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Tim Moungey and the Octopus League
I realize the post/view ratio on this one is going to be horrible, but basically I'm porting over an old dynasty to this board from the OOTP boards and the continuation of that dynasty in another form in a separate thread.
Some of you may have read it before, to others of you it will be new. In any case, I hope you enjoy it. :) The Copy/Paste marathon begins in about thirty seconds. |
You're a song...
Written by The hands of God Don't get me wrong This might sound To you a bit odd But you are the place Where all my thoughts Go hiding There are worse songs to wake up to in the morning, I suppose. It could have been that repulsive, yet strangely addicting in that too many pixie sticks way Hanson, that adrogynous trio allegedly male but with only circumstantial evidence to back that claim. My thoughts are phlegmy upon waking, it seems.... as clear and free-flowing as a polluted river. The dreams... Vague apparations that I can not recall. Oh well, no matter. It is just before noon and I need to get ready for the idyllic bliss that entails spending a day doing absolutely nothing. In the midst of my contemplations of idleness, there is the shrill ring of my cell phone. Raising my brows, I silently wonder who would call me at this hour, most of my phone coevals belonging to the group of society's members known as night owls, a club that I, too belong to. A shrug later, the phone is to my ear. "Hello?" "Is this Tim Moungey?" "Yes it is." "This is Baxter Wexley, Vice-President of Marketing for Limited Brands, Incorporated. How are you doing this morning, Mr. Moungey?" ... The VP of Marketing for Limited Brands? What in the hell is somebody from corporate doing calling me? ... Maybe it's about the proposal I emailed them some weeks ago suggesting that we market and sell different colour and intensity lights in the Victoria's Secret stores, one of them being the one here in my hometown where I work part-time. "Fine." "Excellent. I'd like to bring you here to Ohio and speak with you regarding a matter that's come up. We'll cover the cost of your flight and accomodations." "...All right." I wasn't going to argue with someone that high-up in the company. The rest of the phone conversation and a few subsequent discussions held later were spent ironing out the details and specifics that are a necessity in any such endeavour. A couple of weeks later, I find myself standing outside Mitchell International Airport with my parents, lugging the sole suitcase that will serve as my carry-on. My mother, a woman of her mid-50s who looks a full decade or two younger than that, hugs me, the vivid green eyes that are a family trait sparkling with excitement and glee. "This is so exciting, Tim! Maybe you'll get a full-time job out there!" "Maybe. I don't know for sure what this is all about yet... I'm only guessing that it's about the proposal thing about the lights I told you about." At this point, my father, a septugeniarian who also appears significantly younger than his actual age, breaks in. "I've said all along that marketing is what you should go into." "Yeah, I know." "Better get a move on, Lester. Your plane's going to be here soon." "Okay, Dad." The customary hugs and kisses later and I'm inside the airport, heading for the check-in desk and thence to my terminal. Unlike this Mark Jazzington guy whose biography I read about in the paper yesterday, I am no dewy eyed lad of 18 just going out into the world. I'm 24, going on 50, and looking about 40. Events to come will youthen me beyond my wildest expectations, though I don't know it yet. |
And then I watched her hands of leather
Turn to velvet in a touch There's never been another summer When I have ever learned so much The headphones of the airplane echo the calming country classic of Garth Brooks in my ears just as the plane touches down upon the landing strip of Columbus's airport. I do not pretend to know anything of this city, but only can presume that, like many Ohio and Pennsylvania towns and cities, it is a bastion of blue-collar ideals and people, even though there are a few big-money companies with headquarters located in the area. Waiting for me just beyond the terminal exit is a man of middle age, the widow's peak of his hair further thinned and aged by the advancement of salt and pepper in its strands. "Mr. Moungey?" "Yes?" "I'm Gentry Williams. Mr. Wexley asked me to escort you about town during your stay here." ".... All right." In the Senate chambers of my mind, a fierce debate is raging. What in the hell was going on here? A personal escort and a male one at that? True, corporate has done some ****ed up things I've noticed, but this is starting to take the Black Forest tort. Nonetheless, I follow Gentry along and answer his idle chatter with brief replies that supply the minimum. You see, I didn't sleep much the night before my flight and I can never slumber peacefully on planes, so the dim haze of grogginess still has its mantle on me. Approximately an hour later, I'm lodged in my room at the local Super 8. Like most budget hotels, it's serviceable as a bed to sleep or screw in and no more . Irregardless of its plebian nature, I promptly crash onto the bed and fall into a sleep full of lurid dreams... psychadelic colours, nebulous shapes. It was curious to me that this otherworld in which I wandered was lacking in other human beings, but at least it was a bright presentation. Two hours pass before I'm woken up by the ringing of the room phone. "Mr. Moungey, this is Mr. Williams. Mr. Wexley would like to know if you could come in now since his schedule got cleared." "That's fine." During the interval ride betwixt my hotel and Headquarters, I find my mind wandering over the entireity of my experience thus far. There is something very peculiar about this, as if I had ingested acid and was now in a bizzare world of hallucinations. To be sure that would explain the flourish of rainbows in my nap's imaginings. The corporate offices of Limited Brands turns out to be a monolith entity of glass, chrome, steel, and tinted windows, banal and modern as the darlings of contemporary architects decree. Were I to be in charge of designing such a thing, I should invoke the architecture of the past. Give me Gothic, give me Byzantine. Give me anything but this soulless monstronsity! That bit of tangent aside, I focus more intently on the antcipated meeting, which commences after I step into Mr. Baxter Wexley's office. The VP of Marketing turns out to be a potbellied man in his 60s, with but a few tufts of grey hair remaining around the curls of his ears, the rest of his scalp a smooth, round dome of shiny bald skin the same colour as Silly Putty. When he speaks, his voice is of the booming quality one expects to find on a shipyard of antiquity or on the construction sites of current times. "Moungey! Glad to see you here. I trust Williams has been satisfactory?" .... I'm not going to touch the homoerotic inneundo hidden there. I do find it irritating, however, that this sort of thing always happens to me. "Everything's been fine." "Good, good. Has Gentry told you already what I've called you in for?" "...No? I assumed this was about the proposal I emailed you about the lights." Mr. Wexley stares at me in utter disbelief after that remark, eyes wide with incredulity, mouth ajar. Then his face purples and his voice booms across the divide of desk between us. "What the ****? Who do you think we are? ****ing Spencer's?!" "... I thought it was a good idea." "It's a stupid idea! No, I brought you in for something else." He takes a deep breath, returning his head's colour to its normal slightly flushed shade before continuing. "No, what I brought you in for was to be the general manager and field manager of the new baseball team." "...What baseball team?" "The one Limited Brands is sponsoring, of course!" "...I'm afraid I don't know just what you're referring to." Gentry coughs and makes the suggestion that the Vice President elaborate on the specifics of the situation, so that I'm not so in the dark of things. It's advice that Baxter takes on in relatively short order, thankfully. "Well, it's like this. A new league of baseball is being formed called the Octopus League. It's starting off small, only 8 teams split into two divisions. Various interest groups and corporate sponsors have each purchased a team, of which Limited Brands is one." A sheet of paper is pulled out and slid across my desk for my viewing pleasure, while further explanation is forthcoming. "That there is the league alignment. As I said, there's two divisions, one East and one West. There will be a team for each quadrant of the United States, Northeast, Southeast, Northeastcentral, Southeastcentral, Northwestcentral, Southwestcentral, Northwest,and Southwest to start, with the East teams in the East Division and the West teams in the West Division. You'll be the GM and manager of the Racine Secrets, playing in the East Division." I take a moment to reflect on the information, looking over the list of eight teams. Information is scribbled next to each of the names, and I mentally record it in the hard drive of my mind. Octopus League East Division Boston Burgundys Beantown gets another baseball franchise and this one is being sponsored by none other than the Red Sox themselves. While some might question the wisdom of such a move, potentially cutting into the market share of the Red Sox, the official statement from Epstein and Co. was that "The Burgundys will offer a low-cost baseball entertainment alternative for baseball fans and families in the Boston area." Rumours speculate that the Burgundys could eventually become a minor league franchise for the Red Sox, as well. Memphis Rebels This team is owned by a group of Confederate sympathizers in Tennessee, mostly oil and tobacco barons who have business holdings in Texas and North Carolina, but prefer the smaller state life of the Country Music State. While generating some controversy in the local and national press when their inception was announced, the squad is here to stay. Miami Vices Given the nature of television to be wedded to sports these days, it should come as little surprise that NBC has opted to pick up ownership of a team. The name came about as a result of NBC execs hoping to capitalize on the wave of 80s nostalgia in recent years, and so both team locale and name was easy to come up with, even though some doubt the ability of baseball to succeed financially in South Florida. Marlins organization, we're looking at you. Racine Secrets The team I'll be in charge of. Sponsored by Limited Brands, the parent company of Victoria's Secret and my employer. Just why they chose to have it in my hometown instead of Ohio is beyond me, but I won't complain, I guess. Octopus League West Division Minneapolis Lumberjacks One of the big logging companies in Minnesota decided to take on this franchise, with the aid of a group of state historians who wanted to give more publicity to the Upper Midwest's strong tradition of cutting down trees for profit. I'm already considering these guys our main rivals, especially given my first year of college was spent there. New Orleans Mardi Gras Sponsored by the Louisana State Board of Tourism, the name here should be self-explanatory, as should the location. The hoped for dividends here include an even greater influx of tourist dollars. San Diego Bishops The Catholic Church in the United States has been rocked by recent years by numerous scandals, so it's been looking for a way to regain image. Enter the San Diego Bishops, purchased and organized by the Church, with a special Papal dispention from Pope JP II himself to be engaged in this business. Some people might say this team will have an unfair advantage, as God might look most favourably on this bunch. Seattle Coffeemen The Evil Empire known as Starbucks is the third big-name corporate owner, playing up Seattle's reputation as the coffee capital of the US in terms of the team name. A silence I hadn't even been aware of being in the room is broken by VP Wexley, who ashes a cigarette lit while I was in the midst of my reverie. "There'll be a 24 game schedule. Each team will have 3 starting pitchers for their rotation, with a 25 man roster. Obviously since this is a startup league, there'll be no minors. Since we're not entirely certain as to whether this thing's gonna make us any money, we're also not having free agency. You'll build this team through trades and through an annual 7 round draft, in addition to the obvious inagaural 25 round draft. You also won't have any coaches or scouts to deal with at this time. You'll have to do everything yourself." It's a lot to think about all in one sitting. I thank Mr. Wexley and tell Gentry quite firmly that I can make it back to the hotel of my own accord. Having a man clinging about me like that all the time is greatly unsettling. Now if he was a girl, and a pretty one at that, the matter would be entirely different... In any case, now's the time to start thinking about how to make up my team in the opening draft. Youth? Veterans? Pitching? Hitting? It's exciting, this chance to create my own squad from scratch... Time will tell how well I do. |
Oh yes, I'm the Great Pretender
Adrift in a world of my own I play the game but to my real shame You've left me to dream all alone The Platters. Strangely appropriate since I'm eating off a dish ordered of room service as the song plays this sun-bedazzled morning. Pancakes are my breakfast. I don't care what the Refluxians say; flapjacks is passe`. Resting on the table next to my plate is a copy of the day's New York Times, gotten expressly for the purpose of reading, buried deep within its sports section, the article detailing the Q & A session with the Octopus League founder and commissioner, Nigel Benvuneto. An excerpt of it follows: Nigel Benvuneto, the new commisioner and founder of the Octopus Baseball League, sat down recently with this reporter for a question and answer interview. The son of first generation Italian-Americans, Mr. Benvuneto built his fortune in the shipping industry operating out of San Francisco and is presently CEO and founder of Benvuento Shipping, the world's second-largest sea shipping company. How did the idea of the Octopus League come about? "When I was a kid, my dad would take me to a baseball game once a year, on my birthday. It was the highlight of my year, since I was crazy about the sport. Still am crazy about it, which is why I'm starting this league. As far as the actual idea for it, it's something I first thought of about 10 years ago during all the labour strife that was going on in Major League Baseball. It wasn't until about five years ago that I put it in to motion though and started seeking out groups that might be interested in." What caused you to come up with the name Octopus League? "All along I've had the idea that this would be a young, grassroots league that would struggle and be challenging the big boys, the barons of baseball, for survival and solvency. One night, I was reading Frank Norris's The Octopus, a novel that tells of the struggle between the lower-middle classes and the railroad robber barons. Instantly, I had a name for the league." What were your thoughts upon first hearing about the controversy over the Memphis Rebels team? "Honestly, I knew when I chose to grant the franchise to the Confederate Sympathizers Society (CSS) that there would be a political firestorm over it. Did I really care? Not really. Some might regard it as negative publicity, but when you're an obscure startup league like this one, there is no such thing as negativity publicity." Regarding the future, what are your plans for the Octopus League? "We'll be taking things in five-year plans. For the first five years, our focus will be on ensuring solvency for the teams and for the league as a whole. We'll do our best to maintain a quality, affordable product for our fans. To that end, we will not be having free agency and furthermore, we will be encouraging trades to be kept to a minimum. Ideally, we'd like for players to spend their careers with one team if possible, so that the communities of fans can identify with teams and players year in and year out. After the first five years, we'll revisit everything and see how things have gone. From there, we'll make adjustments to things as we see fit to maintain and expand the success of the league." Tryouts will be held before the dispersal draft on March 15 at SBC Park in San Francisco. All eight GM/managers from the respective teams will be in attendance and the tryouts will be free to the general public. *End of Article* Benvuneto seems to be an interesting fellow, if nothing else. A 72-year old maverick, white-haired and bombastic to judge from his picture, he reminds me of an older Mark Cuban. Time to make plans to be in San Francisco on the Ides of March for the tryouts. |
I said if
You're thinkin' of Being my Brother It don't matter if you're Black or White Certain wags, aware of my predliction to the younger side of female things, will remark that my listening to Michael Jackson is an exercise in birds of a feather flocking together. I here wish to point out that while Mr. Jackson allegedly enjoys the company of young boys, too underage by even my definition of things, though perhaps not Humbert's ("I would have the reader see the ages of nine and fourteen as boundaries..."), whereas my preferences are strictly female and more importantly with the minimum at the later years of that fun-filled period known as teenagerdom. But enough of that. This morning, there appeared an article in one of the San Francisco newspapers a write-up concerning the upcoming draft. An excerpt are included below: The Octopus Baseball League is set to have its inagural draft on March 18th, with the season set to be on April 1. A 25-round draft, it will consist solely of hopefuls who either don't look to have a chance at the Major Leagues, never had a chance at the Majors, or might have once upon had a chance but misfortune of one form or another befell them and so prevented their opportunity. The draft order was determined just last night and will be as follows: 1. Miami Vices 2. San Diego Bishops 3. Boston Burgundys 4. Racine Secrets 5. Seattle Coffeemen 6. New Orleans Mardi Gras 7. Minneapolis Lumberjacks 8. Memphis Rebels Results of the draft lottery were not without controversy, however. Conspiracy theorists at the drawing voiced their strong opinions afterwards that NBC, the network who televised the event and owns the Miami Vices, arranged for the #1 pick to be swung their way in exchange for unknown bribes to Octopus League commisioner and founder Nigel Benvuneto. Furthemore, supporters of the Memphis Rebels in attendance claimed that public pressure and controversy over the team's name caused Mr. Benvuneto to fix the last pick in this straight draft to fall to their team. Rumours of lawsuits presently abound on the Internet and in some other publications, but the veracity of such speculations will not be determined for some time yet, though Benvuneto, when questioned about the matter, spat the tobacco he was chewing into the new cuspidor and snidely remarked, "Bah! These people will believe anything and everything when they don't get their way! This isn't about the money... It's about the [expletive] baseball! And if you don't believe that, take your [expletive] cynicism back to Major League Baseball where it belongs." Regardless of how it all turns out, one can definitely see the Octopus League have gotten off to a kraken start. *End of Article* ...I do believe the sportswriter should be shot for that horrible pun. Oh well... as Benvuneto would say, publicity is publicity when you're just starting out. The author of the article needs to go back to journalism school, though. It's as if he wrote it at 2:30 in the morning on no sleep. Come to think of it, I haven't slept much lately myself. I've been too busy obssessing over my notes regarding the potential draftees, most especially those in the first few rounds. What was I going to do? What was I going to think? If my mind seems a muddle confusion of inanity now... its present state will seem a lightning bolt of clarity to how I will be when that fateful date with destiny arrives... the draft. Would fourth damn us to mediocrity? Would fourth be the guiding light to glory causant to my genius? Time will tell. For now, I should at least attempt a sham at sleep, if not get the genuine article itself. |
Hey now you're an All Star get your game on, go play
Hey now you're a Rock Star get the show on get paid And all that glitters is gold Only shooting stars break the mold Smashmouth is the type of football my teams tend to play on NCAA Football 2005 and it is in the dispersal draft that I'll be trying to find my team's future and current All Stars. The song now in my head after having heard it on the 80s, 90s, and today station that plays on the radio in my home library, I sit at my desk, reading through yet another article, this one in The Tentacle, a weekly newspaper recently started up by the same people bringing you Pro Football Weekly in your local paper that is going to be devoting itself exclusively to the Octopus League. This week's edition is concerned entirely with the upcoming draft and outlines the top 3 players per position. The obligatory excerpts below: Catcher At the field general slot, there's really only two players that truly stand out, and the best of them has injury concerns. Still, the top two could well be first round picks. Beyond that pair, however, it's advised that teams look much later in the draft before picking someone up. 1. Wayne Dewitt, 26 years old, Beaumont, Texas One of the best, young players in the draft according to our scout's eyes, he can hit for average, knock the longball, and has an amazing eye at the plate. People who watched him play at Lamar University are also aware of his brilliance in clutch situations, such as the homerun shot that sent his school to the College World Series his senior year. His arm, while not top-notch, is still very good. The knock on him? During that same senior year, he blew out his knee and has just recently been cleared by doctors to play. He's also proven to be not very consistent. Still, the consensus here is that he should be a first or second round pick. 2. Daniel Alvarez, 25 years old, Honduras A recent immigrant from Honduras, Alvarez has as his plus factors that he's a year younger than Dewitt, is an even more phenomenal power hitter, and has what is probably the best plate vision around, rated at a mind-blowing 97 out of 100 by our scout. In addition, he was a real team leader for his club squad in his native country. The potential difficulties lie in that 1) he's only an average hitter, and 2) he's a horrible catcher on defense. A probable second rounder. 3. Katamor Mito, 31 years old, Japan An import from the Japanese league, he's an average hitter with slightly above-average power. Average on defense as well, his big draw lies in his ability to be Jeteresque in the clutch. First Base Our scout's first 5-star rated player shows up here, but after him, there's a huge, huge dropoff. As such, we're expecting that the below mentioned Scotty Harper will go to Miami with the first pick in the draft. Our first projected top prospect appears here as well. 1. Scotty "Bonds" Harper, 32 years old, Erie, Pennsylvania A legendary star of his local softball tavern league, Scotty is a phenonemal hitter, both in terms of average and power, even better than Alvarez and Dewitt in their respective categories. However, Scotty is also a sieve defensively, and his teammates have criticized him as being a loner who avoids the leadership role he should be taking on, hence his nickname. Likely a first rounder, perhaps even the number 1 pick by Miami, especially with the Octopus League instituting the DH. 2. John Bahr, 27 years old, Chesapeake, Virginia Can hit the ball okay for average and excels at finding the gaps and going for the big bomb. He has zero tolerance for waiting at the plate, however, and there's injury concerns lurking in his past. An even worse defender than Harper and with about the same bad intangibles. 3. George Marconi, 23 years old, Brooklyn, New York Teams who are looking to build young might go after Marconi. Despite being so young, he's already capable of being a decent hitter in the league, though lefties give him some severe problems. Average in terms of range on defense, he's flawless at handling the ball once it's in his glove. Just recently graduated from Dartmouth College in New Hampshire, this Italian-American has a fairly bright upside in the OL. Just as I'm about to move on to the two-baggers, my cellphone rings. It's my mother, wanting me to go to a movie with her. About to tell her no, I reflect that it's been months since I've gone to a show with her, so I change my mind at the last moment and give a yes reply. I'll finish the article when I get back. There's still time before the draft, right? Right. |
Back now from the movie. We saw Wimbledon at the budget theatre. Kirsten Dunst naked in the shower. Ahh, sweet bliss! And one of my favourite British comedic actors besides. Truly a treat to behold.
With erotic visions populating and polluting my mind concerning Ms. Dunst, I pick up the left behind Tentacle and resume with lukewarm interest my prior reading: Second Base A weak position all around. So weak is this position, in fact, that we're ashamed to even mention a Top 3. Look for a lot of the third basemen to be utilized at the two-bag slot when this draft is over. A truly pathetic class. 1. Bennie Taylor, 31 years old, Kenosha, Wisconsin The only decent hitter out of the whole lot of true second basemen, Taylor's chief value comes in the form of his excellent eye, which will garner him a good OBP. His ability to hit lefties makes him a good choice for the #2 batting spot against those handed pitchers. His defense is subpar, however, as is his power. This former Division II All-Star with the University of Wisconsin-Parkside Rangers is the best of a horrible lot. 2. Daniel "D-Man" Baptista, 33 years old, Santa Fe, New Mexico Another softball league project and a mediocre hitter overall, but good enough against lefties. As his nickname suggests, Baptista's principal asset is his defense, where he shows exceptional range and good handling abilities. That he's consistent and a great team leader as well might make this veteran a better pick-up than we're giving him credit for. 3. Bryan Prioleau, 31 years old, New Orleans, Louisiana You could put virtually anyone that you want in this third slot and make an argument for him, so in some respects, this is our personal bias, but we'll give the Big Easy resident the nod here. A defensive wizard whose anemic with the bat, Prioleau is also a Tazmanian Devil on the basepaths. Good consistency as well. Shortstop Another mediocre, uninspiring group, though not quite as atrocious as the second basemen we were forced to look at. There's one serviceable player in their ranks; the rest are about the level of allure as Prioleau amongst the 2B. 1. Deon Maya, 30 years old, Puerto Rico Came over on the same boat as Alvarez. Should be the very first SS taken out of the draft. He hits well, but not great for both average and power, and has a very nice eye. Decent range and defense as well. Rated a 5 star player by our scout. 2. Josue Grandison, 34 years old, Baton Rouge, Louisiana Already things are getting ugly with the dropoff from Maya. We'll select Grandison here, who has legendary ability to get to balls and very nice handling ability when he's scooped them up. He can't hit the ball worth a lick and has no patience at the plate, but he'll fry up a fair amount of taters and has a cannon arm. Also very fast on the basepaths, but lacks any kind of stealing instincts whatsoever. 3. Kendall Kain, 26 years old, Bowling Green, Kentucky Graduated just a couple years ago from Western Kentucky University and plays for a semipro ball team in Bowling Green. Granted, everything's a crapshoot by now at the mediator position, but Kain hits for more power and has a much better eye than Grandison in addition to being much younger. However, there's a huge hit on defense being made in the tradeoff, and even despite the fact that Kain, in spite of his youth, is a clubhouse leader and very consistent, it's still not enough to knock Grandison from the 2nd ranking in our eyes, though some teams will no doubt disagree. Third Base The keystone corner boasts some very high quality players, enough of them that there was actually some heated debate over whom to list as the top 3. Eventually though, we were able to reach consensus, so here are the best of what so far is the best position in the draft. 1. Bernardo "Saint" Rosado, 27 years old, Puerto Rico In the end, what separates Rosado from the others is his stellar defense. A powerful slugger with a legendary eye whose fast on the basepaths and very consistent to boot, the only cautionary points against the Saint are 1) he's only good at making contact with the ball and 2) he has a long history of injuries starting all the way from his years of Little League. Still, he'll be a tempting pick for any team, and would fit in perfectly in either Miami, with its large Puerto Rican population, or San Diego, for reasons which should be obvious. 2. Edward Mauldin, 31 years old, Providence, Rhode Island Best.Hitter.Ever. A hyperbolic accolade it might be, but Mauldin hits for far better average than Rosado, is an even better slugger, and has the same uncanny intuition and consistency at the plate. The tradeoff? He's slower on the bases than the IRS about getting tax refunds back and is a pretty bad defender. The perfect DH candidate if ever there was one. 3. George "Sinatra" Capra, 30 years old, New York, New York A huge Frank Sinatra fan and a star in one of the NYC Metro Baseball leagues, Capra represents an intriguing alternative to Rosado and Mauldin. A decent enough fielder, he's above average in contact hitting, though still the lowest of the three, but on the flip side of things, he's the most natural born bomber we've seen to date. Expect him to dominate the homerun leaderboards year in and year out. His plate eye, while not on the same mystical level as the previous two, is still exceptional. On the basepaths, he's ridiculously slow, but uses finely honed running instincts to steal far more bases than his speed would initially suggest. Good consistency and a loyal team player. Just as I'm about to get to the outfield, my cell phone rings yet again. This time it's a friend of mine begging me to go bowling and drinking with him. While not in the mood for it especially, I consent. Outfield when I return. |
It’s hard recognizing a dream that’s gone dead
Me and my liquor Feeling alone Concrete is what my head feels like a block of, and Blonde girls I do love. The Side of the Road is what I staggered down last night as I stumbled all the way from the bar, deserting my poor, irritated, nondrinking friend. It was cold, damnably cold last night. I still am missing feeling in my right pinkie finger. As I go to pick up the Tentacle to resume reading, I realize my exhaustion and so turn in for the night, vowing that I will finish on the morrow, both outfield and all pitching sections. ... or so I hope. |
My hands are locked up tight in fists...
My mind is racing filled with lists... Of things to do and things I've done... Another sleepless night's begun Only it isn't a sleepless night. Nor am I naked, and certainly I am no lady. As I slowly, groggily arise from the ashes of my unintended nap, my gold-metal rimmed glasses askew on my wrinkle-pressed face, I blink at the blurred words of the patiently waiting Tentacle. How long have I been asleep? I can't remember. All I know is, I must continue that article. I must. My draft, my job, even my very life may hinge on it... Every road has several divergent paths at any given intersection... Nevermind, nevermind. Let us leave chaos theory to more lucid philosophers. Left Field Looking for defense? Don't bother with this batch of players. The athletes here that are worth picking up as everyday starters all have horrible range and are not the best at handling the ball. This position breaks down into a couple of pretty nice players and a whole bunch of mediocre ones. Steven Hooper, 33 years old, Akron, Ohio Steel worker whose job working with molten metal has helped make him quite a strong man. He has above average contact, can really score the homer, and has a beaut of an arm. Though dialup in a broadband world slow, he has the knack for knowing just when to take off and so will steal his fair share of bases. The biggest problem is the aforementioned defense, with one of the worst ranges seen out of any player in the history of professional baseball. Were there better guys with significantly better defense, he wouldn't be #1 here, but he is. Still a quality look for DH, though trouble hitting lefties is another concern. Carmelo Velez, 32 years old, Dominican Republic The Caribbean is a hotbed of baseball talent in recent years and this guy is no exception. Though he's only an average contact hitter who struggles against righties, he's got almost as much power as Hooper and has a better eye and outfield arm than the former. On the flip side, he's even slower with none of the stealing talent and is only better on the D than Hooper by a hairdsbreath. Great team leadership skills are a plus, however. William Acosta, 36 years old, Laramie, Wyoming One of the more interesting stories in the draft, Acosta was actually the hitting coach for the University of Wyoming Cowboys before the team's other staff and the players urged him to attend the tryouts to fulfill a lifelong dream that never came to fruitition after his high school sweetheart was discovered to be pregnant with his child shortly before graduation. While a feel-good tale, William is a below average contact hitter who can't see the ball so well anymore. He's slow, can't run, and only has an average arm left. But to his credit is that he's the best of these three on defense, though still pretty bad it must be admitted, and perhaps most importantly, he can both hit the long ball and be extremely consistent. Center Field Two franchise players and everybody else. That's the tale of the tape for this position and its setup might well mean that the first two players patrolling the middle of the outfield are the very first two selections in the draft. We had a hard time trying to decide which of them to rank first, but in the end, a decision was made. Curtis "CJ" Jones, 28 years old, Annapolis, Maryland A lieutenant and diver for the U.S. Navy, it was arranged that his tour of duty be cut short so that Jones could represent the Navy in the fledgling league and help both with recruitment and with sailor morale. As a result of his background, a sportswriter tried to tag him with the nickname of "The Admiral", but when he heard about it, Jones replied firmly, "I'm no admiral. I'm just CJ." And so the CJ nickname has been the one that's stuck. A deadly contact hitter with even greater power whose best weapon is actually his eye, where he seems to see the path of the ball with surgical precision. Furthermore, he has no weakenesses against any hand of pitcher. He hits them all. His range and fielding are extremely good as well. The drawback is that he's not as fast or as deft a basestealer as some of his peers, but for the benefits and his younger age, we pick him over the next man. Darrick "Superman" Carson, 34 years old, Orange County, California His wife calls him "Hollywood" but to everyone else, he's none other than the real-life baseball incarnation of Superman. While not quite as good a total package hitter as CJ, Darrick hits a little better for average and is very, very good at the bomb and his plate vision. In addition, he's an even better fielder than Jones, making plays that seem as though he truly is flying in the air, and the same air-defying sensation is felt when one watches him on the basepaths, as he zooms around at blurring speeds, swiping bases left and right. Even scarier is that he's consistent night in and night out. Yet, even Superman has his kryptonite, and in Carson's case, it's both that he's several years older than Jones and that he just can't seem to hit lefties. Still, it's expected that he'll be a contender for the MVP for however many years he decides to play in the OL. Jaime Gong, 26 years old, San Francisco, California After those two blazing suns, there's nothing but remnants of stardust left to choose from. We'll pick Gong out of the remainder for his youth, high-quality defense, supernatural bunting, great clutch ability, and consistent performance. Right Field As one might expect, after the excitement at CF, this slot's something of a letdown. Two somewhat serviceable young players round out the crop though, before we dig into our usual "Pick-whoever-you-want-for-third-and-make-an-argument-for-him". Ovidio "Suave" Rico, 26 years old, Venezuela So nicknamed because his good looks have already netted him a minor endorsement deal and attracted quite a few female fans to the Octopus League, Rico is above average in all three areas of contact, power, and plate patience. Good arm, good consistency, and good ballhandling are pluses as well. Minuses include extremely slow on the bases and mediocre range. Will probably be most valuable as a marketing tool to a specific gender target audience for the team that picks him. Roido "Pokemon" Hachemon, 26 years old, Japan In spite of the obvious similiarties in pronounciation, the nickname actually came about not from his last name, but from Roido's obsession with Pokemon. Having captured all Pokemon in all versions (Red, Blue, Yellow, Gold, Silver, Crystal, Ruby, Sapphire, Firered, and LeafGreen for those keeping score at home), he spends much of his time talking about his various Pokemon and challenging others, usually small children, to Pokeduels. As a baseball player, he's a marginally above average contact hitter with good power and average eye. His defense is atrocious, on the level of the first two LFers in terms of how bad his range is. Good arm, but extremely inconsistent, though when he does come through, it's usually in do-or-die situations. Estanis Rodriguez, 32 years old, Venezuela Rico's older, far less handsome countryman, is breathtaking to watch on the defensive side of the field of play. Near flawless handling of the ball and acrobatic moves as he snags seeming hit after seeming hit and turns them into outs is a joy to witness. Unfortunately, he has a dead arm that mars some of the magic. Hittingwise, he hits well for contact, has average power, and tragically is blind when it comes to judging when to swing and when to take. When he gets on base though, he's got sufficient speed and instincts to steal a decent amount of free advances. Another quite inconsistent player who picks the right times to get hot. |
So weary... so weary. It feels as though hours have gone by since I last jotted my notes on the outfielders, but it's only been about ten minutes. Blame it on oversleep. For a moment, I give consideration to the moment of abandoning finishing reading in favour of going online and googling my name and the Octopus League for the fifth time in as many days.
No, no, this has to be done. *Has* to be done. The draft is in two days. I can't procrastinate any longer... With a sigh as leaden as the foot of a California motorist, I return to the Tentacle, already tiring of its pages that I've read a hundred times before, or so it seems. Starters An interesting collection of players here, though once again we're at the old standby of two standouts and the pick-and-argue. Judging from the starters at least, it looks as though the Octopus League in its early years will be dominated by hitting. Allen Davidson, 32 years old, Louisville, Kentucky Has stuff like no other pitcher we've seen in a very, very long time. Were he younger, he would probably be a potential Hall of Fame candidate based on that alone. Unfortunately his control is only marginally above average and he doesn't get much movement on his pitches. Then again, with the amount of heat he packs, it's easy to see why the ball doesn't move. Also to his advantage is that he's nice and consistent over the long haul. Heriberto Perez, 29 years old, Venezuela A lot of the top players thus far seem to be Venezuelan imports, including this one, who was actually rated higher by our scout than Davidson, thanks to younger years and better control and movement. However, his stuff, while very good, isn't anywhere close to Davidson's and most importantly in our viewpoint, when it comes to crunch time, Perez has been known to get a very bad case of nerves, as when he blew the game that would have secured the Venezuelean national baseball team a spot in the Olympics. In terms of velocity and consistency, both are on par with Davidson, the former in the clocked in the mid 90s, the latter rated as good. Cristian Cortada, 28 years old, Dominican Republic Yet another island import, Cortada is our choice for the third best pitcher because of being at an optimum age, with above average stuff, control, and movement, with particular effectiveness against lefties. While extremely inconsistent and not as hard a thrower as the prior two, his endurance is better than first choice Davidson's, ensuring that he'll eat up a lot of innings. Relievers The crop of relievers is pretty good, enough that there's some small debate over who the second and third best Rolaids men are after the obvious number one choice. Here are our selections. Mark Seawell, 32 years old, Boisie, Idaho This potato farmer, yes actually a potato farmer, was a phenom back in high school and through his years at Idaho University, but didn't pan out after being drafted by the White Sox in his senior season. After a couple years of bouncing around the farm system, he decided to retire and return to Idaho to join his father in the potato farming business before answering the call to the Octopus League tryouts. Amazing stuff, a blazing fastball, good control and movement and a real clubhouse leader. The only knock is that he's another one plagued by problems with consistency. Benji Demarco, 25 years old, Dominican Republic Born to Mexican-American immigrant parents in the DR, Benji holds citizenship in all three countries and is a skilled ballplayer. Young, with a searing heater, he has great stuff and good movement on his pitches. Control problems and the propensity to give up the fly ball are potentials for concern, however. Timothy "Gload" Wickline, 26 years old, Plano, Texas A real live-wire whose clutch factor resembles that of the legendary Ross Gload. Great stuff, good control, and good movement with a fastball that's not quite as strong as the previous two. Just narrowly lost the number two slot to Demarco based on being a year older. His nickname seems to fate him towards cult fandom, however. Closers An unimpressive lot. We'd frankly rather convert one of the three relievers above to closers before going in to this lot. Still, here are the best of a bad group. Jesus Loera, 31 years old, Puerto Rico Good but not great stuff, really nice control, good movement, and a fastball that's clocked at about the same speed as Wickline's. The only officially designated closer we'd even think about taking. Anton Arispe, 32 years old, Venezuela A phenomenal fielder with average stuff and good control and movement. Has a mediocre fastball. The intangibles are what set him apart, as he's a player who will come through in key situations and he'll be consistent. Ernest Styers, 30 years old, Buffalo, New York The third best closer and the youngest at 30. Good stuff and movement, average control, with a midrange fastball. Consistent, with some talent to lead a team. *End of Article* At last, I am done. Finally, I am finished. Now... the draft. Am I ready for it? .... Not a chance in hell. |
You come out at night
That's when the energy comes And the dark side's light And the vampires roam Normally the most nocturnal of beasts, it is presently 2 o'clock in the afternoon, and I have just woken up after having crashed into the world of extended sleep, 15 hours in point of fact. It is slumber I needed, for today is the day. Yes, in a scant hour, the draft will begin. I rush around this San Francisco hotel room, showering, dressing, and shaving with alacrity. On the way to the last of theses, as I am a shave-before-shower man, I notice that there are several messages waiting for me on my cell. They'll be looked at later. Just before I'm crossing the threshold into the bathroom, I belatedly remember there is to be a preview show on NBC concerning the draft, starting at about now, and so I hit power on the remote, listening to the announcing team whilst I attend to my face and body. "Good afternoon, baseball fans! I'm Nick Pennyworth and with me is Joe "Baseball Million" Papenfuss, who won a million dollars on 'Who Wants To Be A Millionaire' by correctly answering who was officially documented as having been the first major league baseball player to chew tobacco on the field, and Henry Venzant, the editor of the Tentacle, the Octopus League's official newspaper. What a day we have before us gentlemen. What are your thoughts?" Through the open door, I see Joe, a middle-aged man with pockmarked skin and hair so thin he's already a candidate to join the Swoopsters Society, be the first to speak. "Well Nick, this truly is an exciting, exciting day we have before us, the inagural draft of the Octopus League. The NBC owned Miami Vices have the first pick and it's my opinion that they should go with pitching, as pitching wins championships." Nick's voice interrupts just as Henry's about to speak. "I disagree with you there Joe, but in any case, let's talk about the league itself. Do you or Henry think there's a chance that this will be a successful, viable alternative to the MLB?" A new voice cuts in through the intermittent spaces of my scraping razor, one I presume to be Henry's. "Nick, that's the wrong question to ask. Nigel Benvuneto, the owner and comissioner of the league, has already publically stated many, many times that this league is not putting itself in a position to challenge MLB in the beginning. Ask that again in another fifteen or twenty years. Right now, the question to ask is, do you think the league can be a financial success, as every business is about money. And I have to say that yes, I do think that the OL can survive and even thrive and grow. And it all starts right here with this first draft." I turn up the volume to near-deafening levels so that i can still hear as I hop in for a fast shower, Joe's grating whine audible through the curtain when I step in. "I don't know about that, Henry. My guess this league will become a pop culture phenomenon before it dies out just like the XFL did. I give it maybe three years before the doors are closed." "Well it's time for a commercial break, Henry and Joe, so let's go to it. We'll resume coverage when we return." I've already decided that I ****ing hate Joe Papenfuss. Ugly, smug, bastard. What the hell does he know about anything? Less than an hour to go now... |
Why can't I breathe
Whenever I think about you Why can't I speak Whenever I talk about you It's hard to breathe in this smoke-ridden, cramped room. The ashed remains of the day's cigarettes are stubbed in the battered cylinder tray in the corner, grimly and morbidly remniscent of a cemetary, though for what reason I can not surmise. Just minutes now before the first pick in the draft and I and each of my seven fellow GM/managers are locked away in miserable, squalid rooms such as this one. Though nominally termed "war rooms", they instead have the feel of cells constructed for the purpose of prisoner holding. Perhaps that is why the death simile of the ashtray's contents. Smiling I am not. A modest television set, Daewoo by brand, sits before me, turned on to the three announcers covering the draft. I've seen them before, in the hotel room, and as I'm looking over my notes, they're discussing the upcoming pick. "I tell you, Henry and Joe, this is an exciting moment for the Octopus League, its fans, and most certainly the Miami Vices, who have the first pick. If you're Miami, who do you draft?" Near-bald Papenfuss is the first to break in, as is to be expected. ****ing bigmouthed prick. God, I hate him. "I told you before Nick, the key to winning championships is all about pitching. Now, since there's only a 3 man rotation for each team, that makes the starters all the more crucial. To me, there's only one real ace in this draft and that's Kentuckian Allen Davidson. If this league had a Hall of Fame in place, this guy would be in a shoo-in for it. At 32 years old, he's savvy enough to get the job done, but not so old that he'll be gone in a couple years. I'm going with Davidson." Henry Venzant, the editor for the Tentacle is quick to input his commentary before Nick has a chance to respond. I feel sorry for Henry, actually. He's been cut off so many times in this commentary that he hasn't had the chance to say much. I wonder if it isn't because he's black. American society is still quite racist, after all. It's just become covert rather than overt. "While I see your point, Joe, I'm going to have to disagree with you here. Sure, pitching is important, but I'm not so sure Davidson is as good as you seem to think he is. No, what I think is most important, considering the talent pool in this draft, is to go out and get a guy whose going to play every day, a franchise player who will really ignite the team's offense and be stellar on defense. Now it's widely acknowledged that there's only two players who really fit the franchise description in this draft, both center fielders: Curtis Jones and Darrick Carson. Me, I'd pick Carson because of the versatility he gives you. He can play left and right field almost as well as he can center. That he's a speed demon is also all the more reason to pick him and insert him as the #3 hitter." Not one to let Henry have the last word, Joe jumps right back into it. "That's just ridiculous! To make a 34 year old man the first pick in the draft is the ultimate in stupidity. No, if you're going to make one of those two the first pick, then you have to go with Jones, whose not only a better hitter, but is also six years younger." Just as a brawl looks about ready to erupt between the two, now glaring at each other, Nick chimes in. "Interesting viewpoints, but the commish is up at the podium now with the pick, so let's hear what it is." Nigel Benvuneto, with the trace of a smile on his craggy face, his white hair brushed into some semblance of order and looking as though he's worth more the entireity of his league in the black three-piece Italian suit and contrasting dark gold tie, is at the podium, holding a yellow card, from which he reads. God, I hope one of the players I have targeted with the number 4 pick isn't taken, or if he is, that it means some of the others will fall to me. "With the first pick in the Octopus League dispersal draft, the Miami Vices select.... Centerfielder Curtis Jones." The announcement of San Diego's being on the clock is lost in the roar of cheering and applause in the ballroom as the audience attending the draft approves wholeheartedly of the first pick. Or maybe they're simply enjoying the thrill of being a part of history. Either way, it's loud enough to vibrate the walls of my cubicle. On the television screen, the announcers are back on, with Henry looking chagrined and Joe looking gleeful, the happy one leaping ahead of Nick's intended comment. "I *told* you Jones would be a better first pick over Carson! While I still fault the Vices for not picking up Davidson when they had the chance, Jones is still a nice pick." Henry is quick to fire back, though there's a certain amount of anger in his face, as this simply just isn't proving to be his day. "At least they went with an everyday player, which is the smartest move they could make, in my opinion." Peace is re-established for all of ten seconds, by Nick, who suggests that they move on to the next pick, San Diego. Henry seizes the lead this time, determined not to let Joe have the first word. "Without a doubt, Carson should be the pick here. The Catholic Church, who has ownership of the Bishops, really could use the PR boost that winning a title would provide and sooner rather than later. Carson helps them win now. Sure he'll retire in a few years most likely, but winning now is crucial." Joe snorts and shakes his head, the stray strands of his few remaining hairs swaying in the breeze created. "I'll agree with you that winning now is more important than winning later for the Bishops, but that's what makes pitching all the more crucial. Davidson has to be the pick here. He'll not only help them win now, but he'll be around longer than Carson." Nick intervenes with the comment that the pick is up, and so the camera returns to Benvuneto, who hasn't lost his smile yet. "With the second pick in the Octopus League dispersal draft, the San Diego Bishops select.... SP Heriberto Perez. Next on the clock is the Boston Burgundys." Unlike the pandemonium that broke out over the first pick, stunned silence greets the second one. Following the shock, boos pepper the air, loudly and lustfully. "Damn Church can't do anything right!" cries one disgusted man. In my room, I'm floored as well. Never would I have expected Perez to go second. A probable first rounder, yes, thanks to the dearth of starting pitching talent, but second? The announcers too, have surprise on their faces, when the camera returns to them. Nick is the first to recover. "Well, interesting pick here by the Bishops. Joe, Henry, tell us your thoughts on this rather unusual selection." Henry takes the initiative, as Joe seems too busy recovering from the shock of the first pitcher being selected not Davidson. "This pick actually makes sense when you consider the larger philosophy of the Catholic Church and Christianity as a whole, Nick. Heriberto is a very talented pitcher who has a large black mark on his record, namely the meltdown against Argentina that determined which of the two would go to the Olympics. Perez now has a chance for redemption, much like many of the figures in Church canon did, and if he succeeds, the Bishops come off looking very good here, with a likely championship to show for it. Perez, as a Latino, will appeal to that market as well, an important factor for the Church, who have many faithful in that culture. In addition, our scout at the Tentacle had him rated higher than we ranked him. Overall, a smarter pick than at first glance." By now, Joe has recovered, though his face is a quite funny shade of red at his indignation. "That is pure and utter hogwash! That fluff will probably be what the Bishops organization will come out with to explain the pick, but it's still absurd. Davidson should have been the first pitcher taken in the draft!" Regardless of the back and forth argument over the pick, I'm still ecstatic over this selection. This means that no matter what, I'll have a high-quality player to choose when my turn comes up. Grinning Cheshire style, I listen to the new commentary concerning the upcoming pick for the Burgundys. Joe is the first one talking, still on a head of steam over the Bishops. "With the Red Sox owning this franchise, you would think that the Burgundys absolutely have to go with Davidson here. You think Red Sox, you think Pedro. With Martinez's departure from Boston imminent, by selecting the best pitcher in the draft, the Burgundys will have a similiar icon to Martinez in Davidson, only with a better attitude. Make the pick of Davidson, and Boston will have a chance to win every year." Counterpoint comes courtesy of Henry after he sips from his glass of water, his face pleasant. "On this one, I'm actually going to agree with you, Joe. Davidson should be the selection here, or perhaps even one of the young guys out there who dominate a weak position. I'm thinking here catcher Wayne Dewitt, the former Lamar Cardinal. He's clearly the best at catcher, with a huge dropoff after him. Plus, at only 26, he's going to be good to go for a very long time. The city of Boston is hung over from the Red Sox World Series victory. I say either Davidson for the starting pitching or Dewitt for a young everyday player who will be a star for years to come." A few moments later, Benvuneto fills the screen again, ready to declare the next pick in the draft, still looking as fresh as when he started. "With the third pick in the Octopus League dispersal draft, the Boston Burgundys select... Third baseman Bernando Rosado." Again, cheers fill the room, along with much clapping. Evidently they like this pick. I do too, to be honest, both from my own pick standpoint, and from the view that this is just a nice selection. Back to the announcers, Joe looking about ready to explode, Nick neutral, and Henry jolly-expressioned and the first to speak. "As I said, a young player who dominates his position. We had the Saint rated as the #1 third-sacker. He's young, a dynamite hitter, and plays stellar defense. A solid, solid selection overall." Joe looks about ready to throw his water at Henry as he angrily fires off his retort. "Stupid pick! Edward Maudlin is a much better hitter than Rosado and besides which, pitching is all-important to winning titles! I can't believe nobody's picked Davidson yet!" Nick takes that opportunity to segue into, at long last, me. "Speaking of that, let's talk about the Racine Secrets who are up next. Joe, you seem to be pretty set on Davidson, so let's hear what Henry has to say about this." Positively gloating Henry laughs and launches into his analysis, Joe fuming at having his commentary cut out of this segment. "Racine's an interesting case. They've got the youngest GM/manager in the league in Tim Moungey and by virtue of being sponsored by Victoria's Secret are sure to have its share of fans. As for who to select? I'd say either Davidson, who isn't going to get out of the first round in any case, Carson to win now and who I still think should have been selected before this, or even a small run on third basemen with George Capra, whose one of two solid third basemen left and plays better defense than Maudlin. Or possibly even Dewitt." Joe jumps in almost before the last name is out of Henry's mouth, determined not to be denied. "Davidson! It's got to be Davidson! Pitching wins championships! End. Of. Story!" Who will I pick? I'll let them wait a little bit longer. Fans out in the audience, who do *you* think I'll end up selecting? |
It's easy enough to believe
In this sweet madness, Oh this glorious sadness That brings me to my knees I want to do it. Every particle of my being screams to send out the card with the name of the greatest pitcher in the draft on it. The letters are scrawled out on the gold cardboard and I'm just about to open the door and hand it to the waiting messenger when I pull back at the last moment. Regardless of what this might mean to the team's prospects and my job security, do I really want to see that smug bastard Baseball Million Papenfuss crow with victory? Do I want the added pressure of instantly being annointed as a contender for the inaugural River Series crown? No, I decide in the end. I can't stand to make that asshat happy. Five minutes later, my choice is made, the new card sent out. Allen Davidson will simply have to go to somebody else. I watch on the screen as Commissioner Benvuneto takes the card and announces, "With the fourth pick in the Octopus League dispersal draft, the Racine Secrets select.... Third baseman George Capra." A roar rips through the receiving crowd, though whether or not it's positive, I can't ascertain. Was it a gutsy pick on my part? Probably, but it's one I feel good about, all in all. Grinning, I tune in to the analysis of the announcers. Henry is the first to go. "Well, I mentioned before the pick that a small run on critical corner men might start and I was right, as Capra was picked by the Secrets. Really, this is a solid selection for Racine. Capra has more power than anybody else in the draft and will consistently be among the leaders in homeruns. While average defensively and simply good at contact, you still can't help but like this guy. He'll be the cleanup hitter for Racine for quite a few years." On the other hand, veins are popping out of Joe's forehead as he's overwhelmed with wrathful fury. "This draft is turning into an outright sham! Davidson has no business dropping this low and why pick Capra when Maudlin is a far superior hitter and only slightly worse on defense? I score this one a stinkbomb for Racine!" Laughter is easy as I tilt my head back and roll with the amusement of it all. For better or for worse, we now have our very first Racine Secret. |
Once the pandemonium has settled down after my pick, the broadcasting trio settles back in to discuss the next drafting team, the Seattle Coffeemen. Riding a hot streak, Henry once more opens things up.
