Harrisonburg Dock Rats

The Harrisonburg Dock Rats weren’t exactly recruited—they just kind of appeared, like a hangover you didn’t ask for. They crawl out from under the bleachers at Finnegan’s Cove reeking of cheap whiskey and fried pickles, with splinters in their tails and a baseball bat that may or may not have been stolen from the opposing dugout. Their official warm-up routine? Chain-smoking in the bullpen and throwing beer cans at the mascot. Nobody really knows how they keep winning games, but rumor has it the Dock Rats’ strategy involves intimidation, trash talk, and the occasional “accidental” cleat to the shin at second base.

Their stadium is a health code violation waiting to happen: the dugout smells like a bait shop, the scoreboard hasn’t worked since ’09, and there’s a persistent rumor that a raccoon runs the concessions. Fans don’t sit quietly—they scream like rabid rodents gnawing through drywall, hurling chants that make even frat guys blush. And when the final out drops, the Dock Rats don’t head home—they stumble straight to the cove, light the water on fire somehow, and call it “postgame tradition.” Harrisonburg baseball isn’t about stats or trophies—it’s about survival, chaos, and seeing just how far a team of rats can push their luck before the league finally kicks them out.

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