Logan Morrison is the Marlins' tweeter in chief

Logan grew up in Kansas City and attended games with his dad, Tom Morrison, in the early '90s, when Kauffman Stadium was a wonderful shithole with a rubber warning track. Brett was nearly 40 years old but still legging out triples. He was old-school and dirty, with a knob of chaw in his cheek. Father and son worshipped him.

Logan's dad was a gruff and hard-nosed Coast Guard gunner who worked as a recruiter during the family's years in Kansas City. At other times during his son's youth, Tom's military work bounced the family from Key West to North Carolina and Virginia.

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

"Tom always thought that you don't do anything half-ass," Logan's mom, Diane, says. So when his only child announced at age 8 that he wanted to play baseball for a living, Tom — a hulking former University of Kansas tight end whose body creaked with old football injuries — treated it like a blood oath.

The family sculpted a mound in the back yard. Dad stocked up on dusty instructional volumes by authors such as Ted Williams and Tony Gwynn. He'd paint symbols on baseballs in a system designed to get Logan to hit to left. They'd head to baseball fields with 200 balls, and after Logan had hit every one of them, Tom would chart the landing spots. If about 70 percent of the balls weren't in left, he'd make Logan start over. And punishment for failing at a task was running laps.

Logan missed school dances and trips to Disney World. "You don't want to train?" Tom would bark. "Fine, go work for a living."

When the boy was 12, Tom took him to work out at the instructional camp of former Royals third baseman Kevin Seitzer. The kid was gawky, his dad was cartoonishly overbearing, and Seitzer was in love. He called Royals general manager Allard Baird. "All the years that I've known you," the former big-leaguer demanded, "how many times have I told you about a kid?"

The answer, of course, was zero. "He was raw," Seitzer says of Logan, "but it was all there."

For 65 bucks a pop, Logan took weekly half-hour sessions with Seitzer. Then Tom shelled out $50,000 for a new, special-edition diesel 2001 Ford Excursion. Father and son crisscrossed the country entering Logan in tournaments, their SUV stuffed with baseball equipment. "That was the baseball-mobile," Logan says. "We still have it. There's about 265,000 miles on it."

Tom and Diane couldn't really afford the car, equipment, and classes. But Diane, an ultrasound technologist, worked overtime at the hospital, and Tom played an elaborate game of credit card monte.

When Logan was 16 and an elite hired gun on the travel ball circuit, Tom finagled a transfer to New Orleans to be in the vicinity of more baseball scouts. Logan played first base for Northshore High School.

Logan wasn't happy to once again leave his friends. But it might come as a surprise to Marlins fans that he was no good at rebelling. The best he could do was get caught with alcohol at a Kenny Chesney concert in Mississippi.

After going All-State and batting .486 his senior year, Logan was drafted in the 22nd round by the Marlins in 2005. Because his parents were worried the 17-year-old couldn't handle life on his own, he deferred to spend a year at Maple Woods Community College in Missouri, where he lived with his grandmother.

Even as a pro ballplayer scaling the minors, he never cut the umbilical cord. Because his parents had made sure he invested his $225,000 signing bonus, he often called to ask for financial help with his car insurance and wardrobe. When he made it to the Marlins' Triple-A team, the New Orleans Zephyrs, in 2010, Logan and teammate Scott Cousins lived at the Morrison home. Tom's bobbing fedora was a ubiquitous sight in the stands, and he would tail the team bus on road trips. If Logan went four-for-five, Tom would be in the clubhouse after the game, demanding answers about that fifth at-bat: Hey, why'd you swing at that slider in the dirt?

In April of that year, Tom — who had never smoked — was diagnosed with lung cancer. Logan happened to be at home with an injured shoulder, so he was in the oncologist's office when his dad got the news. Tom blurted, "Am I going to be around long enough to see my son get his first big-league hit?"

Logan wasn't terribly worried. He's too mean to die, he thought. That July, Tom watched from a computer as Logan wore a Marlins jersey and smacked a single to left at the San Francisco Giants' AT&T Park. A month later, haggard and peeling from radiation, he took a 30-hour train trip to New York to watch his big-league son play in person, against the Mets.

Tom couldn't make it to the next baseball season. He died that December. Since then, Logan has channeled his dad. If a beat reporter asks him about a teammate he thinks is loafing, he'll tell it straight with no sugar. "I'm definitely my dad's son," Logan says. "I'm not going to change who I am."