"The third of the Big Business Three Teams to select, Seattle faces an interesting dilemma here, as at most of the deepest or vital positions in the draft, there is only one player remaining. At pitcher, as we've said all throughout the afternoon thus far, is Davidson. Catcher still has fan favourite Dewitt. First base has the exceptionally hitting Scotty "Bonds" Harper, who we haven't talked about in this broadcast yet. At third base, two of the top three are gone, with only Maudlin remaining. Center fielder still has Carson. A handful of good players in the bullpen. Perhaps even shortstop Deon Maya, whom I think our scout overrated. This is a tough, tough situation to be in. I'd still go with Carson, who would have been my first choice at the top of the draft." Nonplussed with Henry's rundown, Joe's voice is flat in response, Nick still remaining the moderating voice who doesn't offer anything in the way of opinions. "If they don't go with Davidson here, they're stupid, as is everybody else whose passed him up. Mark my words, the team who gets Davidson will become an instant contender and have a perennial ace pitcher for as long as he stays around." Nick interjects that the pick is up, and so it is, as still smiling Nigel announces from his sacred podium, "With the fifth pick in the Octopus League dispersal draft, the Seattle Coffeemen select... Centerfielder Darrick Carson." Once more, the addon of the next team selecting is lost in the roar of the crowd, the Coffeemen fans who are the second largest group in the audience next to the San Diego Bishops contigent, dancing in their seats. I muse to myself that Henry certainly seems to be hitting a hot streak with his picks today and is trouncing Joe with his discussion of the picks. Not to mention which, his own top choice went before Papenfuss's. On screen, the editor is positively glowing, his voice exuberant. "Yes! That's a brilliant move by Seattle! A steal this late in the first round, Seattle has set themselves up very nicely with their first selection." As one might expect, Joe is pure purple at having been upstaged in the worst possible manner. He's looking more and more like someone who got lucky in a fluke situation, revealed to be a moron when all is said and done. I am so loving this. "Pathetic! This is *pathetic*! Carson will be out of the league in two or three years and most, and he'll have two good years at most. Carson rates maybe a second or third round pick. First? Pure and absolute hogwash!" Neutral Nick advises that they change subjects to the Mardi Gras's pick, and to my amusement, I see the event security in the background slowly starting to creep closer towards the table. Henry is up at bat first. "Things are tough for the last few teams selecting in this round as they're forced to choose which positions are the most important. Personally, if I'm New Orleans here, I'd go with somebody in the battery, which means either Dewitt or yes, even Davidson. Maudlin and Harper should also deserve strong consideration, as they, along with Dewitt, are really the lone three great bats remaining." Cue up the broken record, because that's what I'm expecting to hear out of Joe, who is only now starting to come back from the brink of a hyperventalating fit. "Davidson should go now, without question. New Orleans will have even more reason to celebrate if they do." Nigel appears moments later, "With the sixth pick in the Octopus League dispersal draft, the New Orleans Mardi Gras select... Catcher Wayne Dewitt." Damn, I think to myself, damn, damn, damn! I was hoping Dewitt would slide to me in the second round but there he is, taken not two picks after me. The truth was, I almost took him with my pick, but I thought he would fall enough to where I could get him in the second round. Back to the drawing board. Swearing still under my breath, Henry beams at me from the television. "It's as I said, a battery player would go here and New Orleans gets the best catcher in the draft, bar none in Dewitt, who has the largest following thus far amongst Octopus League fans. While some concern remains over the injury he suffered in his senior year, I think he'll prove to have recovered splendidly and really be a great catcher for many seasons to come." For once, Joe and I are in the exact same mood, though for different reasons, as the Millionaire contestant is once more getting exceedingly pissed off. "What's the point of a good catcher if you don't have a good pitcher to throw it to him? Allen Davidson has to be sitting out there wondering why no team has called his name yet." Discussion moves on to the Minneapolis Lumberjacks, who have the next selection. Riding his lucky streak, Henry assumes the entry point. "I think Lumberjacks and I think big, brawny, powerful men. The guess here is that they'll probably take a good hard look at Davidson, but the lumbermen and historians probably want something that'd be more accurate in line with the state past they're trying to represent, so the guess here is that they go with Mauldin, Harper, or even the second rated catcher prospect, Daniel Alvarez, whose a bomber as well." Exhaustion is starting to tell on Joe by now as he wipes away the perspiration on his punch coloured face. Evidently he isn't used to being so angry for so long a stretch of time. "Davidson. I hope they pick Davidson because Henry, pitching wins championships, and I would just love to see Minneapolis go against the type conception you've established for them here." "We'll find out the answer soon enough, because here's the commish with the pick", inputs Nick. "With the seventh pick in the Octopus League dispersal draft, the Minneapolis Lumberjacks select... First baseman Scotty Harper." I find myself laughing amidst the applause emnating from the glowing screen and the hall in which the draft is being held. It seems as though Henry is unstoppable in his prognosises, for he's won again, and he's happy to announce such when the announcers are returned to. "It's just like I said. Minneapolis wants to maintain their brawler image and this is the best way to do it. Excellent pick from both a baseball and a public relations standpoint." By this point, Joe is simply too spent to do anything more than roll his eyes. "Davidson had better be the next pick, that's all I can say." And since that is all Joe can say, the last pick in the first round is now speculated on, with the expected Henry introduction. "The Memphis Rebels. A controversial team grant who sparked an even greater firestorm of criticism when they subtly included the Confederate flag in their logo. I have to think that they'll go with Davidson here, even though he's from the other border state of Kentucky. It'll generate more press and publicity, though it could potentially risk alienation from the fans." Joe, for the first time in a while, actually looks as though he's something less than completely infuriated, even going so far as to smile. "Right you are, Henry! Let's hear it for Allen Davidson, the very first Memphis Rebel!" Will Nigel reveal this to be true? Curious, I listen in as the old man's baritone announces, "With the eighth pick in the Octopus League draft, the Memphis Rebels select... Third baseman Edward Mauldin." I'm as shocked as the rest of the audience when I hear that news, a collective gasp audible throughout the hall. As much as anyone, I was convinced that Davidson would go here. Back to the announcers, all three of whom look surprised. For once, it's Joe whose first to overcome his stunned state and speak. "A New Englander going to the South? Strange pick, one that I can't justify even if I wanted to. Davidson not picked in the first round? I don't believe it!" Henry wades in after regaining his sense of equilibrium. "While this is a surprise pick, I'm not quite as dumbfounded by it as you are, Joe. Both our scout and the rest of the Tentacle staff agreed that Maudlin is probably the best pure hitter in the draft. A very good pick, if a little shocking. Evidently the Rebels were thinking here that it was best to grab the last powerhouse bat remaining, as from here on out, we're moving to the second tier of hitters." Nick jumps in to have the last word, much as he had the first one at the beginning. "That's it for the first round of the Octopus League dispersal draft, folks. Some interesting storylines developing here, most notably the continued fall of star pitcher Allen Davidson, whom some had projected to go as high as the very first pick. After this commercial break, we'll be coming at you with the second round of the draft." |
And if you have to leave,
I wish that you would just leave, Cuz your presence still lingers here, And it won't leave me alone. These wounds won't seem to heal This pain is just too real There's just too much that time can not erase Though regarded as overplayed by some, Amy Lee's voice never fails to bring tears to my eyes when I listen to that song. It's being broadcast now on the radio station during the break between rounds. Truth be told, I'm still not all that certain about the Capra pick. I hate Frank Sinatra songs for one, and for two, I like more defense out of my players. Oh well. What's done is done and I can't change it now, unless.... Struck by a sudden inspiration, I grab my cell phone and call up one of my fellow general managers, just as Henry, Joe, and Nick come back on the screen, the last of the trio the first to speak. "And we're back! What an exciting, exciting first round the draft has produced. Ironically enough, the biggest story isn't whose been picked, but rather, who *hasn't* been chosen. Starting pitcher Allen Davidson, whom many viewed as the best hurler in the pool, still gone unselected. Henry and Joe, your thoughts on this one?" As I continue my conversation, Henry is loud enough to block out my voice from any who might be trying to listen in. "Nick, really what the key issues for these ballclubs with Davidson seems to be are that he lacks good movement on his pitches for one, and for two, he doesn't have as great an endurance as some of his fellow starters. That being said with his phenomenal stuff and decent control, he should have been off the board by now." Joe isn't changing his tune in the least. "Bah! Davidson should have been taken with the first pick already! Enough of this travesty!" Disgruntled and disappointed, I hang up my phone. New Orleans refused to even consider a Capra for Dewitt trade. I just hope George doesn't find out I tried to get rid of him after I drafted him. Come to think of it, I haven't had this bad a case of buyer's remorse since I bought Season One of The Sopranos on DVD. Nick's back up. "Henry, now that we've discussed the Davidson issue, can you give us some background on the top rated players according to position that your newspaper published a few days before the draft?" The editor's more than up to the task, as with a smile and technical magic, he produces on the screen a computer-designed board with the players and positions ripped straight of Mel Kiper, Jr.'s playbook. "Sure thing, Nick. Let's take a moment to look at the board." Catcher 1. Wayne Dewitt-#6 overall to New Orleans 2. Daniel Alvarez 3. Katamor Mito First Base 1. Scotty “Bonds” Harper-#7 overall to Minneapolis 2. John Bahr 3. George Marconi Second Base 1. Bennie Taylor 2. Daniel “D-Man” Baptista 3. Bryan Prioleau Shortstop 1. Deon Maya 2. Josue Grandison 3. Kendall Kain Third Base 1. Bernardo “Saint” Rosado-#3 overall to Boston 2. Edward Mauldin-#8 overall to Memphis 3. George “Sinatra” Capra-#4 overall to Racine Left Field 1. Steven Hooper 2. Carmelo Velez 3. William Acosta Center Field 1. Curtis “CJ” Jones-#1 overall to Miami 2. Darrick “Superman” Carson-#5 overall to Seattle 3. Jaime Gong Right Field 1. Ovidio “Suave” Rico 2. Roido “Pokemon” Hachemon 3. Estanis Rodriguez Starters 1. Allen Davidson 2. Heriberto Perez-#2 overall to San Diego 3. Cristian Cortada Relievers 1. Mark Seawell 2. Benji Demarco 3. Timothy “Gload” Wickline Closers 1. Jesus Loera 2. Anton Arispe 3. Ernest Styers "As you can see, Nick and Joe, all of the top third basemen are gone, as are two of the top three center fielders. Big story as we've already mentioned is Davidson's still being up there. Players I think you'll see go in this second round include Davidson, Alvarez, and Cortada. Some of the rest of these athletes will go too, obviously, but those are the three I think will come off the board for certain. A fourth player, starting pitcher Christoper "Lobster" Lobdell, a New Orleans native, is also likely to go." Nick gives the spotlight back to Joe with a question about his opinions on how the second round will go. Papenfuss, happy to have the attention back, looks serious as he launches into his breakdown. "Nick and Dan, I think this is the round where the teams finally start paying attention to pitching. Davidson and Lobdell will both go without any doubt, and so should Johnny Silk, who has good stuff and the greatest stamina of any pitcher in the draft, and Ronald Sheeley, whose just an excellent all around pitcher." It's announced then that the pick is up at the podium, but it's delayed for a minute to allow first Henry and then Joe to voice their opinions concerning the first pick of the second round. "Joe, I have to say I think you're right on this one. Davidson should go here. Teams need to look at starting pitching." "It's about time you agreed with me! Yes, Davidson goes here." They've said that before and look and what happened. Nonetheless, here's Nigel, now wearing a burgundy suit with his gold tie. "With the first pick in the second round, the ninth overall pick in the Octopus League dispersal draft, the Miami Vices select... Pitcher Allen Davidson." The frenzied shouts of the collective mob are louder than any other pick thus far as everyone is leaping to their feet and screaming. The spell has been broken and the one I viewed as the best pitcher in the draft is now selected. No worries here, though. I've got my eye on the guy I want as my ace. On the television, Joe looks as proud as if he'd just had his own son selected. Come to think of it, Nick and Henry look awfully damned happy too. Honors go to Joe for the first playback. "Excellent draft so far for Miami! CJ and Davidson on the same team! You have to think that the Vices will be immediate favourites to win the River Series if they keep drafting as smartly as this." Agreement comes from Henry, whose grinning with the sheer joy of the experience the day has been for him. "I couldn't agree with you more, Joe. NBC should be very proud of their GM/manager right now as he's made some very smart moves and parlayed this draft perfectly thus far. Nick breaks in just then, a smile on his face as well. Funny how everybody looks so happy now. Not me, though. I was secretly rooting for Davidson to keep falling. "We have Allen Davidson live via satellite feed from his home in Kentucky. Let's hear his thoughts on the situation, shall we?" Allen turns out to appear to be about seven years younger than his actual age, making him look twenty-five as opposed to thirty, with a cleanshaven face and a shock of bright red hair that makes me think of flames dancing in the fireplace. Nick conducts the interview. "Allen, how does it feel to finally get selected?" "It feels great, Nick. I'm surprised I fell that far, but with CJ Jones as a teammate and whatever other players the Miami management picks up, I'm ready to prove those other seven teams wrong by passing me up when they had the chance. I'm going to be the best pitcher in the league, and me, CJ, and the rest of the guys are going to bring home the River Series trophy where it belongs, to Miami!" "Thanks Allen, and good luck in the Octopus League." "Thank you, Nick." Well, I think to myself, at the very least, if Miami does win the River Series, it won't have been a one year rented title like another Florida team I could mention. Yes, Marlins, I'm looking at you. The next couple picks will determine if I get my ace or not, but there's another commercial break right then, allowing me to collect my thoughts and energy, while what minimal press presence there is can go report that Davidson has finally been drafted. Curtis Jones and Allen Davidson on the same team. Christ, that *is* scary. I just hope I can put together as fearful a team as that, though probably not, being stuck with the fourth pick and all. We'll see, though. |
To draftniks, intense coverage and analysis such as what we've seen so far are heavensent, and a better high than any other narcotic Nature or Man could devise.
To those who simply want to see some baseball played, the slow pace and progress of the dispersal draft is grating, annoying and excessively detailed. Just give us the rosters and preseason reports and be done with it, they cry out. Yet, I say to the latter category, fear not, for NBC will switch its draft coverage off once the round of the last selection of the Tentacle Top Position Prospects is complete. ... Then again, given the poor quality of some of those top players, we may be here for a while longer yet. Be that as it may, after a brief and banal commercial interlude, the draft once more picks up, the announcers looking reinvigorated after the selection of Davidson, Joe commandeering talk of San Diego's upcoming pick. "Perez in the first round and San Diego has to be somewhat disappointed here, Henry and Nick. Davidson could have fallen into their laps and the Bishops could have had the best 1-2 pitching punch in the league but Miami snuck out and stole Davidson from right beneath their noses. Still, a couple of good hurlers remain in Cortada, Lobdell, and Sheeley. Silk I think is overrated since he doesn't get anything for movement on his pitches." After a drink of water, Henry's pitching in, if the pun pardoned can be. "It seems like we have room for more agreement here, Joe. If I'm the Bishops, I'm downright heartbroken by the loss of Davidson to the Vices. Like you say though, there's still some good pitchers remaining, and though I'm thinking they'll go with either Cortada or Lobdell here, the smart pick for my money is to pick up one of the remaining second-rank bats. To that end, I'm thinking either Alvarez or right fielder Ovidio Rico. Left fielder Steven Hooper is too premature a pick here, given his horrid defense. While an excellent DH possibility, you don't want to go DH this early in the draft." The pick is called and Nigel's there, mouth already open, "With the second pick in the second round, the tenth overall selection in the Octopus League draft, the San Diego Bishops select... Catcher Daniel Alvarez." This selection receives a higher rating from the mass of San Diego fans in the room as they cheer and high-five one another. Henry, once again on the money, takes up the talkback. "Nice pick here by the Bishops. They've got their ace pitcher and their field general now. Alvarez is a power hitter who will ignite the San Diego lineup and call a good game. He's young, too, so he'll be a mainstay for a long time." Joe shakes his head after a moment's reflection. "No, I can't agree with you here, Henry. Alvarez is a bomber yeah, but the kid's only average when it comes to contact and he has an arm like a wet noodle. Cortada or Lobdell would have made a nice one-two combo. If they had to go a bat, I would have gone with Rico. Not all that much range out there in right field, but he doesn't make errors when he does get the ball." Discussion then turns to the Boston Burgundys, Henry once more first up. "I have to say, I just love Boston's first pick. The Saint is a dynamite player, but I'm going to say they go with pitching here and probably Cortada. A good pitcher, he'll qualify as an ace by this league's standards. Pitching would be the smart move, too." Bobbing Joe's head concurs with the assessment. "I agree here. Cortada is better than Lobdell by a considerable degree and would fit in very nicely with Boston. The Burgundys make that pick and I'll consider them right up there with Miami for the best early draft." Nigel's at the podium now, announcing the choice, "With the third pick in the second round, the eleventh overall selection in the Octopus League dispersal draft, the Boston Burgundys select... Starting pitcher Christopher Lobdell." A smattering of applause there, though I think I can hear the New Orleans GM swearing a few rooms away. Having a local boy as the ace of his staff would have helped ticket sales considerably. Back at the announcing table, Joe's talking, and too much. God I hate it when his face is that happy. "I like Cortada over Lobster Lobdell, but this is still a very solid pick. You could make a genuine argument for either one. Nice job by the Burgundys! As of right now, I'm going to go out on a limb and say the East Division will be a lot tougher than the West Division and whoever wins the East wins the River Series." Great... Just what I wanted to hear. Guess who plays in the East Division? Yeah, that's right. I do. ****ing beautiful. Maybe Henry can shore me up here. "Whoa, whoa! Hold on there, Joe! I wouldn't be so quick to dub the East the powerhouse division just yet, though I agree that this is an excellent, safe pick by the Burgundys and they're shaping up to be a top-notch team along with Miami. It'll be an interesting race in the East, that's for sure." Nick inputs a comment for the first time in a while. "I'm going to have to agree with both of you and say that the East looks like a two-horse race so far. As for the West, we'll see how the rest of the second round shakes out. Speaking of the East, let's move on to Racine. Your thoughts, gentlemen." A nasal problem temporarily afflicts Baseball Million Pappenfuss, as he snorts. "A terrible first round selection. They pass up Davidson and go with Capra, whose an inferior third baseman to Maudlin, later picked up by the Rebels. Though they should probably grab Cortada, they'll probably do something moronic like take a middle reliever right here." .... Bastard. As if I would be stupid enough to do that. Any assistance, Henry? "I don't think Capra was all that bad a choice, Joe. In fact, I think it was an okay selection, just not a brilliant one. Interesting that you make that remark, though, as we received word from the New Orleans GM/manager just a little while ago that Tim Moungey tried to trade George Capra away for the Mardi Gras's first round selection, catcher Wayne Dewitt. New Orleans obviously chose not to take the deal." ... That mother****ing doublecrossing dickhead! I instantly resolve not to talk to any of the media or make any deals with New Orleans ever in the future for at least the next five years. Traitors, all of them! As I sit there, fuming with rage, Joe's rebutting with a smirk on his nasty face. "Not a surprise when you have the youngest of the captains in charge of your ship. So I'm thinking Cortada or bust, here, even though Racine will probably go another route. What about you, Henry?" "The smart move would probably be Cortada, I agree, but there's some potential for intriguing possibilities here in terms of batting. Rico, Maya, and Hooper are all some very nice hitters that could take the number three spot in the lineup and form a potent offensive combination for the Secrets." What route *will* I go? Cortada? One of the last three good bats? Something else altogether? I'll leave them sitting and wondering for a little while longer yet. |
Blame it on all my roots
I showed up in boots And ruined your black-tie affair What feels like hours has gone by, though in reality it is no more than fifteen minutes, and likely less than that. This is a difficult decision to make. Hooper is automatically tossed out of consideration. Though a powerful bat, his Little League quality defense means there's no way in Hades or any other sobriquet for hell that I'm drafting him in the second round. It boils down to supply, in the end. What is there more of, decent enough batting or acceptable pitching? A scan of the available players left makes my decision clear, a choice that is announced three minutes later in Benvuneto's booming baritone. "With the fourth pick in the second round, the twelfth overall selection in the Octopus League dispersal draft, the Racine Secrets select... Starting Pitcher Cristian Cortada." Cheers and applause salute this selection. Glad to know the audience approves of this one. I do too, in all honesty. I'll pick up another bat to team with Capra in the third round, or so I'm thinking right now. The intervening picks might and probably will change all that. Back to the announcers, all three looking equally satisified with my choice. Joe, whose already displayed a hardon for pitching, gets the green light. "After fumbling their first round pick, Racine makes an excellent recovery here. Though he's inconsistent, Cortada will be especially nasty against lefthanded hitters and is a solid, solid package all around. Nice job here by the Secrets." Maybe Papenfuss isn't that much of an asshat after all. ... No, he is. He's just pleased I went with pitching, that's all. Henry's take: "I like this team so far in actuality. Tim Moungey has done pretty well for himself in getting the draft's single best slugger in the first round and in getting the last of the truly good pitching talents in the second. After Sheeley and Silk, things start getting bland in the starting pitching department, as the guys after them have issues with either their endurance, their control, or their stuff." Truer words were never spoken Henry, though from my overstuffed, cracked green leather chair, I'm not liking Silk, with his inability to get movement on the ball. I do love his endurance, though. He'd be able to pitch a lot of complete games and give a team's bullpen a break. Capra and Cortada. Alliterative and a decent baseline for the Secrets, if I do say so myself, and I do. |
My back despises me. I've been sitting in this turgid, ugly thing they dare to call for a chair for far too long and the stress of my pinched nerve is once again dominant. So aching with the need to get up, get out, and ease some of the pain by moving, but I can't. I can't miss any of these picks. Henry is going over the Seattle potential pick now.
"A dynamite selection in the first round with Darrick "Superman" Carson. It's hard telling where the Coffeemen are going to go here. Keep up the run on starting pitching with Silk or Sheeley? Dip down a little bit to grab Gary Yusuke, who some viewed as the fourth best pitcher behind Cortada? Or do they grab another big bat to give Carson some protection? Maya, Hooper, and Rico are still sitting out there, available." Joe's looking happier than I've seen him in quite a while, the lustre restored to his face. "I'm predicting the run on starters continue as it should be. I told you quite a few pitchers would be gone here, Nick and Henry. Personally I like Sheeley first and then Yusuke. Silk is being way, way too overrated by some teams." Nigel steals the spotlight then, to announce, "With the fifth pick in the second round of the Octopus League dispersal draft, the thirteenth overall selection, the Seattle Coffeemen select... Starting Pitcher Charles Creighton." Where once there were cheers, now there are lusty boos from the Seattle crowd in attendance. They're not happy with the pick. If I'm them, I wouldn't be either. Who the hell is this Creighton guy? Let's see what insight Joe can provide. "Seattle continues the pitching run, but on a player that nobody would have expected to go this early. 25 years old, Creighton is actually a very nice talent, with good stuff, good control, and good movement on his pitches. The big problem here is his endurance, where he doesn't have the stamina to go the distance in games. He's still young, so he has room to improve. If his endurance gets better through the years, I'll rate this a steal for the Coffeemen." Henry's been looking thoughtful, actually showing respect to Joe's words for once. I'm not sure how much I like this civility. It was more fun when they were bitching at each other. "You couldn't have said it better there, Joe. For once, I have nothing to add. Perfect analysis. Though I will say this; I think this is going to end up a lot like the McNabb situation in Philadelphia, where his selection was booed when the fans wanted Ricky Williams. They'll be eating their dissatisfaction three or four years down the road." Next on the list is those bastard ****ing pricks New Orleans, who not only stole Dewitt from me, but then had the ****ing balls to rat out my attempt to trade for him to the media. I hope they end up the worst team in the division. ****ing bastards. Joe's talking up the possibilities. Gee, I wonder what he'll say. "The Mardi Gras already have the league's most popular player in catcher Wayne Dewitt, both from a fans standpoint, as there's already an official Wayne Dewitt Fan Club started down in Texas, and from a front office standpoint, where Racine GM/manager Tim Moungey has already tried to trade for the youngster. While I think it was a mistake to pass up on Davidson in the first round, they have a chance to rectify it here. Sheeley or Yusuke, that's my call." Christ. Does the jerkoff ever talk about anything besides pitching? I'll pitch his balding ass all right. Pitch it in the ****ing Atlantic Ocean. Henry should offer something more balanced... or I'll drown his ass too. "You almost have to think that New Orleans will get somebody for Dewitt to catch for here, Joe, and you do! But seriously, every team seems to be taking their ace here in this second round, with the exception of San Diego who got theirs in the first. Still, there's always the chance for those three hitters we've been talking about to go here and create a scary lineup." Here's Nigel, smiling winsomely and looking as dapper as ever in his burgundy suit and gold tie, though I liked the black a little better, in all honesty, "With the sixth pick in the second round of the Octopus League disperal draft and the fourteenth overall selection, the New Orleans Mardi Gras select... Right Fielder Ovidio Rico." Damn, that's the second time New Orleans has taken one of the players I've been considering, though this one I'm not too upset about, since it makes me nervous not to have quality starting pitching. Back at the table, Joe's shaking his head and Henry's grinning, the latter being the first to speak. "New Orleans is going to have quite the heart of the lineup now with Dewitt and Rico. Two powerhouse bats. Rico errorfree in right field. Dewitt one of the better catchers in the draft at throwing base stealers out. I'm going to go out and say that, thus far, for the position they're picking in, New Orleans is turning out the best draft." Some of the earlier fire reappears in Joe's eyes as he leans forward across the table and snaps at Henry. "The best draft? What the hell?! Have you gone absolutely crazy?! So what if this team can score runs? It doesn't mean a damn thing without the pitching! Who the hell are they going to get to pitch? Buck "Last Pick" Dagrims?! Stupid, stupid move on the part of the Mardi Gras." Nick rushes in where angels fear to tread, proposing that they dicuss Minneapolis next, the suggestion of which is accepted first by Henry. "A big, big bat they got in the first round, but my hunch says they'll go with pitching here, just to really make New Orleans think about regretting not getting their ace. Sheeley, Silk, or Yusuke would be my guesses, though Sheeley or Yusuke are the most likely options. Still, if they do decide to go offense like the Mardi Gras did, there's still quite a few quality bats out there, if you don't mind sacrificing defense in the process. Bahr and Marconi at first base, Hooper and Velez in left field, Maya at shortstop who doesn't have quite the power as the other guys, but hits better for average and is a decent shortstop, and Hachemon over in right." The list of batters infuriates Joe even more, causing him to pound his fist on the table, echoes of Stalin and prior behaviour on Jackass Joe's part. "The only guy I'd take out of those hitters is Maya, but certainly not in the second round. Yusuke or Sheeley! Otherwise, they're as big a fools as New Orleans!" "With the seventh pick in the second round of the Octopus League dispersal draft, the fifteenth overall selection, the Minneapolis Lumberjacks select... Starting Pitcher Mario Troyer." More stunned silence from the crowd. Another pitcher no one's heard of, though unless the oceans suddenly turned to green cheese, I bet Joe's going to have some information on him. "Troyer is in no way worthy of being designated an ace. He simply doesn't have the stuff. While he's got exceptional control and very good movement, not to mention incredible endurance, his fastball is mediocre and his stuff, as I said, is below average. A good choice for a number two or number three starter, but not the first pitcher you take. Not with Yusuke and Scheeley still on the board. Bad move on the part of the Lumberjacks." Henry bebops his way into the discussion. "I'm going to have to agree with you here, Joe. This one is a real headscratcher and removes some of the pizzazz from Minneapolis's selection of Harper in the first round. Let's move on to talking about Memphis, the team everyone loves to hate. I say they go pitching here, and with one of the big two not taken, because by the third round, there will be no real quality pitchers left when the last pick comes up." Joe's nodding firmly in agreement. Guess the lovefest is back in on. Bah! "Right. Sheeley or Yusuke, though Sheeley is probably a little more likely here, in my opinion." "With the eighth pick in the second round of the Octopus League dispersal draft, the sixteenth overall selection, the Memphis Rebels select... Starting Pitcher Gary Yusuke." Interesting. So the Southern Pride Squad is willing to sacrifice some of their ideals to try and gun for a championship by selecting an Asian-American. Fascinating I say, simply fascinating. Joe jumps in headfirst, though he, along with the others of the broadcasting team, look rather surprised. "A very good selection here by the Rebels after passing up Davidson in the first round. Though I would have thought it was Sheeley that went here, you can make a strong case for either one at this point in the draft. Very nicely done." Henry, after recovering from his initial startlement, now looks amused. Want to bet he's thinking the same damn thing I am? "Yes, an excellent choice by Memphis. Despite having the last pick in both rounds thus far, they've put together a nice foundation for their squad in Mauldin and Yusuke." With the end of the round, I'm waiting for Nick's signing off comment, and here it comes. "A pitching-heavy round here in the second, as six of the eight selections were all starters. That does it for the second round. We'll be switching stations now to ESPN2 for the remainder of the draft. Tune in for the rest of the rounds. We'll see you there in fifteen minutes. For NBC and the Octopus League, I'm Nick Pennyworth, along with Joe "Baseball Million" Papenfuss and Henry Venzant. Thanks for watching and hope to see you on ESPN2." 23 more rounds to go. Talk about your marathons. |
Final Draft Results of the Tentacle Top Three Players at Position
Catcher 1. Wayne Dewitt-#6 overall to New Orleans 2. Daniel Alvarez-#2 in 2nd round to San Diego, #10 overall 3. Katamor Mito-#4 in 3rd round to Racine, #20 overall First Base 1. Scotty “Bonds” Harper-#7 overall to Minneapolis 2. John Bahr-#3 in 3rd round to Boston, #19 overall 3. George Marconi-#5 in 3rd round to Seattle, #21 overall Second Base 1. Bennie Taylor-#4 in 7th round to Racine, #52 overall 2. Daniel “D-Man” Baptista-#7 in 9th round to Minneapolis, #71 overall 3. Bryan Prioleau-#2 in 10th round to Miami, #74 overall Shortstop 1. Deon Maya-#1 in 3rd round to Miami, #17 overall 2. Josue Grandison-#4 in 13th round to Racine, #100 overall 3. Kendall Kain-#5 in 8th round to Seattle, #61 overall Third Base 1. Bernardo “Saint” Rosado-#3 overall to Boston 2. Edward Mauldin-#8 overall to Memphis 3. George “Sinatra” Capra-#4 overall to Racine Left Field 1. Steven Hooper-#1 in 7th round to Miami, #49 overall 2. Carmelo Velez-#4 in 5th round to Racine, #36 overall 3. William Acosta-#3 in 14th round to Boston, #107 overall Center Field 1. Curtis “CJ” Jones-#1 overall to Miami 2. Darrick “Superman” Carson-#5 overall to Seattle 3. Jaime Gong-#6 in 7th round to New Orleans, #54 overall Right Field 1. Ovidio “Suave” Rico-#6 in 2nd round to New Orleans, #14 overall 2. Roido “Pokemon” Hachemon-#7 in 3rd round to Minneapolis, #23 overall 3. Estanis Rodriguez-#8 in 3rd round to Memphis, #24 overall Starters 1. Allen Davidson-#1 in 2nd round, #9 overall to Miami 2. Heriberto Perez-#2 overall to San Diego 3. Cristian Cortada-#4 in 2nd round to Racine, #12 overall Relievers 1. Mark Seawell-#5 in 9th round to Seattle, #69 overall 2. Benji Demarco-#3 in 12th round to Boston, #91 overall 3. Timothy “Gload” Wickline-#3 in 10th round to Boston, #75 overall Closers 1. Jesus Loera-#5 to Seattle in 6th round, #45 overall 2. Anton Arispe-#1 to Miami in 11th round, #81 overall 3. Ernest Styers-#6 to New Orleans in 10th round, #78 overall Our next issue will include full page previews of each individual team. |
 Boston Burgundys Tentacle Top Three Prospects By Position: 3B Bernardo "Saint" Rosado-1st round 1B Jon Bahr-3rd round MR Timothy "Gload" Wickline-10th round MR Benji Demarco-12th round LF/DH William Acosta-14th round Batting: This is a team that will not hit much for average, even in spite of having the amazing Saint out of the three slot. Nor will this squad be all about stealing. Instead, they'll rely on the power trio of Rosado, Bahr, and Acosta to produce runs. CF Sabino Noriega, while the best basestealer on the team, is a curious choice as leadoff, given his poor contact. Lineup versus R/H: CF Sabino Noriega SS Carlos Rivas 3B Bernardo Rosado 1B John Bahr CF David Goddard DH William Acosta C Roger Sevier 2B Javier Perez RF Chris Foster Lineup versus L/H: CF Sabino Noriega SS Carlos Rivas 3B Bernardo Rosado 1B John Bahr DH William Acosta C Roger Sevier RF Chris Foster 2B Javier Perez CF David Goddard Pitching: Christopher "Lobster" Lobdell is the clear-cut ace of the staff, though that's not just a testament to his ability. It's also a sign of how weak the #2 and #3 starters behind him are. Fortunately, the bullpen is mostly stellar, with Demarco and Timothy "Gload" Wickline helping to pave the way in relief. Curious is that they did not shift either of the above to closer, however, as Charles Arango has no business shutting the door on games and will have numerous blown saves. Starting Rotation: Christopher Lobdell Gabriel Perras Milton Alexander Mop-Up: Jerome Wallach Russell Correll Middle Relief: Benji Demarco Darrell Fish Jerome Wallach Setup: Joe Dryer Timothy Wickline Closer: Charles Arango Defense: Bahr is a sieve at first base, but that's made up for somewhat by a phenomenal outfield defense at all three positions. Yet, that bonus is in turn negated by Rivas's appalling range and fielding at the critical shortstop position. The other posts are all adequately guarded. Management: The GM/manager of the Burgundys is an unknown to virtually everyone, an obscure 47 year old man and hardcore Red Sox fan named Frank Lee, who won the job in a lottery held by the owning Boston Red Sox. When interviewed about the team's upcoming prospects, he chomped on his cigar and declared, "With a saint and a lobster on our side, we're guaranteed victory! Boston will have reason to celebrate in 2004 when we take the first River Series!" |
 Memphis Rebels Tentacle Top Three Prospects By Position: 3B Edward Mauldin-1st round RF Estanis Rodriguez-3rd round Batting: Another team, another stellar offensive third baseman, and one that many consider to be an even better bat than the earlier picked Rosado. Mauldin and Rodriguez will be the cogs to this lineup, which, outside of them, has a small bit of power and a whole lot of bad eyesight. Expect the Rebels to lead the league in the wrong side of the strikeouts column. Lineup cards will be needed for every game as well, as there's a great deal of platooning and position switching when the shift is made between the hands of the opposing starting pitchers. Lineup versus R/H: 1B Isaac Yunque LF Robert Goodsell 3B Edward Mauldin RF Estanis Rodriguez DH Mariano Ruiz 2B Luis Cortina CF Samuel Chesney SS Jerry Hensley C Andre Carreiro Lineup versus L/H: DH Thomas Butler 1B Isaac Yunque 3B Edward Mauldin CF Samuel Chesney C Andre Carreiro LF Siro Pacheco SS Jerry Hensley RF Estanis Rodriguez 2B Luis Cortina Pitching: Control, control, control. Memphis's pitching staff is all about making sure that free passes aren't handed out, rather ironic when you consider the poor plate judgement of the lineup. Nobody who has stellar stuff here, though the bottom two starters are an improvement over the Burgundys. The bullpen is mediocre all around, including closer Luis Soriano, with the exception of Felix Cuestas, who though 24 and rated as a prospect, projects to be a dominant reliever in the future and is already quite good. Gary Yusuke is the unequivocal ace of the staff. Starting Rotation: Gary Yusuke Omer Houseman Toney Kittleson Mopup: Dan Pino Vincent Camarena Middle Relief: Rudolph Varnado David Robinson Dan Pino Setup: Felix Cuestas Austin Hadsell Closer: Luis Soriano Defense: Not a great defensive force at all. Rodriguez is the lone bright spot out in RF and Butler, who should be starting at SS over the abysmal Hensley, is the second-best defender on the team, and stuck batting leadoff DH against lefties. Management Billy Ray Jackson, the richest of the oil tycoons in the ownership group, was unanimously elected GM/manager by his fellow owners. Another cigar-smoker, Jackson's Grey Oil holds a significant chunk of the U.S. oil market and prone to bombast. When asked about the team's chances in this first season, the grey-haired business baron boomed, "Some people don't like us because we love the South. They call us dirty racists and filthy people. Well, let me tell you sonny boy, we got quite a few colored people and foreigners on our team and we treat them right. The South will rise again and it will start right here with the Rebels, when we take the East Division title and then the River Series." |
 Miami Vices Tentacle Top Three Prospects By Position: CF Curtis "CJ" Jones-1st round SP Allen Davidson-2nd round SS Deon Maya-3rd round LF/DH Steven Hooper-7th round CL Anton Arispe-11th round Batting: The scariest lineup we've seen thus far. There are guys here who can hit for contact and those who can hit for power, some who are able to do both. Jones, Hooper, and Maya make for a very potent heart of the lineup against righthanders. 20 year old youngster 3B David Bailey is another dynamite slugging threat. Decent plate patience from the squad as a whole, as well, along with a handful of dynamite baserunners. Lineup Versus R/H: 2B William Canterbury C Eugene Toombs CF Curtis Jones DH Steven Hooper SS Deon Maya 1B Neal Penney 3B David Bailey RF James Wireman LF Mark Burges Lineup Versus L/H: 2B William Canterbury LF James Wireman CF Curtis Jones 3B David Bailey SS Deon Maya RF Bobbie Calhoun DH Steven Hooper C Eugene Toombs 1B Carl Zimmermann Pitching: Allen Davidson is one angry, angry man. Furious at being passed over until the second round in the dispersal draft, the man many thought should have gone in the early first round is the headliner of a formidable 1-2 punch of a 3 man rotation, along with Ronald Sheeley. Determined to win Pitcher of the Year, Davidson will nonetheless find his task a little more difficult with a sadly pedestrian bullpen, which includes suprise closer Michael Taveras over the expected Arispe. Starting Rotation: Allen Davidson Ronald Sheeley John Yun Mopup: Carlos Archuleta Jamel Cogdill Middle Relief: Juan Alustiza Sabino Ulloa Carlos Archuleta Setup: Anton Arispe Deon Padua Closer: Michael Taveras Defense: A solid, if unspectacular unit all-around. The one weak point is at 1B, where neither of the platooning players has any merit to them on defense in the least. Maya is also the best range SS thus far profiled. Management: In a public relations coup of sheer brilliance, NBC announced just before presstime that none other than respected and admired broadcaster Bob Costas would be leading the Vices as GM/manager. When asked about the selection, Costas simply replied, "I'm thankful to NBC for giving me this opportunity with the Vices. I've always wanted the chance to be more involved with baseball and this gives me the opportunity. Though expectations will no doubt be high, I will do my best to help the team live up to them." |
 Racine Secrets Tentacle Top Three Prospects By Position: 3B George "Sinatra" Capra-1st round SP Cristian Cortada-2nd round C Katamor Mito-3rd round LF/DH Carmelo Velez-5th round 2B Bennie Taylor-7th round SS Josue Grandison-13th round Batting: Not all that great of a contact hitting team, but one of the deadliest power lineups in the Octopus League, if not the topmost sluggers' row. The third of the three great third baseman hitters is here in the number three spot, and characteristic to the team's image, he's also the highest rated power hitter in the entire league. Capra, Velez, and Mito create a 3-4-5 punch that's nothing short of disturbing to go up against. The bottom of the lineup is rather lackluster, however. Lineup Versus R/H: 1B Melvin Letendre RF Bennie Taylor 3B George Capra C Katamor Mito DH Carmelo Velez LF Miguel Salinas CF Delbert Cook SS Josue Grandison 2B Jamie Gutierrez Lineup Versus L/H: RF Bennie Taylor 1B Melvin Letendre 3B George Capra DH Carmelo Velez C Katamor Mito LF Miguel Salinas CF Delbert Cook SS Timothy Sabin 2B Jamie Gutierrez Pitching Arguably the most complete 3 man rotation thus far previewed, with two powerful pitchers in the 1 and 2 spots in Cristian Cortada and Johnny Silk, with a very solid pitcher on the backside with the other Cristian, Cristian Chapa. The bullpen is very good as well, highlighted by setup ace Francis Valderrama and the most sensational closer we've seen so far, Donald Moody. While not as good a bullpen's as Boston's with the exception of the vital closer spot, and while lacking in the star power of Miami's starter frontline, the Secrets undoubtedly have the most complete all-around staff to this point. Starting Rotation: Cristian Cortada Johnny Silk Cristian Chapa Mopup: Pierre Mercurio Patrick Weller Middle Relief: Robert Stiltner Scott Sax Pierre Mercurio Setup: Francis Valderrama Robert Stiltner Closer: Donald Moody Defense: Pretty good defense, especially at SS, where no matter whose starting in the platoon, there's always going to be a solid glove in there, and at 2B. The problem area? RF, where Taylor, a converted 2B, is patrolling. On the bright side, everywhere along the bench, there's a defensive wizard, ready to take over in the late innings to protect the lead late in the game. Management: See the article on the next page for the Tentacle's exclusive interview with the league's youngest GM/manager, Tim Moungey. |
Midafternoon on a fairly chilly late March day. The sun is glaring in its brightness and its rays shoot through the impeccably maintained wide glass display windows of Wilson's Coffee, a West Racine and home neighbourhood fixture for as long as I can remember, though it moved up the street some years ago to a larger, better location.
