My hangover was so bad that it seemed to have its own scent and even its own material existence. It was putting me in a mood of general malaise, and I decided it was time for an evening Labour Day stroll to get the 'ol ticker pumping. My head felt like it had been punched repeatedly by pre-funky tattoo, Mao-reading, prime 1988 Mike Tyson and I closed my door with the line of thought, Please God, Shiva, Zeus, Vishnu, Ganesh, or whatever the hell lies in the celestial mist...send the doomsday asteroid right away.
In my neighborhood, there are quaint middle-class homes next door to gaudy, three-story million-dollar compounds. The outgrowth of native greenery feels almost wild-let nature live!-the buzzing and rattling cicadas high in the trees and scurrying lizards summate that untamed vibe. With a wistfulness and stillness, the streets seem to carry their own built-in stream of consciousness accompanied by the pink wildflowers and insect sound motif as I kick around the naive idea that the vegetation here will always prevail over homogenized, domestic appearances. These walks give me time to pay attention to my mind and surroundings without getting lost in the ceaseless static and talking points. Sometimes you just need to simply tell your brain to shut the fuck up.
I could smell charcoal wafting from various grills, and as I turned a corner I lovingly witnessed the thought-to-be-dead, once customary, suburban kids playing baseball in a weed-strewn lot. There was chattering, rough-housing, dirty knees, and cardboard bases: a game for the sake of a game, simply...play. It looked like heaven to me. I could also hear someone booming Kansas' "Carry On My Wayward Son" somewhere in the distance, the perfect song for both rocking out and pondering complicated feelings while gnawing on a burger and jawing with your chain-smoking, bored and apathetic mother-in-law. Instant nostalgia dopamine filled my veins.
The rugrat ballplayers gave me the idea to watch a vintage game from my own childhood, the year chosen was 1988, a year forever embossed on my heart. Conversely, this was before baseball was shepherded by a fan-hating ghoul who is intent on destroying the history and whatever integrity the game had left due to supporting and coddling inept stewardship by a wanna-be billionaire trust-fund clown. The Bozo in question is simply hell-bent on moving a team to a micro market just to maintain his welfare payments, still living life like it's the Reagan years in perpetuity; niihilism under the guise of insatiable capitalism. But I digress...
Bob Welch was toeing the slab against the Indians, and I soon realized that this was the same field (Cleveland Stadium) that hosted 10-cent beer night 14 short years earlier; a riotous affair that went down in baseball and hooliganism history. I remember reading somewhere the account of a guy who had attended that game and of people vomiting everywhere in the bleachers. Oh, Cleveland...so much to answer for. I popped a few ibuprofen, washed it down with a Bloody Mary, and then sat back and let the annals of hardball history wash over me. Vin Scully and Joe Garagiola were on the mic, and I got swept away in the witty banter and baseball connoisseur insight before Jose Canseco launched a 3-run homer on a 1-2 jam-shot that looked to be a waste pitch.
Vin Scully tidbit: the Philadelphia Athletics played the first game at Cleveland Stadium in 1932. HOFer Lefty Grove pitched for the Elephants and won 1-0.
I fell asleep and woke up in the bottom of the 7th as Gene Nelson, he of the zany, frantic windup, strutted out of the bullpen. He then proceeded to conjure the ghost (and mustache) of Rollie Fingers to pitch the ultra-rare 3 inning save. Tony LaRussa was very meticulous with his bullpen use so this left me a bit baffled. Was the bullpen overtaxed? Did Nelson need work? I love how sometimes baseball creates a negative space where you can project your own imagination. Have you ever nerded out on something so hard that you want to filter it through your own lens? Sigh. I really need to get a hobby.
