Greinke’s Riddle

The winter of 2010 was probably one of the warmest in Milwaukee Brewers history. The memory of 2008 was still there – acquiring Sabbathia in a mid-season trade and enjoying a run to the wild card followed by two consecutive sub .500 seasons. We felt teased by the rise and fall.

Then Christmas came early. On December 19, 2010, the Royals did what Zack Greinke asked them to do. They traded him….to Milwaukee!!! And we nearly jumped out of our skin, too excited to care about the fine print details. The Royals were heading into the 2011 season with Alcides Escobar, Lorenzo Cain, Jake Odirizzi, and Jeremy Jeffress. And these were more than names to us. We had watched Cain roam Miller Park’s center field the previous September. We knew about Escobar’s range and the 100 mph plus fastball of Jeffress and Odorizzi was the Brewers first round pick in the 2006 draft, but we didn’t care because we had Zack Greinke. 

And even when former Brewers catcher and manager Ned Yost took over the Royals and predicted he would one day win the World Series with them, we still didn’t care because we had Zack Greinke.

We said the name a few times….. Zack Greinke – Milwaukee Brewers and it felt really good, so we said it again. It was like singing a song’s chorus over and over and over, Zack Greinke – Milwaukee Brewers. As the initial gush wore off and the front office began to focus on more ways to bolster the staff, it made sense, this Greinke acquisition, with Milwaukee being such a small market team, free from the spotlight, less likely to irritate Greinke’s struggle with social anxiety disorder and depression, no big city lights and constant questioning from reporters.

Greinke was well liked in Milwaukee and garnered a sort of cult-like following. Fans praised his standoffish-ness and sarcastic, cold responses to the media. They liked his unpredictability, how he never said the same thing twice, never used worn-out clichés.  But Brewers fans didn’t seem to grasp the difference between Greinke’s social phobia and what they maybe considered to be a fashionable insouciance. The new Brewer was still struggling with a very real and dangerous illness that made quitting baseball a distinct possibility for him, back in 2006.

Fans glorified what they referred to as brutal honesty, and related a little to what they perceived to be a misanthropic edge. But Greinke was not enjoying some juvenile rebel, hateful stance toward 99% of the world. This was about Greinke’s survival and was the furthest thing from glamorous or cool. And when the phobias became too much, Greinke became quiet. He ran for cover.

The fact that Greinke requested the Milwaukee media to leave him alone except on specific days reflected his incredible intelligence and will to survive. He had paid his dues, learned his limitations and designed a strategy to combat what previously sent him spiraling downward.

Milwaukee was not the peak of Greinke’s pitching career, but we sure enjoyed his contributions, especially at home – Miller Park where he was 11-0 during 2011, the year we won the NL Central, but lost to those damn Cardinals in the NL Championship.

We didn’t expect Greinke to stay in Milwaukee and we were right. He didn’t. Anaheim was next on his free agent tour and that also made sense. He was born in warm climate Florida and the Angels were certainly the smaller of the Los Angeles teams in terms of media attention.

But when Greinke signed with the other Los Angeles, I was pleasantly shocked. What a triumph for a fellow human saddled with such obstacles to now be pitching on one of baseball’s biggest stages, Chavez Ravine, home of Kershaw and Koufax, Valenzuela and Drysdale, Vin Scully. The Dodgers! I had to say it again. It sounded so great. Zack Greinke, Los Angeles Dodgers. How did he do it! 

“It wasn’t that hard after I got the medicine,” Greinke said. “The medicine was the greatest thing ever. I may have gotten lucky and found the right one. The only problem I have with it is that it makes me a little tired, but not real tired. That’s the only complaint I have. I know it’s not always that easy, but for me it was. I was lucky with that.” (from this ESPN article)

And now Greinke stands on the brink of becoming baseball’s highest paid pitcher, ever, and I know school teachers should make more money and life’s not fair, but I’m happy for you Greinke.

it was the beginning of a dynasty

Franz Festanoosh didn’t have the name of a ballplayer, not a last name anyway, sounded more like a sweet treat at a county fair or a musical instrument from another century and well, Franz didn’t really care, not until late one summer afternoon when it started to rain and didn’t stop for 24 straight hours.