The cheerfully painted white walls and spacious room is pleasant to be in, the smell of coffee serene in quality as it wafts through the open air, some of the scent sourced from the steaming extra large cafe mocha in my hand. Dressed in a nicely fitting three piece suit of black, City Streets by brand, I sip my coffee and stare at my absurd hot pink tie as I await my interviewer. Normally I would never commit such a fashion faux pas as to wear a tie of this colour, but then, pink is all the rage these last couple of years, and furthermore, pink and black are the team colours. No official Racine Secrets ties as of yet. If the league gets big enough, though, merchandisers will no doubt produce such an item. If my thoughts and their phrasing seem as stale as the five-day old, unloved French cruller in a time-weathered Dunkin Doughnuts, blame it on the fact that I have woken up a scant two hours before, and still feel groggy. Caffeine, work thy wizardly wonder on me. Twenty minutes later, a young, hatefully peppy male reporter bursts in through the door, immediately zeroing in on and approaching my table with an earnest and wide smile. "You must be Tim! Hi, I'm Bobby Zoos! Pronounced like Zeus! I'm here to interview you!" My handshake is firm but brief as I falsely profess to delight in meeting him as well. Overly cheerful people like this earn my contempt and loathing, unless they're female. Then again, I get along with very few of my fellow men. Ironic, isn't it then, that I'm managing a baseball team? "So, let's get this interview started! How does it feel to be the GM/manager of the Racine Secrets?!" Initial answer that fights its way to the doors of my lips involves something quite sarcastic and cutting, but sadly, the guardians of Prudence are on duty for once and so block off the retort. Instead, what comes out is this tripe: "It's very exciting to have this opportunity, Bobby. I imagine the pressures will be many, but it's a challenge I'm really looking forward to and I'm really thankful to Limited Brands for giving me this chance." ... The bastard uses pencil? I hide my disbelief as I watch that profane graphite instrument racing up and down his appropriately small notepad. I hate pencils. Pens and only pens for me. Not that I blame him, I suppose. You know what they say about men with small notepads. The eraser of the pencil symbolizes his desire to be able to rub out his inadequacy in size, even as he rubs... No, I'm not going to complete that thought. Taking a sip of cappucino, I listen with feigned interest to his next question. "How do you think the team will do this year?" Fair question and one that I'd anticipated. I allow some moments to go by while I appear deep in thought of some serious, well-contemplated answer, though the truth is, it'll probably be as banal and cliched as my first reply. "Well, that's hard to say Bobby. We've got a very good team, sure, but Miami is a very strong team too and Boston's bullpen is something to be feared. Really the only team in our division that I don't worry about is Memphis. Unless of course the KKK decides to show up at their games for a rally." ... Damn. The Rebels aren't going to be happy about that one. Oh well, I said it. Too late now. As part of my punishment, I'm forced to listen to the irritating laughter of this fool reporter, who evidently finds it quite funny. "Oh my, you're such a joker Tim! Okay, last question because I'm actually running late here and I need to get back Milwaukee before I miss my flight! Is there any chance that the Victoria's Secret models will become the team cheerleaders?!" "....No." At last, some measure of satisfaction as I watch the slime of disappointment destroy his prissy boy features. More beautiful than a Jax money shot to a pretty woman's face. He thanks me and says goodbye with noticeably less enthusiasm as he makes his hasty exit. ... ****er. He just wanted me to hook him up. |
 Minneapolis Lumberjacks Tentacle Top Three Prospects By Position: 1B Scotty "Bonds" Harper-1st round RF Roido "Pokemon" Hachemon-3rd round 2B Daniel "D-Man" Baptista-9th round Batting: A team that loves power hitters and players with nicknames, the Lumberjacks have a few decent contact hitters as well. In fact, it'd be safe to say that out of the teams thus far profiled, Minneapolis has the best all-around offensive lineup behind Miami. Harper and Hachemon will be counted on to be the leaders of the Lumberjacks. Lineup Versus R/H: 2B Daniel Baptista CF David Trantham 1B Scotty Harper DH Roido Hachemon C Donald Sak LF Daniel Hayes RF Robert Werth SS Walter Ruvalcaba 3B Sergio Sanchez Lineup Versus L/H: C Donald Sak DH Patrick Poulos 1B Scotty Harper RF Roido Hachemon 2B Daniel Baptista SS Kenneth Hinds CF Robert Werth 3B Sergio Sanchez LF Daniel Hayes Pitching: Without a doubt, the absolute worst pitching staff out of any of the teams looked at until now. The three starters would be #3 pitchers on virtually any other squad, the relief staff is terrible, and we won't even get started on the closer. Mark our words right now: As the Minneapolis offense goes, so go the Lumberjacks, because the pitching is simply atrocious beyond belief. The one note of intrigue here: 16 year old John Mullins, who was allowed to graduate early from his high school in Jefferson City, Tennesssee, to go out for professional baseball, is part of the bullpen. Starting Rotation: Mario Troyer Julio Rosado Alvin Garcia Mopup: Valerio Moncayo John Mullins Middle Relief: Jose Lugo David Lecompte Valerio Moncayo Setup: Andrew Sharon James Dutil Closer: Roger Cioffi Defense: C, 2B, 3B, CF, and RF against right handers. Those are the positions where the defense is good. LF? Horrendous. RF against left handers? Hachemon in there tells everything. SS is a nightmare that won't even begin to be explored. Another problem with C is that Sak has little arm to speak of. A mixed bag all around. Manager: GM/Manager Harry Bass is in the offseason one of the most respected logging foremen in all of Minnesota. An avid historian of his career industry, he is admired by laymen and management alike in his company for his honesty and sense of fairness. In his mid-40s, with a heavy beard of dark brown, when asked about the team, Bass answered, "Well now, our defense isn't the best and our pitching's pretty bad, but we'll be all right in the end, I think. We'll just outscore the other team is all." |
 New Orleans Mardi Gras Tentacle Top Three Prospects By Position: C Wayne Dewitt-1st round RF/DH Ovidio "Suave" Rico-2nd round CF Jaime Gong-7th round CL Ernest Styers-10th round Batting: Another team with a powerhitting lineup, even if its best raw slugger is platooning and will only appear against righthanders. They won't hit much for average outside of the two cornerstones, Dewitt, who is the most popular player in the Octopus League at the moment by virtue of being the only one to have an official fanclub, and Rico, who will exclusively DH though has the fielding ability to start at his natural position of RF for some teams. Lineup Versus R/H: RF Jaime Gong LF Henry Phillips DH Ovidio Rico C Wayne Dewitt 3B Todd Coleman 1B Lester Pawlak CF Willie Manjeres SS Oscar Medina 2B Steve Borger Lineup Versus L/H: LF Henry Phillips RF Ediberto Pena C Wayne Dewitt DH Ovidio Rico SS Oscar Medina 1B Lester Pawlak 3B Clifton Hecker 2B Steve Borger RF Jaime Gong Pitching: A far sight better than Minneapolis's staff, but then, there really wasn't anywhere to go but up. As with the Rebels, the main focus is on pitchers with exceptional control. Nominal staff ace Carlos Ramos would be a #2 starter on most of the other teams in the Octopus League, particularly given questions with his endurance. The number 2 and 3 starters match up well enough against most of the rest of the league. The bullpen is pretty good as well, with the closer better than most of the trash we've seen in that vital spot, but still can't even come close to comparing to Racine's Moody. Styers is puzzingly enough not the closer, and in fact is listed as the second setup. Strange move on the part of the Mardi Gras there. Starting Rotation: Carlos Ramos Joshua Jones Victor Purifoy Mopup: Felix Fontaner Anthony Leftkowitz Middle Relief: Keith Fiorentino Fernando Cano Felix Fontaner Setup: William Reed Ernest Styers Closer: Tony Jacquez Defense: There are only three good points about this team's defense: Gong wherever he plays in the OF, Minjares/Pena when they play at their respective spots in the outfield, and Dewitt's arm. Everything else about the D translates into this: The Big Easy here alludes to the relative ease opponents will have scoring runs on New Orleans. Management: While there was initially an attempt to get Miss Cleo to act as GM/manager of the club, public outcry quickly quashed that effort. In the end, they settled on Vincent Bordeaux, a descendant of a Creole family of wealthy sugar plantation owners in the pre-Civil War era, currently himself the owner of a gentlemen's club in the French Quarter. Asked about the team's chances for this first season, his answer was, "I reckon we may not win the division, but I guarantee we'll finish ahead of them Yankee boys up in Minneapolis, and we'll be a damn fun team to watch in the bargain. |
 San Diego Bishops Tentacle Top Three Prospects By Position: SP Heriberto Perez-1st round C Daniel Alvarez-2nd round 2B Bryan Prioleau-10th round Batting: A little contact and a little power sums up the Bishops' lineup, with one of their best contact hitters not playing anywhere. It's just one of many decisions made by the San Diego manager that has the Catholic faithful and baseball fans the world over scratching their heads in confusion. Alvarez is the single most important component here, though 3B Donald Stine's exceptional ability to flat out hit will be vital as well in the bid to produce runs. CF Timothy Chesson is another significant piece and the first true prototypical leadoff hitter witnessed thus far. That 7th round selection may be the only brilliant move made by the Bishops in the entire dispersal draft. Lineup Versus R/H: CF Timothy Chesson DH Bernando Monagas C Daniel Alvarez 1B Jeremy McCleery 3B Donald Stine LF Tommy Birmingham RF Glenn Reed SS Erik Aitken 2B Bryan Prioleau Lineup Versus L/H: CF Timothy Chesson DH Tommy Birmingham C Daniel Alvarez 3B Donald Stine 2B Bryan Prioleau 1B Jeremy McCleery LF Edgardo Chavarria RF Glenn Reed SS Erik Aitken Pitching: The questionable offense is redeemed by one of the better pitching staffs in the league, with the 1-2-3 starters among the best as a whole unit and a bullpen that relies on guys who don't have much stuff, but who have the best control out of any bullpen thus far, including Memphis and New Orleans. Though Perez was blasted as a pick over Davidson, he's still very much a genuine ace, and closer Wenceslao Martinez is the best doorslammer this side of Racine's Moody. Starting Rotation: Heriberto Perez Jose Leyba Tobias Beall Mopup: Michael Robichaud John Wurm Middle Relief: Ramon Perez Mikel Miller Michael Robichaud Setup: Lee Keitt Charles Thole Closer: Wenceslao Martinez Defense: Prioleau, Chesson, and Reed are the three saintly defenders on the Bishops. As for the rest of the squad, they'll have to rely on divine intervention to have any hope of preventing runs. But then, this mixed to pretty sorry defense is a common state of affairs in the Octopus League. So maybe it's not as bad as we think. Manager: After much rumouredly heated debate at the Vatican, the job of GM/manager for the Bishops was given to Father George Ayorinde, a Mexican-American parish priest popular with his congregration in Long Beach, CA. Given the heavy influence of Latin and South American Catholics on the squad, it was felt that a bilingual manager would be the best choice and so the decision was made. Asked about his team's chances this year, the reply was, "Though many considered our draft to be strange and unusual, I can only tell you that it was God guiding me to make the choices that I did, and it is through God that we shall win the Western Division crown and from there, we hope God will grant us the title of River Series Champions. |
 Seattle Coffeemen Tentacle Top Three Prospects By Position: CF Darrick "Superman" Carson-1st round 1B George Marconi-3rd round CL Jesus Loera-6th round SS Kendall Kain-8th round MR Mark Seawell-9th round Batting: Save for Carson and Marconi, there are no good bats to speak of in this lineup, but maybe having a superhero will be enough. LF Edowa-do Tasuku actually makes sense as a leadoff hitter, given that he has the second best eye of the team. Lineup Versus R/H: LF Edowa-do Tasuku DH Juan Balbas CF Darrick Carson 1B George Marconi C Trevor Lucas 3B Anthony Dilworth RF Ronald Smith 2B Carlos Suarez SS Ernest Genest Lineup Versus L/H: LF Edowa-do Tasuku DH Ernest Genest CF Darrick Carson SS Kendall Kain 2B Carlos Suarez 1B George Marconi 3B Jason Mayton RF Craig Martin C Trevor Lucas Pitching: Appointed ace Charles Creighton really belongs as a #2 starter on the better teams in the league, but he's the best of the rotation here. Not to say that the starters are bad, as #3 Lee Estes, who in our opinion should be the #2 here, will win matchup battles against his fellow backenders. As for the bullpen, star MR Mark Seawell will be an amazing setup man and Jesus Loera is the best closer in the West Division. Still, outside of those two, the relief corps isn't all that much to write home about. Starting Rotation: Charles Creighton Alberto Avalos Lee Estes Mopup: John Vigue David Hill Middle Relief: Tyler Cueto Kevin Cothern John Vigue Setup: Mark Seawell Nicholas Ceballos Closer: Jesus Loera Defense: Carson is the centre of the defensive effort by virtue of being their most stellar player. Smith, while a platoon player, is almost as good in the OF when he gets the nod to play against right handers. Outside of those two, forget about it. Holes everywhere in the defense, though Kain, compared to the rest of the league, is pretty good at SS when playing. Management: Jake Mondo, a manager for one of the Starbucks in the Seattle area, was the one selected after intense interviews by corporate management of the local franchise heads. With, of all things, a Day-Glo neon yellow mohawk several inches tall and no less than three earrings, stubble-faced Jake grinned when asked about how the team will do in this opening season, "Hey man, it's all good. San Diego may have God, but **** man, with Jesus and Superman on our side, there's no way we can lose! River Series coming to Coffeetown, baby!" |
Tentacle 2004 Season Predictions
Opening Day is almost upon us here at the Octopus League. A 24 game season that will occur over the span of two months, May and June should prove to be an exciting one in this, the inagural season. The East Division and West Division Champions will meet in St. Louis, Missouri for the River Series, a best of 7 playoff round that will determine who the true title of Victor belongs to. The league, as noted in the team previews earlier in this issue, will feature the DH as according to the wishes of Octopus League founder and commissioner Nigel Benvuneto. When looking over the teams, one thing became immediately clear to us: The East is King. Much like the Western Conference is the House of Lords in the NBA, so goes it with the East Division in the Octopus League. Here then, are our picks for the season. East Division: 1. Miami 2. Racine 3. Boston 4. Memphis The Miami-Racine race is a very close one to call, but in the end, we'll give the nod to the Vices for superior management in the form of Bob Costas, stellar starting pitching that trumps the Secrets, and of course, the Lineup from Hell. Boston is clearly better than Memphis, but not good enough to run with the big boys. West Division: 1. San Diego 2. New Orleans 3. Seattle 4. Minneapolis Unlike the East, there is no clear-cut favourite in the West. Every team has some major problems that need to be addressed. In the end, dominant pitching gets the Bishops the very faint nod, though this division is so wide-open with the right amount of breaks, any one of these four teams could take it. River Series: Miami over San Diego As we said, the West can in no way, shape, or form even come close to comparing to the East. Costas and the Vices will win the first River Series. End.Of.Story. Batter of the Year: CF Curtis "CJ" Jones-Miami There were a lot of worthy candidates here, and it came down to Jones, 3B Edward Mauldin out of Memphis, and C Wayne Dewitt out of New Orleans, but in the end, we felt that Jones would benefit from the explosive lineup around him and put up better stats. Pitcher of the Year: SP Allen Davidson-Miami He's still mad about being passed over and with the benefit of the most talented team in the Octopus League, he'll notch the first Pitcher of the Year award. Rookie of the Year: 3B David Bailey-Miami Not many to choose from here, as there aren't many prospects involved in a starting role, so it mostly falls to Bailey by default. Yes, we're predicting this to be The Year of the Vices and we find it amusing to note that according to our estimate, Evil will triumph over Good, Vices over God, in the River Series. |
We need a place where we can go
A land where everyone will have a hero A city of justice, a city of love A city of peace for every one of us We all need it, can't live without it A Gotham City, oh yeah yeah My whole being cries out for a superhero to come and rescue me from the insanity I have allowed myself to be sucked into. Preferably she will be blonde, beautiful, and blissfully young. But I am not so lucky. No, on this May 1st morning, fairly warm as these Northern mid-springs go, I am sitting in a cubicle of a hotel room in Boston, my face an unshaven spread of heavy stubble, my hair a snarled pit of brambles, and my teeth a group of weeping individuals, shedding tears of blood for their want of care. I have not known the sweetness of serene sleep for many nights now. Extreme excitement and troll-ugly tension has been eating away at my composure, infecting me with insomnia. In just a few short hours, we will be part of the very first opening day of the Octopus League, going up against the Burgundys. Suddenly I find myself wishing that I hadn't sought to spite that asshat Papenfuss and had picked Davidson after all. Cortada as my ace? I must be a Prince of Fools to even entertain such a notion, much less have acted on it. The door is knocked on. It is time for me to go. Pray for me, if ever you do pray. |
The sweat on my brow has reached obscene levels. Lobster Lobdell is on the mound taking his warmup pitches and looking quite imposing. In the dugout, my team is milling, getting mentally ready for the game.
All is quiet on this Eastern front, save for the obnoxious announcer, making reports no one listens to and for the ball hitting solidly in Sevier's glove. And then it happens. "Play ball!" cries the umpire. "Let's go guys... Everybody huddle up..." They do, every face looking grim and tense as my own. For God's sakes why couldn't I have been more easygoing in the pre-game speech? Here's my last chance... "Let's go out there and let's kick some ass. On the count of three, Let's Go Secrets. Ready? One... Two... Three..." "LET'S GO SECRETS!" Well that seems to have fired us up, as Letendre lopes to leadoff. Here goes nothing. Top of the 1st inning: Just when it looks as though Letendre is going to strike out, he fouls off a pitch and battles back to get a walk on a call that even I thought was questionable. That's nothing compared to Lobster's reaction, however. "Hey ump! Want to try calling a decent game? That was a strike and you know it!" The judge doesn't look too impressed. "Pipe down, pitcher and just play ball." Bennie Taylor falls victim to a strikeout, making it 1 out with a man still on first. I don't plan on giving the steal sign, though. Letendre's just not that good. 0-1 fastball to Sinatra Capra looks like it's going way to the outfield for a hit... but then that bastard Goddard races over from his CF slot to grab the ball for the out. To make matters worse, Letendre thought it was a hit too and went racing ahead. Before he could tag up, he got nailed for the out and we go down. Bottom of the 1st: Noriega grounds to Grandison for the first out. Rivas hits foul, easy pickings for Letendre who makes up for his baserunning ****up by snagging this out. Yes! Yes! Yes! A beaut of an inside slider has none other than Saint Rosado himself striking out looking! Top of the 2nd: Damn it! Foster robs Mito of at least a double over in RF. I'm really starting to hate the Burgundys' OF. Velez grounds out to Rosado. Salinas flies out to Goddard to end our chance in the second frame. Bah! Bottom of the 2nd: ****ing Bahr gets a double to start things off. Damn it! This better not lead to a run. Grandison, how I love you! What looks like a surefire scorcher of a line drive hit by Acosta is stolen by our brilliantly ranging thief SS, who then spins about to fire astounded Bahr out at second as the first baseman is too far off. Beautiful! Sevier scares me with a booming hit, but thankfully Cook leaps up to cockblock him and we escape the inning unscathed. Top of the 3rd: Cook flies out to Foster. Ha! Noriega screws up what should have been a routine out and thanks to that error, Grandison is now sitting pretty on first. ...Only to have Gutierrez hit into a double play. Argh! Bottom of the 3rd: .... Well, looks as though we won't draw first blood. Damn Foster just hit a sizzling triple that Letendre had no shot at getting. I was right. Perez sac flies to Cook to knock in the RBI. 1-0 Boston. Some small measure of satisfaction comes when Goddard strikes out, though. The inning ends when Noriega grounds out to Cortada. Top of the 4th: Lobster has the audacity to cheer when he manages to fan Letendre. ...Prick. And to think I almost drafted him. Taylor gets on with a single down the third base line. Sinatra can't get any music going as he flies out to Goddard. Rosado is getting picked on over at 3B, as Mito strokes out a hit past him as well. Runners on 1st and 2nd. Can we possibly bring home a run? It's up to Velez, now... Oh my God! Oh my God! Who the **** needs Anthony when we've got the better Carmelo?! Velez fires a hammer of a shot to right-center that Foster can't get to, then, despite his horribly slow speed, legs out a freaking triple, bringing home Bennie and Katamor! YES!!!!!! 2-1 Racine! Salinas strikes out, but I don't care. We have the lead! Bottom of the 4th: Rivas gets on with a bloop single. This isn't St. Rosado's Day at all. First he strikes out, then gets beaten twice in the top of the inning, and now he hits into a double play. Pardon me while I don't cry. Bleeping Bahr powers out another double. I hate this guy. A duel between Acosta and Cortada ends in a flyout to Cook. Eat that, Bloody Bahr! Inning over! Top of the 5th: Cook follows up that last out snag with a leadoff walk. Grandison hits into a DP, but I don't care. Josue saved our asses earlier with his demigodly defensive display. Rosado finally catches a break when Gutierrez grounds out to him to end the top half. Bottom of the 5th: Sevier pops out to Capra. Fink Foster receives a free pass to first. ... and proceeds to steal a base. Damn him! Luckily, Perez strikes out. This isn't a day to be a third baseman, period. Capra can't get to a line drive by Goddard so Foster dashes on home. I've mentioned before how much I loathe the Boston outfield yes? Well, I'm doing it again. Bastards! Tied ballgame! Letendre robs Noriega with a diving catch and I'm starting to think it's time to bring in a reliever next inning. Top of the 6th: Noriega gets revenge by catching Letendre's fly out. Taylor gets a walk as Lobster Lobdell seems to be having some major control problems today. Capra is still frog-ugly with a flyout to Noriega. ****ing Boston OF. Our chance ends when Lobster throws out Mito at first in a damn close play. Bottom of the 6th: I summon Stiltner from the pen, since he might need to more than an inning. .... Which turns out to be a stupid ****ing move, as Rivas sends one sailing out the park with a 366 foot homerun. 3-2 Boston. ****! Rosado reverses his fortunes with a walk. I'm really getting pissed off. What in the hell is wrong with Stiltner? Is he drunk? Grandison once again performs a miracle by engineering the start of a double play off of Bahr. Maybe I should dub him the nickname of Savior. Another frigging walk issued by Stiltner, this one to Acosta. His ass will be gone at the start of the next inning. ****ing ridiculous. Letendre takes down Sevier on a ground out, thus ending the damage. Top of the 7th: Noriega is really atoning for his earlier error as he racks up another out, this one off of Velez. Salinas flies out to Goddard. ... And of course, because we're in Boston, we get a bull**** call by the ump like the one that K's Cook. Delbert is even madder about the call I am, as he whirls around to hold his bat over the umpire's head. "What the **** was that **** ump? What the hell's the matter, no ****ing doughnuts for your fatass this morning?" The big boy in blue just shrugs and waves a hand. "Shut up and return to your bench, batter. The call stands." ...I wanted to go out there and argue with him, but there's too damn many security guards loitering in front of our dugout. Bottom of the 7th: Stiltner has earned my eternal hatred and is immediately yanked for the guy I should have taken in the first place, Valderrrama. Grandison gets Foster out via popup. Perez goes down swinging. Goddard falls to a groundout to The Savior. Top of the 8th: Our chances are getting fewer now. We need to start doing something and quick. ...and right when I say that, they put in none other than Timothy "Gload" Wickline. Great, the most clutch setup man in all of the league. Gload tops The Savior by groundout. Saint Rosado chips in with a groundout of Gutierrez and follows it up with another groundout of Letendre. Bottom of the 8th: Noriega somehow gets a leadoff single. This isn't looking good. What.The.F*ck?!?! Rivas with another frigging homer?! Somebody up there must hate me, because that's his second longball to tally up his 2nd and 3rd RBIs of the game. 5-2 Boston. Bleh. We're done. Valderrama is starting to look rattled out there as he walks St. Rosado. Bahr flies out to Taylor. Acosta strikes out, but this is getting to be case of way too little, way too late. Sevier gets a single, Valderrama is looking tired, and they bring in Ginn to pinch-hit for Foster. Why I have no damn idea. It's not like they don't have enough runs. But hell with it, Valderrama's punishment for letting me down is going to be that he has to pitch out the game. Ginn walks and it's PH central as Batey gets slotted in, only to be denied by Salinas on the fly ball. Top of the 9th: I'm secretly hoping for a 1-2-3 so we can just go lick our wounds and be depressed over this loss. Ginn, Batey, and Arango, the closer, all pop in the field now. Despite the reduced defense and the suckiness of this closer, I doubt it'll be enough. Taylor flies out to Goddard... who also catches Capra out, rendering Sinatra songless for the game. Mito, our last hope, grounds out to Arango to end the game. Player of the Game? Carlos Rivas, naturally. Too demoralized to even speak, I gesture the team to follow me down the dank, dark tunnel as we listen to the roaring cheers of celebration and victory from the stands and the Burgundys. Not a good way to start. Not a good way at all. |
How can you tell me how much you miss me
When the last time I saw you, you wouldn't even kiss me That rich guy you've been seein' Must have put you down So welcome back baby To the poor side of town Before this game, we stood among the wealthy elite in terms of preseason picks. Now, after this abysmal opener, we are weak, pathetic beyond compare. There's only 24 games in a season. Every loss hurts. 25 years old, just 25, and already I have a hiatal hernia and acid reflux. That I'm a bad man who doesn't take his Prilosec comes back to haunt me as we march down the tunnel, our heads bowed. My chest burns, the bile flows freely up my esophagus, and I feel like one of the Damned being tormented by Hell's demons. "Tough loss guys. We'll get them tomorrow. Now go out, do your own thing, and let's try and forget how horrible we played today." Those are my words of wisdom to the somber players. Nothing like an inspiring speech to get them fired up for the rest of the series and season. ...Why am I doing this? I can't manage. Hell, the only reason I did as well as I did the year that I coached that soccer team was because I had an abudance of talent. Sure I led them to a 5 win improvement over the year before, but even a trained chimpanzee could have done that. As I think these and other maudlin thoughts, I head out into the brisk and bitter Boston world of windy March. Getting incredibly intoxicated is the first order of business on my mind, when a voice, decidedly female and young, stops me. "Hey... You're Tim Moungey, right? Tough loss there, Coach. You'll do better next time, though. I'm proof of it!" "....." "Don't believe me? Look up!" Dully, I lift my head... only to be floored by the sight of an astoundingly lovely girl. Not pretty in that La Belle Dame Sans Merci way, but in a way that's unique. Caramel skin, dark hair that flows like water over thin, mocha shoulders. Lips that are sensual and would be described by the crass observer as DSLs, and I do not mean the broadband connection. A few inches shorter than I am, which would place her around five foot six. Her bust is small, but pleasantly proportionate to the rest of her body. Eyes of liquid brown that abruptly have me hungering for Hershey's kisses and other types of lip touches. When she sees that I am looking at her, she grins in a manner that's flirtatious, her famine-inducing irises sparkling with a coy light. "Hey there! My name's Morrigan! I'm a freshman at Boston University, but I love baseball so I figured I'd come here and see the game... You're tres hot too, but not in that Orlando Bloom way. More like a Johnny Depp way." Her hand extends in offering to shake and I accept it. Her skin is soft and warm as freshly molten chocolate, a sheer delight to touch. I, a Johnny Depp lookalike? I don't see it in the least, but apparently she does. "Thanks. Heh. Hopefully we'll win tomorrow. I ****ing hate losing." A laugh, low and husky, sounds from her lips that are now shapeshifting to a smirk that's oddly inviting and even more strangely arousing. "Sounds to me like you need a cute girl to cheer you up... Good luck with it, Coach! I'll see you around!" And just like that, she's vanished into the night as suddenly as she arrived, leaving me staring after her. Strange girl, yet intriguing all the same.  Mysterious Morrigan... |
No one can change your life except for you
Don't ever let anyone step all over you Just open your heart and your mind Is it really fair to feel this way inside? A question of fairness should never be addressed when it comes to that confoundingly Crazy/Beautiful quagmire of emotions, treacherous domain of mountains and bogs that it is. As a former friend told me once upon a time, ere she became paranoid of my intentions towards her and vanished into the mists, "You can't control how you feel. You can only control what you do about it." Highly intellectual she was and rather pretty in the bargain. But nevermind, let us leave the Orient and its ironically in my instance ill-fated jade in favour of returning to the present. It is somewhere around six o'clock in the morning and I have just staggered home three miles from the bar where my sorrows were drowned in a combination of Jagerbombs, Whiskey and Cokes, and my initial love amongst the seemingly infinite number of mixed drinks, Screwdrivers. Fortunately, this is not one of those glitzy palaces I once stayed in during my days as a Marketing student whilst obtaining that common associate degree and engaging in competitions. No, this is a run-down, mediocre conglomerate of empty spaces, ugly furniture, and dated televisions that proudly shout from the stickers placed on them, "Free HBO on Channel 7!" It being too late for the types of movies that would interest my alcohol-encouraged mind of lechery, I instead stumble over to my laptop and check my email, to discover that I only have one message. Thankfully it is not spam, but the quality email sent to all subscribers from the Tentacle for daily updates on the league. Here is the summary: Game Results: May 1st, 2004 Racine 2 Boston 5 W: Christopher Lobdell (1-0) L: Robert Stiltner (0-1) S: Charles Arango (1) A 2 HR, 3 RBI performance by SS Carlos Rivas proved to be the difference in this matchup as the Burgundys bullpen shut down the Secrets after SP Christopher Lobdell left the game after a fine 7 innings pitched, during which he allowed 2 earned runs, notching 4 K's to 3 walks. Miami 3 Memphis 1 W: Allen Davidson (1-0) L: Gary Yusuke (0-1) S: Michael Taveras (1) This pitcher's duel was won by a determined Davidson after the Vices reached Yusuke for 2 runs in the 6th inning to break the tie and take the lead after the Rebels drew first blood in the 1st inning from an Edward Mauldin homerun. In 7 and 1/3 innings pitched, Allen allowed just 1 earned run and garnered a nice 7 K's against 3 walks. Minneapolis 1 New Orleans 3 W: Carlos Ramos (1-0) L: Mario Troyer (0-1) S: Tony Jacquez (1) Wayne Dewitt provided all the offense the Mardi Gras needed with his 3 RBI blast of a homer in the 1st inning. From there, Ramos shut down the Lumberjacks' offense for 7 innings, giving up no runs and getting 6 K's versus 2 walks. Seattle 4 San Diego 9 W: Heriberto Perez (1-0) L: Charles Creighton (0-1) In just 2 and 1/3 innings pitched, Creighton was hammered for 6 earned runs and that proved to be all she wrote for this game, the offensive charge led by Glenn Reed who had his first homerun of the game in the 2nd inning, good for 3 RBIs, to which he would add a solo homer in the 5th. Perez takes the early league lead in strikeouts with 8. |
And then a hero comes along
With the strength to carry on And you cast your fears aside And you know you can survive So when you feel like hope is gone Look inside you and be strong And you'll finally see the truth That a hero lies in you Again with the heroes. I certainly do need one. Hell, this whole team needs one after the pisspoor display we put on last night. Gametime again. I'm stretching my limbs in the dugout, preparing to give last-minute words of advice that will probably be ignored when the initiative is seized by Cook. "So, Coach! What was up with you and that chick last night? Me and Josue saw y'all talking. She's pretty hot. You gonna try and score with her?" .... What was this? Scant minutes before a game is to start and the team suddenly decides to take an interest in my personal life? Judging from the perked up heads that pop up along the line of the dugout, most of whom are grinning, it seems so. Best to nip this in the bud. "Hell if I know. I saw her for all of a minute and a half, two minutes tops. Yeah, she's pretty enough, I guess... Maybe I'll see her after the game tonight. We'll see." Catcalls, cheers, and suggestions which needn't be repeated here sound down the line, causing me to roll my eyes. I'm starting to feel like I'm in the movie [i[Major League[/i]. Delbert chimes in again. "You know, I wonder what she is? I mean she's obviously black but she looks like she's mixed." At this point, none other than Capra cuts in, looking mildly annoyed. "Less talk, more baseball." Delbert's reply gets cut off by my own heated words as I spring up on the balls of my feet, my hands clenched into fists. "Look George, you don't have the right to say ****. I ****ing made you a first round pick and that asshat performance you put on yesterday means you can't say a damn thing. In fact, none of you can say a ****ing word of anything to me except Josue and Carmelo. Play better and then maybe you get the right to talk smack to me. Until then, sit down and shut the **** up!" Silence becomes the law of the land, though the hostile glare I receive from Capra as he stalks off to move as far away from me as possible is so venomous, I know of spitting cobras with less lethal toxin. Oh well. Game on. Silk against Perras. 1st inning: It appears my little impromptu speech lit a fire under at least some of the players, as Letendre immediately goes out and gets a leadoff double.... who is then brought home by Capra of all people after Taylor flies out. Damn, guess he really is pissed off. I should make him more angry. Mito grounds out and Velez flies out to end the chance for any more runs, but I'll take drawing first blood. It doesn't last long though, as after Silk strikes out Noriega and Rivas, Rosado bangs home a solo shot. Capra continues to be on fire and mad, as he makes one hell of a defensive play to deny Bahr a hit. 2nd inning: A Salinas groundout is the prelude to inquistive Cook's repaying the Saint's blast with a homer of his own. Damn, I *really* need to harangue my squad more often if they play like this when I do. The Savior and Gutierrez do nothing though, and we're on to the bottom half. Two K's by Silk are part of a 1-2-3 inning for the Burgundys. Damn I'm loving my pickup of him so late in the draft right now. 3rd inning: Capra continues to charge on his head of steam with a double after a Letendre and Taylor no show, but it's ruined by a Mito strikeout. A walk by Noriega is all the Burgundys manage in the bottom of the 3rd and the inning ends when he gets thrown out during a base stealing attempt by Mito, who reedeems himself for striking out in the top of the 3rd. 4th inning: We essentially match the Burgundys for their last half frame as the only thing we get is a walk by Cook that turns into nothing in the end. ****! ****! ****! ****! We lose the lead when a Rivas walk is parlayed into a 2 RBI shot by St. Rosado, his second of the game. 3-2 Boston. Despite a Bahr double and a Sevier walk, we manage to get out of the inning without any more damage, thanks in part to a Goddard strikeout. 5th inning: A Letendre leadoff double is turned into an RBI single by Taylor that Capra turns into an RBI double himself. Man, Capra's just on fire after I told him off. It's beautiful to see. 4-3 Racine! ...And all it is for naught despite the addon of a Velez walk, though to be fair, I really think Salinas got robbed on the call by the ump. I didn't have time to argue it, though. Two Silk strikeouts lead to a 1-2-3 inning on Boston's part. 6th inning: Perras returns the 2 strikeout favour in the top of the 6th, though the ump continued his BS hometown bias with a poor called strike on Letendre that ruined a Cook single. Silk continues to show his newfound composure after initially giving up the lead, getting another K as part of another 1-2-3 inning. 7th inning: A Taylor walk and yet another RBI double by Capra! Remind me to piss him off before every game because he's been phenomenal at bat and in the field today. That does it for Perras as Fish is brought in to keep Boston from drowning. Mito gets intentionally walked and Velez sac flies to carry Capra to 3rd, which gets turned into a double play after Sinatra becomes too overeager and is caught not tagging up when Goddard steals a hit from Salinas. Damn. Oh well, I'll take another run to be up 5-3. ... And there it goes. After Silk walks Sevier, pinch hitter Ginn rockets a homer to tie it all up. That's it for Silk. Here comes Mercurio, who gets us out of things despite a scare from a Foster single and stolen base, thanks in no small part to a hell of a play by Salinas to deny Noriega a hit and probable RBI. 8th inning: A Rivas error translates into Cook getting on base and our old friend Demarco coming on in relief, but it's only to get Grandison out before he's replaced by Dryer. After some exciting duels, we unfortunately come away with nothing as Dryer makes a great instinctive play to avoid getting hit by a Taylor line shot, leaving Letendre and Gutierrez stranded at first and third respectively, the latter having stolen a base. There goes the ballgame. Back to back doubles by Rosado and Bahr and we're down 6-5 with 0 outs on Boston this frame. It expands to 7-5 after Sevier hits a 2-out RBI. My blood pressure is going up and I hate my bullpen. Even The Savior fails me as an RBI single by Ginn makes it 8-5. I leave Mercurio in though. 9th inning: Why oh why can't they put their closer in? Instead we're up against Gload Wickline for a second game. We're done. ...Yep, we are. 1-2-3 inning and we lose 8-5. ****ing unbelievable to be 0-2. To add insult to injury, Capra's shooting off his mouth as the rest of the team files silently to the locker room. "Guess I can talk trash to you now, eh... Coach?!" ... I'm dying to trade his malcontent ass. I'll hit the phones tonight. Surely someone will want him. |
That kinda lovin’ turns a man to a slave
