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!
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.