It was more of a mist than a downpour….real soft and soothing on the face, almost invisible, but wet enough that birds behaved like oil rigs pecking at the earth in search of worms and come to think of it, the mailman did turn down Melvin Street instead of Atkins Boulevard and Franz did slip into the library and that hardly ever happened. It was 5:30 PM and the only thing Franz remembered was a skinny librarian, her blue rimmed glasses and the sturdy grocery bag she handed him. Next thing Franz knew he was home, sitting on the edge of his bed with the fattest book he had ever seen.

It had a grey hardcover with a three word title and a red diamond beside it. Franz flipped open to the back. There were over 3,000 pages. He lifted it up. Must have weighed 10 pounds!

He shut the front cover and opened it, shut it and opened it. He did this a few times and then read the title out loud, “The Baseball Encyclopedia” and as he did , the small bookcase in his room did not spin 180 degrees and no magical passage opened up, but when he opened the book again and began reading, the night started to feel like a slumber party with sleep the enemy.

The book began with Aardsma, David and it didn’t take long for him to realize that the only requirement to get in was one single solitary big league appearance. That explained the presence of Abadie, John a few pages later. Abadie came to bat 49 times in 1875-a beginning and an end.

Franz thumbed through every page and every name in search of someone-anyone with the name Festanoosh and the closest he came was Alex Ferson and Lou Fette. Not one player had a family name beginning with Fes, only a manager named Wally Fessenden so Franz, now fully under the effects of post midnight loopiness, thumbed through every page and every name a second time in search of someone-anyone named Franz. And with the light of day still no where in sight, it happened.

Franz Otto Knabe appeared and Franz was only his birth name and not the name fellow infielders probably chattered when going round the horn, but Franz raised his arms above his head anyways and sizzled out an elongated Yessssssssss for a good 15 seconds or so.

Franz Otto Knabe played 11 years beginning in 1905 for Pittsburgh, but only three games. He was waived and claimed by Philadelphia. Stayed  seven years there and then jumped to the Baltimore Terrapins of the Federal League. Jumped?

That’s what it said and Franz had to pause because he had never seen the word “jumped” to describe a player transaction, maybe a shortstop “jumped” to avoid incoming spikes or the accused “jumped” bail,  the courageous “jumped” into fires and saved little children, but a player “jumped” leagues?

That was free will, rebellion, and defiance. Franz felt elated to be related to a ballplayer like Franz Otto Knabe even if it only was a first name. His excitement sobered a bit when reading the next line….Knabe was “purchased” by those same Pittsburgh Pirates in 1916 after the short-lived Federal League folded. He only played half a summer with the Pirates before being traded to the Chicago Cubs. He retired that same year.

Why would Pittsburgh want him back and then get rid of him so quickly again? There were was no biography, only the facts Franz knew from the backs of baseball cards-height, weight, place of birth and burial, but there was a piece of paper, crumpled and torn, sticking out of the next page and on it, in cursive swoops was written…..”Otto Knabe” and underneath were words written with even bigger swoops. 

“prone to gambling and drink, tiny little runt, but had arms like bowling pins and never met a cat he wouldn’t pop in the belly or keister.”

The name Franz was not written on the note, but Franz Festanoosh knew and good thing too because when the sun poked above the horizon and injected all that light into objects, Franz felt naked and exposed, but no longer alone.

It was time to get ready for school and Franz didn’t know it yet, but that mist would last another 12 hours.

 

but it still gets me giddy

It’s not often that a 6.37 ERA at AAA causes a manager to say “meet in my office” or if it does, the conversation will maybe be about a local hypnotist, primal scream therapy session, or “would you be interested in a forced ligament tear and a TJ surgery?”

But when the pitcher in question was the organization’s number one draft pick a few years ago and the major league team is struggling and it just so happens to be draft day (s), well it’s a perfect time to show off a prized investment.

Taylor Jungmann was that guy with a 6.37 ERA and he got the call to pitch Tuesday night and became the third Brewers pitcher this year to make his MLB debut.  