That kinda lovin’ sends a man right to his grave I go crazy, crazy, baby, I go crazy You turn it on - then you’re gone Yeah you drive me crazy, crazy, crazy for you baby What can I do I feel like the color blue Appropriate music sourced from the boombox of a young black teen in the parking lot jabbing to his similiarly skinned friends about "How we kicked they asses tonight, dawg!" Yes, yes you did beat us, you fan of the Burgundys.. and I hate you all. I hate the city of Boston and I hate the Burgundys themselves. I also hate my team and I most especially hate Capra. As I'm about to cross the street and begin the lonely, forlorn march back to the hotel, I hear footsteps behind me. A look back reveals Cook in tandem with Grandison, both of them grinning like drugged fools. Delbert's the first to speak. "Hey Coach, me and Josue were hoping we could tag along to see if that hot chick shows up again... if it's cool with you and all that." I stare at them incomprehendingly for a few moments before shrugging my shoulder, eyeing the purple velvet of the early spring sky. "Fine, but please stay out of sight. I don't want you two ass****ing my chances by acting stupid." They laugh and give their agreement, falling back a sufficient amount of distance. After I satisfy myself that they aren't going to cause any mischief back there, I resume my walk, absently wondering if she'll show up again. Likely not, though. ...I'm proven wrong not fifteen seconds later when, just as I'm about to cross the street, curiously caramel Morrigan moves up beside me and jabs me in the side with her fingers, making me cry out and jump in suprise. Behind me, I hear those two bastards snickering away while the lovely mystery speaks. "Hey there, Tim. It totally sucks that you lost tonight, but hey, you'll get them next time, right? I'm hungry! So hungry I could eat my student ID!" .... What is this girl on? She's even more bizzare than I am. Blinking, I turn to make comment, only to be confronted by the ludicrious sight of her munching on a Boston College student ID. Strange... she has her hair different tonight. It's lighter in colour and replete with fascinating curls that dance in the March wind. Seeing me robbed of speech, she takes the card out of her mouth and grins. "You look cuter when you're not so angry, I've decided. Oh look, there's my light! Gotta go, Tim! I'm sure I'll see you again before you leave town." She dashes off, a blur of motion that speeds horizontally across the street, away from my own vertically intentioned person, and I find myself gazing after her and shaking my head. Delbert and Josue meander up alongside of me, their heads similiarly turned. The latter of the twain breaks our silence not long after she is vanished into that purple haze of dusk. "Man, Coach... she's beautiful... but so weird at the same time. You think she does drugs?" Cook smirks and breaks in before I get a chance to answer, winking at Grandison over my shoulder. "Naw dude, she's just crazy... Crazy about Coach Moungey, that is!" They laugh and tear away across the street before I have the opportunity to lambast them either physically or verbally. Bastards. Maybe I'll bench them for the next game for that stunt. Though I won't, really. It's just frustrating losing and being in a city where we have no fans. Capra *will* be traded tonight if I can help it, though. He needs to go.  Hungry, Hungry Morrigan |
And it's okay if you have to go away
Just remember the telephone, it really works both ways And if I never, ever hear it ring If nothing else I'll think the bells inside Have finally found you someone else and that's okay Cause I'll remember everything you sang Mraz. The biggest one hit wonder of this early century. Well, all right, so he's had another top single or two, but from what I've heard of it, it's horrible, and thankfully that is not the song the radio chooses to play just now. My cell phone gleams in the white rays of the moonlight that shine in to beam down serenely on it and highlight the metal curved surfaces, reminding me of my intention to be rid of Capra. Let that wait a minute. I'm not feeling like playing the GM right now. No, for the moment, I am checking my email, getting the results of the league games on this, the only Monday that regular season games will be played, as the rest are all scheduled for weekend series. And there it is: Game Results: Monday, May 2, 2004 Racine 5 Boston 8 W: Joe Dryer (1-0) L: Pierre Mercurio (0-1) S: Timothy Wickline (1) A collapse by Secrets reliever Mercurio in the 8th inning by giving up back to back doubles spelled the end for Racine's bid for a first win and a .500 record. Miami 1 Memphis 5 W: Omer Houseman (1-0) L: Ronald Sheeley (0-1) In a complete reversal of what was expected from this pitching matchup, it's Houseman that pitches the 1-run complete game gem for the victory with 4 walks and 4 K's, while it's Sheeley who gets destroyed, giving 5 runs over a span of just 2 innings despite notching 3 strikeouts in that brief appearance. Minneapolis 5 New Orleans 1 W: Julio Rosado (1-0) L: Joshua Jones (0-1) A 2 RBI double by Lumberjacks SS Kenneth Hinds in the 6th inning proved to be all the offense that Minneapolis needed as starter Rosado pitches a strong 8 and 1/3 innings with 1 walk charged against 3 strikeouts. Seattle 5 San Diego 4 W: Alberto Avalos (1-0) L: Jose Leyba (0-1) S: Mark Seawell (1) 3 errors by the Bishops proved to be their undoing in this game, including 2 very costly ones by San Diego C Daniel Alvarez. Not a game for the defensive purist fans of the Bishops. |
First Trade in Octopus League History a Blockbuster
We here at the Tentacle have just learned of the first trade in league history and it's a dynamite one. Below are the short details: Going to Minneapolis: 3B George "Sinatra" Capra MR Pierre Mercurio Going to Racine: 1B Scotty "Bonds" Harper MR David Lecompte That's right, Capra will be singing his tunes for the Lumberjacks now, while Harper will play for the Secrets. This stunning swap, according to our sources, was formulated as a result of an intense personality clash between Sinatra and Racine Secrets GM/manager Tim Moungey. When asked about the trade, Minneapolis GM/manager Harry Bass remarked, "It's rough to give up your first rounder, but George is a great upgrade for us at third base where we weren't so good before and besides, the ownership group is all about making us a power hitting team. There's no better slugger out there than George, I can tell you that right now. As for Pierre, so he was the goat of the Secrets' last game. So what? Bad games are going to happen and he's just a young kid yet, only 25. He'll do okay for us." Moungey, in counterpoint, did not return calls asking for comment. Squidly Sam's Trade Analysis: Hello there, Octopus League fans! My name is Squidly Sam and I'll be analyzing every trade that's made within the Octopus League and boy howdy, is this ever a doozy! Let's start off by taking a look at how the trade affects each team. Minneapolis The Lumberjacks swap one dynamite bat for another and Capra instantaneously becomes the #3 hitter in the lineup. This allows Minneapolis to move Sergio Sanchez, a defensive wizard at third with a very anemic bat, to shift to the defensive replacement role which is where he belongs. The replacement for Harper at first base is Paul Poulos, who doesn't have quite as much range on defense as Harper did, but is less error-prone and is a better hitter than Sanchez, whom he essentially takes the spot of in the lineup. Mercurio's addition translates into an upgrade at closer, as former main setup man Andrew Sharon moves there to replace the horrible Roger Cioffi. In addition, Pierre is arguably a better primary set-up guy than Sharon was. All in all, this trade looks to improve the Lumberjacks in virtually every way that it could have. Racine Harper will of course bat #3 in the lineup, replacing Capra there, but the question remains at what position? Melvin Letendre has been very good at first base and has done surprisingly well as the leadoff hitter, but current DH Carmelo Velez is a powerful bat, even with his early season struggles. Then you arrive at the question of who to put in Capra's place on the field, since there's no true third basemen on the Secrets and the available choices to shift over are not pretty. GM/manager Moungey attempted to answer this question by signing 18 year-old SP prospect Evelio Olivares and converting him to 3B, where he actually shows more talent and potential than at his original position. This has to be a concern, as any time you ask a young pitcher to give up his dream of being a starter, you run into trouble. So Racine may not even have rid themselves of the clubhouse cancer problem they made this trade for in the first place, though it must be said that Olivares represents an astonishing upgrade defensively at the hot corner. As for Lecompte, he fills the same position for the Secrets that Mercurio did and is probably better suited for that role than his predecessor. If Harper ignites the Racine offense and if Olivares lives up to his fairly high potential as a 3B, then this trade and the subsequent signing will have been a good one for the Secrets, but that's two too many ifs for my liking. Final Verdict: Minneapolis runs away with this one. In fact, were this a battle, I'd call this an overwhelming massacre of a victory for the Lumberjacks. |
Now the streets are lined up in a concrete strip
You can buy the whole world with just one trip And save a penny cause it's jumbo size They don't even realize They're killin' the little man Oh the little man While it is true that small merchants everywhere are dying out, in this small commercial district of West Racine in my hometown three blocks from my house is still going strong, even thriving in the case of Wilson's Coffee Shop. There's a lot of memories associated with this collection of shops and services, but there's probably none that are as strong as those associated with the man whose cut my hair ever since I was a child. Bob the Barber, everyone calls him, and it's true that his profession defines him more than anything else, except for maybe a deep-set and unwavering love for the Chicago Cubs. It's on the brown leather couch in his shop that I'm sitting now, waiting for my turn in the chair. One of the old men that seem to be his main demographic is presently getting his hair cut and so I, as is usually my wont in cases such as this, busy myself with reading the front page and sports sections of the Chicago Tribune that Bob has delivered here every day. Just after I find out to my dismay that the White Sox have lost yet again, Bob's voice is filling the air, his hand patting the back of the patient's chair. "Come on, young Master. It's your turn" I chuckle and nod, handing him my glasses en route to getting in the seat. A pleasant silence ensues for a few moments while he gets his instruments ready. Not that he'll say all that much to me. With most of his customers, my barber tends to be very loquacious and chatty, but he knows I'm the quiet type who just enjoys having my hair cut, so he usually keeps conversation to a minimum. Nonetheless, he always asks how I'm doing, which he does not long after he starts work. "So, Timmy.. how's the team that you're running doing?" "Eh... not so hot really.. We've lost our first two games and I just traded away our best player because he acted like a real ******* to everybody" Bob nods thoughtfully as he combs out a section of hair over my ear to be cut. When I was little, I would have a tendency to wriggle around in the chair while getting my hair cut, as children often do, and he would always say, "Watch out or I'll cut off your ears!" It always worked at keeping me still for a few moments while he took care of that part of my hair. He did the same with all the small kids and still does. A moment goes by before he answers. "Well, some guys are just real jerks, you know? Guys like that you don't want on your team anyway.. And I remember you did a really good job coaching that girls' soccer team a few years back." He's right. I took a team that the year before had only won 1 game the year before in both fall and spring seasons and, with essentially the same players, guided them to a 6-9-1 record that could have just as easily been 7-8-1 or 8-7-1 or 9-7. But that's a story for another time. "Thanks Bob. I appreciate that. I just hope you're right..." "You'll be fine, Timmy. I've always had faith in you. You're a bright kid, not a dummy like me who flunked out of high school so I had to go to barber school." That's another one of Bob's favourite routines. He likes to tell his younger customers that are in school that they'll want to study hard so they don't fail and get stuck having to go to barber school. I'm not sure if it's ever impacted anyone, but it's always funny to hear... though the truth is, he loves his job and has always wanted to be a barber ever since he himself was a kid. When my hair cut is done, I pay and tip him, prelude to another one of our common rituals. He takes my glasses and holds them up to the light of the room, shaking his head and sighing in disappointment. "You know Timmy, they say when you give a guy a good haircut, you should clean his glasses so you can see what he looks like. If you give him a bad haircut, then don't clean them so you hope he can't see the **** job you did." As he sprays my glasses with water and wipes them off, I can't help but chuckle to myself inwardly. It's one of Bob's great frustrations in life that I don't regularly clean my glasses, hence the spiel we go through every time. I don't mind, though. It's nice and peaceful, reassuring in a way I can't describe. Taking my glasses back after their cleansing is complete, I smile and thank him again, then head out into the sun-baked street of the mid-May morning, in a much better mood then when I first came in. Bob has that effect on people. He's one of those who brings sunshine to the lives of everyone he encounters. |
A couple of days after my haircut, the first practice in a few days is held at one of the city parks. One might ask why it is that we don't practice every day like Major League Baseball, but it must be pointed out that the season is only 24 games long, consisting only of series played on the weekends, so to practice as often as once a day is excessive, particularly since most of these guys have regular jobs they work outside of baseball.
After the usual drudgery of drills, mini-games, and pep talks that make up every session go by, we're all getting our things together, ready to get on to whatever adventures await us in the evening, when I'm abruptly approached by Scotty, our new star player, and Evelio, my recent signing and new third baseman nee starting pitcher. Harper looks bouncy, Olivares enraged. Since Scotty's the veteran, I nod for him to go first. A broad grin enlivens his face as he slaps me hard on the back, sending me reeling. Bastard. I'm still not fully awake yet and you give me a manly pound like that? Oh well, it's better than Capra's acidic behaviour. "Hey, Coach Moungey, I just wanted to say that I'm really glad to be on this team.. You've got a great bunch of guys here and I think we can really turn this thing around yet. 22 games in the season is a lot of time to make things up. In fact-- Oh, hey Melvin! Wait up! I want to talk to you for a minute!" Midstream through his speech, Harper breaks off to trot after Letendre, whose looking a little depressed and has been ever since the trade news hit the Tentacle. Of course, this leaves me with a fuming Olivares, who looks even angrier at having been delayed. Naturally he doesn't wait to receive acknowledgement, but just jumps in with a high-pitched whine of a voice. "Why do I gotta play third base Coach, huh? I'm a ****ing starting pitcher! The ability to win or lose games should be in *my* hands! I don't wanna play no stinkin' third base! Make me a starter again, like I was meant to be, like I was born to be!" .... Tell me again why it is that I signed this 18 year-old crybaby? After all, it isn't as if he's female and pretty. Taking a deep breath, I inwardly count to 10 before deigning to give him an answer. "Look Evelio, you don't have what it takes to be anything more than a bottom of the rotation guy as a starter. But what you *do* have is the talent and potential to become a damn good third baseman, one of the better ones in this league some day. Which would you rather have: To be a throwaway part in your 'destined' role or to become a valuable piece in a slot where you get to play every game, even if it's one you hadn't considered before?" If this were a movie, he'd get it and obtain sudden enlightenment. This being real life, however, Evelio just shrugs, scowls out a, "Whatever", and stalks off, no less placated than when he came up to me. Whatever indeed. He'll see the light some day... I hope. Just as I'm about to leave the field and head out to the bus stop though, I find that my post-practice meetings aren't over yet, as Katamor, our starting catcher, lumbers up to me with concern apparent in the set of his lips. "Coach? I didn't see Stefan at practice today and I just wondered if you knew why he missed it.. and how come Freddie was part of the catcher drills today." Stefan Ward, one of three catchers we'd be carrying on the roster, along with prospect Tony Whisenant. Freddie Lee, who was officially listed as a first baseman before the trade, but who was more naturally suited to being a catcher. Rubbing at my temples, I sense the onset of an excrutiating headache. "Well Katamor, with the trade we just made and signing Evelio, we had 26 guys on our roster, one over the league limit. So I told Stefan that he's being cut from the roster, but that we still own the rights to him by Octopus League rules, so we can bring him back when we need him. As for Freddie, he's actually a really good backup catcher to have and Tony said he really benefitted from having two teachers in you and Stefan, so we decided to have Freddie switch to catcher to take advantage of his natural talents and to keep Tony with two teachers." Mito nods, rubbing at his week-old growth of black, wolfish stubble on his chin. Though he doesn't look too happy, at least he doesn't appear worried anymore. "Thanks for the info, Coach. It sucks that Stefan's gone, because he was my best friend on the team, but it'll be okay. Scotty's a really cool dude, a lot better than King George the Jackass." Chuckling at his own joke, he bows to me and walks off towards his car, I myself turning to dash for the bus stop before anybody else can catch me. Maybe this trade will provide a spark for us. At the very least, I'm hoping it can help our team chemistry. Chemistry is vital after all, and if you don't believe that one, I've got a long list of teams that could tell you otherwise. |
Opening home game in Racine. The stadium is packed with friends, family, fans, and people of the community, some I've known my whole life, others of whom are complete strangers to me. Such is going to be the way of things when you live in a city of roughly 80,000.
I'm more nervous here than I was in Boston. There at least, nobody I knew was watching outside of my parents and perhaps a couple of people I know from the world of online. Here, almost everyone that I know in the world of reality is watching, waiting to see how I do at managing. With sweat on my brow, I post the new lineup card against righties on the board, since that's who we'll be facing in the shape of Gary Yusuke for Memphis: 1B Melvin Letendre RF Bennie Taylor DH Scotty Harper C Katamor Mito LF Miguel Salinas CF Delbert Cook SS Josue Grandison 3B Evelio Olivares 2B Jaime Gutierrez Time to play ball. Let's hope to hell we can break into the win column today. First Inning: ... ****. First blood gets drawn when Butler singles and steals second. ...Wait a minute, that didn't look like it was the right decision. ****ing asshat was off the bag when the ball reached! Enraged, I storm out to the field. "Hey ump, what the hell was that kind of ****, huh? He was OUT!" The umpire, fortunately someone I don't know, gives me the evil eye but waves me off. "He was safe, sir. Back to your bench." "****ing prick...." Luckily, he chooses to ignore my last comment as I head back to the dugout. Great, I just made an ass of myself in front of the hometown crowd. Anyway, Not My Servant scores when Mauldin singles him home 2 ABs later. 1-0, Memphis. Cortada K's the next 2 batters and it's our turn. Yes! Tied when a Letendre single turns into a run after Bonds brings him home with a 1 out double! 1-1. Just when I think we're going to get more runs courtesy of a long shot by Cook, one of the Rebels asshats catches it at the wall to rob him of what would have turned into a 3-run homer. Sigh. On to the second we go. 2nd inning: .... Two walks by Cortada later and Helmsley singles home Carreiro for a 2-1 Memphis lead. Ironically enough, The Savior and Crybaby haven't shown the range they should be this game. Bastards. The damage continues the next AB when Rodriguez sends home 2 runners with a single. 4-1 Memphis and I'm about ready to yank Cortada. We get out of the top frame without further damage though, so maybe I'll leave him in another inning. Unfortunately, we come up with no runs, so it's on to the third. 3rd inning: Despite an error by Grandison, The Youngster at the hot corner makes some brilliant moves on defense to keep them from adding to their pile of runs. We match them with zero, so it's on to the 4th and I decide to only voice my thoughts when something significant actually happens. As it turns out, we're the ones to strike again after The Saviour redeems himself with a 2-run blast of a homerun in the bottom of the 4th, taking Cook home with him to put us within 1. 4-3 Memphis. Let's hope we can pull this **** out! A little while later in the same half-frame, it's tied when Taylor chips in a single to score Letendre after The Kid got caught trying to run his slow ass home. Damn, it could have been 5-4. Oh well, I'll take this 4-4 tie. WE'VE GOT THE LEAD! WE'VE GOT THE LEAD!!!! Our Japanese Guy, whose been struggling terribly at the plate in the early going, finally produces something with a 2 RBI double, still in the bottom of the 4th! 6-4 Racine and a pitching change for Those Bastard Rebels! It's the top of the 9th inning now and we've held our 6-4 leader. Our newest bullpen acquistion, Lecompte, has me suddenly believing in high control guys for the bullpen. But it's time to bring in Moody, our closer, to see if he can get our very first win and save... Ruiz strikes out and I'm thinking we're looking really good.... Then, ****ing Rodriguez, the ****ing #9 hitter whose been killing us all damn game, does it again with a solo HR! Our lead is cut to 6-5! In the dugout, I start cursing profusely, drawing amused looks from my players. Bastards. GOD ****ING DAMN IT! **** **** ****!!!! Back to back homers given up by Moody, this one to the bleeping leadoff hitting Butler and we're tied again. Screw you, Moody! I just hope to hell we can put something together against the Rebels' new pitcher, some guy named Soriano. ... Naturally it's a 1-2-3 inning and so we go into the 10th. Moody's ass is staying in there. I don't give a **** if he does blow the game. !@$%!$#@%$!#%$%$!@%$!%!@%! Ruiz who was a replacement for some jerkoff who got injured, ****ing hits a 2-RBI double in the top of the 10th to make it 8-6 Memphis. Is it too late to trade Moody? And naturally, The Secret Killer hits a followup double to make it 9-6. Ugh... I'm not going to think anymore. Just let this game be over. 9-6 ends up being the final score and we drop to effing 0-3. We're the only team in the Octopus Leage without a win and we were expected to challenge for the East Division title. I don't say a word to anyone as I storm out of the dugout, out of the ballpark, out of the city, out of this country, hell out of this ****ing world.. or so I do in my mind. In reality, I just stalk off the diamond and head towards a far copse of trees. ****ing pathetic. Moody now sports a shiny 22.50 ERA, for anyone who would care to ask. |
A film of red underlain by an intersecting network of black clouds my vision as I storm out of the park, kicking repeatedly at a nearby tree. Let the ****ing thing's bark and branches get ruined! I don't give a ****! In fact, I want to destroy every ****ing tree I see! I want to yell, to scream, to rip the whole ****ing world asunder and claw each and every person in the world to mere bloody scraps beneath my dirty, uncut fingernails.
...But of course, I can't. Though I would see the grass before me littered with dead bodies if I could, I can't. Even though I have the will, I do not have the courage or the means to do so. And so I settle for still kicking the tree, tears washing my eyes and blurring my vision from the pain that races from my toe all the way through my body. I don't care. I don't ****ing care! It's about this time that my mother and father come up behind me, the former of the two reaching out to try and hug me, to offer some words of comfort. Too angry to deal with anyone now, even as I'm longing for comfort and reassurance, I shove her away.. much to her overt pain and sadness. Deal with it, Mom. This is how I am. You know it. Dad is a mixture of irritation and weariness. Already in his 70s, I wonder how long he'll be for this world, particularly given how much he smokes. Even now, a cheap, offbrand cigarette with the same smell as a decaying turkey carcass hangs from his calloused, bruised, age-spotted hand. He tries to say something, but I cut him off with a harsh command to just leave me the **** alone. Behind them, Mike Wilson, a friend of mine since high school. Was a loser back then and still is now, with a pisspoor attitude, even though he has some justification for it with the **** life has handed to him. He, too, starts to try and calm me down, but it doesn't work. He, too, is pushed away by my hand and ordered to go away. As for my team? They're nowhere to be found, all having fled. Not that I blame them. When I erupt, I'm not pretty to be around. Just ask each and every one of my three ex-girlfriends about that one. The three of them behind me, concern in their faces, try again to get my attention, but I just turn away and run, run until I am out of the park and into the broken asphalt into the city. Run into the hometown that I hate and yet can never seem to escape. Run and run and run, even though it does me no good. I still can't win. I still hate. Where is the one who can rescue me from myself? |
It's the next afternoon. Game time is just about to start and I don't want to be here. Rather than get a ride with my parents as I usually do for home games, I've taken the bus.
The team mills around me, everyone quiet and somber. They're tired of losing, tired of me. I can read it in the tired lines of their faces, as if they're saying 'Oh Christ, why do we have to play for *this* jackass?' Guess what, guys? I *am* a jackass, and until you retire or get traded, or I get fired, you're stuck with me. Game officially starting now. Houseman versus Silk. I think we all know who will win. I decide to only pay much attention when there's a highlight. ... That will probably be the game. In the top of the 3rd, Mauldin shreds Silk, whose having absurd amounts trouble with his control today, for a 3-run homerun. 3-0 Memphis, as Houseman continues to be inexplicably phenomenal. I don't get excited, however, when we get a run in the bottom of the 3rd when The Not So Wunderkind doubles home the Savior to make it 3-1 Memphis. The top of the 5th provides another run for the Rebels after Ruiz hits an RBI single. 4-1 Memphis and I'm starting not to care anymore. Oh, look. Bonds finally hits his first homerun of the season, a 2-run blast that cuts the lead to 4-3 Memphis. The crowd cheers after that one and the team around me is jumping up and down, slapping hi-fives and shouting encouragement to each other. Grandison nuges me as if to urge me on to my feet and expressing of excitement, but I just shake my head at him. We'll fall short, and even if we do take the lead, we'll blow it. ...And naturally, after we intentionally walk Mauldin to get force-outs at third and second with one out, Impure Fabric ****ing walks the next batter to load the god damn bases, but fortunately we get it out of it after a strikeout and a routine grounder to Gutierrez over at second. 4-3 ends up being the final, when my decision to have Velez pinch-hit for the weak I'm actually hitting .571 in spite of my ratings Young Guy results in a strikeout and Our Ungodly Awful With The Bat Second Baseman grounds out. 0-4. I belatedly realize as I sit there with my depressed team, no one wanting to move, that I haven't checked my email lately to see the scores of the other league. I didn't do it yesterday and obviously I haven't done it today. I am Charlie Brown with Lucy's attitude. No wonder I'm an angry blockhead of a failure... |
And so it is
The shorter story No love, no glory No hero in her sky No hero in her sky and no hero in mine. Demoralized to the point that not even the divine lips of a nude, blonde teenager could restore me to even a modicum of happiness. I do so hate how they ruined Natalie's hair in Closer. It is with a great degree of listlessness and apathy that I check my email. I don't particularly care about the league results of the past two days, but something in me forces me to slog onwards and update my records. First, yesterday's. Saturday, May 7, 2004 Saturday? Shouldn't it be Friday? Blinking, I check the rest of the schedule and smile grimly. Looks like whoever Benvuneto tapped to do the scheduling ****ed up.... Instead of having Friday-Saturday-Sunday weekend series as planned, they're all Saturday-Sunday-Monday sets. Looks like they should have hired Le Grande Orange Scheduling Masters to do the work for them. In any case... on to the scores. Memphis 9 Racine 6 WP: Luis Soriano (1-0) LP: Donald Moody (0-1) An absolute meltdown by Secrets' closer Moody led to the defeat of the Secrets just when it looked like they were going to garner their first win at home. Racine remains the only winless team in the league. San Diego 2 Minneapolis 1 WP: Tobias Beall (1-0) LP: Alvin Garcia (0-1) S: Charles Thole (1) A classic pitchers' duel that was decided in the top of the 5th inning after Bishops 2B Bryan Prioleau hit a solo shot to break the 1-1 tie and produce its final score. Remarkable job by both pitching staffs. Recent acquisiton 3B George Capra goes 0 for 4 in his Lumberjacks debut. Boston 9 Miami 10 WP: Anton Arispe (1-0) LP: Darrell Fish (0-1) The complete antithesis to the Bishops-Lumberjacks game, this one was a monster of an extra innings slugfest that was won in the bottom of the 10th by the Vices. A good start by Allen Davidson was wasted when RP Micheal Taveras was lit up for 4 runs in 2 innings. Davidson's final line: 6 IP, 6 HA, 3 ER, 2 BB, 7 K. New Orleans 5 Seattle 7 WP: Alberto Avalos (2-0) LP: Carlos Ramos (1-1) S: Mark Seawell (2) Avalos becomes the first 2 game winner in the Octopus League as Ramos was rocked for 4 runs alone in the bottom of the 1st inning, keyed by a 3-RBI double courtesy of 1B George Marconi. A late Mardi Gras rally fell short, giving RP Mark Seawell his second save of the season. Sunday May 8th, 2004 Memphis 4 Racine 3 WP: Omer Houseman (2-0) LP: Johnny Silk (0-1) S: Luis Soriano (1) 3B Edward Mauldin's 3-run HR in the top of the 3rd proved to be the differencemaker on the scoreboard, as Houseman continues to suprise with his early season dominance. Soriano, the hero and winning pitcher of last night's game, stops the Secrets cold in the 9th inning to win this 1-run thriller. San Diego 9 Minneapolis 0 WP: Heriberto Perez (2-0) LP: Mario Troyer (0-2) It's a shame that Bishops manager Father George Ayorinde decided to pull Perez in the 9th inning, as he was just 1 out from the Octopus League's first complete game shutout. Still, this was a surprisingly dominant performance by a team that many thought had a weak lineup. Leading the charge was 1B Jeremy McCleery with 2 HR, 3 R, and 3 RBIs. Perez's final line: 8.2 IP, 4 HA, 0 ER, 3 BB, and an astounding 11 Ks! Boston 9 Miami 2 WP: Christopher Lobdell (2-0) LP: Ronald Sheeley (0-2) Sheeley continues to struggle in this early phase of the year, scorched here by the Burgundys for 5 runs in just 1 and 2/3 innings pitched. No real standout amongst the Burgundys' lineup as four players had 2 or more RBIs. New Orleans 2 Seattle 9 WP: Charles Creighton (1-1) LP: Victor Purifoy (0-1) After his abysmal first start, Creighton comes out and pitches a beautiful 6 and 2/3 innings, giving up just 1 earned run, while walking zero and striking out 8. Ripping apart the Mardi Gras' pitching staff all day long was 1B George Marconi, who had an astonishing 3 homeruns to go with 7 RBIs!. Quite possibly the biggest shock of the early season along with Memphis SP Houseman, those two have established themselves as the frontrunner favourites for their respective awards, though there's still a lot of season left. ***End Email*** Heh.... I'm too depressed for words. |
The combination of Mountain Dew and greasy, butter-laden movie theatre popcorn is a lethal two-pronged assault on my weakened stomach. Acid acquires a weightlessness normally reserved for astronauts and so the taste of it is in my mouth.
While quite the humorous movie, Racing Stripes has only put me in a good mood for all of an hour after the show is over. Presently I am in my occasional hangout of Wilson's Coffee Shop, the owners of no relation to moronic friend Mike of the same last name. All around, people are chatting away incessantly and gradually causing both my body temperature and my blood pressure to rise. Across from me are two gabbing women, likely lesbians or at least bisexuals from the look of them. One approximately in her mid-thirties, with a tired ponytail of brown, the other likely a decade younger, with unwashed, blond-streaked hair parted directly down the middle in a style popular in these Northern climes. The urge within to dump my mocha on their heads is strong. It is only the presence of the policeman in uniform two tables away that keeps me from it. I hate cops. I always have... even before I found out about their racist, bigoted natures... Even before I was nearly thrown out of a bus station by one because I was having a nervous breakdown. But I shan't dwell on that now. Growling under my breath, I get up and leave the shop before my annoyance overtakes what little sense of reason I have left. There, outside in the cool spring weather, I finish my drink and toss it in the rust-speckled trashcan waiting for me on the curb after I step out. My hands thrust in my pockets, I begin a hunchbacked walk down the street, Herman's Hermits running unbidden through my mind: Listen people to what I say I say everybody's got to have their day And don't you know that Everybody's got to love somebody sometime Everybody's got to win a heart Everybody's got to love somebody sometime When you do, I hope you never part |
The last game of the three game set against the Rebels. It goes without saying that we'll lose... again.
More noises around me, the collective of minor crowd sounds that separately may not be so irritating, but together have me wanting to grab Harper's bat and bludgeon them into bloody silence. But enough of my barely controlled homocidal urges. We've a game to play. Kittleson vs. Chapa is the pitching matchup, both #3 starters getting their first game. Top of the 1st and .... I'm really hating this Rodriguez assfarmer. He's obscene in his clutch ability against us, this time singling home Goodsell, who hit a triple. 1-0 Memphis. It's a lead that expands in the top of the 3rd, when Carreiro jacks a 2 run bomb to somewhere out in Mars. Not even aliens could save my team from its horrendous play. 3-0 Memphis. .... The Destroyer of All Secrets does it again with a double that scores another run. 4-0 Memphis. I'm almost tempted to trade for this guy now... just so he can stop ruining us. A 2 RBI single by Cortina a pair of batters later makes it 6-0 Memphis. Chapa should probably be pulled now as he's given up 6 runs in only 2 and 2/3 innings, but we'll never mount enough offense to make up the difference so I say **** it and leave him in there. Yunque slaps out an RBI single in the top of the 4th and it's now 7-0 Memphis. Somebody needs to petition Benvuneto and tell him to institute a mercy rule in this league... A short while later, same half frame, Mauldin beats out a throw that prevents a double play and another run comes home. 8-0 Memphis. From the mound, Chapa is giving me a pleading look to be pulled from the game. Too bad. I'm not feeling merciful tonight. ...Of course this happens. Anything else would be deviating from the script that we must be the Biggest Pile of Suck since... well... the Pale Hose. That's right, The Anti-Secret just hit a moonshot to tally up another 2 runs and it is officially 10-0 Memphis, and we're not even out of the 4th yet. At least in the bottom of the 4th, we spoil Kitty Chow's bid for a no-hitter, courtesy of Cook's single. Ironically enough, it's Mr. .059 Average Gutierrez who spoils the shutout attempt by hitting, of all things, a 2 man homer to make it 10-2 Memphis. It's a sign of how desperate the home crowd is for experiment that they celebrate like happy drunks when we finally score. Then again, you have to be drunk to want to watch this team. Just for the fun of it, I put 18 year old, 5 blue star prospect Patrick Weller in for Chapa in the top of the 8th. This game's already long since in the bag, so it can't stunt his development any. Breaking News! Salinas gets his first hit of the season in the bottom of the 8th, making his average an amazing .053. He's now the lowest average on the squad, since I Hate Bats Gutierrez doubled his with the earlier homer to go to .111 ...Looks like Wannabe Confederates are scared of us. They actually send in a relief pitcher in the bottom of the 9th as if they're afraid we're going to rally all the way back from 10-2. Of course we don't even get so much as a man on base, and that's the way the story ends... A 10-2 massacre. .... 0-5. Will we never see the glory of even a single win? I'm starting to feel like Walter Mathau. |
Due to the curse of my tragic inability to have much of a memory anymore, an affliction caused by too many psychiatric drugs by too many doctors overly infatuated with the pharmaceutical treatment of symptoms as opposed to actual causes, I constantly forget that my diet is extremely poor.
I am reminded of this fact, however, when I find myself shoveling down in a most disgustingly gluttonous manner a super sized bag of Doritos better fit for an ogre. Well, guess what Shrek? This jackass of a donkey done did stole your snack chips and is chowing them down. Appropriating a paper towel from the roll hanging in my kitchen, I wipe my fingers of the aftereffects of nacho dust as best as I can before going to check my email and discover the fate of teams far better managed than my own. Monday May 9, 2004 Memphis 10 Racine 2 WP: Toney Kittleson (1-0) LP: Cristian Chapa (0-1) Chapa looked like the bottom of the rotation starter he is in today's game as the Rebels pummeled him for all 10 runs, all earned, over 7 innings. At the forefront of the slaughter was RF Estanis Rodriguez, who continued his mystical mastery of the Secrets, hitting a 2 run HR as part of his 4 RBI day on the way to taking Player of the Game honors. San Diego 4 Minneapolis 8 WP: Julio Rosado (2-0) LP: Michael Robichaud (0-1) S: Andrew Sharon (1) This is the type of offense the Lumberjacks had in mind when they constructed their team in the dispersal draft. Robichaud, the losing pitcher, was absolutely demolished, ripped apart for 4 ER in a mere 1/3 of an inning, giving him the dazzlingly horrible ERA of 54.05. The cause of the runs? Doubles with 2 men on with 2 outs in the bottom of the 7th by 1B Patrick Poulos and DH Roido Hachemon that were the slices of bread sandwiching 3B George Capra's meaty walk in the middle. Boston 5 Miami 6 WP: Michael Taveras (1-0) LP: Darrell Fish (0-2) S: Anton Arispe (1) The Vices just barely eke this one out, winning behind LF Mark Burges's 3 RBI game and CF Curtis Jones's solo shot in the bottom of the 7th inning off of Fish, who is quickly becoming the scapegoat of the Burgundys' bullpen with his absorption of 2 losses. Arispe picks up his first save to go with a win earlier in the series and has yet to be touched for a run. New Orleans 3 Seattle 0 WP: Joshua Jones (1-1) LP: Mark Seawell (0-1) S: William Reed (1) Using your main setup guy in situations that call for your closer is always a dnagerous move and the Coffeemen learned that today as Seawell picks up the loss today after having gained 2 saves earlier in the season. Jones was absolutely masterful in not giving up any earned runs through 8 and 1/3 innings and issuing just 2 free passes to 6 K's. We're still hunting for the first complete game shutout in Octopus League history. All the offense the Mardi Gras needed was provided by C Wayne Dewitt, who hit a 3 RBI double in the top of the 9th inning to bring his season total to 7. ... Lovely. Dewitt goes and wins them the game. Why oh why didn't I draft him with my first round pick like I had considered doing at one point? |
Several failed attempts to get a girl to textually pleasure me later, I'm staring at the computer screen with the dulled, glazed gaze of one who has had far too little sleep and far too much Dew. Three hours of sleep was all I got before today's game. Just as I'm about to resort to the desperation of trolling in an adult chat room on the cesspool of filth that is Yahoo Chat, I notice I still have an unread email in my Inbox that I overlooked. Is it an email from a girl?
...No. It's something I neglected to read when reading through the day's game recaps, and is, unfortunately, league related. Damn it. I couldn't buy good luck with all of Donald Trump's money these days. Still, I'd better note this down for my records. First Octopus League Player of the Week Named Player of the Week: SP Omer Houseman Memphis Rebels In what should come as little suprise to loyal Octopus League fans, Memphis Rebels starting pitcher Omer Houseman was named the first Octopus League Player of the Week after going 2-0 with a 2.16 ERA and notching the first-ever Octopus League complete game. The opponents he defeated were the Miami Vices, whom he pitched the CG game against, and the Racine Secrets. Congratulations, Omer! ... Another reminder of my team's terrible play. As if I didn't have enough already with the memory of today's game still fresh in my mind. Sigh. Time to cue up a country song. It's the only thing that fits when I'm in this kind of mood: The trouble I found could've never found me Chased my feelings around, my thoughts runnin' free The heart catches things that the mind's eye won't see And I'm not nearly as blind as I thought I could be I used to think my way into some hard times I used to think I knew how low I've been So much thinkin' I finally gave up on my mind Now here I go thinkin' again Now I see myself down to the bottom again And I'm likely to drown with all these thoughts pourin' in The trouble I found is the trouble with you And I can't stand the sound of me thinkin' it through I used to think my way into some hard times I used to think I knew how low I've been So much thinkin' I finally gave up on my mind Now here I go thinkin' again I used to think my way into some hard times I used to think I knew how low I've been So much thinkin' I finally gave up on my mind Now here I go thinkin' again Here I go thinkin' again |
The week goes by in a slow-rolling haze of grey days, each passing succession of twenty four hours more depressing and ennui-laden than the last.
