Headlines screamed this week, “The Brewers are trading everyone“ and so off to the cemetery I went, to pay respects, a stroll and a look up and it was as if god himself had dunked a broom in a bucket of paint and streaked it across the sky. I walked further and the river with its polluted swirls of muck and debris suffered the same mighty whisps and up ahead, 2nd floor McDonalds, more of the same in cream twirling a toilet flush infinity into my black coffee.
Carlos Gomez will be missed the most. “He brought fun back to baseball“ or at least he laughed cartoon exuberance. Knees cork screwing, toes digging tasmanian, head pops off or just helmet, but that smile, kissing the bat, rubbing the balaebooshka, climbing outfield walls, hopping in Rafer Alston skip to my lou serenades.
All My Messiahs, from frozen pizza to ding dongs, baseball cards, my first landlord, countless older brother surrogates to Rob Deer, Mark Clear to you Carlos.
I cringe at the thought of phoning Babe Ruth, not only because he`s already transformed into something I can’t fully understand yet, but because it’s Babe Ruth. I could barely whisper his name as a kid, almost embarrassed or scared like i had sinned and I never saw him play, not even on tv, just inside a book at the grade school library, but Babe Ruth. Bigger than any mountain.
What about Bob Golasso then? or Andy Replogle, Buster Ricky Keeton, Timothy Leary? In Keeton’s case, Buster was just a nickname, but I will forever find it wonderful anyway, this Brewers cast as superficial as it may be, just names, but potent, turn a dull day into scrabble related activities followed by a feeling of avalanche and escaping outside, grateful my disease caused me to swim.
There was a full moon last week and it was humid and hot in this season of sex, love or murder, babies conceived, cricket mating sirens, electric nature, a constant warning sound.
There’s much more work to be done.