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http://www.esquire.com/features/spor...n-twitter-1011
On August 12, hotshot Florida Marlins outfielder Logan Morrison was one of baseball's most promising young slugging prospects. Only twenty-three, he had hit seventeen homers, played occasionally stunning defense, and with fellow young slugger Mike Stanton formed a cheap, powerful corner-outfield tandem. He was precisely the type of cost-controlled player every franchise in baseball drools over.
On August 13, the Marlins sent Morrison to the minor leagues.
On the surface, this made no sense. But Morrison wasn't demoted because of his statistics. It was because of his iPhone.
Before the start of the season, Morrison joined (or whatever the word is) Twitter. He embraced tweeting, loved tweeting, tweeted relentlessly. But the thing about Twitter is, of course, your boss can see it. Can follow you around like a schoolmarm. The Marlins saw Morrison respond to one of his 64,731 followers by calling the person an "underrated slut," and tweet a picture of himself wearing a "SHARKTITS" T-shirt, and admit he might be "turned on" by watching Sonya Thomas eat forty hot dogs on ESPN. And soon, whenever his name popped up, the Marlins went on alert. He's gonna say something crazy! Here goes! It was harmless, mostly — the kind of stuff Tom Seaver might say over a beer with a writer back in the day, or that Catfish Hunter would mutter postgame, slumped in front of his locker. That was before publicists and handlers and nervous front-office types. Josh Beckett has never had a beer with a writer, never will. But Logan Morrison has Twitter.
And so he can say stuff like this: "My farts aren't manly (at all). They sound like a baby blowing out birthday candles." And everyone — fans, sportswriters, other players — laps it up as if he just gave a press conference. "People take it so seriously," Morrison said in an interview in New York a couple of weeks before his demotion. "Somebody will take it and be like, 'Oh, my God, did you see what he said? I can't believe he said that.' I mean, come on. It's Twitter."
But with Morrison, it isn't all baby farts and shark tits. On August 7, six days before his demotion, he tweeted, "Is this David Samson? Yes or no? Vote now" with a photo of a man (not Samson) who could only be described as a dork. David Samson is the Marlins' president.
Unlike athletes who use Twitter to publicize charity golf tournaments, Morrison uses it the way it's supposed to be used: as a public chat room, a way for an athlete to show a bit of himself without having to stand naked in a room of bald white men holding microphones. But he has inverted this: He's actually made himself more famous because of Twitter. As he points out, "There are more people who follow me on Twitter than go to Marlins games."
The team said he was sent to the Triple-A New Orleans Zephyrs because he needed to "concentrate on all aspects of being a major leaguer." Translation: He's freaking out the suits. Earlier this year, Samson admonished Morrison for his tweets, saying, "I'm not a dinosaur but I'm not thrilled," adding, "No one will care about his tweets if they're coming from New Orleans." Morrison responded by changing his Twitter profile photo to a cartoon of himself with "Censored" duct-taped over his mouth. "For them to even say anything to me, I was kind of taken aback by it," he said to me. "I mean, I'm driving fans to you. Look around!"
Fans love him, because at a time when robotic, overhandled athletes try to keep their adoring fans at a distance, Morrison is doing a stage dive. There was a Facebook campaign to get him on the All-Star team this year, and after his demotion his Twitter support ballooned.
I tried to reach Morrison — via Twitter — after his demotion, but predictably he fell silent. One thing didn't change, though: With or without Morrison, the Florida Marlins are baseball's forgotten, irritating franchise, with no fans, no history, and, annoyingly, two World Series championships in the last fifteen years. He's as frustrated with the very concept of the Marlins as they are with him. At the end of our conversation — he was in New York to play the Mets — I asked him if he had to fly back to Florida after that night's game. "Yep," he sighed. "Back to the shithole." It was the kind of jab he'd throw on Twitter. No way the front office is gonna shut him up. No, the worst they can do is ban him from the shithole, send him to the minors, and see if anyone still listens to him.
On August 13, the Marlins sent Morrison to the minor leagues.
On the surface, this made no sense. But Morrison wasn't demoted because of his statistics. It was because of his iPhone.
Before the start of the season, Morrison joined (or whatever the word is) Twitter. He embraced tweeting, loved tweeting, tweeted relentlessly. But the thing about Twitter is, of course, your boss can see it. Can follow you around like a schoolmarm. The Marlins saw Morrison respond to one of his 64,731 followers by calling the person an "underrated slut," and tweet a picture of himself wearing a "SHARKTITS" T-shirt, and admit he might be "turned on" by watching Sonya Thomas eat forty hot dogs on ESPN. And soon, whenever his name popped up, the Marlins went on alert. He's gonna say something crazy! Here goes! It was harmless, mostly — the kind of stuff Tom Seaver might say over a beer with a writer back in the day, or that Catfish Hunter would mutter postgame, slumped in front of his locker. That was before publicists and handlers and nervous front-office types. Josh Beckett has never had a beer with a writer, never will. But Logan Morrison has Twitter.
And so he can say stuff like this: "My farts aren't manly (at all). They sound like a baby blowing out birthday candles." And everyone — fans, sportswriters, other players — laps it up as if he just gave a press conference. "People take it so seriously," Morrison said in an interview in New York a couple of weeks before his demotion. "Somebody will take it and be like, 'Oh, my God, did you see what he said? I can't believe he said that.' I mean, come on. It's Twitter."
But with Morrison, it isn't all baby farts and shark tits. On August 7, six days before his demotion, he tweeted, "Is this David Samson? Yes or no? Vote now" with a photo of a man (not Samson) who could only be described as a dork. David Samson is the Marlins' president.
Unlike athletes who use Twitter to publicize charity golf tournaments, Morrison uses it the way it's supposed to be used: as a public chat room, a way for an athlete to show a bit of himself without having to stand naked in a room of bald white men holding microphones. But he has inverted this: He's actually made himself more famous because of Twitter. As he points out, "There are more people who follow me on Twitter than go to Marlins games."
The team said he was sent to the Triple-A New Orleans Zephyrs because he needed to "concentrate on all aspects of being a major leaguer." Translation: He's freaking out the suits. Earlier this year, Samson admonished Morrison for his tweets, saying, "I'm not a dinosaur but I'm not thrilled," adding, "No one will care about his tweets if they're coming from New Orleans." Morrison responded by changing his Twitter profile photo to a cartoon of himself with "Censored" duct-taped over his mouth. "For them to even say anything to me, I was kind of taken aback by it," he said to me. "I mean, I'm driving fans to you. Look around!"
Fans love him, because at a time when robotic, overhandled athletes try to keep their adoring fans at a distance, Morrison is doing a stage dive. There was a Facebook campaign to get him on the All-Star team this year, and after his demotion his Twitter support ballooned.
I tried to reach Morrison — via Twitter — after his demotion, but predictably he fell silent. One thing didn't change, though: With or without Morrison, the Florida Marlins are baseball's forgotten, irritating franchise, with no fans, no history, and, annoyingly, two World Series championships in the last fifteen years. He's as frustrated with the very concept of the Marlins as they are with him. At the end of our conversation — he was in New York to play the Mets — I asked him if he had to fly back to Florida after that night's game. "Yep," he sighed. "Back to the shithole." It was the kind of jab he'd throw on Twitter. No way the front office is gonna shut him up. No, the worst they can do is ban him from the shithole, send him to the minors, and see if anyone still listens to him.
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