brewers baseball and things

tale of two names


brain-fogIt was bad enough he lost his wool knit hat during booger freeze winter. And even worse that J. Pleebis nurtured the drama. He fixated on a suspect and imagined the hat being used in some strange ritual; a brew of his own hair follicles, powdered spices and incantations all designed to cloud his clarity, turn the simple words of strangers into drive by assaults. It was icy outside.

Luckily for J. Pleebis, he existed on the other side of 40 years old. His neuron pathways had mellowed a bit. His mind connected fewer illusionary dots, but a hat being stolen revived the darkest of days and his dreams didn’t help the situation.

A piece of cloth from his navy blue, wool lined mountain parka was found in the desk drawer beside a pair of reading glasses. No big deal, except that they weren’t his reading glasses and it wasn’t his desk drawer. It was inside a strange old man’s apartment; the neighborhood man.

the dream flashed outside to a four-sided clock. The old man knew it was 6pm from the bell chiming six times. He moved into apparent and began pacing in front of the shopping mall entrance like some sort of gatekeeper.  J. Pleebis remembered the old man whispering, “I got your hat under lock and key, right beside eye glasses and a shard of your frock.”

J. Pleebis awoke feeling like a pretzel; a figure 8; half dream-half reality. Mice were scratching the oven top of his mind. He contemplated hydrogen as an intellectual escape. When combined with oxygen, there’s water; 70.2 percent of the earth, 75.2 percent of the human body, essential, soothing but also tsunami, hurricane, flooding, death, destruction…..and when mixed with something else, nuclear mushroom cloud, asphyxiation, melting flesh.

J. Pleebis tried to breathe. He drank up some Ecclesiastes, followed its code and took a sip of wine. Shadows covered the wall. The wall sockets took the shape of monsters. Pleebis ran to his always reliable Plan B escape-the pharmacy. The rows of products and bright lights served as an effective tangent.

The pharmacist’s little lackey immediately recognized the mind of Pleebis as a bottlenecked traffic jam. He wanted to share a concoction evoking endless possibilities, but didn’t want to sound pretentious. He knew the Pleebis mind. He wore it himself far too often and knew damn well he would wear it again. There would be more storms. He believed in cycles.

So he did the only thing he knew how to do. He told Pleebis the Tale of Two Names; of Chris Davis and Khris Davis.



Chris was big. Ruthian big, Played in Texas. Hit an opposite field home run on his first trip to Yankee Stadium. Hype grew and grew until the apple was bursting Ranger red and then suddenly after years and years of irrigation, nurture, and hyped harvest, the apple fell and all turned brown and rotten in seconds. Chris recycled as an Oriole. There was no hype. He hit 53 home runs in 2013.



Khris Davis emerged from the gash of Ryan Braun. He used red lumber and made strange facial expressions in the batter’s box. He hit 11 home runs in 136 at bats in 2013 and helped the Brewers to a winning record without Braun.

End of the story. The lackey reached behind the pharmacy counter and offered a St. Louis Cardinals hat to J. Pleebis as a gift. It meant nothing at all. It was exactly what Pleebis needed, the nothing at all that is.

He walked outside. The sun was playing a game of blinding mirrors and reflections with the snow. It was warm. Pleebis unzipped his jacket half way.  He wouldn’t be needing a wool knit hat anymore.


Author: Steve Myers

I grew up in Milwaukee and have been a Milwaukee Brewers baseball fan for as long as I can remember.

6 thoughts on “tale of two names

  1. I tried to concentrate on your story, but Dickhead, the inconsiderate 60-year old going on 6 fat slob who lives in the apartment next door, keeps making banging noises with his elephantine body, vibrating and shaking the floor and making it hard for me to concentrate on your story, Steve. I can just imagine how it feels for the person who lives in the apartment BELOW him. He’s a self-centered prick.

    I’ll read the story later, when I can concentrate better. Jeez, attention deficit disorder is a nuisance.

    So I wasn’t able to fully concentrate on your story. I’ll read it later when I can concentrate fully and devote the full attention that a story that one of my favorite writers, Steven Myers deserves. (No sarcasm or facetiousness; I SWEAR. I just like your stuff, and look forward to it everyday. Along with my anti-depressant medication, it helps me get going in the morning.)

    One thing I WILL say: You always manage to get your digs in at the St. Louis Cardinals! That gave me a chuckle. You do NOT like that team, Steve!!!!!!

    Again, I’ll read it more carefully later.


  2. I awoke this morning to a still room with 2 hungry animals and a non-elephantine girlfriend sleeping quietly so I was able to read this nice little piece of fiction.
    I also clicked on the link with the PBS broadcast “stealing home.” It’s a nice and interesting show with an even-keeled and soothing host. Kind of has an NPR vibe. Good stuff.

    • I’m on my way to read maybe a new twist on the often discussed off beat personality of the M and B.

      I sure wish Nyjer Morgan would have offered his alter ego services on street corner kiosks in Seattle, Montreal, Cleveland, Oakland and wherever else Milton Bradley did the Dr. Jekyl and Mr. Hide handoogle.

      All the struggles he endured and still such a productive offensive player.

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