I Don't Feel Well

"Are you ok, son?"

Bright light filters through your closed eyelids.

"Can you hear me?"
You open one eye cautiously and are reminded that you have a searing headache. "I can hear you. Where am I?", You ask.

"Don't you remember? This is the team bus. You had a very casual attitude about how hot that evil pepper was. I bet it will be a long time before you do that again"

You stare at the older gentleman in front of you, trying to decide why he seems familiar. "Why are we here again?"

"Why?!"

You are not feeling well.

"You're on the team!"

No, you are not feeling well at all.

"Snap out of it, you're...", he pleads, but darkness swallows you.

---

You are standing in an open field. A finely groomed playing surface extends as far as the eye can see in every direction. You arbitrarily choose to walk north. You are mesmerized by what seems like miles of pristine lawn passing beneath your feet. Eventually, you come before a man crouched behind home plate. He slowly stands and removes his mask.

"Roy Campanella!"

“In flesh and blood and bone and joint,
I greet you well, but here's the point.
If you your wandering soul would tame
First hear me out then speak your name.
My sigil tens and ones provide
Then trophies for the rivals’ side
The clipper's hallowed sequence next
Then digits worn by one who's vexed
By queen of flushing's bitter cup
Last count those Loney tallied up
One fateful day in Denver-town.”

Before you can react, Campy resumes his watch behind the plate, leaving you troubled.

"Well, if there's a Catcher, there must be a Pitcher" You shrug as you turn to the west, hoping that what you find will be less confusing than this little encounter.

Again, time passes without measure. The setting sun is casting long shadows across your cleats. You stare into the bright sun, but you can't make out who or what might be before you. Suddenly, you find yourself standing on a pitchers mound, along with not one pitcher, but two!

"Hey, you're Jeff Weaver and Chad Billingsley! I know you guys!" They begin to speak in perfect unison.

"It counts for naught that us you knew
If you cannot remember YOU!
The catcher's riddle struck you dumb?
For us, you now must take our sum.
Ducal XBH in blue,
Then games we trailed but soon recouped
In one score hundred year and four.
Just one last clue, now count the score
The nine and fifty innings straight
The bulldog threw in eighty-eight.
The name you find will be your own."

"I confess there is a creepiness factor here that I wasn't expecting." you say, slowly backing off the mound. You trip on a rosin bag, and suddenly you are falling. You brace yourself for impact, but it doesn't come...

---

You open your eyes to find you are still lying in the team bus. Joe Torre is standing over you, looking concerned.

"You blacked out on me . Do you even know who you are?"

You ponder his question for a moment, but you suddenly realize what your subconscious was telling you. "Of course I do! I'm..."

---

The answer to the puzzle is a Dodger. Comment freely in the thread, but if you have the solution, please don't give it away to everyone in the comments section. Instead, do the following:

• email me with the first and last name of the Dodger who is the answer, along with your reasoning (answers arrived at via luck or the wrong reasoning, even if correct, count for participation credit only). Please include your screen name somewhere in the email.
• Post a comment simply saying you have emailed your solution attempt. I may not be able to reply to your original email promptly, so please be patient and check back on the comment thread for the latest news; I may confirm correct answers there.

You have until 11pm PT tonight to submit your answer. Solution will be posted tomorrow. Good luck!