The Brewers made Jungmann their first  round pick back in 2011. I was excited at the time for very superficial reasons. Jungmann was born in Texas and played baseball at the University of Texas and well, Texas and pitching always struck me as a peanut butter and chocolate situation. Plus he was 6 feet six inches.

Once draft day is done I don’t pay much attention to draft picks except for the occasional update by Brewer announcers or when the scouting director visits the broadcast booth. I love minor league baseball and all its smallness, but don’t take it very seriously. Same with University baseball. It’s great entertainment, but translating success at others levels into the MLB is a border line Lotto ticket.

There are 30 teams and 25 spots in the combined dugout, bullpen, and clubhouse and there are over 1,000 players drafted as well as international players arriving by the fleet load dozens from Dominican Republic, Cuba, Puerto Rico, Venezuela, Japan.

The cruel bulldozer waits at diamonds and parks across minor league baseball land as another Steve Bilko bites the dust. Bilko hit over 300 home runs in the minors, but never cracked 100 during 10 MLB years.

But Jungmann also has a great name, a cross between  a hang man and a Jung. I was stumped right from the git go last night because his motion was a spitting image of someone I knew and had seen pitch many times. Brewers play-by-play man Brian Anderson rang the bell. It was without a doubt Jered Weaver. Jungmann strides from the right side of the rubber and dives across the mound with an over the top motion exactly like Weaver does.

Jungman pitched at AAA Colorado Springs which is apparently the worst place in the universe for a pitcher. Musta made PNC park feel like heaven last night. Jungman recorded 13 in a row at one point to go along with five strikeouts, seven innings and his first major league win and puts the Brewers in position for a second consecutive series sweep.

When a Bull Head Dreams

Joyous Glashkins never attended “How to be cruel” summer camp. He never needed to. He learned how to jab pencils into playmate’s forearms and feel no remorse, all on his own. And as peach fuzz began to gather on his upper lip he used words to manipulate his way into people’s minds and found where they were weak and gonged away until individuals lost their voice.

Joyous’s Mom and Dad were never around. No brothers or sisters either, but a cousin took him on long walks and called him Wick and the name kinda stuck. Wick spoke in superlatives, about the best band, greatest book, biggest dumb ass and if you didn’t agree with Wick, he made you feel stupid and small.

Wick remembers the day dad took off for good. The local library hours had loosened, sometimes staying open till midnight and other nights not closing at all. The days of being book smart had become fashionable so Wick loitered at the library, copying down big words most people had never heard. He collected them like weapons, to show off and when the time was right, he said mawkish instead of lovey-dovey and his peers oohed and aahed. 

The only bandwagon Wick refused to hop on was baseball. He hated the game ever since the local little league made wearing spikes illegal. Sheerskin’s Bluff was where the old Steel Mill League used to play and Wick loved the place because there was no grass or diamond and no reminders of baseball other than above ground dugouts, but they were covered with what Wick called “an incurable disease of tree root whiskers.” 

He wandered among the bluff’s ruins with stick in hand atop old furniture limbs and piles of dirty clothes. He was a vulture in need of a carcass to conquer. Wick was chained to this routine like a couch potato to a couch or a runner to the road.  

Sheerksin Bluff was not a popular destination. It was a place for lovers or junkies to hide out. The sound Wick heard one day was too many voices. Something was not right. He poked his head through a fan of leafy branches and wished he hadn’t because what he saw disgusted him. There were bats and balls and two teams and to make matters worse, a freckle faced girl playing keystone combo flip with a man wearing a patch over his eye and was that a cigar dangling from his mouth?

Baseball returning to the Bluff was bad enough, but this church choir girl impersonating the gas house gang with a man blowing a blues harmonica sent Wick over the edge. Too much east and west dancing side by side. Wick’s lips began to move on their own. 

He slid quietly to the bottom of the hill and stared at the Enstant River rippling in the sun. The reflection looked like glass shards and it soothed him, but the sound of leather smacking leather up above was fingers down the chalkboard. Wick curled up like a sow bug, surrendering to sleep’s sweet escape.

But there was no way out. Wick dreamed of a floating camp fire log and when he awoke, the image lodged in his mind. Was it a relic from a forgotten people?  A sirloin steak? The burnt foot of a bear? 

