirty, disheveled guys sat around the table. “This emergency meeting of the Gritty, Gutty, Heart And Soul Baseball Players Club is now in session. Hey, who’s the new guy?” he asked, pointing at me.

“Press,” I said. “I can help tell your story.” Surprisingly for baseball players, this bunch didn’t seem to mind the media hanging around.

“You guys make guys like us,” said the leader. His bald head made me think it might be Stubby Clapp, but lots of guys remind me of Stubby Clapp. Call it a quirk. “We’ve got a bit of a problem and maybe you can help.”

“Sure, I’ll do what I can,” I mumbled.

“David here’s out of a job!” said the skinniest, scrawniest of the bunch. He was well-dressed, yet still disheveled. Gritty and gutty can shop at Nordstrom’s as well as work there, I suppose.

“David?” I asked. What I’d initially thought was someone’s kid was David Eckstein, the recently non-tendered Angels shortstop. His World Series ring was as big as his hand and a souvenir Barry Bonds bat was taller than he was.

“They cut me and signed Orlando Cabrera,” Eckstein wailed. “I have a great backstory and fans really seem to connect with me because I’m their size.”

“Cabrera’s not that tall,” I reminded them. PECOTA has Cabrera listed at a generous 5’11.

“You can’t be gritty and gutty and be Latin. They’re hungry. They’re passionate. It’s a whole different club,” one explained.

“It could be that he’s better,” I asked. “Wouldn’t being a downtrodden underdog, shuttling between Triple-A and the big leagues, one step from playing in the Frontier League help your story more?”

Eckstein conceded my underdog point, but he had more pride than most of these dirtbags (and I use the term endearingly.) “Cabrera may have a newer ring than I do, but didn’t Mr. Moreno notice that Cabrera only had a .298 on-base percentage last year in Montreal? Didn’t he read that Cabrera’s lifetime OPS is only 25 points higher than mine?”

I checked my dog-eared copy of BP. “25 points higher than 700 isn’t much to brag about, to be sure.”

“It certainly can’t be his defense,” he continued. “Boston tried to convince everyone they brought him in for his defense and he only put up an 89 Rate. I had a 99! Sure, he edges me out lifetime, but since his back injury in 2002, I’ve beaten him every year. That can’t be worth six million bucks a year more!” Eckstein had done his research. Maybe he could find a home in a front office, I thought, or coaching. Heart and soul guys always make good coaches.

The room grew silent, this gritty, gutty group silently feeling for their fallen comrade. It had been a tough off-season for them already. Ryan Freel was healing from his knee surgery but relegated to a utility role again in Cincinnati. The surging Rangers left Rusty Greer behind. The only sound was sadness and bad coffee.

“I’ve got something that will cheer you up, David,” I said finally.

“What’s that?” he asked, his ears perking up like a puppy’s.

I looked over to Bo Hart. “You still have Walt Jocketty’s phone number in there?”