Uncle Jumbo's Playground

–Illustration by James Dankert

I’m back, but –like the Twins– just barely.

Zellar’s had a muzzle on me ever since I tried to dictate a column to his answering machine in the middle of the night. This, of course, was after I’d had a few beers, and after the Twins had finished kicking the shit out of my kidneys for three hours. Based on that information, of course, you could safely conclude that this incident occurred pretty much any night in the last couple months.

I don’t remember, frankly. And I don’t much care.

I will tell you this, though: Jumbo’s not about to start turning cartwheels just because the Twins have won six straight and pulled within shooting distance of the wild card lead. Big fat whoop. They’ve got a lot of atoning to do. During that 11-19 slide coming out of the All Star-break I pulled a groin muscle karate-kicking at the television in a screaming fit of rage, and I gained sixteen pounds. You probably wouldn’t be able to tell, but I’m sure my doctor –who I see every five years whether I need to or not– wouldn’t be happy about it. I’ve no doubt he’d tell me (as he tells me each time I visit his office) to “lay off the snack foods.” Fat chance of that, I’m afraid. I’ve also no doubt he’d tell me that if my cholesterol gets any higher I could essentially tap a vein and use my blood as a substitute for cream cheese, something that might one day prove necessary.

We all realize that if the offense on this team had been even slightly better than half-assed for the last several months all these August and September games against the White Sox might have actually meant something. That doesn’t get us anywhere, though, and I’m having a hard time getting all fired up about a wild card race. I don’t believe in the wild card –never have– and I think it’s an abomination that so many teams that have knee-walked into the playoffs have managed to win World Series titles over the last ten years, or whatever it’s been.

I’ve never been through anything with a baseball team like what I’ve been through this summer with this team. If my life wasn’t already completely ruined, the last five months would have completely ruined my life. I’m prepared to swear on what’s left of my broken mother’s body that if I had been batting clean-up for the Twins this season they’d have won –at minimum– a half dozen games that they lost. At minimum. I believe this in my fat, clotted heart.

In my only Whiffleball outing of the summer (at Blooming Void’s fifteenth-annual Loose Meat Festival Drungo Hazewood Whiffleball Classic) I dominated the competition, and singlehandedly carried my club (The Jerkwater Herd) to the title. Every year The Herd is essentially me and whatever warm (or even not so warm) bodies I can rustle up at the Lucky Seven Tavern, and every year it doesn’t matter, as long as Jumbo gets to pitch and swing the bat.

I may have mentioned this before, but it bears repeating: I am the greatest Whiffleball pitcher on the planet. I am unhittable. I’m a lefty, and I’d make Jacque Jones look like…well, actually, I suppose he’d look like Jacque Jones. He wouldn’t have a prayer against my hard heat and nasty slider. Not to mention my trademark off-speed pitch, The Egret.

Believe me, you don’t ever want to have to see The Egret.

To get back to the Twins for a very brief moment: Can I just say that Carlos Silva is my new hero? I can’t imagine he looks all that great without a shirt on (which is one thing all of my heroes have in common), but the man is a warrior. He might be the only guy on that team that I’d like to have over to my house for a barbecue, and after we’d had a few beers I’d even teach him how to throw The Egret.

Finally (or perhaps by the way), I’ve decided to become a demolition derby driver. My old man wasn’t the brightest bulb on the marquee, but I’ll always remember when he took me to the demolition derby at the Groat County fairgrounds one year. In the middle of the thing, between pulls on his Grain Belt long neck, he gestured out to the track and said, “Would you look at that? That right there is life in a nutshell. You keep getting up every morning and eating your shit sandwiches and you know what you’ll grow up to be? A survivor, my boy, the winner of the freaking demolition derby.”