This is a Rockies Star Wars parody. Any resemblance to any player or droid, in this universe or another, might be coincidental.

(Click BB-8 below for a neat intro. Caution: It does have sound.)

Outside an abandoned escape pod at the desert city of Scottsdale, Arizona, a tall golden robot and a shorter tracked one struggle across the desert towards the mountain ridge. As they trek through the sand, the tall golden one bemoans, “How did we get into this mess? We seem to be made to suffer. It’s our lot in life. I’ve got to rest before I fall apart, my UCL is almost frozen.”

The short one squawks once.

“Don’t get technical with me,” the taller one replies. “Wait, what’s that? A concession stand? I’m saved! Over here! Help! Please help!”

Based on reader customer feedback cards submitted telepathically by you, the reader, both droids get kidnapped, er, ushered, into the back of a Dippin’ Dots pushcart.

The next day, elsewhere in Scottsdale, the pushcart comes to a stop in a flea market next to a Denver cheesesteak stand. A strapping young lad clad in pajamas climbs out of a hole in the ground, because desert hobbits are needed to appeal to the fantasy niche. There’s a little glow on him, as if he’s the hero of this story, which is probably why it’s taking more than a sentence to introduce him. But a hero’s job is never done, so he starts to clamor off to join his uncle…

“Trevor!” A shrill voice calls out, “Trevor! Trevor! Tell your Uncle George that if he gets a translator, be sure it speaks sabermetrics.”

Trevor Storywriter glances back down into the hole and says, “Not sure if we’ll have much of a choice, Aunt Drew, but I’ll remind him.”

“You gotta be kidding me!” Aunt Drew exclaims. Trevor shrugs, then saunters off.

Shortly after Trevor joins his uncle, the back half of the pushcar opens. From inside, Trevor hears a metallic voice intone “We’re doomed.” The ushers bring out each of the robots and line them up. Uncle George, with Trevor in tow, walks up to the golden droid. George speaks, “You! I suppose you’re programmed for pitching and protocol.”

“Protocol?”, the droid responds, “Why it’s my primary function, Sir! I am well versed in the many unwritten rules of baseball.”

“I have no need for a protocol pitcher,” the Uncle frowns.

“Of course you haven’t sir, not in an environment such as this. That’s why I’ve been programmed…”

Uncle George blusters to interrupt, “What I really need is a droid that understands the binary language of humidors.”

“Sir my first job was programming Yahoo Messenger. Very similar to that in many…”

Another interruption, George barks, “Can you speak sabermetrics?

“Of course I can sir, it’s like a second language to me. The concept behind BABIP is that…”

“Ok, shut up!” Uncle George points to one of the ushers, “I’ll take this one. Trevor get him set up.”

The droid says, “Excuse me sir, but that R2 unit is in prime condition. Glove is broken in too. A real bargain. I’m sure you’ll be very pleased with that one sir. He’s in prime condition. I’ve worked with him before.”

“Ok sure.” The ushers say something unintelligible before and after receiving Uncle George’s space dough* and the Storywalkers, um, walk home.

* Editor’s Note: Sorry guys, don’t know what currency they use in Star Wars.

Later on that night, as Trevor is cleaning the robots, he whines, “It just isn’t fair. I’ll never get out of here.”

The droid inquires, “Is there anything I can do to help?”

“Not unless you can alter time, speed up Spring Training and teleport me off this rock.”

“I don’t think so, Sir, I’m just a pitcher and not very knowledgeable about such things. As a matter of fact, I’m not even sure what baseball field we’re on.”

“Well, if there’s a bright center of the universe, you’re at the park farthest from.”

“Oakland? I’m sorry, Sir,” the droid, programmed in protocol, sympathizes.

“You can call me Trevor.”

“I see, Sir Trevor.”

Trevor emits a chuckle, “No, just Trevor.”

The golden one answers, “My name is Jorge De La Rosa, human-ownership relations. And this is my counter part, R2-DJ.”

Trevor says, “That’s good to know.” He keeps poking at R2-DJ with a metal brush. “Hmm, there’s a lot of carbon scarring here in this MRI, it seems you’ve both seen a lot of action. Well, you’ve got something jammed in here really good. Were you on a 40 man roster or… What is this?”

R2-DJ projects a small image of a figure, gritty, projecting in a loop… until it gets remastered and resold as a Special Edition multiple times and comes into focus.

“Help me, Nolan Arenado. You’re my only hope,” the apparition implores.

“Who is that?”, Trevor asks.

Jorge De La Rosa annotates, “He says it’s nothing sir, merely a malfunction. Old data, pay it no mind.”

R2-DJ squeaks repeatedly.

Trevor frowned at Jorge De La Rosa, “What was that?”

“I’m afraid I’m not quite sure. He says he’s the property of Nolan Arenado and that it’s a private message for him. He suggests if you remove the restraining bolt, he can play back the whole recording.”