Wick’s mind had turned into a buffet table of possibilities. His certainty had vanished POOF! Poisoned by choice! He felt like a ghost in his own life. He curled back up and begged for more sleep. The Wick had been snuffed out.

If only Wick were real and he was in Minnesota this past weekend. The Brewers may have the worst record in baseball, but their fans were louder than the first place Twins fans. Wick would have loved to hear them muted on their home turf.

Target Field may be spacious, but the Brewers keep hitting home runs, three more Friday night and one on Saturday. Two wins in a row. A Sunday shutout by Mike Pelfrey spoiled what would have been the Brewers first sweep of the season.

But Monday brought a win against Pittsburgh, a combined 2-0 shutout after two long rain delays. The Pirates struck out six times with runners in scoring position, but details aside, the Brewers are 21-37 and officially over the Cleveland Spiders 1899 hump of 20 wins. Next up the 1890 Pittsburgh Allegheneys and their 23 wins. 

rearranging furniture is maybe not a revolution but it’s a start

The bar stools are tall and never sturdy. Someone whittled away wood on the fourth legs of each chair. Puts people on edge as if their drinks had been mickeyed, a speak easy. People dance wherever they want to.

I daydream this bar up and  brave a stool. The bartender rewards me with a newspaper, the kind with ink and chemical smells. I remember the backs of sports pages as my main source of information-the MLB standings, box scores, league leaders and that list entitled-TRANSACTIONS.

Nothing special, just a a roll call of players recently  put on waivers, traded or called up. The explanations were more technical than that, but the gist was always crystal clear. Someone would be enjoying a roll out the barrel moment and someone else biting the dust.

Transactions lists were baseball’s Morse code, real minimal and matter of fact, kind of cold and colorless, just the facts, but fun to wonder. It was more about what the transaction didn’t say. I especially liked the call ups because this could be Ponny Lurcett’s one chance and there would be fireworks in Lurcett’s home town of Coos Bay, Oregon, the Mayor declaring it Ponny Lurcett Day. Local TV crews swarming to Motel 6’s up and down the Pacific, vowing to keep the course until Lurcett’s penciled into pitch. Or maybe it was the opposite and Purcett was sent down and had no more options except how to use the one way bus ticket offered by the organization as compensation.

Transaction lists are cruel, but democratic like a birth or death notice. Everyone gets one. Even when Ray Chapman was beaned in the head August 16, 1920 and died 12 hours later, a change had to be made because there was a free spot on the roster. The Indians won the freaking  World Series that year and Joe Sewell enjoyed his first at bat on September 20 and that’s the same Joe Sewell who is still baseball’s all time toughest guy to strike out, one every 63 at bats. But the only thing The Cleveland Plain Dealer or any paper in the syndicate could say in its transaction was a cold rote of words something to the effect of, Ray Chapman: deceased and replaced by so and so. 

Gus the imaginary bartender slides me a Milwaukee Journal Sentinel sports page. I finger to the back and scan to the transactions list with more piss and vinegar today, because the Brewers have been busy the last 48 hours and well, win or lose I like movement up and down the organizational ladder, but especially when we’re losing, maybe for the same reason people buy lottery tickets when they’re depressed or bored. Change.

The Brewers called up Tyler Wagner from AA Biloxi this past weekend-to start on Sunday against the Diamondbacks at Miller Park. Wagner was born in Las Vegas and attended the University of Utah. That makes him the 10th Utah alum to make the MLB. I looked it up. The Brewers drafted him in the 4th round of 2012. 

He lasted 3.2 innings Sunday, gave up 9 hits and 5 runs, but the Brewers won the game in 17 innings on a walk off home run by catcher Martin Maldonado and after the game Wagner was sent back down to Biloxi. The plan was to keep Wagner around a while, but the 17 inning game used up 9 pitchers including starter Matt Garza for 5 innings.

And so now it’s Tyler Cravy’s turn, an even fresher arm. He was called up from AAA Colorado Springs early Monday morning. Cravy was born in Martinez, California. The Brewers drafted him in the 17th round of the 2009 draft so he’s enjoyed a few bumpy bus rides. Cravy didn’t pitch last night, but the Brewers scored a first inning run in St. Louis and the run held up. Mike Fiers and four relievers played tag team chain gang and shut out the Cardinals 1-0.