And so it is that I'm glad that we're now in Minneapolis, city where I once went to school at the University of Minnesota. It's just before the start of game time. Since it's only an eight hour drive, my parents have come to this series, as have my maternal grandmother and grandfather, who live just two hours away from the Twin Cities. It would be sweet to gain our first win against this team, sweeter than the lips of a lovely, unspoilt sixteen year old girl. Not only would I gain a measure of redemption after ignobly being booted out of this city's major university for failure to attend classes, I would also have a blissful revenge against the biggest asshat in history, George "Sinatra" Capra, who now plays third base for the Lumberjacks after I traded him there. Decisionless ace Cristian Cortada going up against undefeated Julio Rosado, he of the 2.93 ERA. Let's hope we can put it well over 3 or 4 by the time the game is over. It's time. Let's roll... and for God's sakes, let's get a win. A rare spot of pleasure warms me in the bottom of the 3rd inning when I realize that Public Asshat Number One has a .190 batting average after going 0-2 against in the early stages. Looks like that trade isn't working out so well for the Lumberjacks after all. The top of the 8th inning calls for a pitching change as Cortada has run out of gas in this phenomenal pitchers' duel. Since it's still scoreless, I bring in the guy with the best control in the bullpen who isn't a closer, former Lumberjack Lecompte. YES!! YES YES YES!!! I'm going to start calling Olivares the Wunderkind as he hits a single to bring his average up to a remarkable .429 despite being only 18 years old and having only played in a few games. And it seems to be that Our Little Power Man Gutierrez might actually show flashes of slugging *and* clutch ability, as he rips off a two run slapshot that's out of the field of play! 2-0 Racine!!! Can we win?! ...It's the bottom of the 9th. Just like a game against the Rebels, we have the lead going into the last inning. Last time The Best New Reliever was pitching brilliantly and I pulled him for Moody, who blew the save and lost the game. .... I'm not going to make that mistake again. I'm sticking with Lecompte. D-Man grounds out to third base. One down. We're just two outs away from our very first win... The Tree Killers have somebody named Ruvalcaba pinch hit next.... and he, too, grounds out to third! Damn, am I ever starting to look like a genius for signing Olivares and starting him! Just one more out to go... Just one frigging out a way. Hayes, another pinch hitter, is sent up to try and break the magic of The Clutch Pitching Former Lumberjack. OH MY GOD!! OH MY GOD!!!! The Man Who Should Be Closer hurls a 1-2 pitch just outside the strike zone and Today's Goat swings at it for the strikeout!!! Filled with the exuberant thrill of victory, I rush on to the field with the bench, joining my defense as we all mob Lecompte and toss him on our shoulders to carry him around the stadium. Whooping and hollering, we're all smiling and feeling happy for the first time this season! YES!! YES!!! SECRETS WIN!!! SECRETS WIN!! As an afterthought, I lock eyes with Capra whose glaring at us from the dugout. With an overly saccharine smile, I salute him with my middle finger. Take that, asshat. We punked you out today. Oh how sweet it is to win like this! |
In celebration of our first win, my parents and grandparents join the team and I in my favourite pizza parlour in all of Minneapolis, Davanni's. More specifically, the one on the West Bank of the University of Minnesota campus just a few blocks down from Middlebrook Hall, where I'd stayed during my lone year attending the school in, ironically enough, Room 911.
The restaurant is split into two levels, the lower level, which has a handful of tables and a few booths, along with the counter where orders are placed, and an upper level that is far more expansive, with numerous large tables and booths designed for the parties occasionally held there, such as the one that starts shortly after we arrive there. There's a lot of laughing and joking going on, players teasing one another back and forth and chatting with the members of my family that have come along. A fierce, spirited argument breaks out a few minutes later over what to order for pizzas. Virtually everyone is fine with either cheese or pepperoni, but Grandison and Cook are holding out for a supreme. Just when it looks as though a war with plastic knives is about to start, with Delbert and Scotty as the first duelists, my dad settles the fight with a laugh interrupted by smoker's cough. "Hey, I'm paying for the pizzas, so Delbert and Josue, if you want to get a supreme, you can get a supreme. It'll just be a large instead of party size, since it'll be mostly you two eating it. Okay?" The two jokers grin and agree, exchanging hi-fives and whoops of victory. In approximately twenty minutes our pizzas arrive along with the bill. Another argument ensues, this time between my grandmother and my father. She insists that she wants to pay; my dad says he already claimed it. Eventually my mom chimes in on my dad's side and so the issue is settled. Everyone digs in and starts munching away, happiness and pizza sauce on every face. In a way, it almost feels like Christmas with how warm and cozy we're all feeling. Conversation continues, but less boisterously and more on the casual, relaxed level. As I'm eating one of my snatched pepperoni slices, a sudden sadness sweeps over me. Losing my appetite to eat, I set the pizza down and get up from the chair, the scrape of metal against linolelum drawing the attention of those nearby. "Guys, I'm just going to head out for a bit and get some fresh air. I'll be back shortly, though." "Are you okay, Tim?" The last from my mother, who can sense by the sagging muscles in my face that not all is well. I don't feel like going into it now and further ruining everyone's mood than I already have by the announcement as concern is starting to replace joviality in the expressions of the people at the table. "I'm fine, Mom. Just need some fresh air is all." Summoning up a smile that's as genuine as I can manage at the moment, I turn and with bowed head walk down the steps and hustle out of the pizzeria. Once on the street, I briskly make my way to my old home and stand in the small parking lot outside the building, staring up at its edifice. I was only 18 when I came here that September of 1997. My last year of high school was one that had been spent mired in a quagmire of depression, my grades suffering significantly during the senior semesters that should have been the happiest of my high school career. I still graduated in the top 10 percent of my class and with honors, but I didn't live up to anywhere near my potential. As a result of my academic collapse, those schools which I had most closely been looking at, Princeton first, second, and third, and a few others as possible choices, namely Tulane and Boston College, fell to the wayside, unapplied to, as I was afraid of finding rejection letters staring back at me. Minnesota was a compromise for me, something that would get me out of state and at a Division I school like I longed to be, but close enough so that I wouldn't be too far away from my family. At the time, I told myself that I'd made the right decision, even in spite of my lingering regrets, and I looked forward to college with a sense of excitement and hope, hope that I could banish the unsightly ghosts of my senior year.... ...Only to discover, after just one trimester at Minnesota, that I was miserable there. While I joined the fencing club team and was accepted as a copy editor for the Minnesota Daily, which was a huge honour for a true freshman to be that high on the student newspaper staff starting out his first trimester, I was not happy. So in the end, I simply stopped going to classes, allowed myself to get fired from the Daily, and quit the fencing team. Too, I brushed off the one girl who might have been able to save me from myself at that time. Laura. A Dutch girl with a pretty, striking face housing expressive eyes of jade. Her skin was the same pale colour of a Renaissance beauty and her hair, though distasteful in its cropped cut, was lively enough in its short strands of shifting raven to make up for its clipped nature. She was my first and remains to this day my only date. The most attractive girl in my German class that first trimester, all the other guys in it had asked her out and all been flatly turned down. This would lead to one of the single greatest moments of my brief romantic career. My fellow men in the class encouraged me to ask her out, since I was the only one who hadn't yet. Having the feeling that she would say yes if I asked her, I told them, "All right guys... here's the deal... I'll do it, but each of you has to bet me 5 bucks. I bet she says yes." All eight accepted the terms and the next day I asked her out. She said yes and we went to the very same restaurant where my family and team is at this very moment enjoying our victory dinner. We talked for several hours; I showed her the ruin that was my dorm room, though nothing involving my manhood or any baring of her body parts occurred and we parted separate ways for the night. Apparently she enjoyed our date, for she emailed me asking me out again the next day, a day when I did not attend class. As the weeks went by and I stopped going to German or any of my other classes, she emailed me a few more times asking if I was all right, if there was any way she could help, why had I stopped going to class, and so on. She even stopped by my dorm room a time or two, but I did not answer and by that time my roommate had moved out, unable to deal with me always being there. And so one of the great turning points of my life was marked. Had I answered any one of Laura's emails, I would not be standing here today as the GM and manager of the Racine Secrets, with memories of bittersweetness washing over me. In all truth, I'm not quite certain what I would be doing now. Likely attending graduate school, possibly married to, engaged to, or going out with Laura and having crazy Dutch European sex with her. It's strange... she is so vivid in my mind.. and I don't even have a picture of her. But then, sometimes it's the people we only knew for a very short time that are the most unforgettable portraits in the galleries of our memories. |
It's later in the evening now and I'm back in my hotel room, quietly sitting in one of the plush burgundy chairs by the windowside table, smoking a Lucky Strike as slowly as I can and savouring it. Luckies are the best tasting tobacco cigarettes I've ever smoked, but unfortunately they're also a very fast burn, so they don't last nearly as long as I would like. After I'm done, I ash out the stub in the orange plastic tray on the table and consider another, to improve the pleasurable qualities of my maudlin, but not Mauldin, mood. No, best to check my email and get the day's scores.
I go to my laptop to do so and discover that I have two pieces of email waiting for me, both from the Tentacle. One is the game recaps I receive every night, the other is a much longer message that I'll record separately. For now, the summaries: Saturday May 14, 2004 Racine 2 Memphis 0 WP: David Lecompte (1-0) LP: Julio Rosado (2-1) Lecompte came back to haunt his former team today as he shut down the Lumberjacks in 2 sterling innings pitched to help secure the Secrets' first win of the season. He and still decisionless Racine ace Cristian Cortada combined over the nine innings to shut out the vaunted Minneapolis offense in an exciting pitching duel. Rosado pitched the second complete game in Octopus League history well enough to win, but in the end netted his first loss of the season when Secrets 2B Jaime Gutierrez hit a 2 run shot in the top of the 9th to get the game's only runs. Boston 2 New Orleans 3 WP: Carlos Ramos (2-1) LP: Christopher Lobdell (2-1) S: Tony Jacquez (2) The Lobster was given his first loss of the season today as the Mardi Gras celebrated a close win over the Burgundys. A wild pitch by Lobdell in the bottom of the 2nd inning proved to be the key play of the game as it would allow New Orleans 2B Steve Borger to take home, though what would prove to be the winning run was actually scored in the bottom of the 5th by star Mardi Gras C Wayne Dewitt, who hit a double to bring in LF Henry Phillips. Miami 4 Seattle 2 WP: Allen Davidson (2-0) LP: Alberto Avalos (2-1) S: Anton Arispe (2) Davidson's powerful pitching fueled by still lingering resentment over being passed up until the 2nd round of the disperal draft continued today, as he pitched a breathtaking 7 and 2/3 innings, giving up only 1 ER and 1 BB against 9 K's to secure his second win of the season and remain undefeated on the year. No real offensive standout for the Vices, though an insurance run was added in the top of the 9th off of Coffeemen RP Mark Seawell in the shape of a solo HR by 3B David Bailey. Memphis 2 San Diego 4 WP: Heriberto Perez (3-0) LP: Gary Yusuke (0-2) S: Charles Thole (2) Our first 3 game winner was declared today as Bishops ace Perez goes 7 and 1/3 innings, giving up 2 ER and walking 4 while striking out 7. 3B Donald Stine and 1B Jeremy McCleery provided all the offense for San Diego with 2 RBIs a piece, McCleery's coming in the bottom of the 6th with a 2 run HR with 1 out. ***End First Email*** At least we won today. That's all I care about right now. We may still be the last place team, but we're no longer winless. |
The First Turn: Quarterly Analysis of the Octopus League
We're one fourth of the way through the inagural season of the Octopus League and with that in mind, we here at the Tentacle are providing you, the fans, with a quarterly update of leaders, standings, and happenings around the Octopus League. Standings: First up is the most obvious, that of the present standings:  As you can see, the West Division is currently right in line with our preseason predictions and in the precise order we think the final standings will be. Also correct from our preview was that the East Division would be a close race between two teams and that Boston would be close behind, but not have enough to keep pace with them. The suprise? While Miami is one of the East co-leaders as we expected, the Octopus League's most loved/hated team, the Memphis Rebels, is the one tied for first, a complete reversal from our thinking before the season started. Also shocking is expected East Division title contender Racine's bumbling start to go 1-5 in the first quarter of play. Leaderboards: If the standings held a couple of major suprises, the early leaderboard will be even more suprising. Here are the current top 5 players in selected significant statistical categories: Batting Leaderboards: Average: .522 RF Roido "Pokemon" Hachemon (Minneapolis Lumberjacks) .476 1B Neal Penney (Miami Vices) .458 1B George Marconi (Seattle Coffeemen) .455 C Daniel Alvarez (San Diego Bishops) .409 1B Jeremy McCleery (San Diego Bishops) None of these players was expected to be a league leader in batting average. In fact, the only distinction any of these players was expected to have in terms of league leading was in the homerun category, where some speculated Hachemon and Alvarez would show up. A shocking early leaderboard, to be sure. Also worthy of note is that the Bishops, expected to have one of the weakest lineups in the league has two of the top five hitters for average in the first quarter of the season. Homeruns: 3 1B George Marconi (Seattle Coffeemen) 3 1B Jeremy McCleery (San Diego Bishops) We've only included the top two here, since too many players are tied with 2 homeruns to list them. Marconi and McCleery at the forefront are part of the continuing surprise of the first leaders, as neither was expected to be the total package batter that they've shown themselves to be at the start. A caveat to insert here, however: All three of Marconi's homeruns came in one game against the New Orleans Mardi Gras, suggesting an anamoly that will correct itself as the season goes on. RBI: 12 1B George Marconi (Seattle Coffemen) 10 RF Estanis Rodriguez (Memphis Rebels) 09 RF Glenn Reed (San Diego Bishops) 08 C Wayne Dewitt (New Orleans Mardi Gras) 08 3B Edward Mauldin (Memphis Rebels) This section makes a little more sense in terms of its leaders, though Marconi and Rodriguez both come with their asterisks: 11 of Marconi's RBIs came against two games against the Mardi Gras and 8 of Rodriguez's RBIs were courtesy of two games versus the Secrets. In our opinion, by the time the season is over, Dewitt and Mauldin will move up and supplant the early leaders. There's also this to note: A large part of the Rebels' surprising initial success has come because they've been able to score runs. R: 8 3B Bernardo "Saint" Rosado (Boston Burgundys) 8 1B Jeremy McCleery (San Diego Bishops) 7 RF Chris Foster (Boston Burgundys) 7 1B George Marconi (Seattle Coffeemen) Finally, a stat leader that holds water according to our first thoughts. The Saint is blessed with amazing speed and he's managed to use it to tie for the lead thus far in the season in runs. After these four, a bunch are tied with 5 runs a piece. Doubles: 7 1B John Bahr (Boston Burgundys) 4 SS Erik Aitken (Memphis Rebels) 4 C Wayne Dewitt (New Orleans Mardi Gras) One of the slowest players in the Octopus League the current leader in doubles by a wide margin? That's a testament to Bahr's ability to drop hits in just the right spots in the outfield to leg out two-baggers. Walks: 7 3B Edward Mauldin (Memphis Rebels) 6 3B Bernardo "Saint" Rosado (Boston Burgundys) 6 C Wayne Dewitt (New Orleans Saints) 6 CF Darrick "Superman" Carson (Seattle Coffeemen) 5 SS Deon Maya (Miami Vices) In our dispersal draft position preview, we made a lot of the first four players on this list, calling them among the best batters available, both overall and at their respective positions. One of the reasons was their exceptional plate patiences, illustrated here by their leadership in walks. Strikeouts: 8 LF Mariano Ruiz (Memphis Rebels) 7 CF David Goddard (Boston Burgundys) 7 SS Carlos Rivas (Boston Burgundys) 7 C Trevor Lucas (Seattle Coffeemen) 7 1B Patrick Poulos (Minneapolis Lumberjacks) 7 2B Bryan Prioleau (San Diego Bishops) These are the worst of the Octopus League eyes in the early phase. Most particularly offensive is Poulos who has yet to draw a free pass against his 7 whiffouts. The Burgundys seem to be having problems with seeing the ball properly, which likely contributes to the losses in their present .500 record. SB: 4 CF Darrick "Superman" Carson (Seattle Coffeemen) 3 RF Chris Foster (Boston Burgundys) 3 CF Timothy Chesson (San Diego Bishops) A slew of others are tied at 2 SBs. While Carson and Chesson were expected to be here, Foster is a major suprise. It seems as though the Octopus League managers aren't very big on base stealing so far, but that may change as we progress further into the season and see the true speedsters break away from the pack. Pitching Leaderboards: Wins: 3 SP Heriberto Perez (San Diego Bishops) Too many others with 2 wins to bother listing here. What can we say? Though Allen Davidson was viewed by many, including the staff here at the Tentacle as the best available starter, Perez is outdueling Davidson in the early set. Losses: 2 SP Gary Yusuke (Memphis Rebels) 2 SP Mario Troyer (Minneapolis Lumberjacks) It's tough enough being the ace of your staff. It's even tougher when you're the only starter on your team with any losses. Yusuke's had it rough in the early going, but the consensus here is that he'll rebound. As for Troyer, the whole Lumberjacks rotation is horrendous, so his appearance should surprise no one. Saves: 2 CL Charles Thole (San Diego Bishops) 2 MR Mark Seawell (Seattle Coffeemen) 2 CL Tony Jacquez (New Orleans Mardi Gras) 2 CL Anton Arispe (Miami Vices) Our early pick for most valuable reliever and most potent shutdown man is Arispe, who also has a win to go along with his 2 saves. Seawell, while dominant in his first few appearances, has been banged up pretty badly in his last few outings, likely from overwork. The Coffeemen need to use him more sparingly and put their designated closer in more often if they want to keep winning games. ERA: 0.00 SP Lee Estes (Seattle Coffeemen) 1.29 MR Dan Pino (Memphis Rebels) 1.42 SP Tobias Beall (San Diego Bishops) 2.14 SP Allen Davidson (Miami Vices) 2.16 SP Omer Houseman (Memphis Rebels) The Rebels' rotation has been profoundly dominating in the first quarter, as Pino, Houseman, and 6th best league ERA starter Toney Kittleson all boast earned run averages in the low 2s. A caveat to Kittleson, Estes, and Beall, however. They're all third slot pitchers who have only had one game. Thus, the true leader in ERA in the early going in our opinion is actually Davidson, whose proving that the other seven teams made a mistake passing him up in the dispersal draft. Walks: 10 SP Heriberto Perez (San Diego Bishops) 08 SP Gary Yusuke (Memphis Rebels) 08 SP Johnny Silk (Racine Secrets) 07 SP Carlos Ramos (New Orleans Mardi Gras) Control problems seem to be an issue for Yusuke in his early struggles, as he has only 9 K's to go against those 8 free passes. That Perez leads the league in walks isn't as great a concern as one might think, as he leads the league in wins and has impressive K numbers as well (See below). The worst control in this group actually belongs to Secrets number three starter Silk, who has his 8 walks in 2 games, as opposed to the others who have totaled their numbers over 3 games. Strikeouts: 26 SP Heriberto Perez (San Diego Bishops) 23 SP Allen Davidson (Miami Vices) 16 SP Cristian Cortada (Racine Secrets) 14 SP Johnny Silk (Racine Secrets) 14 SP Christopher "Lobster" Lobdell (Boston Burgundys) No surprises here as all of these guys were considered contenders for the title of strikeout king before the season began. What's interesting to observe here is that the Secrets clearly rely on strikeout pitchers, yet they haven't translated those into wins. Team Batting Report:  Team Pitching Report:  Team Fielding Report:  |
The early hours of the morning now... or is it the late hours of the night? "In some dark night of the soul, it is always 3 o'clock in the morning." Thank you, Francis.
It's a time of everything and nothing, these ambigious hours. The world that you most intimately know is sound asleep, leaving you with the sensation that you are one of the last people alive. And yet, there's a certain peace in this. Emotions acquire a flavourful texture, frequently framed in clothing of the Nostalgia style and coloured in memory's favourite hue of amber. To be sure, my recollections of the past spent in this mildly bustling Middlewestern metropolis and invocations of Laura's image have something to do with the dark gold tone that everything presently holds. A stray thought, connecting back to the aforementioned nostalgia. Some would claim that the most beloved colour is in fact not amber, but rather sepia. There are grounds for making such a claim, however, I would argue that it is not so in these modern times of bright tints and crisp shades. Sepia is a frozen beast of the past and is now considered archaic even by those who romanticize earlier epochs. No, it is the sharper, clearer, more vivid colour of amber that deserves the spot of representation. It is more immediate... more striking. And yet, in the next breath of thought, I contradict myself with the passing notion that sepia, by its connotative virtues, is expressive of timelessness, a quality that relative neophyte amber lacks. It does not matter in the end, I suppose, but to go down the road of such thought process will inevitably lead to a mixture of depression and disrupting, jarring panic attacks that will leave me short for breath and running through the hotel's halls, screaming inside for someone, anyone, to come and hold me, embrace me with their tangibility and reality. Let me know I'm still here! Let me know I'm still alive! I don't want to die! I don't want to die! Forever life! Immortality, I do seek thee! |
Stepping out of character and returning to the present, this spate of posts carries us up to the 1/4 of the Octopus League's inagural season and also has us at the last post of page 4 in the Dynasty's original form, so I think it's a good stopping point for now :)
After all, I don't want to overload people with *too* much to read all at once. I'll do the next run of postings some time tomorrow. |
I have no clock on this hotel room desk and I am too lazy to turn around in my chair and check the time reported by the neon red digits on the table next to the bed.
So it is that I am unaware as to the exact time now. All that I know is that some slice of minutes has gone by since I smoked a cigarette to calm my nerves from the looming bogeyman of mortality's fright. Though it would be my assumption that I still have a ways to go before tonight's game, I decide to pull up the Excel sheet where I have been keeping track of my team's statistics and study it, in order to see what changes I should make to preserve our newly found winning ways. First, I shall look at our atrocious batting. A team hitting below .200 is a travesty. This must be rectified. Pardon my disjointment of thought, invisible observer. Too little sleep and too many cigarettes are the culprit. The stats retrieved: [IMG]  [/IMG] ..... Only four of my players are batting above .200? After staring at the lineup card for a while, I finally make adjustments for the versus R/H lineup. The lefties opposing lineup hasn't had a large enough sample size to be properly evaluated yet. New Lineup Versus R/H: 1B Melvin Letendre (Unchanged) RF Bennie Taylor (Unchanged) DH Scotty Harper (Unchanged) SS Josue Grandison (Formerly #7) C Katamor Mito (Formerly #4) CF Delbert Cook (Unchanged) LF Miguel Salinas (Formerly #5) 3B Evelio Olivares (Unchanged) 2B Jaime Gutierrez (Unchanged) All right, so maybe I didn't put in a large a shakeup as I originally planned. Bennie nearly lost his spot to Carmelo Velez, which would have meant a tradeoff in defense for a better bat, until I found out that Carmelo actually hits worse for contact against righties than Taylor does. If Bennie doesn't improve soon, though, I'll be making the change. Josue was the best slugger not presently in the heart of the order and he's been hitting okay, so I plugged him in the cleanup spot and moved Katamor down a slot in hopes of taking pressure off our catcher. Salinas drops a huge 2 places, but with his eyebleeding average, he needs the lowered stress level to have a chance to rebound. My pitching staff is one that I play by ear with regards to the bullpen, but I'll take a look at their stats as well, just for the hell of it: [IMG]  [/IMG] ...I'm not seeing any reason to change the starters or the order. Still, this is looking pretty bloody ugly. There's a knock on the door that turns into my mother when I look through the eyehole outside. Time for breakfast. Pancakes, I am craving. |
In a few more minutes, it'll be time for us to defend our infant win streak. I just hope we can do so successfully, or else our reign will be shorter than Napoleon III's.
The dugout is much more active than on former days, with the players chatting away eagerly between themselves. Lost in my own thoughts, I don't pay much attention until Delbert's voice shoots its way into my ear in conjunction with his elbow smashing into my side to get my attention. "Hey Coach! You missed it last night! We came up with a theme song *and* a nickname for Evelio!" "....This I've got to hear. What is it?" Cook grins at the other players further down the dugout and Josue runs forward, leaping up on the bench to stand alongside of us, the two immediately breaking out into a duet: "Too alarming now to talk about Take your pictures down and shake it out Truth or consequence, say it aloud Use that evidence, race it around There goes my hero Watch him as he goes" Applause breaks out in our sheltered area, accompanied by a few catcalls and whistles of appreciation to our singers. I, on the other hand, am suffering from even greater permanent ear damage than I already have from the horror of Tweedledum and Tweedledumber singing. "Guys, you should go on American Idol. I'm sure Simon would say you're phenomenal talents." "You hear that, Josue? Coach thinks we're that damn good that we should be on American Idol!" "I'm down with that, but only if I get to bang Kelly Clarkson... I'll show her what a moment like this is *really* all about!" Before I can make a cutting remark in reply, the plate umpire pokes his head in and informs us that it's time to get the show on the road. Here we go. Silk versus Garcia. ...I knew it was too good to last. In the bottom of the 2nd, a Hachemon single followed by a Silk wild pitch that advances Roido is the start of a chain combo finished by Noodle Arm Sak who hits a single to bring in the run. 1-0 Minneapolis. Poulos hits another single a few batters later to send Sak home and it's 2-0 Minneapolis. I'm beginning to think I need a new starting pitcher. We get on the board in the top of the 3rd when Mr. Doubles, our first baseman, hits a double to score Our Wannabe Rickey after said secondbaseman stole second following his single. 2-1 Memphis. Hooray! Tied game! The Exceptional Glove in Left hits a double that allows That Japanese Guy to cross the plate, Mito having hit a single in his at-bat. Suddenly I'm feeling like a genius for making the changes to the lineup I did. 2-2 Tie in the top of 4th. ... That didn't last long. A Sucky Hitter Named Hayes blasts a two run homerun in the bottom of the 4th and just like that, we're down 4-2. ...Damn it. Okay, I don't give a flying **** how many people Flea Market Silk strikes out. He gives up a homerun in the next at bat. I'm trading his high ERA ass. ****ing ridiculous. 5-2. Jesus H. ****ing Christ! ...All right, maybe he can stay on the team, since he strikes out Biggest.Asshat.Ever. The Tentacle made a big to-do about the power of the Those Damn Axemen in the preseason and I'm starting to believe it. Another air ball, this one good for 3 runs, comes in the bottom of the 5th, courtesy of Hinds. 8-2 Minneapolis. You know what? I don't give a **** anymore about the strikeouts. I'm pulling Silk and trading his gopher ball shooting ass... tonight! Sax the Pitcher, who hasn't been in a game yet this year, finally gets a chance to play when I send him out to the mound. As if my mood weren't already bad enough, *THE* Asshat gets a single in the bottom of the 6th to bring his average back up over .200, to .231. Midway through the bottom of the 7th, some guy named Cioffi comes in from the Lumberjacks bullpen. Looks like this is his first appearance of the year, too. Hi Cioffi. Hope we blow your ass apart! It's 8-3 now, as The Ungodly Hitting Pokemon Master makes a wild throwing error that assures Gutierrez gets home. In the process though, Bonds. Scotty Harper Bonds. gets jipped out of an RBI. I think I heard on the Internet about some obscure fellow named Eckstein 4 Prez of Anaheim of Los Angeles complaining about the statkeepers in professional baseball these days. Guess he's right. The Saviour plates someone in the top of the 9th to make it 8-4, but I don't really care too much at this point. ...What's this? A 2 RBI single by Mito the next at-bat you say? It's 8-6, you say? Dare I say rally? ...No. Some Guy Of No Relation To Ariel Sharon gets sent in to put out the fire, and despite a single by I forget who now, it ends with the next batter grounding out to the shortstop to end the game. Damn... I was hoping we'd at last have a come from behind victory and a true winning streak going. I should have known we aren't that lucky. After all, this is my team we're talking about here. |
Darling, so there you are
With that look on your face As if you're never hurt As if you're never down Shall I be the one for you Who pinches you softly but sure If frown is shown then I will know that you are no dreamer Why I listen to a video game song now, I do not know. What I do know is that sitting here in the corner, of not a tiny little bar, but my hotel room, I long for the murderous beggar's ecstacy of a cigarette. ...But I shouldn't. My acid reflux has been visiting me again since that bitter loss and my chest always cries out in protest when I smoke under such condition. That my throat hates me the mornings after smoking, particularly when I chain smoke, is of no concern. I never will be a singer, though I do well enough on certain songs. Enough. Email I must check. The day's reports: Sunday May 15, 2004 Racine 6 Minneapolis 8 WP: Alvin Garcia (1-1) LP: Johnny Silk (0-2) S: Andrew Sharon (2) A furious rally by the Secrets was stopped by Sharon, preventing a disasterous collapse on the part of the Lumberjacks. Racine starter Silk was reamed for 8 runs over just 4 and 2/3 innings, the greatest damage done by Minneapolis SS Kenneth Hinds, who had homeruns in the 4th and 5th innings to ring up 4 RBIs that proved to be the difference in the game. Boston 1 New Orleans 7 WP: Joshua Jones (2-1) LP: Gabriel Perras (0-1) Home cooking proved a good meal for Jones, who pitched an amazing complete game, the third in the Octopus League this season, allowing just 1 ER and 1 walk versus 5 strikeouts. The explosion of the Mardi Gras offense was highlighted by RF Ovidio Rico who launched a 2-run cannon to the moon in the bottom of the 3rd inning that proved to be the knockout punch for Burgundys starter Perras. Miami 5 Seattle 6 WP: Mark Seawell (1-1) LP: Anton Arispe (1-1) A tale of two ace bullpen pitchers was the ending to this 12 inning marathon and the result was the reverse of most would have expected. Seawell picks up his first win of the season and told reporters afterwards, "I've been reading the commentaries lately saying the Coffeemen have been overusing me and that I've been getting rocked lately. That made me mad, Allen Davidson mad, and I was determined to get the win today to prove you guys wrong. I did, so now you guys can all eat your words." Arispe, upon hearing of Seawell's words, overturned an empty ice bucket and shouted, "Mark Seawell has no business comparing himself to the greatest pitcher in all of baseball! He may have won this time, but after shooting his mouth off and disrespecting the press like that, this means war. He's damn lucky there's the DH in this league, or I'd plunk him the next time he faced me at the plate!" Could this be the start of another rivalry within the Octopus League? It remains to be seen, but it seems as though the Vices are a team of short-tempered men. Manager Bob Costas declined comment when asked about the issue. Memphis 0 San Diego 5 WP: Jose Leyba (1-1) LP: Omer Houseman (2-1) The House of Cards fell today as the Bishops shut out the Rebels. Leyba pitched a very nice 7 and 1/3 innings, with 0 ER and 4 BB hand-in-hand with 8 K's. Houseman, on the other hand, was shelled for all 5 San Diego runs, all earned, over just 4 and 1/3 innings pitched. Leading the way for the Bishops offense was 1B Jeremy McCleery, who hit a 2 RBI homer in the bottom of the 3rd. ***End Email*** ...I almost wish I was managing the Vices. Damn talented team and passionate like me to boot. Oh well. Florida has too many old people for my tastes anyway. Time to hit the phones and see if I can get rid of that ****ing homer loving jerkoff Silk. |
It is done.
The Silk that once clothed our team's body, however poorly, is now gone, banished to another town, another team. Where are the details of it? In my mind, soon to be released to the mediums of email and hard copy paper, once word is officially sent out. The other manager agreed to fax in the necessary legal documents; all that will be needed is my confirmation on the other end of it. Why the brevity this night? I did not really wish to make this exchange in all actuality, I do not think. That hateful contagion of buyer's remorse is seeping through me, poisoning the air of optimism my mind tries to breathe. Nietzsche might have hated being an -ism. Certainly he was neither atheist, nor anarchist, nor nihilist, nor facist, though all of those groups would claim certain excerpts of his philosophy as evidence for his induction into their memberships. Ahh, poor Fred! To die, insane and beset by syphillis in an asylum, misunderstood in your own time and even centuries after your death! Is this then the necessary price for becoming one of the exalted? To sacrifice happiness in order to achieve a kind of posthumous acclaim? If there be no afterlife, what then the point? What if everything that we do, in the end, means absolutely nothing? Or is it the playing of the game that matters? To be able to cast what ripples one may when one's pebble self is dropped into the ceaseless, frenzied rushing river of Time? I feel old, old and alone. Let me go and smoke. Death will come a little closer, but perhaps in trade, my frame of mind shall be appreciably improved. I will not count on such, however. To have expectations is to be forever disappointed. |
Five minutes later I am still in my hotel room and the remains of a cigarette corpse is sitting in its temporary grave before me. While there is the trace of a subliminal pleasantry skimming along my nerves, it is not enough to overcome the deep dents of my depression.
Too, do my lungs send up a note of complaint concerning the invasion of General Nicotine's chemical-weapon armed army, the body of the letter in the shape of a cough that rattles my body and steals away what miserly amount of warmth the ironically named Lucky Strike has given me. When you love a woman you tell her That she's really wanted When you love a woman you tell her that she's the one Cuz she needs somebody to tell her That it's gonna last forever So tell me have you ever really Really really ever loved a woman? Oh, Mr. Adams, I hate you! Hate you for the beauty of your voice and hate you for the falsehood of your lyrics! Women, fickle and selfish creatures that they often are, only desire to be told they are loved when they are able to entertain notions of romance towards the confessor. If they find themselves incapable of that kind of tenderness, of that type of affection, then they flee... Run away to their happy, sunlit worlds where everyone adores them on a superficial plane, where they may find, in that enchanted garden to which the vulnerable hero of just spoken vulnerability has no access, the creature to whom they will quite eagerly surrender, the sensitive man of the past but a distant memory. It is true that nice people are last and least. To succeed in love, to succeed in work, to succeed in life period, there needs be something of the prick there. If not the actual abrasive ass, then assertiveness at least. For nice people are invertebrates in the main and this, I feel, is their greatest downfall. The sole exception is if they have elements of physical comeliness to them. Beauty and handsomeness, feminine and masculine denotations respectively, are, along with wealth and power, the king and queen makers of this sordid, existential world. Enough! Think of the Secrets! Think of how much our rotation shall be improved now, how it will be possible to still put together a strong showing the rest of the season and still grab that coveted division crown! ...No. I am not Pangloss's fool student. I will not believe. Thomas Covenant was an Unbeliever and a leper. I, too, am a leper, a shunned pariah of every world I travel in. Why else the damnation of our 1-6 start? Never mind. I shall attempt sleep. Come to me, O Morpheus, but give me not the pain of the dreaming! |
Secrets Swap Again
The second trade in Octopus League history transpired last night and once again, the Racine Secrets were involved in the dealings. SP Johnny Silk, heavily criticized by GM/manager Tim Moungey for giving up too many homeruns was traded to the West Division leading San Diego Bishops for MR Wenceslao Martinez. Silk is 0-2 in 3 starts this season with a 10.21 ERA, third in the league with 19 strikeouts. Martinez has pitched in 2 games thus far and sports a 3.60 ERA to show for it, with 1 walk against 5 strikeouts. Squidly Sam's Trade Analysis: Boy, howdy! Moungey in Racine just can't seem to find a combination that's to his liking so he pulls the trigger on another deal! Then again, when you're the worst team in the entire league, anything to shake things up is going to be an improvement. With that in mind, let's take a look at this trade's particulars and impacts. San Diego Bishops Curious trade by the Bishops here, as they give up the guy they view as one of their better relievers for one they instantly plug in a little-used mop-up role. Maybe they're just trying to rebuild Silk's confidence by starting from the ground up. Strang move, but then, people have been questioning the Bishops from their very first pick in the dispersal draft and they've got the best record in the league right now. God works in mysterious ways, indeed, or at least who I think would be his favorite team does. Racine Secrets Martinez, who like many of the bullpen pitchers in the league, has more than enough endurance to be a starter and so that's what he's going to be, penciled in as the end rotation guy. He's got some major control problems, but better to give up a few more walks here and there than to give up the longballs is apparently Manager Moungey's thinking. We'll see how it pans out for them. Final Analysis: I'm having a hard time picking a winner in this one. To me, it seems as though each team took a significant gamble here. Call it a wash, though if I had to pick, I'd give the Secrets the slight nod here, since it addresses what their stated game plan was. That and I'm feeling a little leery about going against them, after Capra has just fizzled for the Lumberjacks and Lecompte has quickly turned into one of the Secrets' most dependanble relievers. Advantage: Racine, but barely. |
Another day, another game, this the last in the Minneapolis-Racine series.
As we mill about in the dugout, making our individual preparations, I find my mind drifting the way of the conversation held only an hour or two before on the phone with the newly excommunicated Secret, now elevated to the status of Bishop. Johnny had actually sounded quite cheerful. "Tim, I just wanted to say thank you for this trade. I loved playing for you in Racine, but my wife is originally from California and she's always talking about moving back there. This gives us the perfect opportunity to do that and it'll allow my kids to see my home games." Here he paused, and I was about to respond with something appropriate to the situation when he broke in again before I could get the chance to speak. "Truth is, Tim... my wife and I.. last couple years our marriage hasn't been too good. In fact, that's part of the reason why I put my name in for the draft... so I could have a couple months away from her and let things cool down for a while. When I got the call last night about the trade, I called my wife immediately after and told her about it... Told her I'd been doing some thinking and that it's time that we packed up and headed back there like she's wanted all these years." I told him that I was glad that I could help and wished him well in restoring his marriage and in rejuvenating his career in San Diego... just to not pitch all that well when he plays us, if he could help it. Then we said our mutual goodbyes and hung up. My ruminations are disrupted by the loud, Donkeyesque voice of Delbert. Delbert "Donkey" Cook. I think I've a new nickname. "Hey Coach! We never did tell you what our new nickname for Evelio is!" "You're right...All right.. what is it?" Grinning, Delbert and Josue jump down from the bench to stand on either side of chestpuffing Olivares, the two prankster bookends bowing deeply with flourishes that are both surprising and sychronized. Josue is the one to speak. "Your Majesty, Lord Timothy of House Moungey, may we present to you the hero of the people and the Secrets... Evelio "Super Boy" Olivares!" Spontaneous applause sounds from the other players in the dugout and even from the first few rows of fans in the stands behind us, the ones that can hear the conversation. Chuckling, I shake my head and rub at my temples. "Cute guys, very cute. All right, so we've got Superboy Olivares and Donkey Cook." Another round of laughter at the unveiled sobriquet for Delbert, who joins in on the laughter. Scotty pipes up just as the minor moment of mirth begins to die away. "All right, boys. Let's go out and win this game for the Donkey and the Superboy! We're going to take this damn series and show that jerkoff Capra who the most superior jackass is!" The War of the Asses. It has a nice ring to it... In any case, round 3. New Secret Martinez versus Troyer. ...Oh wait. We're actually playing a LH? I rush out to the plate umpire and explain that I turned in my righties lineup card by mistake and hand him my lefties card, which he takes in exchange, albeit grudgingly. Here it is: RF Bennie Taylor 2B Jaime Gutierrez 1B Scotty Harper DH Carmelo Velez C Katamor Mito LF Miguel Salinas CF Delbert Cook SS Timothy Sabin 3B Evelio Olivares ....****! The Dark Lord of Jackasses just hit a solo homer in the bottom of the 1st to draw first blood. 1-0 Minneapolis. Grandmaster Clutch in his versus lefties position of the two hole, ropes a double for an RBI in the top of the 3rd that brings Taylor home and ties it all up at 1-1. The Grand Harpist follows that one up with a single to zoom Gutierrez home and give us the lead. Hallejuah! Hallejuah! 2-1 Racine! Insurance time! Sabin rewards me for giving him starts against lefties by popping off a top of the 4th RBI double that notches The .069 Average Left Fielder a run. 3-1 Racine!! Velez finally breaks out of his hitting slump with a a single in the top of the 5th that's good for an RBI and a run by He Who Is Clutch In All Things. 4-1 Racine!!! In the top of the 7th, the Lumberjacks finally decided that Troyer has had enough and summon Some Guy With A 22.51 ERA That Will Pwn Us in relief. After two stolen bases by The Personification of Clutch in the top of the 9th inning, Caramello Bar sends him home with a single. 5-1 Racine!!!! Wow, talk about a game of players facing their former team. Desperate for help, the Free Falling Bunyan Wannabes send in none other than original Secret Mercurio, who promptly gets Salinas to pop up for the 3rd out of the inning. Bottom of the 9th. We have a 4 run lead and are three outs away from our very first series win. The Shiniest New Secret has thrown 110 pitches and indicates with a wave for the mound that he's tired. Do I leave him in and see if he can get our first complete game? Or do I play it safe and look to my pen? ...I'm a sucker for special stats like the complete game. I wave him off and leave Martinez out there. Besides, he's facing the bottom of the lineup. It's not like they're going to do anything. Hayes flies out to Cook in center field. 1 down. Clutch By Definition robs The Synonym For Asses of a hit in the next at-bat. 2 down.... YES!!! YES!!!! Cook catches a fly ball from Poulos for the final out! We have our first complete game in Secrets history and our first series win thanks to a guy we just traded for last night!!! SECRETS WIN THE SERIES!!! SECRETS WIN THE SERIES!!! The rather sizeable minority that is our partisan crowd roars its approval, all of us that are in the dugout and on the field rushing forward to mob Martinez and haul him up on our shoulders. It's a glorious moment for all of us, even sweeter than our first win. San Diego didn't believe in Martinez as a starter, but we did and now he's a part of history. As for me, I consider the Lumberjacks our archrivals both in terms of geography and of team makeup, so that makes this new accomplishment all the more wonderful on a personal level. In the midst of our riotous celebration, Cook breaks away to point and yell at Capra, whose flipping us off from the dugout. "You may be *the* Jackass, but I'm Delbert the Donkey and I'm here to say that *I* am the Ass King! You, on the other hand, are a mere peasant's ass hat! And one more thing..." Everyone in the stadium stops and looks at the confrontation. Cook grins and wheels around to wink at the portion of the crowd in his line of sight when his back is to Sinatra. With cinematic slowness, he then turns back, his grin wider as he stares Capra down with a double handed finger gun point. "Who's the bitch now?!" Best.Question.Ever! |
The lamplit streets of Minneapolis tonight are witnessing the Dionysian celebration of twenty-five quite drunk men in baseball uniforms. Make that twenty-six, for I forgot momentarily that I, too, wear one.