“Oh well, here you go.” With a tug on a manual torque applicator device i.e. a wrench, Trevor removes the bolt sticking out the side of R2-DJ’s head. The image disappears.

“Hey, what happened?” Trevor panicks.

Jorge De La Rosa turns on R2-DJ. “Where’d the message go?” R2-DJ beeps. “You lost it?”

R2-DJ pipes up an innocent sounding question. “No, I don’t think he likes you at all, ” Jorge De La Rosa says. R2-DJ then exudes a high pitched chirp. “No, I don’t like you either.”

Though disappointed, R2-DJ decides to go rogue. After Trevor powered down for the night, R2-D2 scoots off through the sands, avoiding most of the holes… Come morning, Trevor and Jorge De La Rosa set off to find him.

After a taxicab ride all the way to Phoenix, Trevor announces, “Look there’s a droid on the scanner, dead ahead.”

Jorge De La Rosa moans, “That R2 unit has always been a problem. Those Gold Gloves are getting quite out of hand. Even I can’t understand their defensive value at times…”

Once they get out of the cab, pay the cab fare, scrounge around for loose change for a tip, then realize they left their iPod charger in the back seat, Jorge De La Rosa pipes an alarm, “Master Trevor, There are several creatures approaching from the southeast.”

Trevor lifts his sunglasses for a closer peek…

And upon sight of the monstrosity, Trevor passes out and Jorge De La Rosa’s circuits overload, rendering him silent. And there was much rejoicing.

A robed figure emerges from behind a palm tree and scoffs, “Sunk cost people, the worst.” He looks down at the motionless Storywriter and the decapacitated droid, checking on their condition, when a chirp comes out from behind him. That chirp, is R2-DJ.

“Hello there,” The Dude says, “Come here my little friend. Don’t be afraid. Oh don’t worry, he’ll be all right. It’s not like he saw Kyle Kendrick pitch.” R2-DJ rolls up as Trevor comes to his senses.

“The Dude?”, Trevor exclaims, “Boy am I glad to see you.”

“Tell me young Trevor, what brings you out this far.”

“I’m only a year younger than you…” Trevor mumbles, then continues, in a louder voice. “This R2 unit, he’s searching for his former master. He claims to be the property of a Nolan Arenado. Is he a relative of yours?”

The Dude says, “Nolan Arenado… Now that’s a name I haven’t heard in a long time. It’s an east coast bias thing.”

“So then you know him? I thought he was dead since I didn’t see him get an MVP vote.”

“Oh he’s not dead, not yet. But of course I know him, he’s me.”

A loud moan for playing time echoes from down the road. The harsh reverb thunders inside the heart of our hero’s, um… heart.

Nolan Arenado says, “We should leave. The sunk cost people are easily startled but will soon be back, with worse contracts.”

We then see our companions in Nolan Arenado’s pad, joining them in mid conversation, thanks to bad editing.

Trevor says, “My father didn’t play at Coors Field. He was a public relations manager for the Sky Sox.”

Nolan replies, “That’s what your uncle told you. He didn’t hold with your father’s ideals. Thought he should stay here and not gotten involved with baseball and figured Colorado Springs would discourage you.”

“You played at Coors Field?”

“Yes I was once an All Star the same as your father. He was the best player in the National League and a good friend. I’ve heard you’ve become a good player yourself.” Nolan added, “Which reminds me, I have something for you. Your father wanted you to have this when you were old enough, but your uncle wouldn’t allow it. He feared you might follow old Nolan on some on some damned fool idealistic crusade like your father did.”

“What is it?” Trevor asks eagerly.

Nolan smiled wistfully, “The quest to play winning baseball at altitude.”

“No, I meant the thing my father gave me.”

“Oh yeah,” says Nolan, stirred from his reverie. “That’s your father’s baseball bat. This is the weapon of a hitter. Not as clumsy or random as a knuckleball. An elegant weapon for a more civilized age.”

Trevor ran his hand over the smooth black lumber, then stammered. “How did my father…”

“A young shorstop named Darth Troy, who was a mentor of mine until he was traded to Toronto, helped a Cinderella team reach the playoffs much to the chagrin of Rockies fans. Then he said the Rockies ownership sucked. They betrayed and murdered your father’s smile. Now Rockies fans who stay past the sixth inning are all but extinct unless they’re in The Rooftop. Troy was seduced by the dark side of WAR.”

“WAR?”

Nolan explained, kinda… “Well, WAR is what gives a baseball player his value. It’s a metric discussed by all living things. It surrounds us and analyzes us. It binds our hitting and fielding together.”

R2-DJ chirps up, because explanations of WAR would derail this story into the Twilight Zone (and it’s not like The Force is that much easier to understand either).

Nolan continues, “Now let’s see if we can figure out what you are, my little friend, and where you come from.”