Kolten Wong hit a slow rolling drunk ground ball towards first base. The tying and wining run were on base. It was the bottom of the ninth. Jason Rogers literally smothered the ball like catching a mouse and then he snaked his way on the ground over to first base for the last out. Smiles all around. The Brewers are 18-34. The Cardinals fall to 33-18. 

the brewers are 15-27

I feel like an obese person conveniently preaching that beauty is only skin deep. The Brewers lost last night, to the Braves, 10-1, but it’s gonna be ok. It always was ok.

The Middle East and Southeast Asia were carved up by drunk colonizers in the aftermath of World War II or maybe it happened decades earlier? Wasn’t the world once Austria Hungarian Ottoman Persian Assyrian Babylonian Etruscan Hebrew? I should keep my day job, but over there, in some anonymous Idaho stream maybe  there is extra terrestrial dust from long long even longer ago?

Makes me wonder why the Houston Colt .45s included a decimal point before their name and why there was no apostrophe between 45 and s. Was there some drunk grammar colonizing crew that decided exception to the rule or maybe it’s  me who doesn’t know the rules?  Should there be a decimal point before 45?

Apparently there is supposed to be one before .45 but why no apostrophe between 5 and s as in Colt .45s? I guess for the same reason there is no apostrophe between the r and s of Brewers as in Milwaukee Brewers. English is complicated.

The Colt 45s, excuse me the Colt .45s  played in Colt Stadium from 1962-64 before moving into the 8th wonder of the world Astrodome. Colt Stadium apparently featured rattle snakes on the field, horrific heat and humidity and  nasty swarms of mosquitos. Some called it a barn which was maybe generous because barns have hay for rolling around in and smooching and I suspect there was a baby or two conceived at Colt Stadium.

These mosquitos remind me of the black flies of quebec north which apparently drove the native americans on summer vacation to the Atlantic coast. Smart people. They fished for lobster and returned home after the flies were done doing there thing.

Some people think because the Brewers are playing so bad this year, they too should go on vacation, especially since summer hasn’t even started, plenty of time to make a casual escape as opposed to a secret Baltimore Colts sneak out of dodge situation. All the proper disguises could be put in place with minor league brewers replacing major league ones, but the uniform name backs would remain the same name. A little face make up her and there and no one would know the difference. And who would fill minor league rosters? Anyone. Local kids with nothing else to do for the summer. What a thrill for everyone involved. And current Brewer players would be happy as well, catching those lobsters along the eastern seaboard in anonymity.

Early on in the 2014 season way back when there was concern over Carlos Gomez’s swing so hard his helmet fell off or even worse-he dropped down on one knee, but not to pray. It was to keep from falling or maybe both serve the same purpose? But the concern went deeper than Gomez. It stretched up and down the roster. This was a team that didn’t take too many pitches and hardly ever walked.

I was late to OB%, but ode to my strat-o-matic baseball guru. Thank you.  He was the one who ordered Bill James pamphlets from the backs of baseball digests. It took me a long while, but I caught on.  OB% matters.

So April-May-June of last year was an enjoyable drinking binge with all that getting on base and timely hitting. We spiked our next morning coffees with whisky to prolong the feeling,  but we knew it wouldn’t last or the good pitching did, but there were no more ducks on the pond and as a result-no more runs in July-August-September and even fewer this year.

And so home runs are my best friends and that’s OK.  I love the Brewers. Win or lose is beside the point and excuse me while I sound like a fortune cookie cliche, but the journey is what matters and there’s a game almost every damn day and I can watch it if I feel like it and if I had a porch, I’d paint it and listen to a game on the radio and pop a top on a pabst.

Ed Halicki rides the bus

The J line ran night and day and Storey Island sat in perfect darkness. There was also mom’s home-made soups and Dad’s steel drums, but everything felt like an “incestuous privilege” to Dirk Whipple; everything except riding that J line.

