Logan Morrison is the Marlins' tweeter in chief

He is in a constant conversation with his Twitter army, having broadcast, at last count, 10,813 messages to 96,496 followers. Morrison might not yet be one of the league's elite ballplayers, but when it comes to Twitter stats, he's Babe Ruth. For example, two-time Cy Young Award winner Roy Halladay — sample tweet: "Happy Earth Day and remember to do your part and help the environment" — has only 8,000 followers. Even superstar Yankee Alex Rodriguez has just 48,000. (Morrison's numbers are still dwarfed by sports' reigning king of acting a fool on Twitter, Chad Ochocinco, who has more than 3 million followers.)

Morrison has broadcast photos of himself in a full-body penis suit. For another Twitpic, he donned a female lifeguard costume complete with a thicket of pubic hair sprouting from the crotch. "I'm a 24-year-old living the dream," Morrison says to the critics who would have him restrain his tweets. "If you don't like it, there's no rule that says you have to follow me."

Giulio Sciorio

Asked what this story should be about, Morrison replied, "The overall awesomeness that's about to go down."

Via twitter.com/amyknelson

"He's a big ol' boy, dude," Bryan Petersen (left) says of teammate, best friend, and bubble bath partner Morrison (right).

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More About

• Thomas Morrison
• NL East
• National League (MLB)
• Logan Morrison
• Florida Marlins

Morrison adopted the 140-characters-or-fewer social networking service when he was a minor leaguer in 2008 at the advice of his agent, Fred Wray, who — don't scoff — thought it might help his career.

Sometimes the conversation gets deep, like when Morrison announced his father's death from lung cancer in December 2010: "Shortly after 9pm last night my hero, Thomas Morrison, passed away." And since then, he has urged his tweeps to donate to lung cancer causes, including his own Jupiter charity, LoMo Camp for the Cure.

But usually, the conversation is more like that time Morrison told a follower: "lick my butt hole."

In February, a follower named Andrew Fleming tweeted, "I'm a Cardinals fan, but I'm blowing my tax return to come see you guys open the park. Can I get love for a true baseball fan?" Morrison retweeted the message but changed it so it looked like Fleming wrote, "I'm blowing my tax guy."

As a result, Fleming spent the rest of the afternoon giddily jousting with Twitter users, including Cardinals shortstop Rafael Furcal. "I thought it was hilarious," Fleming says. "I got faced by a major-league ballplayer. It kind of makes him one of the guys, unlike [Albert] Pujols or somebody who never interacts with the fans."

And before a game last August, Morrison gave away 342 tickets to his Twitter followers. He would do that more often, he says, if it weren't for the taxes and fees that even players have to pay for tickets. "Tell the Marlins to pay me more money," remarks Morrison, who makes the league minimum salary of $414,000, "and I'd be happy to pay for more tickets for fans."

If the Marlins' owners could overlook the blowjob and motorboating jokes, they might notice that Morrison's tweets are connecting with fans, something the team has failed to do during 18 years of existence.

Loria's despotic-cheapskate ownership style — dismantling the 2003 championship team and canning well-liked, talented personnel such as Joe Girardi after a 2006 season in which he won manager of the year — hasn't exactly built up a bank of goodwill for the team.

And then there's that other, more fundamental hurdle to the Marlins' scoring a loyal following, even with the expensive, air-conditioned spaceship having landed on NW Seventh Street. We really, really like football.

"This is the kind of town that floats around, and our interest lands on what's hot at the moment," says radio jock Paul Castronovo of Big 105.9's Paul & Young Ron show. "Except for football. The Marlins could be in the hunt for the playoffs, but when Sunday rolls around, Dolphins fans are going to be like, 'Excuse me, I'm busy.'"

Morrison and company encountered this reality one afternoon this spring when he met the young hearts and minds that need swaying. He traveled with a few other Marlins — budding superstar outfielder Giancarlo Stanton, catcher John Buck, and his buddy Bryan Petersen — to the gymnasium of Miami Central High School to play a game of Family Feud with teachers and kids.

The school is a gridiron powerhouse that has produced a litter of NFLers. Students packing the rafters cheered raucously for the Marlins players, but what really had them excited, it became clear, was an early exit from the day's classes.

A student was stumped for several long seconds when asked to name a single Marlin. (He eventually remembered Stanton, who was at his side.) "I like football," another kid explained with a shrug when asked about Morrison.

After the contest, the Marlins were herded into a locker room to meet the school's baseball team. But only two players from the Miami Central Rockets were there. The rest were confused members of the water polo team, corralled to fill the room. When a coach asked if anybody recognized the four big-leaguers filing in, the boys answered in an almost-triumphant chorus: "No!"

Morrison was mostly subdued as he greeted the youngsters. But at one point, he took out his smartphone. "@Peteypipes keeps crop dusting all the kids at central high school," he tweeted of Petersen.

Crop dusting, for the woefully unacquainted, is stealthily farting while walking.

The way Morrison tells it, his Twitter personality is really just an attempt to return baseball to the days of three-time major-league batting champion George Brett, when players hustled like mad on the field and spoke their minds off it. "He made no excuses for who he was," Morrison says of the grizzled Kansas City Royals third baseman. "He didn't care what anybody else thought."