The other day, me and Garcia were walking down the street and she says, "You gonna watch Vin call his first game of spring?"
"Oh, fuck yeah. I forgot. Tomorrow's the day. We'll be hungover, it'll be one p.m., sounds perfect."
"I'll cut up green chiles and you fry up some tortillas."
"Life is not a pointless bullshit disaster," I said. "I think Sunday is going to be a fine time in my life."
It's Sunday now and two days after Vin Scully was hospitalized. It had scared the shit out of everyone. So I'm about the watch the game on my computer because I can't afford cable and since Major League Baseball's slimy business dick raped me for Spring Training coverage even though I didn't think I'd watch many games, I was set to watch some familiar bros and hear that familiar, angelic voice. Sixty years down and ready to roll.
But then, I realized I didn't have the "Premium Package" to watch the game. For twenty dollars more this goddamn month, I could watch it. What I have instead, even though I never asked, is Charlie fucking Steiner on KABC!
And so,
Fuck you Major League Baseball. I hope Bud Selig fucking dies. If I had I time machine, I'd use it to abort his fucking fetus.
No Vin Scully. No green chile. No motherfucking ballgame.
A surliness arose with the breeze of early spring. I started drinking but not with the inexplicable pleasantness I had imagined. When I was drunk, the sun was still high and warm. And Garcia and me, we were high and warm. So it was ok.
But I re-realized once again that being poor and being a baseball fan is like living in a fucking company town. They have you. You work and work and work and when the time comes to escape the madness for a slight moment in hell, they still have you. They own you. So, until we take it all back, I'll wait for Vin Scully's voice to caress my soul sometime next month. Burn the hacienda down. Don't forget it's always been a people's game.
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
Ides of March
Between a broken computer and a train ride from Bakersfield to Stockton, which is another story altogether, I've only halfway paid attention to all the benign information I said I'd refuse to care about until April 5th. But some things have gone down these past few weeks that we can't ignore.
First thing, Willie Davis passed away about a month before his 70th birthday. Davis, who played outfield with the Dodgers from 1960-1973, dazzled fans and spit as much physical poetry upon the brickdust and grass as any player in history. While not a Hall of Famer, He certainly remains one of the most renowned Dodgers in the history of the franchise, especially in Los Angeles where he grew up. Signed out of Roosevelt High, East Los. His career encompassed two Dodger championships and he won three gold-glove awards. I wasn't alive when he played but last week I was sitting in a backyard smoking dope and drinking beers with an older gentleman. He was 72 and a lifelong fan. The sentiment expressed and the tear in his eye wasn't a result of Davis' death but rather his life, his career. I wish I could have seen him play. R.I.P.
Otherwise,
Vin Scully hit his head but is apparently ok. I thought I was going to have to cut my wrists prematurely this year. It's like when my grandfather gets a cold and we have to ask every five seconds with a heart full of gravel, "Is he ok? Oh, fuck what if...?"
So Vin is fine. The Dodgers are fine. Springtime is warm and poised for bluntsmoke.
Dewitt has seemingly hit is way into the starting line-up once again. James McDonald has pitched his way out of the line-up once again. God damn you , James. You're from Long Beach. This is your town and your team. I'm still on your side, man. Get it together.
Other than that nothing is surprising. Gagne's career is over, Giles retired, Kershaw is a fucking badass. No surprises there.
Like everyone else, I'm sick of Arizona. Let's get the fuck out and get into this gauntlet.
First thing, Willie Davis passed away about a month before his 70th birthday. Davis, who played outfield with the Dodgers from 1960-1973, dazzled fans and spit as much physical poetry upon the brickdust and grass as any player in history. While not a Hall of Famer, He certainly remains one of the most renowned Dodgers in the history of the franchise, especially in Los Angeles where he grew up. Signed out of Roosevelt High, East Los. His career encompassed two Dodger championships and he won three gold-glove awards. I wasn't alive when he played but last week I was sitting in a backyard smoking dope and drinking beers with an older gentleman. He was 72 and a lifelong fan. The sentiment expressed and the tear in his eye wasn't a result of Davis' death but rather his life, his career. I wish I could have seen him play. R.I.P.
Otherwise,
Vin Scully hit his head but is apparently ok. I thought I was going to have to cut my wrists prematurely this year. It's like when my grandfather gets a cold and we have to ask every five seconds with a heart full of gravel, "Is he ok? Oh, fuck what if...?"
So Vin is fine. The Dodgers are fine. Springtime is warm and poised for bluntsmoke.
Dewitt has seemingly hit is way into the starting line-up once again. James McDonald has pitched his way out of the line-up once again. God damn you , James. You're from Long Beach. This is your town and your team. I'm still on your side, man. Get it together.
Other than that nothing is surprising. Gagne's career is over, Giles retired, Kershaw is a fucking badass. No surprises there.
Like everyone else, I'm sick of Arizona. Let's get the fuck out and get into this gauntlet.
Tuesday, March 9, 2010
l'aine de la douleur/the groin of sorrow: bongs and songs before the storm
It only took about 10 minutes, but The Dodgers already have an injured starter. Russell Martin, after gaining thirty goddamn pounds (an apparent fuck-you to Belliard,)has injured his groin this week and is reportedly out 4 to 6 weeks. I know that the incessant dickmachine of Twitter and Facebook, as well as shitty blogs like this, will be abuzz with questions, commentaries and general shit-talking about his weight. And besides Blake Dewitt batting .800 after three games, that's all there is to talk about. But I must take responsibility for this one. Maybe the best way to get that "pop" back in your swing or whatever the fuck they call it, is not eating cake batter off of French-Canadian models for six months. But that's not the reason why Martin injured his groin. It's my fault.
