Sure, you could go out for Halloween, but let’s face it: there are people out there. Instead, we at LL invite you on an imaginative journey to each Mariners’ off-season home. Because after this past season of tricks, the least they can do is offer us some treats. Let’s stop by at each of their respective domiciles to see what they’re handing out:
Kit-Kat bars, because they remind him of his own perfectly matched eyebrows.
Caramel apples with miniature candy swelmets on top, and mini-cigars. For the kids.
Travel-size bottles of Pantene Pro-V. Excellent for when you get traded mid-season.
Ryan Divish bobbleheads.
Bubble gum, obviously.
A carton of Timbits and a baleful stare.
Maple sugar candies, and a business card that reads “Not James Paxton”
Has to stop giving away candy after he nails a child in the ear with a wayward Milky Way.
King Size Almond Joy. Too much. Too much.
Homemade venison jerky.
A re-usable water bottle, a “Bernie 2020” bumper sticker, and a package of raisins, “nature’s candy.”
You approach his porch, although it appears no one is home. A soft breeze ruffles your hair; a flash of camo appears in the distance, and suddenly there is a bright new nickel in your palm, although you saw nothing, no one.
Miniature toothbrushes. Candy is the enemy of a beautiful smile.
Rolo, because he's underrated, yet awesome.
Is too busy TP-ing Fleming Baez’s house with 100 MPH toilet paper rolls to bother with trick-or-treating.
Supportive insoles. Health begins with the feet.
Tiny maypoles and miniature packets of do-it-yourself blonde hair dye.
A bowl of mixed hard candies, including those god-awful strawberry ones that seem hard on the outside but after two minutes of sucking become chewy and horrid, and sometimes metaphors can be heavy-handed, kind of like Gallardo when he tried to pitch this season.
Expired Chooch Bar prototypes from 2008.
Baby Ruth, because that’s what it feels like to hit off of him.
Mystery-flavor Airheads, except when you open the package there’s a giant hole in each one.
Left-handed candy corn.
You knock on his door, and exclaim “trick or treat,” with a big grin on your face. He crosses his arms across his chest and demands that you immediately give him 20 squat sets. As you shuffle down the path, quads burning, a hand emerges from the bushes and drops some candy into your bag. You spot a blue and silver World Series ring on one finger before it disappears back into the shrubs.
Now-n-Laters, except when you unwrap it, it’s just Later.
Starbursts. He’s finally here.
King Size candy bars only (obviously). Is spooked when a trick-or-treater dressed like a torn labrum shows up at his door.
[Is not home because he decided, last-minute, to go to a party on a yacht in Belize. Outside the door is sign saying “sírvete/help yourself :)” over a bowl full of loose diamonds.]
Wisconsin cheese curds, and a high five, distributed by Nick Vincent. As you walk away from the door, Zombie Vidal Nuno shuffles slowly, confusedly past.
Offers to trade you a bounceback reliever for some of your candy. Studies your bag, whispering to himself: “now which of you is the Chris Taylor?”