Dem Ehwz are behind 1-1 in the eighth. I sense a scab
beginning to open. Home run by Frodo, er, Flaherty! It’s quiet as a movie
theater except for the deafening leer of self-satisfied smirks. The requisite fat
one-batter lefty comes in thanks to Tony LaRussa to squander a half-hour I will
never get back, and then Hieronomyous Bosch, er Rafael Soriano, a grotesque
assault on nature itself, er, a live arm, comes in, flapper like a frying pan
attached to an obese turtle with an alarm clock for a head and a smile like the
WB cartoon chicken hawk. Cal talks about the etiquette of taking. The widow has
taken out her hair net. Manny Machado, the hardest working insurance salesman
in this godforsaken town down the river, hits a home run to take the lead! No
rip in the fabric, no groan, not even chattering teeth, as the fans en masse act
like the game, the opponent, is barely worth their interest, so if they lose
they can say “What game? Did you catch the debate?” but if they win you will be
barraged with an unbearable and maddening cavalcade of hyperbolic hysteria and
jingoistic jargon like no immortal‘s ever seen – until you finally cry uncle
and admit your existence was never a threat to anybody. The noble birds try to
tighten the stringent strings in a stringendo death movement, but the Big Apple
Store sells it is what it is at the end of the day, and the side falls
harmlessly to the ground like so many golden shells. Gonzalez is still licking
the corner like a coroner, though, still splitting the straws that break the camelhair
through the eye of the needle. Derek Jeter, obviously high on HGH, lets a smile
pass his face as he condescends to react to the umpire’s call. ARod the useless
superstar, the Sad Black Man seeking Stupid White Man for bondage and
humiliation, is smoked by a 20 mph change-up. The wind pulls robins in. Jones
blows a Topps bubble while chasing down a fly. The home weather advantage of
the corrupt Bronx wind witches the ball out of his range. Television replays
show routine fly ball after routine fly ball carried to the stands from the
aforementioned home weather advantage. Does Ek Khan the Mayan wind God deliver
to the Bronx? Can we call in a favor? Huitres the catcher, whose name means
“oyster” in French, “raw oysters topped with lemon juice, hot sauce and saltine
crackers at Lexington Market” in Baltimorese, picks one from the oyster bar to
shuck to left – broken bat single, a bat shard hits the pitcher in the ass; he
grabs his nuts as a conference of the stupes consult like pediatricians, then an
elderly gentleman runs his fingers down the smooth pinstripe material before
deciding he must be relieved. This seems to unglue the Stupid White Men, the
indignity of it all. Nothing the Stupid White Men do is ever entirely honest – nothing – it would be laughably absurd if it wasn’t so shockingly appalling – it’s all so rotten to the apple core. The new pitcher thinks of running a spike through his
mother as he uncorks a deadly screwball. As usual the Stupid White Man 3rd
baseman has to fight with a fan for a ball that is neither fair nor foul. The
wicked wind formed from the hot air of Stupid White Men facing down the cold
hard truth starts brewing in the cauldron, and the next SWM batter finds his
ball taken into the stands to seal the game for extra innings. Fans are standing
like smirking turkeys, like cackling overfed vultures. I never thought I’d miss
the tomahawk chop. Game stops for litter on the field. It was
so much better to ignore the Stupid White Men and be thought a madman than to
pay attention to them and remove all doubt. As the orange and black winds of redemptive
wisdom come in I see the Orioles as reforming pilgrims finding themselves in
New Amsterdam gazing at all the abominations of Mammon amidst the old faith,
then being lured into a “baseball” game where the real plan is to dispossess us
of our very souls. The Tigers meanwhile are getting rested and ready to feast as they play. The
requisite ex-Mariner sub-mariner in October relieves Gonzo and his jaw-dropping
assortment of sinkers to throw upside down flying saucer sliders. He stamps his
feet like a chicken, pitches like a beige praying mantis on speed, skims the
arc of a sparrow. Can’t turn a double play because of the aforementioned
home weather advantage! Oh to have them at George Herman Ruth Memorial Stadium
for Game 5! We suffer because we can’t get with the program of ruthless
domination based on materialistic soul-taking. We’re too soft-hearted. Some
hail mary’s, reverse jinxology, and obscure incantations from the Popul Vul. Someday
there will be other games and they will matter too in their own way … hard to
imagine now. The owl has landed. Game over because gruesomely humorless SWM
manager mourning father takes out useless superstar in 9th for a
pinch hitter who ties and later wins the game – it must go in some kind of
management annals of the dark arts, goat-eyed managerial sorcery of the foulest
and most depraved kind. It’s Red Harvest for the Maltese Vulture. A Bobby
Valentine’s Day Massacre in the House That Ruthless Built. The mighty Negro
League technicolor pharaoh has struck out. And when it happened, nobody in the
Italian restaurant much bothered to look up from their plate, no round of
applause or even the momentary wiping off of wifely frowns. No burning up the
town or tearing down the rafters in irresponsibly joyful jubilee here, just the
smuggest of smirks for the briefest of seconds. No nod to the bird kings, fallen
like Icarus and playing for free. Oh the milk! (Orson Welles as Colonel Kurtz). Sad Polo Grounds of Divorce! Ragtime jingles from black sox park as the winds blow in like a bastard and the
ghosts of October stake the heart of John McGraw twirling his mustache in his
grave, but the Babe lets the moon shine equally on johnnys and junebirds, filthy
lucre watchchains and indentured irredentists, new York minute rice and
oystercrab sandwiches, the Met and the Walters Art Gallery, Mannahatta for some
mardi gras beads and Fort McHenry with a wind from the Keys, Miss Parker and
friends at the Algonquin Club and friendless Mencken at the Peabody Beer Stube, oysters
rockerfella and crab Rangoon, a slice of greasy pizza with mshugina on the side and
gwumpkies and kielbasa at the greasy spoon, the lady in the harbor and the
widow on her walk, the Blue Note and Hammerjacks, Bobby Van’s and Haussners,
the gaping hole that even complete domination can’t fill and the empty cackle
filled with crabs, natty bohs and copious bonghits of shame. All’s fair in
pyramid schemes, virtual night baseball and dreams. The streets will be running
cartoon-red tomorrow as the vultures feed lasciviously on the entrails of
Prometheus – you’ll need a mask to stay safe from the reek. It’s October Jake,
fahhgettabutit. All the perfumes of
Araby will not sweeten this little hand. Stupid White Men win again.