R2-DJ’s projection of Walt Weiss comes to life, “Nolan Arenado, years ago you served the Rockies at Coors Field. Now the fanbase begs you to help them in his struggle against the National League. I’ve placed information vital to the survival of respectability in the memory systems of this R2 unit. You must see this droid safely delivered to the Rockies at Coors Field. This is our most desperate hour. Help me, Nolan Arenado. You’re my only hope.”

“No, getting quality pitching is your only hope…. ah well.” Nolan then turned to Trevor, “You must learn the ways of WAR if you’re going to come with me to Coors Field.”

Trevor aw-shucks and kicks his toe at an imaginary pebble. “Aw gee, fine.”

Meanwhile, elsewhere in the National League, a group of people converse around a purple-colored table. They’re so purple that they might as well be anonymous. The entire room is purple, except for a lone figure, breathing heavily…

A guy in a purple Polo suit, signifying he got some kind of education comments, “Until Mark Reynolds learns how to hit a curveball, we are vulnerable. The Rockies fanbase is too well equipped, they’re more dangerous than we realize.”

Another guy, in a purple Polo shirt, signifying he won some kind of bar bet once, declares, “Dangerous to your Twitter account, not to Mark Reynolds!”

Purple suit person tries in vain to convey his concern, “If the Rockies blogs…” as a purple dinosaur strides up behind the unaware guy in the purple suit…

It declares, “The blogs will no longer be of any concern to us. I’ve just received word from the owner that he has blocked the blogs on Facebook permanently. He also replaced gmail on his iPad with a cat video app.”

The guy in the suit stammers into silence. After a sip of his mohito, the purple polo guy leisurely declares, “Any attack made by the fans on Twitter will scroll off, no matter how often they link to FanGraphs. Mark Reynolds is now the ultimate power in the universe. I suggest we platoon it with Ben Paulsen.”

The sound of a zipper emanates from the room as Darth Troy steps out of his hyperbaric chamber. The breathing sounds cease as the impressive figure, veteran of many at-bats, limps over to the table. Darth Troy rests his hands on the table, leaning forward to support his body weight, as he speaks, “Don’t be too proud of this technological terror you’ve constructed. the ability to use two players to do one job is insignificant next to the power of WAR.

Purple polo is so idc he could have a LOL pin for flair, “Don’t try to frighten us with your sorcerer’s ways, Lord Troy. Your sad devotion to that ancient religion has not helped you conjure up the stolen data tapes or given you clairvoyance enough to…” Then he is shaken from his reverie by a coughing fit. His face also turns purple.

“I find your lack of faith in sabermetrics disturbing…” Darth Troy comments.

Dinger (who is the purple dinosaur, btw), announces… “Enough of this! Troy, release him!”

Darth Troy says, “As you wish.” Then turns around and walks back to his hyperbaric chamber. Heavy breathing returns.

Back in Scottsdale, Arenado and Trevor survey the catastrophe of a destroyed Dippin’ Dots.

Trevor kicks the bucket of plastic spoons, “It looks like sunk costs did this all right. Look, there’s insurance policies, doctor’s notes, newspaper clippings from Spring Training that say they’re in the best shape of their life… but I’ve never heard of them hitting something this big before. They never make contact with anything.”

Nolan notes, “They didn’t, but we are meant to think we did. These tracks are side by side, sunk costs always ride single file to hide their salaries.”

“This was the same concession stand that sold us Jorge De La Rosa and R2-DJ,” Trevor observers.

“And these dents in the chrome, too many for sunk costs to put effort into. Only failed Rockies rookies try that hard to hit a target but are so imprecise.”

“But why would Rockies rookie pitchers want to destroy Dippin’ Dots?… If they traced the robots here then they may have learned who they sold them to and that would’ve led them back… home!”

“Wait Trevor, it’s too dangerous!”

But it’s too late. Trevor runs as fast as a rookie can back to his family’s hobbit hole. Unfortuantely, the hidey hole had already been smoked out.

“Uncle George? Aunt Drew?”

R.I.P. Root.

Nolan places a hand on Trevor’s shoulder, “There’s nothing you could’ve done. You would’ve had your development stalled too. And the droids would be now be in the hands of the empire.

Trevor Storywalker lifts his tear-strewn eyes to Nolan. He takes a deep breath then says, “I’m going to come with you to Coors Field. There’s nothing for me here now. I want to learn the ways of WAR and become an All-Star like my father.”

To be continued…

Cast:

Trevor Storywriter: Trevor Story

Jorge De La Rosa: Jorge De La Rosa

R2-DJ: DJ LeMahieu

Nolan Arenado: Nolan Arenado

Walt Weiss: Walt Weiss

Uncle George: George Frazier

Aunt Drew: Drew Goodman (Dude needs a baseball-reference.com page.)

Darth Troy: Troy Tulowitzki

Purple Dinosaur: Dinger (Doesn’t need a baseball-reference.com page.)

Unnamed ushers and purple people: Sir Paste-your_Picture Here

Mark Reynolds: Technically not a fully functioning cast member.

Hope you enjoyed this. If so, leave a note in the comments below!