After dinner with my family, they retired to the hotel to go swimming and just spend a relaxing night before going home the next morning. The Secrets, as the casual observer can ascertain, decided to go bar hopping. Oh what a glorious and fun time it was! From Delbert's getting us thrown out of one tavern for mooning the waitress to Scotty forcing us to run for our lives after cracking a Rolling Rock bottle over the head of a man he said "Looked just like that jerk Capra" but who turned out instead to be a pistol packer, we've had our share of thrilling escapades. Sad thing is, I'm too drunk right now to try and think clearly about them. Maybe later I will or something. The colours are so pretty tonight, pretty like the U of MN girl that somebody from our team, I don't know, who is trying to pick up. Why is the world so dizzy all of a sudden? It's spinning... it's spinning... I vaguely feel myself falling and my head hitting the concrete.. and then, everything becomes oblivion. |
In the dawning hours of the morning, just as the sky is beginning to turn its strangely sensual shade of Secrets pink, I awaken in my hotel room to the sound of a battalion of dwarves holding a full combat exercise on the top and in the interior of my skull.
Fortunately, I have brought along Herr Doktor Advil for occasions such as these and two of his orange-clad nurses are dropped down my throat, the lubricant of water used to send them sailing on their way to the destination of rescue mission. I could never date a nurse. In fact, when I discover that a girl has that noble profession as her career and calling, I instantly drop any romantic notions I might have been entertaining towards her. While many men, particularly a certain kind of fetishist, would accuse me of insanity of the highest degree, I hold firm to my line. For you see, for me, nurses smell of death and, being thanatophobic as I am, such a thing is to be avoided. With the grip of liquor induced illness firmly upon me, I crawl over to my laptop, turning on all the lights in the room beforehand to reduce the intensity of the computer screen glare, and check my email. Woeful addict that I am, my compulsion requires that I must find out the scores and summaries of the day, even if I prove to be not much in the mood for it. Monday May 16, 2004 Racine 5 Minneapolis 1 WP: Wenceslao Martinez (1-0) LP: Mario Troyer (0-3) Maybe there *is* a method to Secrets GM/Manager Tim Moungey's madness. The day after he's traded for, Martinez pitches a complete game victory in his Racine debut, giving up only 1 run despite allowing 5 walks versus 4 strikeouts. The Secrets win their first series at the hands of the hated rival Lumberjacks and former Racine 3B George Capra. In charge of the offense for the victors was 2B Jaime Gutierrez, who set a new Octopus League record with 3 doubles in the game and swiped 2 bases. Boston 8 New Orleans 6 WP: Timothy Wickline (1-0) LP: William Reed (0-1) S: Darrell Fish (1) An extra-innings affair that was decided in the top of the 10th with DH Sabino Noriega's 2 run HR to break the 6-6 tie. Mardi Gras starter Victor Purifoy continues to struggle as he allowed 5 ER in just 1 and 1/3 IP, to give him the ghastly season ERA of 18.69 after 2 starts. Miami 8 Seattle 4 WP: John Yun (1-0) LP: Charles Creighton (1-2) S: Anton Arispe (3) While there was no additional chapter written in the Arispe-Seawell saga, what did transpire was Arispe's third save of the season with an absolute shutdown of Seattle's offense: 0 HA, 0 BB, and 0 R in 1 and 2/3 innings as the Vices defeat the Coffeemen. SS Deon Maya was the catalyst for the Miami offense with 5 RBI including a 3 run all arounder in the 1st inning. Memphis 4 San Diego 6 WP: Tobias Beall (2-0) LP: Toney Kittleson (1-1) S: Charles Thole (3) All scoring ended in the bottom of the 5th inning and it was the Bishops who had the final word with 4 runs to make the game the 6-4 score it would end up as being. San Diego C Daniel Alvarez would provide most of the offense in that half frame with a 3 RBI rocket off of Rebels starter Kittleson. From then on, it was the story of the beauty of the bullpens as both relief staffs engaged in flawless lockdown mode. ***End Email*** Timmyland got a mention! Hooray! I go now to pass out in the bed some more. Sleep will be necessary to the crushing of this contagion. |
The south moves north, the north moves south
A star is born, a star burns out The only thing that stays the same Is everything changes, everything changes Indeed, everything does change. Beginning leading to end to beginning and back again in a ceaseless wheel of spinning. Spinning is what my head is doing as I fight against the recurrence of nausea sweeping through my body. Since returning home to Racine, my evenings have been spent in drunken revelry at various bars about town with Delbert, Josue, and faded but not entirely forgotten Mike, the lone non-relative, non-ballplayer I still make association with. These nights have traditionally ended in Delbert and/or Josue charming a drunken girleen of varying attractiveness, the difference in beauty attributed to the variable x, how comely she would look in so-termed normal circumstances, and the variable y, namely how much and how potent the alcohol we have drunk to that point. This, as one might expect, inevitably leads to situations of absurd comedy and discomfort, such as the horror our centerfielder experienced the morning he woke up next to, in his own words, "A girl who was so damn ugly, she made my 94 year old grandmother look like Tyra Banks in a string bikini." Tomorrow is our next game, part of a three-game homestand against... well, I forget in my booze-blossomed haze just now who it is that we are to contest, but let's hope we win at home... Winning on the road is nice and everything, but it does not excite the local fans, least of all the female parts among them. Somewhere along the way of recent days, the second Player of the Week was announced, starter Joshua Jones of the New Orleans Mardi Gras who had a 2-0 record with a complete game and a 0.52 ERA to his accounting. Don't care about him? Neither do I. Time to go drink some more. |
New series, new team. Not a new city though, as we're at home against the San Diego Bishops. This means we'll probably get swept as that team is inexplicably the best record in the Octopus League right now despite not having the best talent. Maybe God *does* smile down on certain teams.
I'm sitting on the bench, feeling green around the gills from last night's drinking session. Most of the rest of the team looks equally haggard, except for Katamor, who isn't a drinker, the night in Minneapolis excepted. As a result, it's up to him to get us going.. and he tries, clapping his hands softly so as not to disturb our headaches, his voice kept low. "Come on guys.. It will be tough, yes, fighting the mighty Bishops when we are weak and tired, but we can do it. Yes, we can win! Be the ball, the bat, and the glove, and we will win!" At any other time, I might have wondered about the physiological logistics of splitting one's spirit into three parts and parceling off each section into a different entity, but for now I simply nod dully my agreement along with the rest of the squad. ...****ing great. We've up against none other than Heriberto Perez, the league leader in wins with 3. Against him is Cortada, who has yet to get a decision. Say hello to number 4, Heriberto. ...I can only stare numbly as, in the top of the 3rd, Birmingham races for a double and gets hurt when he crashes into Macdaddy C. Lutch. They bring on for a pinch runner none other than Some Guy With A Speed Rating of 12! 12 speed, PINCH RUNNING?! The mind boggles at the insanity of it all. And of course the very next at-bat, Reed, Not Jeremy, but Glenn hits a ****ing triple to make it 1-0 San Diego. The pounding in my head triples in intensity. Luckily a strikeout and an amazing defensive stop by Superboy get us out of the inning without allowing the second run that I'd feared we'd give up. The pitcher's duel continues until the top of the 7th when Aitken hits a solo shot to make it 2-0 San Diego. I'm too numb right now to notice or care much, though. One thing I'll say though, thus far watching Our Decisionless Ace go up against The One Pappenfuss Hates has been thrilling baseball if you're a fan of the K like I am. The strikeout scoreboard right now: Cortada 7, Perez 10. In the top of the 9th, Cristian signals that he's tired, but I don't care. The K count reads: Cortada 8, Perez 10 right now, and I want to see him get 10 strikeouts if he can manage it, even if it means we lose this game. ...And in the end, 2-0 is what the final score is. Curious thing, though. Instead of depression, our hung over asses are happy and all of us in the stadium, the Secrets, the Bishops, and the people in the stands, get up and applaud, giving both complete game pitchers a standing ovation. They deserve it. What an amazing game. I grab the complete box score before I leave: Code:
1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 R H E |
For once, I opt out of the drinking shenanigans that have become part of the Secrets lore and instead settle in for an evening in the privacy of my bedroom watching raunchy teen comedies on my laptop.
What I wouldn't give to have a Helenic beauty such as are in some of those films by my side! And yes, Helenic is what I mean, not Hellenic. I am preferential to blondes and not the darker colours and curls often found in Grecian women. Indeed, though I also have prediliction for onyx-haired females, their provinces where the citizens that attract my interest dwell are limited to two in number: Oriental girls and so-called Gothics. Ah, I suppose that I should check my email and provide the day's updates. But no, I will save that another period. For now I shall watch, I shall dream, and I shall fantasize. Beauty, be mine! |
My email whimpers from its feminine veil of soft blue light, imploring me to check it. 'Come, come, let your records know of the day's events!', it cries. I, heartless prick that I am, do not listen, my mind too awash in the lavender haze of introspective memory. It will be noted that it is not amber mentioned here. There is reason for such.
Amber is strictly the reminescence, the savouring of experience suspended and fixed forever in time. Lavender, by virtue of its varied connotations, carries with a certain timelessness, a representation of the collective wisdom of the ages, and in that invocation of wisdom, the mulling of thought I have termed introspection is inherent. Furthermore, by way of such intense internal investigation, lavender's body of knowledge is added to. This room, formerly bedroom, then library, now hybrid betwixt book sanctuary and sleeping place, holds within it innumerable memories of my childhood, my teen years, and my young adult years. Here is the chalkboard on which my sister, ten years my senior, and I engaged in drawing wars, frequently over the merits of the clawless Chicago Bears versus the magical Miami Dolphins. Even now, I have enshrined in squares of white chalky protection two sketches of the mascots done by my far more artistic sibling, the Bear naturally coming out better than the Dolphin, but both far better than anything I could ever hope to accomplish. For those of later years who may stumble upon this and deride the notion of anything positive associated with the Dolphins, it must be said that the years the board covers are those of the 80s, when Marino and Shula were king, and a pair of Marks were simply Super Duper. Scattered on the shelves that line entirely two of the four walls of the room are texts of wide-ranging difficulty and subject material, from the stressed spine Ramona series books of my elementary years all the way to scholarly investigations into Taoism picked up during my college wanderings and everything in between. They, too, have recollections affiliated with them. Point to any one of them and I could tell you a story in my life related to it in some way. A random thought. Is the self I was back in my boyhood days linearly and historically connected to the alleged man I am now? Or is this manic-depressive male of hairy limbs that I presently am incommensurate to that wide-eyed little dreamer who dared to believe anything possible? It is a question I must answer another time. For now, the bathrobe of exhaustion that I wear, riddled by the moth holes of fragmentary thought as it is, compels me to sleep. And so I shall. Morpheus, bless me with beauty in the dreaming. |
I awaken sometime near the traditional lunch hour of the day, the sunlight streaming through the cheap, plastic faux wood blinds of my window and demanding that I throw off my blankets and get up.
Reluctantly, with all the enthusiasm of a stoned slug, I do so, slogging my way to the laptop to at long last check the e-mail from the games of the day before: Saturday May 21, 2004 San Diego 2 Racine 0 WP: Heriberto Perez (4-0) LP: Cristian Cortada (0-1) Quite possibly the best game to date in the infancy of the Octopus League. A real pitchers' duel that ended up with both starters tossing complete games and accumulating a phenomenal amount of strikeouts: 12 for Perez, 8 for Cortada. RF Glenn Reed got the only RBI needed for the Bishops with a triple with 1 on in the 3rd and SS Erik Aitken provided the insurance with a solo homer in the 7th. Perez adds another bullet to the ongoing debate as to whether he or Davidson is the best pitcher in the league by getting the Octopus League's first-ever shutout. Seattle 2 Boston 10 WP: Christopher Lobdell (3-1) LP: Lee Estes (0-1) An absolute massacre as Estes is reamed for 5 runs in just 2 and 2/3 innings that came as a result of hitting a lot of singles, thus proving the importance of having a lineup that hits consistently for average. All is not roses in Boston, however, as Lobster Lobdell was vehement in his complaint about being taken out of the game with just 1 out remaining: "That's just a load of (expletive). We were up by 8 runs and they only had 1 out remaining. If (Burgundys manager) Frank Lee doesn't have the faith to keep me in there in a situation like that where I'll have no problems getting the complete game, I want out!" Is a trade brewing in the future? We'll see, but it's another interesting dramalet in this young season. New Orleans 2 Miami 3 WP: Allen Davidson (3-0) LP: Joshua Jones (2-2) S: Anton Arispe (4) Davidson wasn't going to let Perez's sterling accomplishment go unchallenged as he pitches a solid 7 and 1/3 innings, good for 1 ER and 6 BBs against 8 Ks. While the control problems surprised many in the stands, it was good enough to down the Mardi Gras and extend his perfect winning streak. 20 year old 3B David Bailey nailed home all 3 RBIs for the Vices, most from a 2 run homerun in the 1st inning. Minneapolis 9 Memphis 2 WP: Julio Rosado (3-1) LP: Omer Houseman (2-2) When the Lumberjacks' offense gets going, it really gets going, as evidenced by this blowout of the fastly fading Rebels. While Rosado was pulled with 1 out remaining, much in the same way that Lobdell was, he offered nothing in the way of complaint, instead saying, "Hey it's good for guys in the pen to go out and get some practice pitching. Statistics are just statistics. It's the ring that matters in the end." LF David Hayes provided most of the offensive spark for Minneapolis with 2 2-out doubles with 2 men on (say that three times fast) in the 4th and 5th innings, good enough to rack up 4 RBIs. Like his team, Houseman seems to be fading after a fast start. He's been chased early out of the last two games he's pitched and it's looking as though his early success was just a fluke. ***End Email*** Lunch time. I hunger. |
It's later in the day now, midafternoon in point of fact. Game time is at last here after the past 24 hours seemed to go on forever.
Chapa versus Beall. I have a feeling we're going to get destroyed again. Maybe I should try trading for the Lobster. ...****. This is going to be a long game. Top of the 2nd, Chavarria smacks a 2 run boomtown blast that makes it 2-0 San Diego. I really should trade for Lobster. .... Chapa's getting traded after this game. Another damn homerun given up, this time in the top of the 3rd to Prioleau. 3-0 Bishops. Damn it! Our Weakly Ranging Right Fielder closes the gap for us in the bottom of the 3rd with a 2 RBI double that brings across the plate Superboy and Divine Holy Saviour. 3-2 San Diego. Maybe we can pull this out. I'm still of a mind to ditch Chapa and actually, while I'm thinking of it, Katamor is like ice with the bat and I'm not so certain his defense is good enough to justify keeping him around like with Salinas. Maybe I should think **** about my players more often and mull over trading them, because in the bottom of the 6th, our Employment Endangered Easterner pops off a solo diamondrunner to tie it up 3-3. Holy ****! Holy ****!! Macdaddy Pimp Cook fires off a follow-up force beam to make it 4-3 Racine! Hey, guess what there Delbert? You just may have helped saved your teammates' asses! In the bottom of the 7th, Robichaud of the 54.05 ERA comes in. You know what that means... we'll be iced out from here until the end of the game, since God hates me and is just toying with me by giving my team the lead. I'll get crushed in the 8th and 9th innings and end up gnashing my teeth. Watch. ...Damn it. Chapa though he insists he isn't tired, is melting in the top of the 8th... men on 1st and 3rd with no outs. I yank his ass from the mound and send in Valderrama, who has the stuff to strike these guys out and the movement and control to keep from ****ing up too badly. And he gives up a ****ing double to ****ing Chesson! 4-4 tie and still no outs. **** YOU FRANCIS VALDERRAMA! YOUR ASS WILL BE GONE! **** **** **** **** **** ****! A 2 RBI double by Their Insanely Brilliantly Hitting Catcher I Should Trade For later, and it's 6-4 San Diego. May you both burn in Hell, Valderrama and Chapa! That's right. Just keep piling on the ****ing runs, you asshats in funny ****ing hats. The Grossly Underachieving Stine loops a single to drive in another run and make it 7-4 Bishops. Yeah, what a time for a guy scouted as having 100 contact rating but with a present .275 average to break out of his slump. Francis begs for mercy and motions to be taken out of the game. I give him the Glare of Steely-Eyed Doom. **** it. The game is lost. Let him feel the pain of my unholy wrath! In the top of the 9th, they bring their closer, Thole of the Holy Trinity of Saves. Evidently they want him to keep pace with Anton Arispe. Not that he'll have any problem with how ****ing pathetic our team is in clutch situations outside of His Holiness of Clutch Gutierrez. ...And we go out not with a bang, but with a ****ing crybaby whimper. Not even a man on-base. Score this one a 7-4 loss. ****ing A. I can't even stand to look at my dejected players. Instead, I grab one of the cheap as **** practice bats recently bought from Target and smash it against the outfield fence on my way out the park. It shatters and splinters slide their slender selves in my the flesh of my hands, drawing forth quite a lot of pain and what will probably end up being infection, but I don't give a ****. Easily the worst damn collapse we've all had ****ing season. Somebody will pay for this travesty. Oh yes, someone will bloody effing pay. |
Well east coast girls are hip
I really dig those styles they wear And the southern girls with the way they talk They knock me out when I’m down there The mid-west farmer’s daughters really make you feel alright And the northern girls with the way they kiss They keep their boyfriends warm at night I wish they all could be California I wish they all could be California I wish they all could be California girls The west coast has the sunshine And the girls all get so tanned I dig a French bikini on Hawaii island Dolls by a palm tree in the sand I been all around this great big world And I seen all kinds of girls Yeah, but I couldn’t wait to get back in the States Back to the cutest girls in the world A full three hours later, I have pulled all the splinters from my skin, stigmataesque holes left in their wake. While initially perverse lovely in their minute dotting of the flesh, their clarity was marred the moment that my hand slid over an object, in this case the steel handrail leading up to a bar near the park. Its name is not important. No, what matters is that, after ascertaining the place was vacant of any Secrets, I slid my way into a stereotypically shadowy corner booth, whereupon I started ordering alcohol in the midst of chain smoking. Two hours and forty five minutes after entry, I am not only considerably drunk, but am amplified in the pleasantly melancholy detachment common to liquor by way of pairing with it tobacco and nicotine. It needs only the caffeine and sugar of a mocha to make the triad of alterants complete. Even as brief as a few months ago, it was my intention to have firmly secured my way out of this town, to escape the chafing chokehold that the Upper Midwestern world places upon the creative spirit. This northcentral region, with its unaccented speakers, drab Protestantism, and rustic, ruggedly individualistic mindset ill suits me. Give me the vitality and history of the East Coast, the rejuvenating air and balmy temperatures of the West Bank! Either extreme will do; in fact, anything at will far surpass the ennui of my home area, save for perhaps the crawling cockroach tedium of the Deep South, with its slavish fundamentalist Christianity and the girls of voices that I can not stand, even if other men hold their tonalities in highest esteem. There is a difference in women as well, according to geographic divide. While the Beach Boys have succintly described this in an earlier decade, my neurotic mind feels the desire to provide a contemporary update. I begin with my native section. The Middle West is, by and large, composed of obese women who lose their beauty and thinness around the age of 23, if not sooner. Even among those who do not acquire the approximate width and circumference of Jabba or the Stay-Puft Marshmallow Man (or should it be Woman?), there is a diminishing of attractiveness that is appalling to witness. Too, these central females tend to, by and large, be either quite conservative or simply psychotic if they are liberal. Contrast this with the East Coast, where, by and large, beauty is preserved well into the third decade and even beyond. Similarily, there is a refreshing continuation of intellect and capability on the part of the women of the former colonies. Is it any wonder that many of the best universities in these Divided States are on our earliest of shores? Ah, Nassau Hall, had I but applied to be within your borders! But no, I was cowardly and fled ere I stepped up to battle... and have paid for it ever since. From East we swing down to the South where, as I have noted, the speech patterns are strictly a matter of acquired taste. Here, loveliness lasts until about the age of 18, whereupon they acquire a used look not uncommon to those of hookers on the streets of New York and Las Vegas. It is no suprise to me that the lowest ages of majority are found in these states. After all, the window of opportunity for enjoying a pretty girl is much narrower than in other regions of the country. In terms of intellect and disposition, they tend to be much the same as this slice of America. Outward we go, saving the best of regions for last, that of the West Coast. While much has been made of the NoCal/SoCal divide, I will here submit that the most beautiful, most intelligent, and most charming women are found in the State of the Golden Bear. Much like those Boys of the Sands alluded to in song, there is something indescribable and mystical about the girls born in or living in this state. Out of all the girls that I have loved or been very much attracted to, a good three-quarters of them have had affiliations with California. I could expound for hours on this subject, but let me hold it and explore it a little more fully on a night when I am not so inebriated, not so divergent in the stream of my thought. Oregon and Washington will no doubt angrily protest their exclusion in my analysis of the Coast, West, but that is too bad. California is simply too great a giant to allow those dwarven states any share of the spotlight. Any mind readers in the vicinity will note that I do not include any of those Western states that sit betwixt Midwest and California Coast. There is reason for that. Firstus, there is too small a sample size to deal with. Secondus, there is such disparity in the personality of the states in that area that to try and assign definitive characteristic to the women of the region would be a futile and foolhardy task. The train of my thought is interrupted by the realization that the room is spinning. Let me now go home, while I still can make it without blacking out in some filth-ridden gutter. Filth, indeed. My team, my life, my very being... all trash. I depart. |
My calendar and clock conspire to inform me that it is early Monday morning. Appropriate, for these dawning hours carry with them the tedium and depression that always come with the beginning of an official workweek.
Garfield, your pain I feel. It is with a considerably degree of lethargy and apathy that I retrieve my email. Another day, another loss to see. Sunday May 22, 2004 San Diego 7 Racine 4 WP: Michael Robichaud (1-1) LP: Cristian Chapa (0-2) S: Chad Thole (4) Though the loss was officially accorded to Chapa due to the 2 inherited runners he left RP Francis Valderrama to deal with, in our opinion it is the Secrets bullpen that blew this game. Thole continues to suprise as a dominant closer and it was DH Edgar Chavarria's 2-run homer in the top of the 2nd that drew first blood. Seattle 4 Boston 1 WP: Alberto Avalos (3-1) LP: Joe Dryer (1-1) It was a tale of two divergent performances by the starters in this game, as the Coffeemen's Avalos was excellent in allowing just 1 ER over 8 and 1/3 innings, with 2 BB opposing 7 K. In contrast, Dryer was taken apart for 4 ER in 6 IP with a dreadful 4 BB to 2 K. 3B Anthony Dilworth was the differencemaker for Seattle on offense with 2 RBI, one of which came on a sacrifice fly. New Orleans 6 Miami 7 WP: Anton Arispe (2-1) LP: William Reed (0-2) Arispe showed again why he's one of the most dominant closers in the Octopus League by finishing off the Mardi Gras in the top of the 9th to win the game. The victory for the Vices was secured in the bottom of the 9th, when 2B William Canterbury hit a solo rocket to pick up his second RBI of the contest and break the 6-6 tie. Minneapolis 2 Memphis 5 WP: Toney Kittleson (2-1) LP: Alvin Garcia (1-2) S: Luis Soriano (2) The Rebels finally snap out of their losing funk with a win over the Lumberjacks. Garcia was reached for all 5 Memphis runs over just 3 and 2/3 innings, 4 of them earned. By comparison, Kittleson surrendered only 2 ER and 2 BB against 6 K over 7 and 1/3 IP. The batting hero for Memphis? DH Mariano Ruiz, who had 2 RBI to go with 2 SB. ***End Email*** ...I sure hope we can win today. I don't want to get swept at home... again. |
Afternoon now and game time is scant minutes away.
The dugout is quiet to the point of being sombre. Still, we have some measure of hope in winning this game. Why? Because Martinez, the former Bishop who pitched a complete game victory for us, has his turn up in the rotation and we're all hoping he can continue his magic against his old team. Countering him will be Leyba. Let's roll.. and please God, if you don't hate me, let me at least win one game against your chosen team. Jesus H. ****ing Christ! Okay, it's official. God bleeping hates me! The gem of a pitchers' duel continues until the top of the 5th, when quite naturally, we're the first ones to get bitten. Our Once Upon A Time Pitching God gives up a 2-run moonshot to The Grand Chessmaster and we're down 2-0. ...Well, we're drawing closer at least. The Infrequently Used Caramelo Bar snipes a sharp single, sending to safety Superboy. 2-1 San Diego. In the top of the 7th, The Excommunicated Bishop is gasping for breath, and since we've got a shot at this one, I pull him, choosing Our Relief Hero, The Former Lumberjack as the cavalryman. With 1 out in the bottom of the 7th, The Guy Who Iced Us Last Night comes on in relief. He'll likely shut us down again, knowing our crummy luck. Hooray!!!! In the bottom of the 8th, Slumping Secret Agent Man finally cracks some of the ice that's been accumulating off his bat and hits a complete circuit! Tied score! 2-2! ...Top of the 9th. Leave Lecompte in or pull him for Moody? The one and only time I yanked Lecompte, Donald blew the save and we lost. In stays Ye Olde Reliefe Gode, who rewards me with a scoreless frame! Now... if we can just frigging score... Our Impotently Hitting Left Fielder is robbed of a hit, followed by The Pimpest Cook ever's getting a single, which leads directly to Repulsive Robispierre's Relative getting pulled for Hanging Chad. I'd dearly love to rob Thole of a win, especially since I've secretly become a big fan of The Oft-Mentioned Anton. ...Damn. The bottom of the 9th ends without scoring. Did I mention that Chad the Twit has a 0.00 ERA through 6 games pitched? Yeah, I want to destroy that bit of perfection too. We're good through the top of the 10th and now we've got another shot at cracking The Ath-Thole. ...Damn it. We waste a beautiful Bonds triple. On we trudge to the 11th. Two strikeouts and a walk later, and Our Relief Genius is out of energy. Joy. After looking over our anemic bullpen corps and noting that McCleery the Slugger Demon is up, I turn to the guy with best rated movement, namely... Sir Robert Stiltner of The County of 0-1, Riding His Mighty Steed of 9.00 ERA. ....Lovely. I smell loss number 2 coming up. Shock of all shocks, he gets the out on a grounder, and we have new life in this, the bottom of the 11th. Interesting substitution here as God's Beloved Ballplayers have put in a catcher with an arm even weaker than their starter. How weak? 28 rated according to the Tentacle. That's how weak. ...Bleh. That Damn Ath-Thole taps after 1 out and escapes unblemished, leaving us to face Random Guy named Lee Keitt with a 10.80 ERA. You know what that means by now. Our bats get murdered. Key it up, cuz it's true! I just decided it's my fault if we lose this game. The Left Fielder Who Hates Batting And Has The .047 Average To Show For It was just allowed to hit again and of course he became our second out. Why don't I pinch hit for him? Oh yeah, probably because my bench sucks, except for Manly Melvin. Damn it. Nothing doing. 12th inning, here we come. But wait! All we need is just one flipping run because we 1-2-3 them in the top of the 12th! Come on guys... just one measly run! Please?! ...And of course, the torment continues when we go 1-2-3 ourselves. I sigh in weariness in the dugout. Inning 13 rolls around. In a game that has seen some really crazy **** go down, the cake is taken in the top of the 13th. Bishops on first and third, 2 outs. Noodle Arm Landry, the backup catch, hits a screaming line between first and second and I'm thinking, "Damn it, there goes the game..." when The Best Clutch Man Since Jeter comes diving in to spear the drive and throw out Landry at first, just barely nipping him! I'm cheering in the dugout and exchanging hi-fives with the bench, when Father George Ayorinde, the manager of the Bishops himself, comes charging out and arguing with the umpire! We watched, transfixed, as the spat ensues: "Ump, I feel that was a most unjust call. Surely you do not see that God would not want you to make a sinful error of this magnitude. Recall it, for he was quite clearly safe." The first base umpire stares at the priest for a minute before turning and hacking a loogy into the dirt. "Father, I'm sick of you Catholic priests always thinking you can just throw your weight around and call the shots. You're out of here!" Pandemonium ensues in the stands, our remaining fans roaring in exultation. Ayorinde is stunned, unable to believe for a momen that he's ejected, but when the home plate judge starts mincing his beer-bellied body forward, Father George turns and leaves the field in disgrace, not saying a blessed word, though quite a few damned ones, if the look on his face is anything to judge. After about five minutes, the crowd calms, and it's with new life that the Secrets approach the bottom of the 13th... or so I hope. An out and a single by Reforged Bonds later, we've got a new Bishops pitcher, some guy named Perez. Yeah, I don't care either. Let's just score off this guy so we can all either go get smashed or go home. On a hunch, I have Bonds go for second... and he gets the steal! This is a good thing, since Candy Man hits better with runners in scoring position. ...Except when he strikes out. Katamor grounds out and we drag our weary bodies to, yes, that's right.. the 14th inning. Things Fall Apart. A Chinua Achebe novel and what happens to us in the top of the 14th. Stilts Boy gives up a walk and a single, and much to my surprise, after the single, they send out none other than Our Old Starting Pitcher as a frigging PINCH RUNNER! Granted, Johnny's helluva fast and can steal bases... but a pitcher as a bloody PR?! God DAMN IT!! ....Well, he's damned us, that's for damn sure. Robber Baron Left Fielder Villalobos, whose stolen at least *3* hits from us this game with his brilliant glove, hits a 2 RBI single to make it 4-2 Bishops. Oui B Dun. Mr. Anti-Hit gets a single in the bottom of the inning. I instantly have him steal second while Cook flies out. Sabin is up next, but his bat sucks, so I finally go to my bench... and select Our Saviour since we're finally against a right handed pitcher again. Sure he's only hitting .091, but I figure this is his chance to prove he's clutch. Besides, he's got the best versus R/H power out of anybody else on the bench. YES! YES! I am PRESCIENT! What does my man Josue do? Hits a 2-run homer! 4-4 Tie! Come on guys, score me another run! God damn, do I feel like a genius manager now! ...We can't put together another run unfortunately which means, yep, inning 15. The Decaying Stilt gives up another single, so I yank him for The Sax Man, keeping with the idea of the best movement reliever. He musically gets us out of the frame with no damage and we have chance number 9,671 to put this game away in the bottom of the 15th. Oh and just when I thought their catcher's arm couldn't get any worse, they bring in a fellow with an arm rated at 11]! For reasons unbeknowst to me, after a fly-out by Verra Verra Velez, they bring on a reliever alliteratively named Mikel Miller. Yeah, I don't care about this one either. Just give us the damn run, you hosebeasts! Blargh! 1-2-3 inning and we're looking at the 16th inning. Now I love the number 16, since it's my birthday number at all, but this is almost as long as two complete baseball games by itself. Another clear half-frame and by now I'd sell my soul to Satan if we could just get a run and close out this game with a W. ...Evidently Satan thinks my soul is SOC, because we don't even get a man on base. Say hello to our 17th inning of the game! ****. There goes the game. The Man I Hate Most: Villalobos just hit a solo shot. 5-4 San Diego. Richard Lewis comes on after one out. Who gives a rat's ass what his name is? He'll still clean our clocks to secure the win for the effing Bishops. ....This is a crowning insult. A guy rated with a STUFF OF 8! STRIKES OUT OUR LAST TWO GUYS Too furious to even try to speak, I turn about, smash my head as hard as I can against the back of the dugout, and black out. Anything is better than having to be consciously aware of this loss. |
Even in a room filled with silence, there will still be the unescapable presence of sound. Such is the case here in my lonely, untidy bedroom/library, where, even as I sit on the day bed that serves as my sleeping place, I still hear the rustle of the nocturnal breeze outside, a humming in my ears sourced from the throb of pain whose origin point is the hard lump of a grape that is the bruise on my forehead.
The others are out doing their usual bar routine. I have opted to stay home and escape the world... to stay cocooned in the wastelands of my miserable contemplations. People are my antithesis in this hour, most particularly that craven prick some call God. My thoughts are disjointed, poorly constructed affairs, without substance or sensibility. Let me hunt among my books in hopes of finding something, anything, that will arrest this insufferable tedium. Just as I'm about to begin searching, the light bulb over my head pops, exploding in a brief flash that signals its expiration. ... Much like my life in general, the light has gone out, leaving me in a vast void of oppressive darkness. Will I never see the glory of happy illumination again? |
Love
My love I regret the day you went away I was too young To understand my love But now I realize my mistakes Where Where are you now Now that I'm ready to Ready to love you the way you loved me then Where are you now Do you still think of me Or does your heart belong to someone else's Love Oh my love Wonder sometimes were you just a dream I sit in the dark Wondering if our paths Will ever cross again Oh lord I need to know I sit and wonder Where Where are you now Now that I'm ready to Ready to love you the way you loved me then Where are you now Do you still think of me Or does your heart belong to someone else's If I close my eyes And make a wish When they open will you be right here with me Where are you now Now that I'm ready to Ready to love you the way you loved me then Could it be That two people Were meant to be In my dreams That's what I feel Or could it be that I'll never see you again My love that was so true Still I'll sit here waiting all alone By the phone for you Now I understand (now I understand) When you said I love you I sit and wonder Where Where are you now Now that I'm ready to Ready to love you the way you loved me then Where are you now Do you still think of me Or does your heart belong to someone else's A song of bittersweet tragedy, a ballad of epiphany and the quest for redemption and recovery of what was once had, then lost. Would it not be bright and beautiful if this were to come true more often? If, a girl, young and fickle, after casting out the one who would have done everything and anything for her, realized her error and came rushing back with wide flung arms, eager to embrace that which she had so foolishly tossed away? Yet, it does not happen. That is the cruel and the deceitful irony of music, literature, and film when treating the subject of love. We fantasize, we dream, we hope, and we pray to whatever deity we may have that the detonation of our hearts may yet be undone, that our souls may be restored by the balm of requited love, the rejuvenation made all the sweeter for that period of loss, when we wandered through the desert of despair, disheveled and dispirited. But it is never the case, or at least, it is so rare that when it does happen, we are either inclined to call it a miracle on the order of water transfigured to wine or to disbelieve it as something that is on the level of a fairy tale. There is nothing more fickle and cold than the heart of a loved teenage girl. |
I no longer remember what day it is and can only deem from the faintness of the light flickering through my window that it is the early hours of morning as the sun gets up and reports to work.
My middle nightly rumination of a few hours before does not seem so profound and striking now, but such is always the ways of things. That which acquires a deep level of meaning and import when garbed in the sensual black velvet of night's cloaking becomes, by the time the overpowering day is arisen, a thing of ash, a dusty body that is easily ignored in the freshly sprung hope that the hours of light often provide. Or, to provide the converse of the example and go from positive to negative, the inspirational beauty seduced from the bar the evening before turns out to, upon wakening, resemble one's as of yet unknown future mother in law when that battleax turns 80. Mr. Cook can certainly tell you that much. Blink. Blink. Flash. Flash. All right, email. I will check you, much as I don't want to. Monday May 23, 2004 San Diego 5 Racine 4 WP: Mikel Miller (1-0) LP: Scott Sax (0-1) S: Richard Lewis (1) The longest game in Octopus League history, this battle of bullpen attrition was an epic war waged over the span of nearly a full 6 hours and a complete 17 innings. LF Freddie Villalobos was the hero for the Bishops, netting 3 RBIs, including the game-winning homerun in the top of the 17th, and playing absolutely stellar defense that robbed the Secrets of hit after hit after hit. Seattle 4 Boston 3 WP: Jesus Loera (1-0) LP: Jerome Wallach (0-1) Another extra-innings affair and bullpen killer, this one took a total of 12 entire frames before it ended thanks to Seattle 1B George Marconi's solo shot in the top of the 12th. New Orleans 1 Miami 3 WP: John Yun (2-0) LP: Felix Fontaner (0-1) Finally a game that went the normal 9 innings. This one was a victory for the Vices largely due to Yun's excellent outing. In a complete game gem, he allowed just 3 hits and 1 earned run, giving up 2 walks and notching 5 strikeouts. Two empty base homeruns in the 1st and 8th innings respectively by CF Curtis "CJ" Jones provided all the offense Miami needed. Minneapolis 4 Memphis 5 WP: David Robinson (1-0) LP: James Dutil (0-1) Evidently this was extra-inning day here in the Octopus League, as this one also went a complete set of 12. The victory came for the Rebels in the bottom of the 12th after a double by 3B Edward Mauldin set up C Andre Carreiro to send out the single that would bring Mauldin home. Good thing these marathons all occurred on the last day of a three-game set, as the bullpens for all six teams involved will get a chance to rest. ***End Email*** Indeed. I think we're all exhausted after that last one. Time for me to go and see about this thing they call breaking fast. |
A misprint in the Tentacle said that SP Toney Kittleson of the Memphis Rebels was the Player of the Week with a 5.84 ERA and a 1-1 record. I don't know who actually won the award, but it was amusing to see the following line "Toney Kittleson of Toney...."
It is now Sunday, May 29, the last game of both the month and the first half of the season. We're back in Boston, playing the Burgundys. Will we get beaten to drop to 0-3 on the season against them? Probably. Cortada versus the pitcher I've secretly dreamed of trading for, Lobster Lobdell. We're going to be slaughtered. What's this?! Oh my God! Killer Katamor rips off a two RBI laser beam that also brings home Our Saviour and makes it 2-0 Racine in the top of the 2nd! Do we have an upset coming?! Oh my sweet Lord in Heaven! Happy Harper smacks a solo shot in the top of the 7th and it's 3-0 Racine! I'm dancing in the dugout and the rest of the team is up in arms cheering as well. Most notable part of this game thus far: The Cristian Who Is The Victim Of Poor Run Support has struck out 6 through 6 innings. The jubiliation continues in the top of the 8th, when after Most.Clutch.Player.Ever. gets a single and steals second, then gets driven home by Macdaddy Melvin. 4-0 Racine! Our Cristian Ace's shutout bid ends in the bottom of the 8th after Goddard singles in a runner. 4-1 Racine. God, I hope we don't blow this. After Saint Bernado is walked, Cristian signals that he's tired, so I send in Stiltner Who Hates The Longball as the relief, largely because Doubling God Bahr is at the plate. ....And what the **** happens?! That Jerkoff Stilt Walker gives up a 3-run homer to Bahr That Lead From Staying. 4-4 tie. ARGH! I grab the Gatorade cooler that's sitting near the dugout and smash it on the ground, popping it open and spilling Riptide Rush everywhere. I don't give a ****. Let the ****ing janitors clean that **** up! Top of the 9th and Lobster gets pulled for none other than Gload Wickline With The Confusing ERA Of 5.87. Guess he hasn't been so clutch after all, despite sporting a 1-0 record with 1 save. Watch, he'll go to 2-0 versus us. Or maybe not, since he gives up a single to Man of the Moment Mito and is pulled for Benji the Sheepdog Reliever With A Flawless ERA. Guess what I want to do? That's right... murder that pretty little 0.00. I love Jaime Gutierrez and I don't care who knows it!!! The Clutch Genius comes through again, with a 2 RBI double to make it 6-4 Racine! He will be a Secret... fo' life! There is no way in hell I'm giving The Stilted Pitcher a chance to get the win. Instead, despite the fact that he can't prevent a homerun to save his life, I send in Our Moody Closer of the 22.50 ERA for only his second appearance of the year since he's essentially facing the bottom of the order in this, the bottom of the 9th. Not even he can blow this one. ...Maybe he can. Foster singles and I'm biting my nails and swearing alternatively, but Sevier gets a fielder's choice out that should have been a DP but Foster frigging chopblocked Our Saviour. Then Accosting Acosta gets a single and I'm sweating once more. Men on first and second with only one out... and of course, my opponent in the other dugout puts in a pinch-hitter, Master Batey Who Slugs Oh So Well And Sluglike. I'm scared to even watch. I smell a three run homer coming up and the loss of the game. I LOVE JAIME GUTIERREZ A SECOND TIME AND I STILL DON'T CARE WHO KNOWS IT!!!! A scorching liner sizzles off The Wanker's bat, but The Saint of Clutchness stops it before it can go anywhere, and executes a flawless Clutch God to Our Saviour to Marvelous Melvin double play!!! WE WIN!! WE WIN!! WE WIN!! MOODY DIDN'T BLOW THE GAME!!!! The only people lost in the ecstactic throes of celebration may be us as we storm out of the dugout to dogpile Gutierrez, but I don't care. We beat The Lobster, we murdered That Little Doggy's perfect ERA, and we beat the damn Burgundys!!! Yes! Yes! Yes!!! Oh such a great feeling!!! |
The slick streets of Boston, made sleek by the freshly falling rain, witness the explosion of twenty-six gleeful Secrets and a smaller contigent of twenty fans. A full carnival atmosphere is in effect, with jibes and jests jousted back and forth. For once in our lives, we are all happy, with nary a cloudy face in our immediate sphere of influence.