See, every season I buy a t-shirt jersey of my favorite player or at least someone I want to see do well and cheer for and the same thing happens every year. They get hurt and/or suck. And then get traded. I should have known this would happen. Russell Martin has more or less been my favorite player since his rookie year. I'll be the first person to dismiss his slumped-up offensive performance last season. He's still that bad-ass catcher who calls the game, plays all the time, defensively down, seemingly indestructible. Well last season, I bought the Martin jersey and didn't panic until this week. Then I thought about the last few seasons and what jerseys I got. Nomar Garciaparra, Cesar Izturis, Milton Bradley, oh fuck.
Injuries, Baltimore and attitude, respectively. Now I know what's next for Martin. An injury, a down turn, fifty more pounds and a bullshit season. Or, Russell could come back and prove everyone wrong and start the All-Star game. I hope we're all wrong and all is well.
Lucky for me and everyone else, I can't afford to buy a t-shirt jersey this year. As long as Russell Martin doesn't get as fat as Andruw Jones or hit under .200 like that fucked up loser, we'll be all right. At least with Andruw, we have a rock bottom exhibit A. And millions of dollars to throw in a fire. As long as Martin plays more games than Andruw Jones did in 2008, hit above .200 and not somehow exceed 350 pounds. One time in the parking lot, I heard a grandmother refer to Andruw Jones as "a bunk, fat motherfucker." You said it, abuelita.
The beauty of Spring is that while I normally piss on religion, I'm lighting candles and having long, heavy talks with the Earthmother for Russell Martin's groin. I'm excavating dark places inside my soul so that some asshole jock from Canada about the same age as me, whom I've never met, can have his fucking groin back to being healthy and productive. I just hope he's tip-top for opening day so we can do this shit. I say, Here's to Russell Martin's groin! Take a deep breath from the bong and put on some Coltrane. This is your last month of sanity.
See, every season I buy a t-shirt jersey of my favorite player or at least someone I want to see do well and cheer for and the same thing happens every year. They get hurt and/or suck. And then get traded. I should have known this would happen. Russell Martin has more or less been my favorite player since his rookie year. I'll be the first person to dismiss his slumped-up offensive performance last season. He's still that bad-ass catcher who calls the game, plays all the time, defensively down, seemingly indestructible. Well last season, I bought the Martin jersey and didn't panic until this week. Then I thought about the last few seasons and what jerseys I got. Nomar Garciaparra, Cesar Izturis, Milton Bradley, oh fuck.
Injuries, Baltimore and attitude, respectively. Now I know what's next for Martin. An injury, a down turn, fifty more pounds and a bullshit season. Or, Russell could come back and prove everyone wrong and start the All-Star game. I hope we're all wrong and all is well.
Lucky for me and everyone else, I can't afford to buy a t-shirt jersey this year. As long as Russell Martin doesn't get as fat as Andruw Jones or hit under .200 like that fucked up loser, we'll be all right. At least with Andruw, we have a rock bottom exhibit A. And millions of dollars to throw in a fire. As long as Martin plays more games than Andruw Jones did in 2008, hit above .200 and not somehow exceed 350 pounds. One time in the parking lot, I heard a grandmother refer to Andruw Jones as "a bunk, fat motherfucker." You said it, abuelita.
The beauty of Spring is that while I normally piss on religion, I'm lighting candles and having long, heavy talks with the Earthmother for Russell Martin's groin. I'm excavating dark places inside my soul so that some asshole jock from Canada about the same age as me, whom I've never met, can have his fucking groin back to being healthy and productive. I just hope he's tip-top for opening day so we can do this shit. I say, Here's to Russell Martin's groin! Take a deep breath from the bong and put on some Coltrane. This is your last month of sanity.
Tuesday, March 2, 2010
Spring Break
I'm still waiting on this goddamn season to start. Trying not to get caught up in the fluff or the fray of pre-season banter. It has about as much consistency and quality of a Dodger dog. Baseball is like that. I'll eat one. I'll eat five of them. But I know it's just processed bullshit that's worse today than it was thirty years ago. It's cancer in a bun, wrapped in its nostalgic foil, perfect with an overpriced Budweiser, signifying another fine day in Los Angeles. It's murder and it's robbery. It's just like baseball. I go for it every time.
I couldn't make the trip to Arizona for spring training, not this year. But it's fine. I'll have enough worries throughout the next six months. And besides, you can't smoke dope on the street in suburban Phoenix. I think you can get a life sentence. Then you have to serve it wearing pink and sodomizing Sheriff Joe Arpaio. There's some apartheid shit going down in Arizona. I don't want any part of it. I'll stay home and face other kinds of harassment, on my own time. Needless to say, I'm excited to watch some Spring Training games and await the viscous and wonderful dawning of spring, a new season. A different form of the same old bullshit. Blunts all around.
Vin Scully, Fernando Valenzuela, ghosts of the dead, dearly departed sisters and bros, the echo of every game before lying in a suspended sigh. "It's time for Dodger baseball."
I couldn't make the trip to Arizona for spring training, not this year. But it's fine. I'll have enough worries throughout the next six months. And besides, you can't smoke dope on the street in suburban Phoenix. I think you can get a life sentence. Then you have to serve it wearing pink and sodomizing Sheriff Joe Arpaio. There's some apartheid shit going down in Arizona. I don't want any part of it. I'll stay home and face other kinds of harassment, on my own time. Needless to say, I'm excited to watch some Spring Training games and await the viscous and wonderful dawning of spring, a new season. A different form of the same old bullshit. Blunts all around.
Vin Scully, Fernando Valenzuela, ghosts of the dead, dearly departed sisters and bros, the echo of every game before lying in a suspended sigh. "It's time for Dodger baseball."
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