Mom knew a doctor; not the kind with a stethoscope, but one with a knack for palms and moon risings. Stelphus was his name and he and Momma Whipple mapped out a plan to seduce Dirk downtown with a burger and fries as bait. Worked like a charm. Dr. Stelphus sat at an adjacent table and didn’t say a word until Dirk’s mouth slowed down and he began pushing fries around his plate.

Only then did Stelphus make his move; striking up casual conversation and 45 minutes later, Dirk’s palms had been read and time of birth revealed. It was Momma Whipple’s turn now. She handed Dirk a 5 dollar bill and told him to “go and fetch some ice cream for him and his new friend.”

Stelphus put his hand on Momma Whipple’s. “Dirk may never show an interest in your soup or daddy’s steel drums,” he explained, “But don’t you worry about him riding that J train into the dark tunnel and out onto higher ground. All that in and out is good for the boy” and when Dr. Stelphus winked at Momma Whipple, she threw her arms up and raced to get Dirk; regretting she’d ever came.

It was on the J ride home where Dirk found a pack of unopened Topps baseball cards which didn’t arouse any excitement in him, but he opened the pack just the same, hoping one hundred-dollar bills might be inside, but there weren’t and so he flung the cards one by one onto the subway floor until one card sucked his eyes in. The player was kneeling down; looking like a sniper and aiming his bat at someone not even in the picture. Underneath it said “Ed Kranepool.”

“Maybe an assassin,” Dirk thought; excited to use a word he had just learned from the scarf dealer on Storey Island and less than a week ago too and now this picture? He flipped the card over and found a number in the upper left hand corner. It said 641. Dirk assumed all the cards had numbers for identification purposes like prisoners of war getting digits branded onto their wrists or forearms. 

Dirk wanted to have more and more of these cards and collect them in a big pile and climb the fire escape of a big building and set them all free. He scanned the subway floor and counted six cards plus the ones still in the pack; “a good start,” he thought. The next morning Dirk walked to Clifton’s Pharmacy and began the ritual exchange of coins for cards.

That’s where he met Simmy Timpkins and learned of the 726 cards needed to complete the 1980 set. Simmy was big around the ankles and had all kinds of connections; stuck his nose in everybody’s business so when the time came and Dirk needed only one more card, Simmy stepped in like a pimp and promised him #217 Ed Halicki if Dirk would do him “just one small favor.”

There was an electric pole at the corner of Palisades and Avenue T and that’s where a gang of monk parakeets had taken refuge. Simmy’s little brother wanted one of the lime green critters for a pet and if Simmy didn’t get it for him than Simmy’s older brother would perform messy justice on Simmy.

Dirk made his way to Avenue T, spotted the hairy nest high above and just before beginning to climb, he said in a whisper,  “screw it” and scanned the neighborhood for a pharmacy not named Cliftons. Dirk spent 40 dollars on cards that day; one pack after another and as luck or destiny would have it; he scored not one, but two Ed Halicki cards. 

Dirk went home and gathered up all the cards, waited till dark and climbed the fire escape of Doogan’s Flour factory. There must have been over 3,000 cards he set free with all those doubles and triples flying every which way; some twirling like helicopter leaves towards the river and others nose diving into backyards and a few even slipping through open windows and onto a moving bus. One of them was Ed Halicki. 

and in whisky window smashing news…

Some called him a third baseman; others a bully or temper tantrum waiting to happen and a few added in liberal whispers, “but he comes from a broken family with a troubled past.”  The second baseman went as far as calling him evil and the manager? Well, he could care less. He just loved Gus Pincock for snaring line drives and hitting balls to all fields; “quicker wrists than Chef Rintoga chopping onions.” 

The catcher got sick and tired of all the bicker and started wondering why he joined the team in the first place. This ghost town was getting worse every year with soccer goal posts and drunk umpires, but for 120 bucks, the catcher figured what the hell.

There were 7 teams in the league and Pincock’s team-The Blues was the only one with uniforms; a 3 dollar t-shirt with Thurman’s Bar printed on the back and no one cared about being exploited. Not with drinks being free for players after or before the game or whenever anyone felt like an attitude adjustment. 

