I'm not about to say the essence of the article is wrong, but this snippit I can assure you was as close to fabricated as you can get:
The following is a conversation I had in Out of My League, between myself and a real fellow Padres relief pitcher at the time who, in the book, went by the code name Bentley:
"Number 57!" came a voice from behind me. I turned to see Bentley standing there with two drinks in hand. He casually made his way over to me with a big-league smile stretched across his face and handed me one.
"Welcome to the Sky Lounge," he said, and clinked my glass with his.
"Thanks for having me," I said.
"Enjoying your seven and seven?" he asked, referring the seven nights in a hotel and seven nights worth of meal money—just over a grand in cash—the Padres had given me to get settled.
"Very much so." I said, turning back to the view.
We stood there looking off the roof and onto the field. Bentley had been here longer than me and his seven and seven must have run out by now, which prompted me to ask him, "Are you staying here the whole time?"
"Yeah, it's cheaper than moving into an apartment since we're only here for a couple days out of the month. Besides, you can't find a lease for just a month and a half. You're committed to the hotel. Which is fine. I have an elite membership card. You should get one too," he nudged me, "the points add up quick."
"How much is it per night?"
"I think the rates here are something like $260 for a normal guest."
I choked on my drink. "$260?"
"Something like that." He looked to my gaping mouth and raised an eyebrow. "You're in 'The Show,' you can afford it."
"Maybe, but that's still a lot of money."
"Not anymore." He took a sip of his drink.
"That blows me away," I said. "I mean, this offseason, I was working at a television store and now I'm sipping a mixed drink from the top of a five-star hotel overlooking the major-league field I play on. I can't believe this is actually happening."
Bentley said nothing.
"Maybe I'm wrong for thinking this, but it makes me wonder why there is such a huge gap between the guys up here and the guys in the minors. I mean, if you just spread out the smallest portion of all this to the guys below it would make their lives so much easier, don't you think?
"That's a terrible idea," said Bentley.
"Why do you say that? There is so much here."
"Because it's meant to be this way. It's a grind for a reason. The guys who can't take it don't deserve to be up here. Besides, the union fights for us to have all this. There have been guys up here who went through hell to make it like it is. It's not just for anybody."
"Maybe. I guess I've just never experienced anything like this. I know I've worked my ass to get up here, but I feel like I don't deserve all this. It's so much so fast."
"I feel like I deserve it," Bentley said, and then gulped his drink.
"Really?"
"Of course. We beat the odds; we deserve all of this. If this is what they want to give us, then take it. Don't ask questions. Besides, this here," he waved his arms as if to claim everything around us, the field, the hotel, the bar, "this is the only level you can make an impact at. It's the only one that matters—the only one people care about. All the rest of that stuff is just practice to get here."
"But—"
"No buts." He stopped me. "This is the only league that matters. Your career in baseball starts here."