Again, at the intersection just outside of the stadium. Shall Morrigan materialize yet again? No, it appears. Strangely disappointed, I tell the others I'll catch them at the bar, but that I simply wish to stay and inhale the rareified air of victory. Too busy swooning with success, they cheerfully concur and the mass meanders on their happy way to the tavern. Five minutes after they gone, out of the misty haze of mid-spring's evening sprinkling emerges the enigmatic girleen, draped in a dress of diaphanous grey sparkles, her neck beset by strings of white pearls. Her smile is lacking in its usual vitality, and the icy inkling of impending disaster begins to lay over me. "Hello, Coach Tim Moungey! Congratulations on finally winning!" Before I can answer, she has rushed upon me and warm lips of dark coral are pressing against mine, a kiss so unexpected and so insistent that I barely have time to think, or even breathe. Alas, ere I can become fully cosignant of it, she has already pulled back, the percussion of rain all about us tapping out a frenzied heartbeat on the stolid, unmoved sidewalk of stone. Her lips downturned, she lays a mocha hand on my pale, hairy arm, neither of us noticing the wetness. "Listen, Tim... I just wanted to say... I'm sorry. I know you've probably been thinking about me and maybe I've led you on by kissing you now.. but it was my way of congratulating and saying goodbye. You see, I have a boyfriend now. Maybe if you had acted before, pursued when you had the chance during those first two nights here, things might be different now. I'm sorry. Goodbye." And just like that, she's gone, leaving me speechless and alone on the corner, a parting flash of lightning illuminating her slender frame and the short form of an Asian male dapperly dressed in a three piece suit of chess black and white. Check and mate. I have lost before I even knew a game was afoot. The euphoria of winning now vanished along with the preshower sun, I turn to trudge with bowed shoulders towards the tavern, lines from a poem that was later turned into a song by a man named Orff passing through my head in its original language: Dies, nox et omnia michi sunt contraria; virginum colloquia me fay planszer, oy suvenz suspirer, plu me fay temer. O sodales, ludite, vos qui scitis dicite michi mesto parcite, grand ey dolur, attamen consulite per voster honur. Tua pulchra facies me fay planszer milies, pectus habet glacies. A remender statim vivus fierem per un baser.  Morrigan and her paramour... |
The truth is, I hate bars.
This will shock those who know of my and my team's drinking exploits, but it's true nonetheless. The loud noise, crowded press of bodies, dark atmosphere, and rank smell of cheap cigarettes and bad alcohol irritate me to no end. And yet, I find myself entering just such a place after my recent rejection, a chorus of catcalls and cheers coming from the section of tables that the other Secrets have commandeered. Trying my best to hide my dejection, I join them and give a greeting that fools absolutely no one. Delbert and Scotty exchange glances, the former first to speak. "Damn, Tim. You look way too down in the dumps, especially after we just won. We need to get you a girl!" At this point, Josue cuts in before I can even begin to think of a response. Clutching his Corona, he gestures expansively with the bottle. "You know, I wonder whatever happened to that hot chick you saw those nights we were here earlier in the month." Sighing, I confess with a dark mutter, "I just saw her about fifteen minutes ago." "Ooooooooh", chimes my drunken Greek Chorus. "...She kissed me full on the mouth" "OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOH", chimes my drunken Greek Chorus, much louder this time. As Delbert appears about to say something, no doubt a smartassed remark, I cut him off with a sharp slice of air with the knife edge of my hand, scowling. "And she told me she has a boyfriend... and that I screwed up whatever chance I had with her..." Dead silence falls over our table, the members of my team looking at everything and everyone but me. Somehow I don't think they were expecting that. I know I certainly wasn't when it happened. Finally, I break the silence by slamming my open palm on the table. "Damn it, where the **** are some cloves when I need some? All I have are these cigarettes and they just won't cut it at a time like this!" Delbert quickly leaps to the rescue, climbing on top of our table before anyone can stop him. Holding a twenty in the air, he cups his mouth with his other hand and calls out, "Yo! To anybody in the place who can give this man here a pack of cloves, I'll give him a twenty spot! Please help us! The man will die without them!" From a few tables away, a guy who looks barely to be of legal drinking age, dressed in a black leather trenchcoat and with slicked back hair of black offers up a red pack. "Hey man, I got some Djarum Supers right here. I'll take the twenty bucks for it. It's a fresh pack, too. I wanted to smoke tonight, but ****, I'll take twenty bucks for it. I need the drinking money." Laughter from around the room as the exchange is made via two simultaneous and impressive flip tosses that draw applause from the audience. Nodding my thanks to Delbert, I crack open the pack and withdraw the second most important smoke of a set, the first one. I prefer Blacks, but at this moment, I'll take anything. A spin of a lighter wheel later, I'm in business and quietly smoking. Josue shakes his head as he watches me. "Man, I'll never understand people who smoke those things. I mean ****, the only people I see besides you smoking them, Tim, are those goth dudes." Unable to help myself, I chuckle in the midst of a drag, which brings forth a harsh cough from my lungs. Yeah, they'll hate me in the morning, but I don't care right about now. "Actually Josue, I'm a goth myself. Because being goth is about having the proper attitude." "Bull****! It's about the music!" Heads swivel to latch eyes upon my benefactor, whose used his new funds to buy a gin and tonic. He's grinning at me from over the rim of his glass, shaking his head. "I'm telling you man, say what you want about attitude, but goth has always truly been about the music." "U r both rong! Itz about the dress!" ....The ****? Again a shifting of heads, this time to peer at a kid who can't be more than fifteen years old, tricked out in an all leather ensemble and with about twenty piercings. I stare at him for a few moments before glancing back to the proponent of music as the true meaning of goth. "Heh... you guys want to have a roundtable over this ****? I still say it's about the attitude." The other two quickly agree and a table is swiftly set up, whereby all three of us are sitting in chairs around it, all eyes in the bar upon us, with all other conversation stopped. Evidently no one wants to miss this, especially not my team. I take the lead, since it was my idea. "See, goth is about attitude... As goths, we are touched by and obsessed with the beauty of things in life. That some of us are morbidly fascinated by death and by other sorrowful topics is a sign of our awareness that often the greatest beauties in life are often only attainable by way of the deepest sadnesses." Clovebringer grins and takes a sip of his drink, sable eyebrows arched towards his highly sloping forehead of natural white. No 80s pancake makeup for this one. "Yeah, I've heard that before, but you see, it all originally started with the greats of the genre that is gothic music, so it's music that makes the goth. The best band ever is of course..." "Bauhaus", I finish for him. A wide smile blooms on his lips and he nods vigorously, leaning in conspiratorally towards me. That we're shutting out the runt who's looking more and more pissed off by the second isn't something that we notice. "Indeed, man! And the best song by them is..." And here he clears his throat, launching into song: "White on white translucent black capes Back on the rack Bela Lugosi's dead The bats have left the bell tower The victims have been bled Red velvet lines the black box Bela Lugosi's dead Undead undead undead The virginal brides file past his tomb Strewn with time's dead flowers Bereft in deathly bloom Alone in a darkened room The count Bela Logosi's dead Undead undead undead" After the smattering of applause that breaks out, I seize the reins, much to the consternation of the third, insignificant member of our table. Smirking, I ash my freshly bought clove in a nearby tray, "Good choice, but that's not the greatest Bauhaus song... Instead, it's..." And then it's my turn to begin singing: She had nut painted arms That were hers to keep And in her fear She sought cracked pleasures The passion of lovers is for death said she And turned to feather And as i watched from underneath I became aware of all that she keeps The little foxes so safe and sound They were not dead They'd gone to ground The passion of lovers is for death said she The passion of lovers is for death The passion of lovers is for death said she The passion of lovers is for death The passion of lovers is for death said she The passion of lovers is for death She breaks her heart Just a little too much And her jokes attract the lucky bad type As she dips and wails And slips her banshee smile She gets the bigger of the better to the letter The passion of lovers is for death said she The passion of lovers is for death The passion of lovers is for death said she The passion of lovers is for death The passion of lovers is for death said she The passion of lovers is for death The passion of lovers is for death said she The passion of lovers is for death With the flourish of my finish, the applause is deafening. I *am* the Gothic Idol, though to be fair the judges were rather biased, as the collective thunder of the Secrets is a force to be reckoned with. I raise my clove in salutation, but this seems to be my night for victories snipped short, for that annoying teenybopper is at last thrusting his head forward and into the discussion, refusing to be denied. "U r both rong! Marilyn Manson iz teh best and itz all bout the dress, kthx?" Our music hour continues, and though I am loathe to listen, I find myself with no choice, though I do dream privately of strangling this brat: "Man in the front got a sinister grin, careen down highway 666 We wanna go, crush the slow, as the pitchfork bends the needles grow My arms are wheels, my legs are wheels, my blood is pavement We're gonna ride to the abbey of thelema, to the abbey of thelema Blood is pavement The grill in the front is my sinister grin, bugs in my teeth make me sick sick sick The objects may be larger than they appear in the mirror My arms are wheels, my legs are wheels, my blood is pavement We're gonna ride to the abbey of thelema, to the abbey of thelema Blood is pavement When you ride you're ridden, when you ride, you're ridden I am fueled by filth and fury Do what I will, I will hurry there, there My arms are wheels, my legs are wheels, blood is pavement Blood is pavement" To my grim satisfaction, his off-key rendition of a horrible song by an even worse artist is met with a loud crowing of boos that hasn't been seen this side of a New York Giants game when Eli Manning is a giant pile of suck. "You need to go back to your mommy and shut the **** up, mmkay, you little faggot?" The preceding sage advice to the Mansonite poseur comes, not from a member of my squad, but from a very hairy, multi-tattooed biker at the bar. Unfortunately for him, a couple further on down the line, a woman with an offensively bad bleached blonde bottle dye job and a man not worthy of description, stiffen upon hearing that. I get the feeling these are the tyke's parents. I'm proven right when the alleged female of the two stands up and starts yelling. "You will *not* talk about my son that way, you ignorant jackass!" From the Secrets table, I hear Delbert's voice. "Damn, I haven't seen a dye job that bad since Freddy Prinze, Jr. in that Scooby-Doo movie!" Aghast, I turn from the developing altercation to stare back at my original seat. "You actually watched that sack of crap?" "Hey man, Sarah Michelle Gellar is a true talent!" At this point, Scotty breaks into the discussion while keeping an eye on the ongoing fracas, the Amazon stalking towards Big and Burly. "Sarah Michelle Gellar's tits are True Talent!" Sadly, the mirth from that wisecrack is shortlived, as a brawl breaks out at the bar proper. Most of the Secrets, along with the vast majority of the patrons not fleeing for the exits, turn to watch this new entertainment. Scanning the lineup of faces, I suddenly realize something. "Hey guys, where's Katamor?" I receive a group of shrugs for answers. Lovely. I get up and go to see if perhaps he's outside. As it turns out, he is. His lips are set in a tight grimace, eyes narrowed even more than they are in the natural state. The running populace that is smartly seeking sanctuary elsewhere is ignored by him, I doing likewise once I join his side. "Hey Katamor? Everything okay?" "Hai, Coach Moungey. Everything is okay." He's lying. I can tell by the shuttered nature of his face. But he isn't going to tell me, obviously. So we stand there and just leave it at that. Or at least until we hear the sirens. By the time the cops arrive, there's nary a Secret in sight. |
It's a few hours after our en masse vanishing act from the bar and I'm in my hotel room, mulling melancholily over the revelation of my missed opportunity. Why is it that the great turning points in our lives so heavily predicated on spans of time so brief that one scarcely has the space to blink before it is passed?
I could continue in this vein for hours, but I suddenly tire of the pseudo-philosophical turn of thought and instead retrieve my email. Sunday May 29, 2004 Racine 6 Boston 4 WP: Robert Stiltner (1-1) LP: Benji Demarco (0-1) S: Donald Moody (1) The worst team in the league picked up their third win of the season today, also their third on the road, as the Secrets beat the Burgundys in a thrilling, close contest. The hero of the game was Racine 2B Jaime Gutierrez, who had the 2 RBI double in the top of the 9th inning that broke the tie and who engineered the clutch double play in the top of the 9th that clinched the victory, thus sparing CL Donald Moody the embarassment of yet another blown save. Miami 2 Memphis 7 WP: Omer Houseman (3-2) LP: Allen Davidson (3-1) Davidson has fallen! This was the key factor in Memphis's 7-2 shellacking of Miami this afternoon, as the Kentuckian that many felt was the best pitcher in the dispersal draft was rocked for 10 hits and 6 earned runs over just 5 innings, issuing 2 free passes against 5 punchouts. In contrast, Houseman has regained his earlier season form, pitching his second CG with exceptional control, handing out 0 BB to go with 7 K in getting the victory. No real standout among the lineup for the Rebels as the RBIs were scattered amongst a handful of players. Minneapolis 6 New Orleans 10 WP: Joshua Jones (3-2) LP: Julio Lugo (3-2) S: Ernest Styers (1) Whenever these two teams show up in the same park, the potential for a slugfest is very real, and that potential was lived up to in this game, as the Mardi Gras topped the Lumberjacks 10-6. Rosado only lasted for 1 and 2/3 innings in this start, as he was taken apart for 5 runs in that short stint while walking 2 and striking out 0. It was a homer filled game on both sides, as Lumberjacks DH/RF Roido "Pokemon" Hachemon hit his first 2 longballs of the season, and several Rebels players had homers of their own, the most important of whom was 3B Todd Coleman with a 3 run moonshot in the 1st inning as part of his 4 RBI day. Seattle 2 San Diego 8 WP: Heriberto Perez (5-0) LP: Lee Estes (0-2) It's becoming harder and harder for Davidson apologists to argue for Allen, as on the same day that their choice loses, Perez runs his record to a flawless 5-0 for the season in this 8-2 triumph over the Coffeemen. Going 7 and 1/3 innings, Heriberto allowed 2 runs, just 1 earned, and didn't let anyone have a freebie while ringing up 6. Much like the Rebels-Vices game, no real MVP amongst the winner's batters, as RBI distribution was relatively even. ***End Email*** Damn, Davidson actually lost. Even the great ones have a bad day once in a while, though. Though on second thought, Perez is redefining what it means to be great, I think. I wish I had a pitcher like either one of those two. I mean, Cortada is a good enough ace, but he has a karma debt the size of Dirk Diggler's dick, so he gets no run support. Oh well. Now if we could just get a home victory.... |
Lying on the day bed of my hybrid room two days after that riotous evening in Boston, I find my thoughts turning towards the lost Morrigan and from her expanding to greater philosophical meandering.
What is it about the female body and personality that stirs us men so? What is this unalterable power they hold over our usually strong selves? While I am in speaking in generality and stereotype here, let it remain such. Always there will be anamolies existing outside of an established paradigm. Falling men would offhandedly remark that it is the crassly phrased pussy control that is the source of womanly dominion, and there is some truth to that. Yet, there is something more... something beyond even that physical monopoly which bewitches us and causes our acquiescence. The cloud of my thought drifts back to the two-toned world of summer camp past, amber and lavender sharing the stage here. In the summer of my fifteenth year, I became muchly enamoured of a girl named Felicity. Thin-limbed, thin-bodied, with a vivacious smile, short-cropped browish-black hair and the most startling eyes of turquoise, she was pretty in an earthy way, not approaching the airy heights of rareified beauty. I can even pinpoint the precise moment at which my attraction bloomed. It was on the evening of the weekly campout for the girls' and boys' respective cabins that made up our group at the camp. We were hiking along with a few others of our unit to watch the sun set. She was dressed in a spaghetti-strapped tank top of turquoise whose shade was a precise match for her eyes and bright red shorts that had the same rich colour as my blossoming rose of affection. Occasionally I would see a flash of pale pink bra as well, for the tank top slipped from time to time, being a little too large for the slightness of her frame. We were discussing, of all things, rockets that we had built in industrial arts classes in middle school (A popular project among those types of classes it seems). She had a voice that was like fresh, crisp water gushing through a dark underground tunnel, bearing on its surface occasional pieces of trash that, rather than mar the enticing qualities of the streaming river, only serve to heighten its allure by way of contrast. "And then it shot really ****ing high!" The explosion of the final word from her lips, the widening of her eyes, arms, and smiling mouth, the sparkle in her gaze as she described the burst of her rocket... and I was smitten ever after, my own rocket shooting up in my trousers, but thankfully not firing. Unfortunately, this tale does not have a happy ending, for she had eyes for another in the group, a fact I discovered during our unit's arts and crafts session a couple days later. Jenny, a lovely girl whose head was one tenth brain and nine tenths air, with a high-pitched whine of a horse's ninny for a voice, was dating a boy in our group named Henry. Henry was a sweet, stupid bear of a boy who everyone liked, even intellectual snob me. With his broad, muscular body, mop of dark gold hair, and a friendly smile for everyone that he met, he was without question the most popular person in our unit. As we were putting our things away after making masks, Jenny's whinny pierced the air. "Hhheeennnrrrrrrrryyyyyy... we were supposed to make the same mask!" "I'm sorry, Jenny. I just got thinking about a cool idea I had and did that instead." "You're such a jerk, Henry! You said we'd make the same mask!" As Jenny stomped off to wash out her paint tin, Felicity muttered to Jessica, her best friend in the unit, "Henry so needs to break up with Jenny... and when he does, he'll be mine." Terror seized me at that moment, though I did my best to hide my panic. Surely I hadn't lost out before I'd even made my move! But of course, I had. Later that camp session, Henry tired of Jenny's clinginess and broke up with her, hooking up with Felicity. Summers and years alike passed. With each passing summer, I grew more and more attracted to Felicity and she became closer and closer to Henry in their relationship. Finally, my senior year in high school arrived, the very last year I could attend camp as a camper. It would also prove to be my last year at the camp, period, but that is another story. Felicity and Henry were still together and by this time, she was more than aware, as was everyone else in our unit, of my feelings for her. However, there was an X-factor in the equation this year. A relative newcomer of only a few years' standing to the camp, a girl named Kinsey, had fallen head over heels for me. Ah, Kinsey, how my skin crawls at the very thought of you even after all these years! She was a big breasted, big butted, wide-hipped cow of a girl, with a face so ugly that a bovine patty would seem striking in the comparison. I rejected her advances all throughout, until finally the last night of camp arrived. This was always the capstone of the camping experience, involving as it did a campwide luau and after-dinner dance. Particularly for the Senior cabins, this was quite the to-do, with many a specially chosen outfit brought along to don exclusively for the occassion. Shortly after the dance started, a train of diplomats started showing up at my staked out place on one of the perimeter picnic tables of green. Virtually every other boy from my cabin came along to issue the same stock line, with minor variants now and then. "Come on, Tim, just dance with Kinsey! Just one dance! Come on! She's really upset and really sad because you won't dance with her." ".....No." "Why not?" "Because I don't want to." Invariably they would sigh and look at me as if I were some intenstinal worm, then head off to the sympathisers gathered about victim Kinsey to report their failure, upon which I would receive an en masse bombardment of dirty looks. Eventually, I tired of this debacle, and so left the hall to go to the outside canteen. After getting a dish of my favourite flavour ice cream served there (Blue Moon), I retired to one of the nearby benches, intent on enjoying my purchase and avoiding the harassment at the dance for the rest of the evening. Naturally, just as I sat down and began eating, a moustache of blue soup overlaying my actual article of upper lip hair, there appeared Felicity, dazzling in a sparkling gown of red that set off her sienna skin, her beauty further magnified by the contrast courtesy of the white flower tucked behind her ear. Lagging a little behind was Henry, who looked quite uncomfortable with the situation. Open-mouthed, I froze there, looking quite the idiot as I stared at this approaching angel of crimson, brown, and white. While I had seen her on the dance floor a short time ago, it had been from a distance. This closeness was unexpected, the conflagration in my veins made all the more powerful by the quality of surprise attached to her advent. Now upon me, she stood before me, her face a mixture of quiet amusement at my absurdity and sterness. Henry, by this time, had elected for the discrete route, and was in line at the canteen. Or maybe he was just hungry. In any case, it was only an aside I noticed as her voice addressed me, drawing my damnably willing attention back to her. "Why won't you dance with Kinsey? She really likes you, you know." "Eh... I just don't want to is all." Disappointment touched her features for a moment, a tragic pose akin to a darker version of the trapped Lady of Shalott in certain paintings. I squirmed slightly underneath the force of it, but privately resolved to remain resolute. Then the supple softness of her right hand drifted down to rest on my shoulder, the fingers of her left sliding underneath my chin to pull my head up so that our eyes met, her gaze intense, lips slightly parted as she leaned in closer to me... Was she going to kiss me? She closed her eyes, inhaled slowly, moved in closer still. Yes, she's going to kiss me! Yes, yes! Then, she began to exhale.... "Please, Tim? Please dance with Kinsey? Do it for me." ...No, she isn't going to kiss me. Crestfallen, I let my face and head sag, feelings of confoundment rampant in their romp through me. And yet, I never really had a chance with her. It was foolish of me to think so. And yet, here she is, coming to me personally and beseeching me to do this one small thing for her, to make her happy... After a moment, I looked up and nodded my reluctant consent. "All right... I'll do it... but only for you." "Thank you, Tim! Thank you so much!" Her slender, nutmeg arms opened wide, her face alive with the same excitement it held those years ago when I first tumbled into longing for her... only this time, it ended in a hug, her body pressing tight against mine in gratitude. It nearly overwhelmed me, I who have lived a monastic existence. Awkwardly, I returned the embrace, so unused as I was then and am even now to having the ability to display affection. Too, there was the re-emergence of that rocket to contend with, but she either did not notice or simply chose to ignore it. She thanked me again and dashed away back to her real knight, Henry, who was now placidly eating a butter pecan ice cream cone and watching a cardinal some distance way. And so I danced with Kinsey, all to make a girl I would never have happy. The power of women over me and over the race of men is mighty indeed. And yet, in the end, it's all worth it. Whether our reward is an enthusiastic hug and the memory of their bodies innocently pressed against ours, or whether it be only the satisfaction of knowing we've made our cherished one happy, that is what makes it all worthwhile. Perhaps that is the cause of their sorcery, the effect of the rewards from pleasing them. All I know is that a Circe exists in every girl and every man is an Odysseus hard-pressed to withstand her charms. |
There come on the road in any person's life forks where branching possibilities are presented, where, to echo Camus, decisions must be made by the individual or decisions shall be made for them.
And so it is here, as I lie in this gloomy room of shadow where I read and sleep, the ghosts of years past made disturbingly phosperous by the ominious moon's lancing lengths of luminescent light. Half the season gone and the urge to retire, to suddenly and abruptly abandon my post, is upon me. This town that I loathe continues to suffocate me, even with the life-sustaining frequency of travel. The stale air, the losing, the lack of victory at home, even the excessive ingestion of alcohol... They all weigh upon me, both in body and in spirit. I begin to long for the free life of obscurity, the pleasantly dusty world of academia, with its secure rooms of ivory and fantasy, the outside world a toy universe that is studied and played with, but not all that often interacted with. It is to this comforting, mothering, sanctuary that I start to dream of re-entering. Throw away the shackles of responsibility, of expectations, and of pressure, and I shall be free. Yet, in purchasing my freedom, would I, in the end, be plagued by buyers' remorse and the vexsome locusts of nagging regret? A question I must answer, ere I choose which road to walk. Frost will not help here. |
In this dark and packed library/bedchamber I sit, staring at the whiteness of my laptop screen, my face awash in the youthening blue light of the monitor.
Time, formerly so quick and liquid, has slowed to a pace that a snail shuttles past with the blazing speed of Carl Lewis chasing after an old woman in preposterous swimsuit and large, yellow mockeries of Dolly Haze's small, heart-shaped glasses of red and black. And so it is still the same day as my prior ruminations, or is it the same night? The demarcations of metering out the spaces of life have become lost to me, the hash marks of seconds, minutes, and hours now as faded as the lines of a forgotten football field. I have spent the past several minutes trying to hammer out a poem. It is a very bad one, as most of my stuff is. I am no writer, no elegantly flowing limpid and lyrical genius. Instead, I am a provincial German Lutheran peasant's descent with the brain of an intellectual cultivated out of external reading and the sufficient mediocrity of the Middlewestern public education system, from kindergarten to University. Here then, is my final product, by the time disgust takes over: On second thought, no, let us scrap that idea. I can not stand to look at my inadequacy any longer. A quicksave later, I have shut down Word and my laptop, my coat soon to be fetched. It is a beautiful May day. I will not waste it, for I do too much of that as it is. Let me instead go out in its sunny, peaceful greenery, and perhaps the melancholy of the earlier weeks of this Monat will disappear. Or so I hope. Exeunt. |
Is this the day that never ends? Or is day even an appropriate divider of time by now? Perhaps I am drunk. That it is dark out seems to signify that it is night... or maybe I am simply going blind.
Presently I sit at the table of an outdoor cafe in the downtown of my home town. A Latina girl, pretty with a mouth perfect for two things, neither of which is talking, smiles at me from across the way. Do I approach? I do not. She does not. It is warm, but raining. We're both mad for being out here. On the other hand, the dappling of raindrops upon her burgundy dress does create a most arresting filminess of fabric, the outline of her brassiere visible against the newly transparent veil. Strapless, roughly a 34C and black. Body By Victoria by sub-brand, if I'm not mistaken. I sip my chai tea and immediately fall asleep there on the slicked surface of the green metal table. I'll probably be arrested for vagrancy, but at this particular point in time, I don't care, too lost in the Carrollian world of dreams. |
Backstretch: Midseason Analysis of the Octopus League
We've finally reached the halfway point of the inagural season of the Octopus League and what an exciting first half it's been. From player and team rivalries to suprises in the standings and leaderboards, it's been a wild race. Let's take a look at the current situation. Standings:  Miami and San Diego being atop their respective divisions surprises no one. What is shocking, however, is the fact that Bishops have the single best record in the OL and have clearly been the most dominant team all around. Whether it's God smiling down on them or whether it's that the team has made smart moves that were initially second guessed is open to interpretation. Also worthy of note is that the Memphis Rebels aren't about to give the East to the Vices without a fight and we could see that race continue right up until the end of the season. Leaderboards: At the request of numerous e-mails we've received from statheads fans, we're including two new leaderboards in here, namely the top 5 in OBP and OPS. Batting Leaderboards: Average: .478 RF Roido "Pokemon" Hachemon (Minneapolis Lumberjacks) .421 C Wayne Dewitt (New Orleans Mardi Gras) .378 C Daniel Alvarez (San Diego Bishops) .370 CF Curtis "CJ" Jones (Miami Vices) .356 RF Chris Foster (Boston Burgundys) Hachemon continues his startling dominance at making contact, holding on to his lead from the first quarter of play. Alvarez moves up from his earlier ranking and Jones and Dewitt make their first appearances, ones that were expected at the beginning of the season. Foster is a real suprise here and is not expected to be able to keep his hot start going in the second half. Homeruns: 6 CF Curtis "CJ" Jones (Miami Vices) 5 1B Jeremy McCleery (San Diego Bishops) 4 3B David Bailey (Miami Vices) 4 1B George Marconi (Seattle Coffeemen) Numerous others tied at 3 We predicted that Marconi wouldn't show much power after that three HR game in the first part of play and we're proven right, as he's tacked on just 1 more HR in the last 6 games. McCleery still has his unexpected power stroke and Jones has come alive recently, his bat really waking up in the second quarter both in terms of contact and power. Bailey was noted earlier in the season as one of the top power hitters, so his presence here is not unusual in the least. RBI: 15 1B George Marconi (Seattle Coffemen) 15 RF Estanis Rodriguez (Memphis Rebels) 12 RF Glenn Reed (San Diego Bishops) 12 C Wayne Dewitt (New Orleans Mardi Gras) 11 C Daniel Alvarez (San Diego Bishops) 11 RF Chris Foster (Boston Burgundys) Well, we predicted there would be a change in this leaderboard, but we were proven ring. The top 4 stayed the best at bringing people home, with the only change at the bottom. Our guess? That Foster will drop out for sure in this lineup. He's an anamoly. The Bishops' success apparently can be attributed in part to their ability to bring in runs. R: 11 3B Bernardo "Saint" Rosado (Boston Burgundys) 11 CF Curtis "CJ" Jones (Miami Vices) 11 CF Timothy Chesson (San Diego Bishops) 10 1B Jeremy McCleery (San Diego Bishops) 3 others tied at 9. With the exception of McCleery, these are all very fast, good-contact hitters whose position on the leaderboard is something we thought would happen. It's amazing to see how rapid a turnaround Jones has made in these last 6 games. Truly the most improved player from end of first quarter to end of second. Doubles: 8 1B John Bahr (Boston Burgundys) 6 RF Estanis Rodriguez (Memphis Rebels) 5 C Wayne Dewitt (New Orleans Mardi Gras) 5 CF Darrick "Superman" Carson (Seattle Coffeemen) 5 2B Bryan Prioleau (San Diego Bishops) Carson and Prioleau are the only two speed demons in this bunch. All the rest are either average, or in the case of Bahr, slower than molasses in a Boston January. These are some guys who really know how to hit the gaps. Walks: 12 3B Edward Mauldin (Memphis Rebels) 12 CF Darrick "Superman" Carson (Seattle Coffeemen) 10 3B Bernardo "Saint" Rosado (Boston Burgundys) 10 C Wayne Dewitt (New Orleans Mardi Gras) Several others tied at 7 All these players were hailed as the complete package in our season and draft previews and they continue to show evidence of it here with their maintaining of leadership on the walks board. Phenomenal eyes all around. Strikeouts: 17 CF David Goddard (Boston Burgundys) 16 1B Isaac Yunque (Memphis Rebels) 15 2B Bryan Prioleau (San Diego Bishops) 15 1B Patrick Poulos (Minneapolis Lumberjacks) 13 CF Jaime Gong (New Orleans Mardi Gras) Poulos still has yet to draw a walk, making him the Worst Eye of the Octopus League. Gong's listing here is a major suprise, as he was considered to have better plate vision than a good percentage of the league. Here's to hoping he can rectify this in the second half. SB: 6 CF Darrick "Superman" Carson (Seattle Coffeemen) 6 2B Jaime Gutierrez (Racine Secrets) 6 CF Timothy Chesson (San Diego Bishops) 4 LF Miguel Salinas (Racine Secrets) 4 SS Thomas Butler (Memphis Rebels) We anticipated a greater amount of stealing as the season wore on and it's going that way so far, with two Secrets speeding their way to the leaderboards, which has no doubt helped Racine double their win total in the second period. Will GM/Manager Tim Moungey try to build a team of speedsters a la the 80s Cardinals? Worth noting is that abberation Foster dropped out as we expected he would, with nary a stolen base in the past 6 contests. OBP .551 C Wayne Dewitt (New Orleans Mardi Gras) .529 RF Roido "Pokemon" Hachemon (Minneapolis Lumberjacks) .491 3B Edward Mauldin (Memphis Rebels) .482 CF Darrick "Superman" Carson (Seattle Coffeemen) .426 2B Steve Borger (New Orleans Mardi Gras) Borger is the shocker here, but our suspicion is that he'll drop out of this list by the time all is said and done. We're still amazed at Hachemon's dominance on the batting leaderboards and Mauldin has been a key part of the Rebels' challenge of the Vices for the East Crown. OPS 1.340 C Wayne Dewitt (New Orleans Mardi Gras) 1.249 CF Curtis "CJ" Jones (Miami Vices) 1.225 RF Roido "Pokemon" Hachemon (Minneapolis Lumberjacks) 1.072 LF Francis Ginn (Boston Burgundys) 1.062 1B Jeremy McCleery (San Diego Bishops) The first three are ones we anticipated. Ginn is a stunner, while McCleery is a mild surprise. Pitching Leaderboards: Wins: 5 SP Heriberto Perez (San Diego Bishops) Too many with 3 wins to continue listing any more. Perez has dominated the OL from the very start and this stat shows it. Every time he goes out on the mound, the Bishops have a very good chance to win. In fact, he's got 50% of the Bishops' wins. An astounding ace in every respect as you'll see below. The Davidson apologists are having less and less room in which to argue. Losses: 3 SP Mario Troyer (Minneapolis Lumberjacks) Again, too many with 2 losses to run off any more than that. Poor Troyer. He just can't seem to have any luck when his turn in the rotation comes up. Saves: 4 CL Charles Thole (San Diego Bishops) 4 CL Anton Arispe (Miami Vices) Another case of too many with 2 to go any deeper. The Perez-Davidson debate may essentially be settled, but another argument is raging concerning pitchers on the top two teams in the league, namely their closers. In our opinion, a split's obtained by the Vices here, as Arispe gets the nod. ERA: 1.63 SP Heriberto Perez (San Diego Bishops) 1.78 SP Jose Leyba (San Diego Bishops) 2.25 SP Weceslao Martinez (Racine Secrets) 2.48 SP Alberto Avalos (Seattle Coffeemen) 2.83 SP Cristian Cortada (Racine Secrets) When you have the top two pitchers in terms of ERA in your starting rotation, you've got a key ingredient to your success, particularly when it's a 3 man rotation league. This, more than any other stat, shows the dominance of the Bishops and of Perez. Walks: 14 SP Allen Davidson (Miami Vices) 13 SP Jose Leyba (San Diego Bishops) 11 SP Heriberto Perez (San Diego Bishops) 10 SP Gary Yusuke (Memphis Rebels) 10 SP Weceslao Martinez (Racine Secrets) What's fascinating here is that 3 of the top 5 walk issuers are also 3 of the top 5 lowest ERA pitchers, a testament to their respective teams' abilities to get the double play and shut the opponents down. No greater sign of Davidson's decline is there than his exorbiant walk numbers in the second interval. Strikeouts: 44 SP Heriberto Perez (San Diego Bishops) 36 SP Allen Davidson (Miami Vices) 31 SP Cristian Cortada (Racine Secrets) 26 SP Christopher "Lobster" Lobdell (Boston Burgundys) 25 SP Jose Leyba (San Diego Bishops) With the exception of Leyba, who appears because of Johnny Silk's being put in a mopup relief role with the Bishops, this leaderboard is unchanged in its composition and its order. Further evidence of Perez's absolute mastery of the league is his widening lead in strikeouts over Davidson. Team Batting Report:  Team Pitching Report:  Team Fielding Report:  2004 Tentacle Midseason Octopus League All-Pro Team C: Wayne Dewitt New Orleans Mardi Gras 1B: George Marconi Seattle Coffeemen 2B: Steve Borger New Orleans Mardi Gras SS: Deon Maya Miami Vices 3B: Edward Mauldin Memphis Rebels LF: Francis Ginn Boston Burgundys CF: Curtis "CJ" Jones Miami Vices RF: Roido "Pokemon" Hachemon Minneapolis Lumberjacks SP: Heriberto Perez San Diego Bishops CL: Anton Arispe Miami Vices |
I haven't shaved in a good week and as a result, my beard is so thick and bushy that the team has taken to calling me Tommy Chong. Still, maybe that will bring us good luck. Heaven knows we need it.
It's now the third of June. The second half of the season starts today and even though we're so far behind we have no hope of doing anything at all postseasonwise, I still feel renewed with hope that we can at least march our way to a .500 record by the time the season is finished. We're in New Orleans today. Cortada versus Jones. Enough talk and thought from me. Let's roll. Yes! The pitchers' duel is broken in the top of the 4th when The Definition of Clutchitude hits a sacrifice grouner to score Triple Hitting Taylor. 1-0 Racine! ...Christ Cristian! In the bottom of the 6th, he gives me a scare by walking 3 batters to load the bases, but gets out of it with a strikeout. My heart is still in my throat... but there's no way I'm going to trade our best pitcher who's a bona fide ace. VELEZ YOU ****ING IDIOT!!!!!! The bastard has a sure double in the top of the 7th going, but then he decides to get cute and try to leg out a triple... and guess what happens? That's right. He gets thrown out! I begin to think of trading the Stupid Assed Caramello Bar. In the bottom of the 8th inning, after walking a batter naturally, Our Maddening Ace is too tired to go on. The count's 1-2 against a guy who can't hit for much named Clifton Hecker IV (how preppy is *that*) but That Catcher I'm Still Kicking Myself For Not Picking And Who Bordeaux Refuses To Trade Me For is up after him and he's a power hitter of great reknown. So who do I send in? That Goat Valderrama. ...And instantly That Asshat Preppy gets an RBI double to tie the score. I yank Goat Boy immediately in favour of The Stiltsman of the 7.72 ERA. You think I need a new bullpen? Yeah, I sure as hell do. ...Another ****ing RBI double?! Granted it was by The Most Popular Player In The Octopus League, but this is ****ing ridiculous! 2-1 New Orleans. I leave Stiltdick in there. The game's lost anyway. My team is not clutch, save for Gutierrez. Oh, and did I mention there's 0 outs?! We get out of the frame without further damage and go into the top of the 9th with our last three outs as Super Boy, Anti-Clutch Taylor, and the Jedi Knight With Strong Clutch Force Powers. ...I'm scared. Nonetheless, I let Super Boy bat. ...Some superhero he is. He lines out to first. One out. The Cowardly Taylor of Bennie is pulled as I send up Our Saviour Who Is Godly At Pinch Hitting. ...Damn it! Even he's failing me today as he swings at a frigging 3-1 pitch and flies out to center field. Two down. It's all in the hands of The Essence of Clutchness now. I kneel down on the hard pine bench in the visitors' dugout and start praying.... ...I've mentioned that God hates me before, yes? Well, it's proven here... for Fallen Gutierrez hits a nice gap hit that looks like it'll drop in... when the Almighty bangs the Gong that robs us of a last gasp chance and we go down 2-1. Damn, this loss hurts. After we're all in the locker room, I say just three words: "Let's get drunk." |
Drunk we are all are.. so unbelievably pissed that Josue is actually considering the merits of male homosexuality in a discussing with Delbert. It's actually pretty funny, or it would be if I hadn't skipped over the happy drunk phase and plunged directly into melancholic bitterness and despair.
The rest of the team is sitting at a large table in this gimcrack, noisy bar in the French Quarter, a city region, that like its counterpoint in England's Stradford-upon-Avon, is an obscene imitation of a faded glory whose tacky costuming of houses and people is reverently accepted as authentic by gullible tourists. In my state of inebriation, I find my thoughts once more twisting the way of women, girls under the age of a quarter century in particular. The truth is, I begin to hate the female gender. Beautiful some of them may be, but none are trustworthy. They (especially the younger ones I am presently concerned with) are fickle, selfish brats whose universe revolves around themselves. I have reasons for my bitterness and I assure you they're quite warranted when one looks at the factual evidence of my dismal romantic record. Some will point to the aforementioned Laura as an exception to the rule, to which I sneer out that she was Dutch and hence an exception to the axiom. Does this mean I am only applying it to American girls? ...For the moment, yes. Though I have explored the parapets of Europe, engagement with the girleens there has not occurred outside of that hurt Hollander... though I must say that the sight of bare breasts and giggling bodies on the nude beaches of Cannes were quite a sight for my already hormone-ravaged brain and boner to behold. "Mrrrrowl!" ....What? What's this that's in my ear? Did a cat just purr? I turn my lowly hung head to the side and with besotted eyes witness, not a feline, but a curiously peering young woman of the most striking red hair, with green eyes whose shade and shape matches my own. With the wide scope of her irises and the contours of her glasses being as they are, there is something altogether catlike about her, though perhaps it is that initial purr operating on me. "Umm... can I help you?" "Oh, sorry! You just looked like you were really sad and bored over there, so I thought I'd come over and cheer you up a little! My name's Krista!" A hand that proves to be a) remarkably pale, b) incredibly soft), and c) shockingly hairless comes to rest in my own for a handshake before I have time to fully register and process her words. Awkwardly I return the handshake, my shaggy eyebrows held aloft in uncertainty. Sadly for me, I don't notice Josue and Delbert breaking off their conversation to alert the team to my unanticipated interlude, and so I am unaware of twenty four sets of varying eyes planted on us. "Umm... thanks. Heh. I'm Tim." "Let's dance! You need to get that pouty look off your face!" And so she pulls me out of the chair and onto the dance floor. One would anticipate that some nice and fast song is playing to force me out of my doldrums and try and get the slightly chubby body of mine into movement that will shake off this booze-born bleariness, right? Wrong. It's none other than, preposterously, enough... The Corrs: Say it's true, there's nothing like me and you Not alone, tell me you feel it too And I would run away I would run away, yeah I would run away I would run away with you Cause I have fallen in love With you, no never have I'm never gonna stop falling in love, with you Close the door, lay down upon the floor And by candlelight, make love to me through the night Cause I have run away I have run away, yeah I have run away, run away I have run away with you Cause I have fallen in love With you, no never have I'm never gonna stop falling in love, with you And I would run away I would run away, yeah I would run away I would run away with you Cause I have fallen in love With you, no never have I'm never gonna stop falling in love, with you By the time the song is over, all 24 Secrets are standing up cheering, applauding, and wolfwhistling: "Yeah! You go Tim!" "Way to get 'em Tiger!" "You don't score... until you score!" ....I'm more than nonplussed, but Krista simply grins, grabs my hand, and curtsies before our trashed audience, pulling me down into a forced bow to go with her regal dip. ....I think I've just been shanghaied somehow.  Kitten Krista... |
I sincerely wish I could say that the rest of the night went with brilliant conversation and ended in that kittenesque redhead in my bed, but alas, such did not happen.