There was a professor on The Blues who didn’t play much, mostly as a pinch hitter but he crowded the plate and could work a walk; made all kinds of obscure literary references too; ones that no one knew or cared about, but he did compare Pincock to a Dostoevsky character; said he was bent for hell and had it coming to him and well; that resonated with the team.

The left fielder never shut up. Didn’t matter if he was in the field or on the bench; a non stop babbler; obsessed over Pincock and determined to enlighten the entire team why Pincock was so cruel. He used all kinds of isms and ologies and analysis; even walked out to the bullpen and lit candles, but no one listened; except Pincock. He loved the attention. It satisfied a part of him that had never been satisfied; not even as a child.   

The second basemen suffered a crushed spirit after Pincock cornered him and performed some magic manipulative tongue. Little loud mouthed bastard had met his match in Pincock and what did he do?  He quit the god damn team; didn’t get his money back either, but he did file a complaint with the antidefecation league (ADL), accusing  Pincock of being evil and insisting something be done about it. The ADL told him this was back alley baseball; a free for all. If you want something done; do it yourself. The second baseman was never heard from again.

The few fans who hung around loved the way Pincock kicked dirt around at third base. Kids learned how to shake their ass when they walked; just like Pincock and they felt like sheriffs in town and this proved to be Pincock’s ruin because all that flattery and worship made him soft. All that praise weakened his spirit.

Pincock lost his edge and suffered at the plate. No one man makes a team, but run production dropped out of sight and the losses piled up; put the manager  on edge and into motion; a crab on the prowl seeking revenge on whoever had spiked the town’s morale; making Pincock seem so weak.

The skipper landed outside the Saturn Lounge; doesn’t remember how he got there; probably another whisky blackout, but there he was; out back; beside the river; dropping coins in a beggar’s bowl and that’s when moonlit water blinded him for a quick second and that shimmer seeped into his talk as he reached the rail and the bartender liked his talk and slipped him a whisky. His heart warmed and up through the woodwork came Pincock; looking like a playboy cursed with the looks of Jim Morrison; of the Doors; not the Pirates.

There was no hate in Pincock’s breath or brain and the skipper had no agenda; other than getting whisky fire brained and this coulda been heaven the way they stumble drunked outta there laughing up a noise storm. Pincock grabbed a broom; ready to duel the sky and he failed in his attempt to knock the moon away, but the skipper’s work was done. Tomorrow was gonna be different.

Pincock woke up like a werewolf in a nearby field and didn’t remember a damn thing; and even if he did he wouldn’t have  cared or said sorry. He never did. That made him feel weak and vulnerable. He stood up; shook off the dead grass and felt  invincible again. His ego had returned and so did his edge. He got into a fight with a fan later that day and soon slipped into a hitting streak.

The Brewers split with those world-famous Dodgers; beating Kershaw and then losing to Greinke and then beating someone and then losing to someone else and that’s not bad. Counsell is 2-2 as Brewers manager and 9-20 overall.

Dave Courtland

Our history high school teacher told us politics were everywhere; like dog shit I thought, but never asked. I wish I had more guts. He defined them as people influencing people. I never liked politics, but there was Dave Courtland.

Dave never punched walls or drew attention to himself. He was more of a fly on the wall than anything else, but whenever the teacher asked him a question, he would say, “It’s all relative” and that pissed the teacher off.

Dave was one of my first heroes.

I think about Dave sometimes when I walk in the park and look at a tree. I don’t look very long and don’t say anything to the tree, but I admire the way snow lines the backs of its branches and resembles a skunk. Scares the crap out of me and when it’s windy and the branches begin to bounce and wave, they morph into long slender snake like legs. I run for the sidewalk.

Other times I look at the tree and take deeper breaths and think things to myself. I still don’t talk to the tree, but I don’t run and then I accept shelter as the tree’s gift.

I guess that’s politics and so is Aramis Ramirez. He claims to love the National League Central. He said so after signing a contract with the Brewers a few years ago. Who says things like that? Who likes to play in a particular division?

Drafted by the Pirates; traded to the Cubs, signed by the Brewers and will retire as a Brewer after this year or so he says. He didn’t have to announce his retirement in April; like Jeter; some sort of swan song departure party. A bit annoying and kind of a distraction to the team I would think. Why can’t players just say thank you and slip away?

