Po Boy Views
“Okay, we’re imagining the culmination of this year’s baseball season. Baseball: described by Brazilian friends as the “hit boll with stick--- run around in circle” game that is near and dear to the heart of any red blooded American who believes in apple pie, Mom, the NRA and people pulling themselves up by their bootstraps (even those with no boots).
Picture, here we’re at the World Serious--game seven-- each team has won three; this one’s for the whole enchilada. The Chicano Red Sox are playing the New York Wankers for the title, ‘World-Chumpions’. It’s a cool, clear day in the Wankers’ stadium, the fans sit half-dozing in their seats, women in tight dresses and men with powerful thirsts and a taste for tubes of mystery meat wrapped in bread garnished with a spiced yellow substance which we thought was mustard, but wa snot (pun intended).
The score tied at nothing to zero, bottom of the ninth and if this game goes into extra innings the crowd will surely riot. To pay good money for additional boredom is close enough to criminal to warrant major insurrection. The air smells of stale beer, cooked swine, suntan oil and pot. Runners at first and third; this year for the first time each team has brought picnic lunches and barbecue grills. The Wankers are holding their annual carwash in center field complete with babes in bikinis. The Sox not to be outdone are passing around shots of tequila and funny cigarettes.
Up at bat is the Wankers’ Lefty Miller who is batting right handed since being hit by a fly ball in the sixth inning while waving at the crowd and still making a spectacular catch with his cap. He eyes the pitcher, warily sensing a real showdown. The pitcher Willie Mantle is sending a twitter from the mound while the catcher tries to text him to call for Willie to throw his famous twenty-second ‘Slinky’ slow ball which is usually swung at unsuccessfully three times before passing the plate, effectively banishing another batter to the dugout bullpen, sad walkin’ and slow singin’.
Lefty steps up to the plate, swings a few times for practice, spits, grabs his crotch and hits his shoe with the bat before crossing himself and looking up to heaven for the Lord’s sanction. Willie grabs his crotch and spits, looking to the first baseman who spits and then grabs his crotch, the runner on first spits twice and grabs his crotch with both hands; soon both teams are spitting and grabbing crotches (theirs and those of their teammates); the umpires call a time out to gather and lecture both team’s crotches… er….coaches who are eating sunflower seeds and spitting the seeds out and scratching the backs of their necks. Soon the umpires are scratching their necks and chewing tobacco because they don’t have any sunflower seeds, but still feel the need to spit something to stay part of the game in solidarity.
The play continues and the ball is thrown. Swung on and missed, strike one; a snore goes up from the crowd. The catcher returns the ball and Willie throws again. Close and inside and Lefty puts one high on the outside over right field, the right fielder picks the ball on the bounce stops to take a selfie, throws to home and the runner is picked off at the plate after a twenty yard slide, the call is ‘out’ and the score remains tied, nada nada. After snuffing out the runner from third the catcher tweets his prowess to the multitude of his followers. Lefty holds on at first and instagrams his arrival with a pose with the first base coach who grabs his crotch, slaps him on the ass and high fives are passed around.
The score is still zip to zilch at the top of the ninth with runners on first and second, two outs and up to the plate comes Pee Wee Romano, the Wankers’ short stop, who walks to the plate slips under the ump’s arm and steps on the catchers foot. He swings two bats and throws one over his shoulder, hisses under his breath and shoots a dirty look at the pitcher who is on his cell phone and with his back turned tosses the ball which Pee Wee bunts, slides to first, trips the first baseman and the bases are loaded. The crowd wakes up. And--as if you cannot guess what happens--now, Mighty Casey comes to bat. Wearing headphones.
The time is now the place is here, folks; top of the ninth bases loaded and so is Casey. The pitcher throws one at his head and the call is ‘ball one’. Next pitch is a screaming fast ball that catches Casey unawares and: “Steeeerike One!!!” two pitches follow quickly, aimed at his knees and feet and the call stands at three balls and one strike. The women are throwing their panties into the infield and the men are calling their mistresses for an early lunch.
Mighty Casey points his bat over center field to indicate where his next homer is going to land and Willie takes a wad of spit from under his cap and greases the ball, the coach rubs his stomach, picks his nose and pulls at his belt. The catcher is signaling in sign language and the pitch is thrown. Casey, Mighty Casey, Huge, mean, powerful, godlike Casey swings his mighty bat …………..and misses. Men cry, women faint, children pick pockets and snatch purses.
This is the moment of truth; bases are loaded, full count to the batter, the best batter the league has ever seen, the pitcher winds up; but, before the pitch is thrown the skies open up and it starts to pour rain and the game is called at nil to nothing. Time for another PBR and some beer nuts.” April fools!