Instead, she drank every last one of us under the table and left us with the bill. ...My head hurts. What time is it? Just after noon on Saturday. I don't know how long I've been sleep or even when I fell asleep. Damn, I can't believe she managed to take us all out, especially since some of the Secrets are really heavy, hardcore boozehounds. Oh well. Time to check my email. Friday June 3, 2004 Racine 1 New Orleans 2 WP: Joshua Jones (4-2) LP: Francis Valderrama (0-1) Once again, starter Cristian Cortada of the Secrets pitches a good game but fails to get the run support needed to render a decision. Jones was excellent in his complete game victory, giving up 1 ER and taking down 3 men while allowing none on board the basepath train with a free pass. C Wayne Dewitt delivered the knockout punch for the Mardi Gras with an RBI double in the bottom of the 8th. Boston 2 Minneapolis 1 WP: Christopher Lobdell (4-1) LP: Julio Rosado (3-3) S: Benji Demarco (1) Another 1-run pitchers' thriller that included a complete game tossed, only this time the niner was thrown by the loser. Rosado pitched well enough to win, allowing 2 ER and notching an equal 3 BB and 3 K, but it wasn't enough against the tour de force of Lobdell, who went 6 and 1/3 innings, giving up just 1 ER and distributing 3 BB that was more than compensated for by an astounding 11 strikeouts. Solo shots by 3B Bernado Rosado and 1B John Bahr in the 1st and 4th innings respectively were all the offense the Burgundys needed to secure the win. Miami 5 San Diego 1 WP: Allen Davidson (4-1) LP: Heriberto Perez (5-1) Perfect Perez has lost! In an amazing display of fireball pitching, both Davidson and Perez punched out their opponents in double digits, 11 and 10 K respectively, while both going 7 and 1/3 innings. Unfortunately for Heriberto, he was lit up for all 5 of the Vices' runs in a contest that many regard as a preview of the inaugural River Series. Is this a sign that Perez's infamous meltdown in the Olympic qualifier will come back yet again? After the game, Davidson remarked to reporters, his lips tightened in a grimace, "I read in the Tentacle and other newspapers about how Heriberto is the class of the league and I'm the number two man. That really made me angry. People have been doubting me and overlooking me ever since before the dispersal draft and reading those comments just got me mad and made me more fired up to kick some ass today... and I think I did that." Perez, when interviewed about his rough game today, rubbed his head with the bill of his Bishops' cap and answered, "Hey, sometimes you just have a bad game out there, you know? You just have to suck it up and go back out there and get them next time." RF Bobbie Calhoun was the offensive star for Miami in the game with 3 RBIs, including a 2 run homerun in the second inning. Memphis 2 Seattle 3 WP: Alberto Avalos (4-1) LP: Omer Houseman (3-3) S: Jesus Loera (1) The third one-run game of the day, this one was won by the Coffeemen after Loera stopped a 9th inning rally by the Rebels as they got to within one. An error charged to Memphis 3B Edward Mauldin led to an unearned run in the bottom of the 5th inning that proved to be the gamewinner. ***End Email*** ...Damn. Davidson beat Perez. That's a shocker. |
Later in the day, my hangover is gone and we're ready to play ball. I'm not much in the mood for thinking or interacting with anyone, so I just decide to focus on the game.
Martinez versus Jacquez. It's on. Did I mention I love games when The Former Reliever pitches? Everything seems to go right then, and it's happening now as in the top of the 3rd, Our Saviour Grandison obliterates a pitch for an all-arounder, bringing home Merry Melvin with him. 2-0 Racine! Our lead is built on in the top of the 4th when Pimpmaster Delbert scorches a triple and is sent home by a sacrifice groundout from The Defensive Gem Left Fielder. 3-0 Secrets! Third Base Defensive Sieve Coleman gets off a solo homer in the bottom of the 5th, but I'm not worried about it. We're still up by a score of 3-1. ...****! Now I'm worried. ****ing god damn mother****ing asshating ****ing son of a bitch!!! ****ing back to back homers, this one by Pawlak. I swear and kick the bench, stubbing my toe, inciting more cursing. ****ing damn it!!!!! 3-2 Racine. In the top of the 6th, Styer of the 7.20 ERA comes on in relief for New Orleans. In other words... our bats are now going to turn to ice, because that's what always happens when we go up against high ERA pitchers. Damn it! I love My Man Delbert. I really, really love him. Top of the 7th, he gives us some insurance by knocking an RBI single that comes about when The Anti-Steroids Bonds slides into home under the glove of My Favourite Catcher. 4-2 Racine and my blood pressure is finally starting to lessen. Senor Salinas adds to it an AB later, as he picks up his second sacrifice RBI of the game. I'm feeling much, much better now. 5-2 Racine and a new horseman is sent to the rescue, a fellow by the name of William Reed Who Has A Perfectly Respectable 3.18 ERA. Another at-bat, another run! Superboy smacks a payoff pitch right in one of the gaps for a single and an RBI! Signing him from the free agent pile and converting him to 3B was the single smartest move I've made as a GM. 6-2 Racine! There's no way we can lose now. ...Unless like in the bottom of the inning, Pawlak the Prick hits his second homerun of the game, a 2-run blast that narrows our lead to 6-4. My blood boiling, I yank exhausted looking Martinez and call in Lecompte with the Perfect ERA, who manages to put out the fire. Hooray for one of our ex-Lumberjacks! In our 8th inning frame Scotty Too Hotty Harper sends one to the moon with the bases empty to give us another insurance run! We gang-tackle him as he comes back in the dugout, excitement on our faces. No lead is ever safe with our ****-assed bullpen. 7-4 Secrets! LECOMPTE YOU GOD DAMN ASSHAT!!! YOU DON'T ****ING WALK A MAN WITH THE GOD DAMN BASES LOADED?! WHERE THE **** IS YOUR PHENOMENAL CONTROL?! I race out to the mound and yank him out by his ear, shouting, "Your ass is gone! I will NOT have a pitcher on this team who walks a man with the bases loaded! I'm trading you TONIGHT!" 7-5 Secrets and with significant apprehension, I put in Our Rarely Used Moody Closer. And of course there was only one out, so a sacrifice fly by somebody I don't give a damn about at the moment makes it 7-6 our favour. If we lose this game, I am going to be royally frigging pissed off... even more than I am already. It's all down to the 9th inning. After the vision in my red haze clears, Scotty tells me that there were two errors by the Drunken Revelers, so instead of 2 outs like it should be, we have two men on with no outs. ....Maybe we can pull this out after all. Suddenly Swinging Salinas gets his third RBI of the night with a single that crosses Mr. Japan and suddenly we've got an insurance run and are up 8-6! A new pitcher on the mound as well: Fiorentio The Italian With 1.69 ERA Making Only His Second Appearance Of The Season. ...You know, what they say about Italians being wild in bed may or may not be true, but in the case of baseball, it's true, as The Recent Latin Entrant throws a wild pitch that Debonair Delbert takes advantage of to come home on. 9-6 Racine. If I'm that Creole Snob GM/Manager Bordeaux, I run my guys ragged the next few practices to teach them not to make mental lapses during close games. Not that I'm complaining about their breakdowns of course. No sir! The Almighty God of Clutch tacks on a sac fly RBI to make it 10-6 Secrets. If we lose this game, I'm getting rid of my entire flipping bullpen. Bottom of the 9th. Here we go. Phillips grounds out. One down. Medina strikes out. Two down and Wayne the Stellar Catcher is their last hope.... And he gets a single to keep them alive. Damn. No worries, though... yet. ...And Suave Rico strikes out, giving us a 10-6 triumph!!!! A sea of pink and black surges on the field with a mighty roar, the crest of the tidal wave crashing down on Moody as we dogpile him. SECRETS WIN!!! SECRETS WIN!!!! |
A battalion of happy soldiers are we as we march out into the streets of the conquered Big Easy. That New Orleans by virtue of its nickname is a simple task to have one's way with doesn't matter. Delbert is at the forefront, leading a choral delivery of "We Are The Champions". Yeah, we're the Champions all right. The champions of being last place in the league.
Midway through our intended tavern journey, I spot the neon pink and blue facade of an arcade, throwback to the 80s, back before consoles and computers became so sophisticated that they took over the gaming public. Grinning, I tiptoe away, intent on forgoing a night of getting skunked in favour of revisiting the Babylon of my youth. "Hey Tim! Where you going?" ...****. I've been caught. Clearing my throat, I freeze, straddling the boundary betwixt street and sanctuary, grinning sheepishly back at the others. "Ahh.. I'm gonna skip out on drinking tonight guys. Gonna play some old video games instead." "Aight man, that's cool. You know what that means guys... TITTY BAR!!!!" With lustful yells of approval, the pack of horndogs dashes away from the entry to the arcade, racing away for the nearest shrine to nipples and naughty bits. For a brief moment, I'm tempted to go along with and ditch my plan. Not because I derive any great erotic pleasure from undulating bare bodies of the female flesh, but because those places are highly amusing. Once upon a time, in that sprawling tropical metropolis of Miami... No, wait. Let me save that story for another time. Ditto that night in Nashville. The hairy dog of my thought leashed, I enter this paradiso of bright colours, loud music, and simpler times. Out of instinct, I find myself looking for a bank of screens that reports the telltale presence of my favourite game, Derby Owner's Club World Edition, but alas, such is not to be found. What do I spot out of the corner of one eye is another fairly recent classic, my beloved Soul Calibur II. Ahh, beauty, weapons, and pleasant music all in one game. Drawn to it, I exchange Abraham Lincoln and his green tuxedo for a gathering of gold coins. I slip in a pair of tokens once I'm at the game, selecting my cherished Cassandra. Bliss washes over me as I commence playing in Story Mode, but then partly through my second round (I won the first), I receive notice that I have a challenger. Blinking, I turn to my right and standing there, tall and bulky, is none other than Wayne Dewitt, the catcher I still find myself wishing I had drafted in the first round. Too stunned to speak, I just stand there with mouth ajar as he selects Nightmare. How appropriate. He looks over at me and grins. "I'm not a drinker, so I just play here in the arcade most nights after home games." "...I doubt you'd fit too well in with our team, then. We're a bunch of ****ing lushes." Wayne laughs at my remark but then we both forget our conversation, becoming lost in a heated and intense battle. It turns out to be a brief contest, as I destroy him. When it comes to fighting games, nobody can beat me when I take the hot, speedy chick. Stepping away from the cabinet, the Mardi Gras catcher rubs at his eyes with a chuckle. "You're really good with her." "Thanks... Wish I could say that about myself with girls in real life." Another laugh from the giant as he's leaning against his side of the machine, shaking his head, still in his baseball uniform, much as I am. "You'll manage, I'm sure. Though not if your luck is anything like with your trying to get me. Vincent's always coming to me and telling me about your latest attempts to try and trade for me." My lips contort into a grimace, the conversation maintained while I systematically dismantle my opponents in Story Mode. I'm that good with Cassandra that I can multitask and not lose a beat in either thread. Bastard Bordeaux. I can't believe he-- no, wait. Actually I can. Damn Creole asshat. "Yeah well... I do find myself wishing sometimes that I had drafted you in the first round... Especially after Katamor screws up at the plate, which is often considering his horrible average." Wayne nods, shifting to turn his eyes to the screen and watch me ream Cervantes a new one, his lips and gaze thoughtful. "I wouldn't mind coming and playing for you guys. You play with a lot of passion and heart. That's one thing we don't do too much of. I mean, I do what I can, but when Rico is more concerned about getting laid than winning, and our manager just wants to strut around in a purple suit and look pretty... We just don't play as well as we should." I'm about to respond, but then I hear a familiar, mewling voice behind me. "Mrrr. How come you aren't out with your team? Bad Tim, bad!" My ass gets swatted as punctuation, and both the unexpected speech and the hit are enough to jar me out of my reverie. About this time, Raphael smokes me with his damn rapier and I lose for the first time in the game. Growling, I grit my teeth and deliberately keep my back to the foxy vixen behind me. "I didn't feel like drinking, Krista. How the hell did you find me?" "Well Krista, Tim.. It was nice meeting you both, but I'm going to head over and play some Skee-ball. Tim, I'll see you tomorrow." And with that, Wayne's drifting away with a broad grin on his lips. Nice guy. Probably too nice to be on our squad of bloody frigging wankers. My suspicions of the team as turncoats is confirmed when a soft body is nestling against me, a shock of strawberry blonde falling over my arm. "Oh, I ran into them at the strip club. I asked where you were and they told me you were here... sooo I thought I'd come and find you! You don't want to be all alone after a big win, do you?" Irritated beyond reason, I turn my head and give her a glare so vicious, were it a blade, she'd be cleaved in two on the spot. "Look, just go away, all right? I don't feel like hanging out with anyone tonight. God damn! What the **** do those guys think, that I can't get make it on my own with girls or something? ...You know what? Here, take the game over. I'm leaving." And with that I pull away from her, pull away from the machine, and race for the doors. She's calling after me, but in my rage, I don't hear it. Three seconds later, I've exploded out into the humid night of New 'Awleans. Where the hell do those guys get off having her go after me? Matchmaker **** has always ****ing pissed me off... I hated it when my mot--no.. I'm not going to dwell on it. I'm just going to trudge back to the hotel while plotting the murder of each and every one of those punks who play for me. Racine Secrets? Racine Asshats is more like it. |
By the time I'm back in my hotel room and at my laptop, my rage has reduced itself to a low-level apathy. It's strange, isn't it? Even joy after a win is as short-lived as the orgasm of most men. Yet, the intensity of that ecstacy, both in the physical realm and the emotional one, is so powerful, so exquisite, that we find ourselves, wild dogs that we are, baying at the white sphere of Luna's Lament as we race through the Puritan's Devil Forest in the hunt for whatever form that voluptuous vulpine manifests herself as.
But enough of that. The day's tallies: Saturday June 4, 2004 Racine 10 New Orleans 6 WP: Wenceslao Martinez (2-0) LP: Tony Jacquez (0-1) S: Donald Moody (2) A slugfest that never really was in danger of being lost by the Secrets, as every time New Orleans mounted a challenge, Racine blasted right back with more runs to ensure they'd stay up on the Mardi Gras. The player of the game for the victors was no doubt LF Miguel Salinas, who had 3 RBIs and made some critical defensive plays. Boston 5 Minneapolis 6 WP: Andrew Sharon (1-0) LP: Charles Arango (0-1) The Lumberjacks won this one in the bottom of the 9th inning after 1B Patrick Poulos cracked out an RBI double to break the tie and give the 6-5 win to the home team. This was not a good game for either of the starters, as both took a fairly early shower. Miami 0 San Diego 3 WP: Tobias Beall (3-0) LP: Ronald Sheeley (0-3) S: Charles Thole (5) 10 hits. The Vices had 10 hits and yet were not able to produce a single run as three pitchers combined to shut them out. San Diego starter Beall pitched an excellent 7 innings, allowing 0 runs while walking 2 and striking out 4. Bishops closer Thole still has yet to be scored on. CF Timothy Chesson was the offensive powerhouse for the home team, with 2 RBIs, including a first inning solo homerun. Memphis 8 Seattle 6 WP: Toney Kittleson (3-1) LP: Lee Estes (0-3) S: Luis Soriano (3) Fearing a collapse, Rebels GM/Manager Billy Ray Jackson pulled Kittleson with just one out left, a move that turned out to almost cost Memphis the game, as MR Rudolph Varnado promptly gave up 3 runs to make it 8-6. Soriano was then sent in to douse the flames for the save. Rebels 3B Edward Mauldin continues his stellar play in this contest with 3 RBIs in the form of a three run moonshot in the 5th inning. ***End E-mail*** Damn... looks like it was a slugfest day... and what was up with Miami? Double digit hits and no runs to show for it? That's just amazing. |
Evening. The black velvet canopy patterned with white diamonds.
White. Black. Contrasts. Let us bring Red into the picture as well, for Red is frequently involved. White. The colour of purity and beauty. Yet also a hue of fragility, of sickness. Is it then the most beautiful and pure thing to be sick and frail instead of healthy and hale? Women of white hands, weak, yet loved for their loveliness. Black. Death and strength. Disease and contagion. Too much white eventually leads to the ebony? The flush of a minor affliction grown to a bloated and beastly corpse. Yet, there is a certain allure in its power and domination. Red. Passion and blood. Love and martyrdom. The most violent and unstable of these three, but also the most compelling. Indeed, it is those tales steeped in the ferocity of this shade that most affect us, most colour our dreams and shape our destinies. See the world in black and white only and your road will be a rigid one. Life needs red (Is it any surprise that blood is red) to do more than exist as an automaton. Colour your universe solely in red and black and your life shall be short, tragic, and full of melancholy and despair. Yet, many are those who names are legendary by way of knowing not the white. E.A. Poe, we salute you. Do people who see only the white and the red exist past the age of, oh, say, twenty-one? These are the idealists, the dreamers who refuse to allow the banshee of black to diminish their land of enchantment. ...Yet it is they, by their very dismissal of that onyx rogue, who are most prone to disillusion when that raven marauder strikes too close to home... If they are not fortunate enough to die young and leave a legacy of light, they will eventually be overtaken by the pursuing avenger and be plunged into the drab world of black and white... the solitary, diametrically opposed colours made all the sharper in their contrast by virtue of Red's vanquished state. Which of these am I? I must say that all three are in my life, though the portrait of my existence is largely done up in vehement crimson framed by the pathos of brooding obsidian. The aspects of white, you ask? Largely in the weakness of my body and the timidity of my personality. Timid Tim. A fitting alliteration. Bed summons me. Tomorrow, another game we play. |
Still enraged over our loss, I inform the team that I'm retiring to my room for the evening and that Krista had best not be sent to check up on me or heads will roll.
So I'm now sitting before my laptop, staring numbly at the day's scores Sunday June 5, 2004 Racine 3 New Orleans 8 WP: Ernest Styers (1-0) LP: Cristian Chapa (0-3) Another horrible outing by Chapa, who was lit up for 7 runs, all earned, over 6 innings. Also critical to the Secrets' loss was a costly error by 3B Evelio Olivares. The turning point came in the 5th inning when DH Ovidio "Suave" Rico hit a 2 RBI double to break a 2-2 tie. From that point on, it was all Mardi Gras. Boston 1 Minneapolis 4 WP: Alvin Garcia (2-2) LP: Gabriel Parras (0-2) S: Andrew Sharon (3) Despite pitching a complete game and striking out 8 while walking 0, Parras takes the loss in this one, largely due to Lumberjacks LF Daniel Hayes's 2 run homer in the 1st inning. Miami 2 San Diego 3 WP: Michael Robichaud (2-1) LP: Juan Alustiza (0-1) A thrilling 14 inning marathon that was a fitting conclusion to the matchup that many view as the likely River Series championship battle, the victory came for the Bishops in the bottom of the 14th inning with 2B Bryan Prioleau's solo shot. Memphis 4 Seattle 3 WP: Gary Yusuke (1-2) LP: Jesus Loera (1-1) S: Felix Cuestas (1) Jesus was nailed for 3 runs in the 9th inning, capping a Rebels rally that gave Memphis ace Yusuke his first win. Gary pitched 8 innings, giving up 3 earned runs and 3 walks against 5 strikeouts. Cuestas was flawless in the bottom of the 9th, striking out 2 and inducing a groundout to ensure no Coffeemen on base. ***End E-mail*** I'm still pissed about that loss. |
Secrets Engineer First Three-Way Trade In Octopus League History
Racine Secrets GM/Manager Tim Moungey was at it again last night, working the phone lines until he'd made a trade with not one, but two teams. That's right OL fans, the league's fastest trigger-man has spearheaded the first three-team-trade. Here's the details: Going to Racine: MR Pierre Mercurio Going to Minneapolis: DH Steven Hooper Going to Miami: SP Cristian Chapa In essence, what the trade diagram boils down to is this: Racine ships Chapa to Miami for Hooper, then turns around and sends Hooper to Minneapolis to bring back former Secret and goat Mercurio. Squidly Sam's Trade Analysis: Boy, howdy! Is this one ever gonna be fun to break down! Here we go, team by team! Racine Secrets: In essence, what the Secrets did here is trade Chapa for Mercurio, as they're content with their own DH Carmelo Velez for the moment, who fits better with their lineup than Hooper would have. I'll call this one a good trade for Racine, as Chapa was underperforming grossly and clearly needed a change of scenery. Mercurio gets a chance to be the third starter and reward Moungey for his renewed faith in him. Miami Vices: Bad move here by Miami, as they give up one of their powerhouse hitters for a guy with a lot of question marks. Carl Zimmerman is a poor replacement for Hooper and I gotta question the Vices making Chapa their #2 starter and dropping Yun out of the rotation. With both Cristian and former #2 Ronald Sheeley underachieving out their barnacles, it would have made more sense to put Chapa in the #2 slot and keep Yun in the #3 starter position, rather than dropping him to a reliever. This could very well be the trade that proves the Vices' undoing in the East. On the other hand, if Chapa starts showing his potential, he could create a formidable one-two punch with some guy named Davidson. All in all, way too much risk for far too little reward. Minneapolis Lumberjacks: With the addition of Hooper, their already vaunted powerhouse lineup gets even more scary, with Steven batting fifth and providing needed protection for underachieving former Secret George Capra. A shrewd move by the Lumberjacks, who already know it's going to be their offense that wins them games, so why not make a strength even greater? Final Analysis: Minneapolis and Racine significantly improve their clubs here, while Miami deals themselves a serious blow in their bid to gain the East Division title. Winners: Minneapolis, Racine Losers: Miami |
June 10th. We're at home. It's also my mother's birthday.
Before the game, I gather the team together in a huddle and inform them, "Okay guys, we're 0-6 at home and today's my mom's birthday. So let's go out there and win this game for her, eh? It'd make for a really nice present." "You're on, Coach! Let's grind some Coffeemen ass!" Josue's emotionally charged pun is greeted with lustful yells and the starters storm out onto the field, invigorated and determined. ...It's not Win one for the Gipper, but whatever works. Cortada versus Avalos. Here we go. Family and friends in the stands, including Mom. Let's win. ...Holy ****! Who knew we'd come out *this* fired up?! Our Run Support Lacking Ace strikes out 2 of 3 batters in the top of the 1st and in the bottom of the inning, none other than Dynamite Delbert hits a GRAND SLAM! sending home Macdaddy Melvin, Bennie of the Great Eye, and Our Saviour. 4-0 Racine! The stands are going absolutely wild as are we in the dugout. Beautiful!!! Beautiful!!! The beauty continues in the bottom of the 4th, when Debonair Delbert blats a triple that sends across Japanese Catcher Katamor. 5-0 Racine! And that does it for Ace Avalos who's relieved by Tyler Cueto. I'm tempted to make a wisecrack involving the nickname of Cute when I see the name on the scoreboard, but I don't want to risk jinxing our good fortune. ...And it's a damn good thing I didn't, because with the very next at-bat, Sensational Salinas torches one out of the park for 2. 7-0 Secrets! By now, everyone is on their feet in the stands, cheering in frenzied jubilation. As well they should! It's about damn time we were kicking tail at home! The shutout is broken in the top of the 5th when Their Own Japanese Guy hits a single to score one. 7-1 Racine. Lord, I hope we don't blow this. Oh my God!!! Oh my God!!! Super Fielding And Now Explosively Hitting Salinas hits another 2 RBI homerun in the bottom of the 6th and it's 9-1 Racine!!!! The other person he brought in? That's right, Dazzling Delbert! The onslaught continues in that half-frame when Melvin of the Flawless Glove snipes a single to score Superboy. 10-1 Secrets! What the hell?! Has my team been taking steroids on the sly?! In the next AB, Eagle-Eyed Taylor of all people, hits a two run moonshot to make it 12-1 Racine. Everyone, including me, is delirious with glee. This is just amazing! The bottom of the 7th ends up in Cueto getting pulled and David Hill taking the hill. Not that it's going to make any difference. This game is long gone. Midway through the top of the 8th, The Christian Ace looks exhausted. I make a rare move by actually going out to the mound to talk to him, all eyes on us. "Hey Cristian... you're looking a little bushwhacked." "Yeah, Coach. I am. You can put in one of the guys from the pen if you want." "**** no, Cortada! You haven't gotten run support worth **** all season long, and now that you've gotten it, you're staying in and getting the complete game and your first win!" "...Thanks, Coach. I appreciate it." His smile is all I need for reassurance that I'm making the right move as I head back to the dugout. Let's just hope the defense can pull it out for him.. and us. ...And they do! The ninth inning results? A walk, followed by a double play... and then the capstone of all capstones... Cortada getting his 10th K for the last out! A mob scene ensues as the spectators pour out of the stands to throw Cristian atop their shoulders, cheering and applauding loudly. I grin and push my way through the moving crowd to get next to my mother, whose all smiles, her eyes asparkle with happiness. "Happy Birthday, Mom." "That was awesome, Tim! You guys played great!" Yes... we did. And got our first home victory of the season with our ace on my mom's 54th birthday. I can't think of a more perfect ending. |
Birthdays and I have an ambivalent relationship. I love them even as I loathe them.
My affection for these days of world entrance lies chiefly in the uniqueness of their celebration of the individuals appearing on that day. Birthday cake is also quite delicious. Ah, and of course, I must confess that I love purchasing and giving gifts. But why then, the hatred of them, and why then, this stilted stream of consciousness that hurts the mind-reader to peruse? Because birthdays signify the passage of time and the unavoidable march to mortality. Would that it was possible to achieve the Holy Grail of immortality, that we might never die. Then, then could I fully and completely enjoy birthdays, rather than be haunted in the dying hours of the night as I am now, the moon disquieting in its ghostly rainment of white. I do not wish to die... do not want to pass on from this world. Even if we do exist as wisps of spirits after we are gone, what fun is that? For a sensualist like me, addicted to the pleasures attainable only through hearing, seeing, smelling, tasting, and most important of all touching... to be condemned to an incorporeal form is an invitation to Hell. If I am to wander the cloud city of Heaven, then let me have a tangible body! Allow me the bliss of orgasm as I couple with the loveliest of all creatures, God's golden-haired angels! Do not force me the drudgery of sweeping through a vast expanse with naught to do but fly, play a harp, and talk with other spirits. Far better would be Hell in that instance, I should think, for at least in the pain there is feeling and sensation. I do not want to become mere dust. Let not the atheists be right in their assertion that there is nothing in the end. Too, banish the reincarnationists, for even in the return to the earthly world, all sense of my self would be lost in the rebirth, and so I too, in essence would become lost and not Myself, but an Other. Now on the other hand, were I to know myself as still being myself and retain the memories of the former me, then reincarnation might even be quite fun, for through several lifetimes, I would have the pleasure of experiencing the totality that human existence has to offer, with each succeeding incarnation growing wiser and more knowledgeable than the last. But of course, this fantasy, as many are, is all an illusion, an idyllic daydream that will not see fruition or the light of day in reality. All of this pondering and heavy thought makes me tired. Abed I go. Winning streak, shall we come to know you tomorrow? I hope so. ...Hope is often all that we have. |
With the advent of the sun, the terror of my thoughts vanishes, the rays of light too powerful for that banshee to continue haunting me.
Calmer now, I check my e-mail to obtain the results from the day before: Friday June 10, 2004 Seattle 1 Racine 12 WP: Cristian Cortada (1-1) LP: Alberto Avalos (4-2) Cortada finally got run support this game and what support he received! The Secrets destroyed the Coffeemen in a double digit trouncing in a game that was dominated by the Racine starter. Cristian threw a complete game, giving up just one earned run and walking 4 while K'ing 10. Secrets CF Delbert Cook was the primary Seattle slayer, with a grand slam accounting for 4 of his 5 RBIs. San Diego 7 Boston 0 WP: Heriberto Perez (6-1) LP: Christopher Lobdell (4-2) Perez returns to his winning ways, pitching a gem of game over 8 and 2/3 innings, allowing no earned runs and issuing 2 walks versus 8 strikeouts. Some controversy ensued as Bishops fans questioned why Heriberto wasn't left in to pick up another complete game and potentially his second shutout. To that we can only say that GM/manager Father George Ayorinde's mysterious moves have worked so far, so we're not one to question him. 2B Bryan Prioleau continues to be a dominating force for San Diego, garnering another 4 RBIs in this contest. Minneapolis 5 Miami 4 WP: Andrew Sharon (2-0) LP: Sabino Ulloa (0-1) S: James Dutil (1) Vices starter Allen Davidson had his good 7 inning outing in which he surrendered a mere 2 runs while letting 4 men on and dismissing 10 was blown by the bullpen in the late innings of this 11 inning battle of attrition. The coup de grace came in the top of the 11th when Lumberjacks 1B Patrick Poulos hit a solo shot to break the tie. Also key to Minneapolis's victory was RF Roido "Pokemon" Hachemon's 3 RBIs. Former Vice, now Lumberjack DH Steven Hooper went 2 for 5 and his replacement in Miami, Carl Zimmerman went 1 for 5. New Orleans 9 Memphis 6 WP: Keith Fiorentino (1-0) LP: Austin Hadsell (0-1) Despite 3 errors, New Orleans managed to win this 10 inning affair. Both of the starters had abysmal outings and it was CF Jaime Gong's 3 run homer in the top of the 10th that clinched the win for the Mardi Gras. Gong was also the RBI leader for New Orleans, sending in 4 men total. ***End Email*** Looks like San Diego is still the top dog in the league, but outside of that, there's a lot of parity. I just wish we hadn't dug ourselves a hole so early in the season or we could contend right now. |
Another day, another game. We've got our lucky charm on the mound in the form of Martinez, squaring off against the winless Estes.
....Oh wait, that means the law of averages will bite us in the arse. ...Damn it! Ah well, it's time to play ball, so let's hope we can keep it going and get our first winning streak. ....Want to know why Macaroni Marconi is leading the Octopus League in RBIs? It's because Superman Carson frigging gets on base and steals second, then gets knocked in by a single, that's why! And that's what happens in the 1st. 1-0 Seattle. So much for our luck. Have I mentioned how much I love The Jedi Knight of Clutchness? Likely so, and I'm doing it again, as in the 2nd inning, he drops a hit in the gaps to score Daddymac Delbert and Sizzling Salinas to give us the lead! 2-1 Racine! A few at-bats later Error-Prone Estes shows us why he's winless by plunking Bennie Wennie with the bases loaded to score Superboy. 3-1 Secrets. Next up is Scotty Too Hotty "Bonds Without the Steroids" Harper and he finally snaps out of his RISP (Runners In Scoring Position-Hey I've got a new acronymn! and it's crisp without the sea!) slump by sending in a couple more guys who I don't want to jot the names of of. Just make it 5-1 Racine and have it at that. This also marks the end of Estes, as some guy named Cothern Who Has An Intimidating 1.59 ERA comes on in relief. Maybe we can torch him too. The crowd is in quite the good spirits, as you can well imagine. Remember the Carson to Marconi connection from earlier? It just got worse. In the 3rd, Meathead Marconi hits a 2 run laser with Darrick "I'm Not Johnny" Carson on first and just like that we're down to a 5-3 advantage. Argh! I don't know what's been in Suddenly Slamming Salinas's water lately, but I like it! He counters in the bottom frame of the third with a solo shot that gets us back up to 6-3 lead. The watchers in the stands rise to give him an ovation of cheers and clapping. So do we in the dugout. Yay! Mahvahlous Melvin gets us back to our original lead later in the inning when he cracks out a double that scores The One True Clutch God. 7-3 Racine! Lucifer Lucas hits a leadoff homer in the 4th, but I'm not too concerned as of yet. We're still up 7-4. By the time the 5th rolls around, it's obvious that Good Luck Charm is running out of magic. He not only walks two, but bobbles a ball that should have been a double play. So it's the bases loaded with just 1 out. Not liking this, I snatch him from the mound and place Lecompte there. Yeah, I was going to trade him. But hell, he's still only got a 1.80 ERA and is 1-0 on the season. ...****. Law of averages! Damn it! Or not! A pop-up is induced, and then Our Saviour makes a brilliant defensive stop and throw to get us out of trouble! I slap Josue heartily on the back as prelude to a hug when he comes back to the dugout. "I love you, man." "...You don't drink Bud Light, Coach." "True, true." Highflying Harper smacks a double into the outfield in the second frame of the fifth inning, good for 2 RBIs and we're up to a 9-4 lead! Why the hell couldn't we have this kind of explosion of offense earlier in the season?! Oh well, not going to complain. Jake Mondo, frustrated with his team's play, comes charging out in the bottom of the 8th inning to argue a call that had Our Saviour safe at first, the second time he's argued with the umpires tonight. First time he was allowed to vent... this time he gets tossed! So then the bench coach sends in Jesus Man Loera. Yeah, it's gonna take a miracle to beat us. Especially after Dazzling Delby puts another RBI on the board to bring in Scotty Bonds and it's 10-4. 22 runs in 2 games... who would have thought we'd see that out of this offense the way we'd been playing, especially at home. ...Make that 24. Superboy just plated two more and it's 12-4 us now. I'd laugh if we beat them by double digits two games in a row. A 1-2-single-3 inning later and we've won again! Hello to our first win streak!!!!! I can't even remember the last time I felt this good! |
Oh Sugar when you're close to me
You love me right down to my knees And whenever you let me hit it Sweet like the honey when it comes to me Skin is caramel with those cocoa eyes Even got a big sister by the name of Chocolate Thai A song about Morrigan? No, merely mellow-rhythmed lyrics here in Teezer's, an intimately small bar three blocks from my home. So small is it, in fact, that even with only half of the team here (the others are at Buckets across the street), we take up almost all of the available seating. As I sip my Long Island Iced Tea and smoke my Lucky Strike, I listen to the pleasant bubbling of conversation stream about me. When in the early stages of drinking, there is the same pleasurable sensation that one experiences when stepping into a hot bath on a lionesque March morning. But there is no bath and this is not tough March. Still, there is that silky, undressed feeling as I drink and smoke. The exact content of the words being spoken are not known; everything is as vague and blurry as French Impressionist art. Yet, this is no bad thing. To be languid and indistinct in the frame of mind is to introduce the same atmosphere as those in dreams. The unchaining of the mind, the drifting away from the sharp-cut lines of masculine reality's rigidity... this is when one walks in Keat's starry night and strolls the plush, nurturing, fluffly clouds of Rainbow City Care-A-Lot with its Bears and Cousins (Arkansasians, cease thy mouth-froth... they are not bare cousins). Will the next series of games produce the trifecta? I do not know, nor do I care. Leave me to my idyllic kingdom of enchantment, where the girls are young and pretty and Nature is lush and lovely. |
The quiet serenity of dusk's regal mantle of purple has settled over the court of the next evening's sky.
My run and that of the Secrets has been frenzied, fun, and frustrating as a roller coaster ride 30 seconds long that entails a three hour wait in line. Yet, here ends the recording of my thoughts. Will we continue to play on? Or shall we ourselves be dipped in the amber of days gone by, immortalized as long as there are those who rememeber and care? That is the question. Only succeeding generations can answer it. Goodbye... and thank you for traveling with me. |
Sometimes the snow comes down in June
Sometimes the sun goes ’round the moon I see the passion in your eyes Sometimes it’s all a big surprise ’cause there was a time when all I did was wish You’d tell me this was love It’s not the way I hoped or how I planned But somehow it’s enough And now we’re standing face to face Isn’t this world a crazy place Just when I thought our chance had passed You go and save the best for last All of the nights you came to me When some silly girl had set you free You wondered how you’d make it through I wondered what was wrong with you ’cause how could you give your love to someone else And share your dreams with me Sometimes the very thing you’re looking for Is the one thing you can’t see And now we’re standing face to face Isn’t this world a crazy place Just when I thought our chance had passed You go and save the best for last Sometimes the very thing you’re looking for Is the one thing you can’t see Sometimes the snow comes down in June Sometimes the sun goes round the moon Just when I thought our chance had passed You go and save the best for last You went and saved the best for last A one-hit wonder, but her voice... so powerful, so strong, so emotional... Say whatever else you will about Vanessa Williams's career, but in this moment... in this song... she stands unparallelled as a newly risen Queen... redemption gained, the gates of Paradise flung open... Hallejuah, hallejuah, Eden is once more yours! I am lifted up, I am cast down. The dichotomy of beautiful bronze bliss (two wins, two wins, a true streak!) and morose mauve melancholy (lonelier than Wordsworth's cloud...) has me weeping here in the dirty disaster that is my sleeping den and library. Scattered around me are memories of the past, perfectly preserved pages alongside of ripped, ruined rememberances that only increase my pain when I look at them. I fear more than anything else the dissolution of history. The destruction of objects horrifies me, the rape of sentimental objects an offense without equal. Lillith, the forgotten first frau of Adam, only recently ressurected. If I were allowed to be God for the space of only a few hours, I would spend the first half an hour crafting the ideal girl according to my own tastes. She would be nineteen, with hair as golden and brilliant as Spanish gold and eyes either light blue, light green, or light grey with a translucence calling to mind serenity's water. Her bosom would be neither ironing board nor excessive mountains of heaving, trembling flesh, but rather sit in the middle, well-curved and shapely... feminine without crossing the line into grossness. Outside of her chest, her body would be slender in the sylph manner, her skin pale, delicate, and delicious. For a mouth, she would have a pair of lips that were naturally pink, yet frequently shimmering with the addition of tasty glosses to make her all the more kissable. Staying with that lovely mouth, we turn to her voice. I would demand that it be a true girly girl's voice, one that is capable of the highest of musical prowess. Often she would sing to me, as I would sing to her. For interests, she too, would wander freely through the realms of writers, musicians, and movies, while having prodigal drawing, painting, and related manual artistic talent. Her name would be a poem in and of itself, the shapes inherent in the syllables of it as lovely and inspirational as her body and talents. Jane, Karen, Bertha, and Pat need not apply. We welcome worthy candidates such as... Ahh, a listing of favourable names would spoil the surprise, and so I remain mute on them here. And yet, in the end, this is all moot, an exercise in mental masturbation... a quest for a wretch's wonderland of release, with its hollow images and artificial phantasms. With the sobbing cry of my expulsion that arrives at the moment this fantasy fae whispers of her love for me, I plunge directly from that celestial happiness down into the tar and brimstone pits of realist despair. My dreams speak one thing, the circumstances of my earthbound condition shout another. Alone, alone, alone you shall always be! I fear it is my fate. |
Still numb with my lingering sorrow, I force myself to check my e-mail and view the day's results. It is not something I particularly feel like doing, but it is a thing to pass the time with.
Friday June 17, 2004 Racine 0 Miami 3 ...What? What day is it? I check the calendar. According to my schedule, it is still the 11th of June. How could 6 days, including my 25th birthday have gone by without my realizing it? Disturbed, I reach my cell phone, ignoring the fact that it is three thirty in the morning, and dial Delbert's number. He answers on the first ring, his voice groggy. "Who the hell is it calling me this damn late at night? I'm trying to sleep, you *******!" Liar. I can hear over the line the sounds of a woman moaning. The bastard is getting laid. Putting on a facade of false cheer and chipperness, I respond. "Hello, Delbert! It's Tim... Listen, I'll let you get back to ****ing in a minute, but I was just wondering about something. It says on my email that we've already played in Miami on the 17th, but my calendar still says it's the 11th. Did the league office decide to play a joke on me or something?" "...Hold on a minute, Coach." I hear him yell for the girl, apparently named Sasha to "get off my dick and go hop in the shower. My boss is on the phone." A moment later, he's back on the line, his voice a little hesitant. "Umm, I'm not sure how to tell you this, Coach. But it *is* the 17th... We're all down in Miami. You got so drunk after we won on the 11th that you slipped into a coma and were in the hospital until yesterday. Even after you came out of it this morning before we left, you still didn't seem like you were with it, so we left you at home... Scotty took over as the player-manager for today's game." Stunned, I pull my ear away from the phone, missing some of Delbert's following words. I can't have lost almost an entire week! I can't have! The very idea is so absurd that I... My thoughts are interrupted by Delbert's screaming my name. Grudgingly, I put my ear back to the cell. "Coach, just take this series off. Scotty can manage the team for the next couple days. We're worried about you, man." "**** that ****, Delbert! I'm taking the next plane down... I'll be there for tomorrow's game." Before he can get a chance to reply, I hang up on him and crawl out of bed, stumbling and falling on top of a pile of Sports Illustrateds on the floor with a loud thump. Damn it, I need to hurry! I need to make it down to Miami ASAP!! But will I? I don't know... but I'm damned determined to try. How the hell could I have lost almost a week? I still don't understand... ...And now I'm not only sad, but scared, too. |
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