Politics I guess.

Ramirez is kind old, so his knees bother him. He might make the HOF. He’s hit a lot of home runs; especially for a third baseman; maybe in the top 5 all time or if he doesn’t make Cooperstown he may be the fist inductee into the NL Central HOF if someone builds one.

He wasn’t in the lineup Sunday, but the Brewers beat the Cardinals 6-3. Michale Blazek got the win out of relief; his first ever as a Brewer and maybe felt extra good because he was traded by the Cardinals to the Brewers last year for John Axford.

On Monday, the Brewers threatened to win 2 in a row. The score was tied 0-0 after one inning against the Reds. It was exciting, but then Jay Bruce went BAM off Brewer ace Jimmy Nelson; a 3 run homer and there goes that idea. The Brewers did score four runs in the top of the 9th, but they were already trailing 9-2 making the final score 9-6 and their record now is 4-16.

my master has gone away

There were probably hobos of all sizes and one or two of em maybe looked like Connie Mack who was real tall or seems real tall in today’s black and white photos or maybe it’s the suit and tie that delude me? shoot his back higher than it really is?

Either way, it’s probably better to be small; not for moral reasons, but for squeezing under fences, lifting heavy objects and hopping trains and what not.  

I’ve hopped one train in my life and only rode it for 15 minutes; from Cote St. Luc to Rosemont; two small little boroughs around Montreal. It was maybe the greatest 15 minutes of my life with the only regret being that I jumped off, but braving my cowardly breath and leaping toward the metal handle, ahhhhhh, I felt like a zoo animal escaping the chains and that might sound all romantic, but it’s not true. It’s like the bark being bigger than the bite. I was scared all the way; from inhale to leap to grab the metal handle to pull myself up to the exhale.

But there were a few feelings between the fears and even now almost 10 years later, I wonder about it and play analogy; what it would be like to climb the Fergie Jenkins mound for the first time? I wish they would rename Wrigley’s pitcher’s mound “The Fergie.”

I wonder what criteria science experts use when deciding if a species is endangered?

If i took the Fergie today I’d feel like a farmer in overalls and you betchya, I’d be twanging em and staring out at all the creation like i shoulda been doing on that train; at all the broccoli patch of trees rolling and where sky and land meet.

I’d be like a dog enjoying a buffet table of smells; a wonderful mix of maybe popcorn, beer and perfume and maybe it would remind of some early point in my life and I would have to pause and the opposing team might get suspicious  and make up rules to speed up the game, but smells are powerful.  

I would wear my arm on my sleeve and not be a bionic prince. I’d keep reminding skipper that I work 10 hour days in the off-season ; shoveling cow manure on daddy’s farm. “I don’t need no tommy john surgery” I’d tell him and then he’d know that  i sure as hell don’t need no relievers neither.

But I guess Roenicke had no choice last night, but then again I don’t think any teams score many runs anymore; not with defensive shifts and Tommy John bionic arms and no more PED’s. This is a Pitcher’s World dammit, but Aramis Ramirez already announced his retirement after this season and Carlos Gomez-the Brewers best hitter or at least the most entertaining has been shelved with a hamstring problem.

So Roenicke had no choice so he pinch hit for our fill in ace Jimmy Nelson in the 6th inning. Fill in because Kyle Lohse’s ERA sounds like science fiction after 2 starts; 11.17. And the Brewers only scored one more run and the Pirates score three and so it goes.

I’ve never seen a home run hit farther at PNC than Starling Marte’s blast off Johnny Broxton; up to the second deck in left center; made the score 6-2 Pirates.

And I’ve never seen a batter lay down a perfect sac bunt and realize it was either make contact or feel Ray Chapman. The fastball from Jeremy Jeffress came flying in; heading for the batter’s face. He had already squared to bunt so he just raised his arms and sweet jesus, ball hit bat somehow and ball rolled up the first base line looking like 8 ball hugging the rail and the camera followed the batter who never left the batter’s box. There were no pats on ass and high fives when he reached the dugout; just a collective sigh saying  “whooooo daddy, live another day.”

The Brewers are 2-8; worst record in baseball.