"Check it out," Bobby said softly to me, holding the bat. With his big rosy cheeks and pale skin, he looked much younger than I'd expected and he certainly didn't look like a monster. He held the bat up, showing the fracture from the handle to the barrel. As he did so, I noticed a tattoo under his shirtsleeve.
"You like it?" he asked, rolling up his jersey. On his right arm was a large tattoo of a flaming vampire skull with baseball stitches. It looked ridiculous.
"Nice ink," I said, trying to sound cool.
"You like that?" he asked. "How about this!" And he pulled down his left sock to expose a tattoo of a wolf on his ankle.
"Me and the coach had some personality issues," [Jenks] said, looking out at the exhibition game. "He said I threatened to kill him."... "It was just a figure of speech. I really didn't mean it."
"What are you reading about?" I asked.
"Me," he said flatly. He put down the magazine and let out a deep breath. "Everybody's got something to fucking say about Bobby Jenks."
"You're a popular guy."
"One day I'm an alcoholic, the next day I'm the second coming of Christ."
I laughed awkwardly, trying to think of how I would describe him.
"I'm a damn bargain is what I am," he continued as he rolled onto his stomach. "Hundred and fifty thousand dollars for a guy with my shit? The Angels piss ten times that much away on Dominican fuckers all the time."
"And what do they do? They send me to this hellhole with guys who don't even belong in pro ball."
"Any interest in hitting the weights?" I asked, knowing that there was no chance.
[Jenks] shook his head.
"I'll let you in on a little secret," he whispered. "Tell 'em you have a bad back and they don't make you do a thing."
"Is that right?"
"Lift weights? Not with a bad back. Run? Not with a bad back. Stretch? You can't with a bad back. It's the life, man."
In May 2011, Bobby Jenks started two games for the Pawtucket Red Sox. He pitched one inning in each, giving up one earned run and a walk. He struck out two batters.