The Bull Pen

I was stuck. My job was on the line. It had been a brutal stretch of painful depression and restless paranoia. The liquid acid was slowly wearing off, like honey falling from Winnie The Pooh’s paws. We hadn’t won a game all season. Here I was again, the 9th inning, down 12-1, just like the past 23 games. I’d used my only lefty. The bullpen was overworked. I couldn’t go to Armistead, he’d blown the last 8 games and an 8 ball of coke. My brother was still pitching in the penal league after pulling a shotgun on a local weatherman. Jonny Mikes was watching Mexicans appear on his wall. Kauffman was crank calling senior’s at the local nursing home. The bench was empty. The bats were cold. My mom was still on the DL. There was only one man that could remedy the problem, one man who could turn this sinking schooner into a submarine, one man who could resurrect this pathetic organization with one championship to its name, one man who could wind the clocks back to 1993, and then back again to 1980 since ’93 didn’t work, one man who could salvage the jaded attitudes of an entire generation. All we needed to do was find him…


Fuck it, I’ll do it myself. I wasn’t going to let this organization rob baseball from my hometown. I wasn’t going let them serve us shit and call it shitake. Not a fat chance. These times are changing. To quote the yearly statement of renowned baseball critic Blair McWilliams, “this is our year guys!”