Hey, Ozzie Guillen, when are you going to write your book?

Ozzie Guillen, in typical pose, giving someone in authority more than his two cents. (Image by Getty Images via Daylife)

The routine smacks of low vaudeville, but should be worth at least some discount admissions and pocket change to both Ozzie Guillen and me whenever the White Sox manager decides to be a bench jockey (where have we heard that term before?).

Why should we be giving away our services for free?

It began in February 2006 as I walked onto the field at the Sox spring training camp in Tucson. Spying me, Guillen hollered, “You’re a fuckin’ Cubs fan!”

Wow. My mind raced faster than possible for its neanderthal roots. I’m nowhere in Guillen’s or Johnny Carson’s class as an ad-libber. So the only thing that came out of my mouth after subconsciously putting two and two together was this retort: “When are you going to do your book with me?”  A bunch of Sox pitchers standing nearby shook their heads — what’s going on with these two?

Deep down, I figured the “Cubs fan” epithet had something to do with my excess of books that covered the North Siders’ past and present, and the lack of any Sox books to match, perhaps causing some resentment behind closed doors at U.S. Cellular Field.  Furthering the logic with my knowledge of the publishing industry (I’m working on book No. 11 since 1998 now), I figured the only Sox book that would attract the attention of a big Eastern house would be Guillen doing his longer-form routine, instead of just plain long form at present. Title it “Ozzie on Ozzie.”  The publishers want some sizzle to sell far beyond the Chicago market as a regional title. Guillen, the mouth that roared, is just the right type of guy to do it.

In the ensuing years, Guillen several times mentioned the effin’ Cubs fan angle to me and he got the same reply about collaborating on a book.  In 2009 he changed up on me. Watching me interview one of his players, he called out, “I’m the only one here that likes you!” But I was consistent, and mentioned the book that he’s got to write.

Actually, Guillen was on the cover of “Baseball and the Media,” an inside-out look at how mic jockeys and ink-stained wretches covered the game, which I authored in 2006. I didn’t actually interview him for the book, but the Sox team photographer had the best available photo of a high-profile manager being mobbed by interviewers, so Guillen was front and center. FYI, Sox owner Jerry Reinsdorf and team captain Paul Konerko respectfully declined my requests for interviews for “Baseball and the Media.”

I probably won’t get the commission to co-author Guillen’s book, anyway. He may like to razz me in his own special style, but despite my author’s experience I don’t have the personal relationship that would make him comfortable. Yet I do know Guillen could put the Sox on the map in the bookstores and via the electronic gizmo world by starting from the beginning of his life and working forward to the present as a manager who has unbelievable job security.

Guillen’s only proclamation on venturing into books was he’s got to wait ’till he retires, so he can let loose with both barrels. We’ve been asking him about books since the 2005 postseason.  But why wait ’till your yesterday’s news? Do it while you still have your bully pulpit as a sitting manager, just like Joe Torre recently did.

The 80,000 to 100,000 words that comprise a book can answer a ton of questions. I’d like to know how Guillen became a mile-a-minute talker growing up in Venezuela. Was it cultural or did Guillen have to out-verbalize his competition for a shortstop job?  And how did he learn how to speak English in such rapid-fire fashion that the Sox beat writers divide up transcribing his pre-game sessions, e-mailing their labors to each other so none are stuck for a half-hour plus on just the manager’s thoughts?

Guillen’s Sox playing years would be prime fodder for the pages. Welcome would be more stories like the day Tom Seaver was angry at Guillen’s on-field comportment and grabbed him by the scruff of the neck against the corridor wall leading from the dugout to the clubhouse for a lecture.  What about his relationships with teammates like Frank Thomas and a guy who once played third next to him — Kenny Williams?  How ’bout  “Black Jack” McDowell, whom he ripped recently for a critical blog?

How ’bout his first year as manager, when he obviously felt the efforts of Magglio Ordonez and Carlos Lee were wanting, and both departed the South Side?  And the next year, when the Sox staggered in September, only to right themselves for their memorable World Series title run?

The most juicy part, of course, would be Guillen’s comments about columnist Jay Mariotti, Sox Public Enemy No. 1. Guillen’s biggest hot-water problem came in 2006 when — forgetting he had moved from the anything-goes clubhouse of the Eighties to a politically correct new millennium — he called Mariotti a “fag.” Despite sensitivity training mandated by baseball’s highest powers, I can assure you Guillen can never be totally politically correct. He could get in trouble weekly if everyone took umbrage at everything he said.  And, yes, I’d like to find out what happened the day Guillen spied Mariotti in the old pressbox behind home plate. He gestured for Mariotti to come down and talk to him, and the columnist apparently waved him off.

Bottom line, however you take Guillen, he’s made history as the first Hispanic manager to win a World Series. Such a feat warrants some thousands of words on how far Latins have come in baseball from the days they were dismissed as hot dogs and hypochondriacs.

And if Guillen wants to change his mind in two ways — do the book while he’s still managing and have that bleepin’ Cubs boy do it with him — I’m here. And while we’re grinding away at filling the pages, I’d tell him my grandfather, Morrie Zutz,  was a Cubs fan who sat in the Wrigley Field bleachers during Hack Wilson’s time and took me to my first game. We lived 2 1/2 miles due north of Clark and Addison, so going to the 1:30 p.m. games was easy in contrast to the 8 p.m. weeknight contests at old Comiskey Park. Grandpa was long gone by the time I could start attending any number of South Side games each season. You needed a car to get there instead of taking the L, perceived dangerous at night in the 1970s, from the Far North Side.

I’d also tell Oswaldo that I was far more critical in writing about the Cubs and their baseball-ignorant owners and skinflint team presidents than about his own bosses. Don’t think I’ve ever written a discouraging word about Kenny Williams.  I recall praising his Carlos Lee-for-Scott Podsednik trade, sacrificing power for much-needed speed.

Since I’m not Guillen and won’t drop the f-bomb in a non-quote situation,  I’ll only proclaim that no matter who does the interviewing and transcribing, he’ll co-author a bleepin’ good book.  And Guillen, the ultimate team guy, will raise the profile of the Sox amid the blizzard of Cubs books, most of which were written by me in his view.  Right, Ozzie?