–Illustration by James Dankert
Last week was a mess all around, and Friday night was the capper. I guess I drank too much of something bad, and things got away from me. I swear, though, that I was determined to get something to Zellar, but my mother called me in the middle of the game and prattled on forever about how her new priest has all these tattoos and she’s sure he’s a card shark with a drinking problem. He’s an ex-Marine, she says, and “no spring chicken.” She claims this guy –it’s always “Father” with my mother, no matter how shady the character might be or how much of her money he mooches– hosts poker games damn near every night, and she says there are always motorcycles lined up outside the rectory “like it was a cathouse.” There was also an unnecessarily detailed monologue about her having to “digitally express” her ancient dachshund’s anal glands to “relieve impaction,” which as you might well imagine is something that will ruin a guy’s appetite for pizza rolls in a hurry.
I was trying to watch the game while enduring my mother’s weekly torments, but between her breathless and severely unhinged rambling (which can sometimes continue unabated through three innings of a slugfest) and whatever cheap malt beverage I was swilling things sort of spiraled out of control. Then, to top off the evening, I had nothing but problems with the piece of shit Radio Shack computer Zellar gave me. I’m no computer expert, and never mind that I was admittedly a bit indisposed: I’m pretty sure it’s more than a little unreasonable for anyone to expect me to produce reliable work on a machine that some guy got for a high school graduation present twenty-five years ago.
So, yeah, I punted last week, or rather I phoned it in, or at least tried to phone it in –go ahead and sue me, you bastards. I really didn’t have anything to say anyway. Like I said, it was a long week, and sometimes I just want to be able to go home at the end of the day on Friday and drink alone in front of the TV like any other normal guy who doesn’t have a single redeeming hobby or a friend in the world.
Some of us, I try to tell Zellar, have real jobs. Granted, I don’t do anything, but that pretty much is my definition of a real job, and it’s exhausting. I also have to wear a dime-store security uniform that’s a couple sizes too small (the result of a laundry mishap; I guarantee you I’m holding steady at 265, give or take a few pounds), so there’s something of a humiliation component to my weariness as well.
I don’t have squat to say about Juan Rincon’s piss scandal. It’s tough luck, I guess, but I’d trade my kidneys for cat food to have Rincon’s problems. Let him come and sit on my couch for a few days and let’s see how sorry he feels for himself. I mean, seriously, people, a ten-day suspension? Guys routinely miss more time from shower accidents.
What I can say about the Twins right now is what I can say about the Twins pretty much all the time: I wish they were a whole hell-of-a-lot better. I have a hard time getting anything but frustrated with any team in April, and I’m not about to get excited about a club that’s five games over .500 and plays in the same division as the Kansas City Royals. The Twins eat up a lot of hours, which is all I ever really expect from them.
I’m not saying, though, that I’ve never gotten excited about a baseball team. Because as much as it pains me to admit this I was as infected by the yahoo contagion in 1987 and 1991 as anybody else, and after game six of the ’91 Series I actually danced for the first time in my entire life. I was alone, of course, and the spasm of happiness didn’t last more than twenty seconds, but it was an unusual moment nonetheless, and I’ve been waiting fourteen years for a repeat performance.
Before I sign off I have to acknowledge what was an obvious cheap shot on Zellar’s part. I’m referring to his bit yesterday about players with the worst ratio of RBIs to homeruns. I’m sure he thought he was delivering a purpose pitch, and I’ve no doubt he figured I’d duck.
Fat chance. Here’s the deal: in both my years at Labette Junior College in Kansas I failed to crack the two-to-one ratio of RBIs to homers, but I obviously can’t be blamed for that. We played a forty-five game schedule (which included twenty-seven doubleheaders) in those days; the first season I hit nineteen homeruns and had twenty-six RBIs. The second year I finished at 23/31. Big deal. You can’t drive in non-existent runners, and is it my fault the guys who hit in front of me couldn’t get on base?
I’m sure Zellar will try to strike back by throwing my doubles totals in my face (seven and three). Again I say, big deal; so I was born with a bum pair of wheels. I could have stretched more than a few singles into doubles, but for what? An extra base didn’t mean a damn thing on that team. And though I never hit a triple in my life, that was strictly a matter of principle. I always figured once I hit the bag at second my work was done.
Triples are overrated, and are too often the result of an unnecessary risk. Even singles and walks were disappointing to me. I’d stand there at first and think about all that miserable running I was going to have to do to get around the bases, and it just pissed me off. No, sir, Jumbo’s job was to look for the number one and turn it around. I couldn’t run, but I never had a problem jogging.
