TOP OF THE NINTH: RED SOX 9 – (8) 10 INDIANS
This last inning at Fenway, grand finale to the Austin Jackson Catch Game.
Which, if you hadn’t seen it… Continue reading “Game 107 // Ninth Inning // Christian the Redeemer”
TOP OF THE NINTH: RED SOX 9 – (8) 10 INDIANS
This last inning at Fenway, grand finale to the Austin Jackson Catch Game.
Which, if you hadn’t seen it… Continue reading “Game 107 // Ninth Inning // Christian the Redeemer”
There’s almost a certain sadness to it all. Winning, against two lifetimes of failure. Peering out through the morning fog of the battlefield, seeing an arch-enemy finally downed. Shot, and stabbed, crying out and writhing—its innards eviscerated, a row of giant blades sticking up from its back.
You start to feel mercy—what did that poor Billy Goat ever do to deserve this?
Can we at least wish it a happy goodbye?
There’s a sadness to it all, in the end. In the end. The end. The most heartbreaking book you’ve ever read—but ending? You never told the author you’d wanted an ending. Not for real.
TOP OF THE THIRD: CUBS 7 (3) – 0 INDIANS
You’d be wise, not to blow all your smiles on a Game Six.
You might not want to shout. Keep the champagne corked. Leave some green in your wallet. Don’t hug all your neighbors. Don’t profess new faith in God. Not yet.
Continue reading “Game 99 // Third Inning // We’re Getting a Game Seven”
TOP OF THE SEVENTH: INDIANS 7 (4) – 1 CUBS
Kipnis sends a three-run homer into the bleachers. 7-1 Indians.
Things go quiet. Your head falls into your lap.
IN A DREAM—YOU ENTER WHAMMY BURGER, APPROACH THE COUNTER.
Sheila: Hi, can I help you?
YOU: Yes, I’d like a two-run single and a rally starter.
Sheila: I’m sorry, we’ve stopped serving offense but we are on the loss menu now.
YOU: But I want offense.
Continue reading “Game 98 // Seventh Inning // Falling Down”
WORLD SERIES 2016: GAME ONE
There’s an old saying by Cub fans that goes: “Oh my god—we’re in the World Series?”
An old saying three days old. When those words burst into the chatter at full speed, fan to ecstatic fan. Appearing one day in bold, drawn big onto the great Cub-fan blackboard in the sky, erasing all others in one big swipe—“Wait ‘til next year…” chalked away into a smudge. Continue reading “Game 97 // First Inning // We’ve Waited A Sure Long While”
TOP OF THE THIRD: INDIANS 1 – (1) 2 RED SOX
How long has it been…
Since this Indians team knocked off the Boston Braves for a World Series win…
Since Vic Wertz flew out at 420-plus feet, in the deep center field of the Polo Grounds…
Since they lost it to the Braves, since they lost it to the Marlins…
Continue reading “Game 90 // Third Inning // Playoff Baseball Is Back in Cleveland”
TOP OF THE NINTH: NATIONALS 6 (5) – 4 INDIANS
The Nationals had this one won. Then they had it more won. Up one run. Up to two runs, too. Then, they had it lost, and lost it they did. A National nightmare, prolonged and Papelbonned, a team asleep with the lead, awoken with the house on fire. Someone check on Dusty Baker, he’s had a rough go of it. He got rally-monkeyed in ’02, billy-goated in ’03, chaperoned a string of heartbreaks in Cincinnati, and now he’s back—to the great-team/tough-break blues, unsure of whether the hump will finally be surmounted, waiting for October to find out. Continue reading “Game 67 // Ninth Inning // The Summer of Wahoo”
BOTTOM OF THE EIGHTH: ROYALS 7 (0) – 2 INDIANS
Behind home plate at Kauffman Stadium are three words that I’m sure are the result of some great prank, pasted into the ad space on the backstop by a group of middle-school gigglers, paying homage to the gods of sophomoric genius:
“Steaks With Hos.”
Steaks with hoes?
If I’m reading it right, the sign is like a remixed reprinting of the centerpiece at the heart of Will Ferrell’s last great film, the takeaway theme song from Step Brothers, two 40-year-old fictional siblings aboard a stolen yacht, realizing their delayed dreams of hip-hop stardom. Continue reading “Game 63 // Eighth Inning // The Butcher Boy”
Sketch by Henry Gustavson
BOTTOM OF THE NINTH: YANKEES 5 – 4 INDIANS
There’s an occasional sense watching baseball, that what you’re seeing steps into another category altogether, into the absurd, the cartoonish—where sport falls behind spectacle, the score and standings go blurred out and silent, for a moment, and you’re left only with an image.
Prince Fielder belly-flopping onto the Fenway Park dirt, a beached fish some 20,000 leagues short of third base. Continue reading “Game 61 // Ninth Inning // The Yankees Ballet”