brewers baseball and things


dawn of the new Brewer

Today was not like any other day, not because of a meteor shower or a man running naked up and down the steps of city hall. It was different because I spotted a crooked old lady, leaning to the right, walking slowly along the cement, holding an eggplant in each hand, her locomotion a thing of the past, but I bet there was a time when she skipped and jumped rope and smoked her first cigarette behind Terri’s Italian emporium. We passed each other. I nodded. She didn’t see me. She was busy, focused on her next step. God, life is weird. I remember when summer vacation felt like forever and now the days are slow, but the weeks are fast and the months and years even faster. I think I might return to McDonald’s and drink coffee and stare at strangers and if I’m lucky strike up conversations and get people high because I feel high because it’s been a while since three promising rookies cracked the Brewers lineup. it’s been since the early 2000’s with Rickie Weeks, J.J. Hardy, and Prince Fielder and now it’s Garrett Mitchell, Brice Turang, Joey Weimer and spring really is the time for fracas and new beginnings and bulbs on branches ready to burst into green spiders and then leaves and dancing in the breeze is my determination to spend more time outside this spring and summer is enough to get me walking to the local survival store and buy a brew and take it to a secret place and drink it under the sky.



roses from a sacramento bunker

there were noises outside the basement window…
probably tanks rolling over gravel.
old Blinker let out a farmer’s blow of green slime and
snuck under his basement steps.
he flipped on a flashlight,
removed a box of 1974 Topps
and thumbed through them,
happy all over again that he was only missing two cards from the entire 660 card set –
number 13 – Tom Hilgendorf and
number 409 – Ike Brown
he wondered what the Hilgendorf and Brown cards looked like.
he’d never seen them.
head first dive into second?
batting cage casual?
contorted motion?
the questions resurrected a no longer dead part of his mind.
sudden thoughts of Bill McNulty and his 55 homer season,
Pacific Coast League,
Sacramento Solons.
The Blinker rolled his fingers like a beginning piano player.



Captain Treble came to the lakeside clinic with a cleft foot. He was born that way, six toes on his right foot, two sets of three. He came looking for answers. Dr. Winter smiled and scanned the room. He waved his hands like a circus trainer to encourage Captain Treble to have a look around and so the Captain did and he spotted a scalpel resting on a sterile cloth, a stethoscope, a stack of popsicle sticks designed for patients to stick out their tongue and say ahhhhhhhh, a blood pressure cuff, a box of plastic gloves, and all sorts of vials, tubes, and jars behind a glass case.

“Like a car shop mechanic , I am, that’s me,” said Dr. Winter. He smiled and held it for quite a while and then clapped his hands. “So what can I do for you?”

Captain Treble removed his shoes and socks and flexed his right foot, like a tease, all six toes, fluttering them back and forth, the three in unison with the other three.

“I wanna know why,” Captain Treble said. “Why do I have a cleft foot?”

“Well now,” said Dr. Winter, “I can tell you how we might be able to accommodate you, make it less awkward, easier to get around, adjust you to the lager and tequila crew, things like that. We have the tools We have the how, but the why? You best go across the street, to St. Kevin’s. Father Pat will help you with that. We’re like stamp and envelope, me and him, to get you on your way. That’s what you want, right?”

Captain Treble looked down. He knew all those gargoyle looking christs and mother mary statues. They scared him. But he felt something heavy peering down at him so he looked up and lazily nodded his head yes, as if to say, whatever, another dud. He put his socks and shoes back on and headed for the door.

But before he could leave, Doctor Winter reached up with his open palm. He was looking for a high five. He held it up there as he spoke.

“You might think, as a doctor, I’m being a bit informal with the high-five and all,” said Dr. Winter. “Well, you see, I don’t see corpses. I fix humans. Keeps me loose.”

And so Captain Treble high-fived Doctor Winter and went on his way. He braved the streets, jay walked between cars coming and going, didn’t care a bit if a cop happened to roll on by. He entered the church and asked for Father Pat. The man he asked, was Father Pat himself.

Captain Treble didn’t bother removing his shoes and socks. It was something in Father Pat’s eyes. They were stiller than an owl.

“We’ve been talking lately about Israel not being a promise land, not being a land at all, just a metaphor, said Father Pat, but just is too weak a word cause a metaphor’s a big deal especially when we’re talking about the world……Israel Jerusalem Mecca, all a state of mind, for everyone to know and feel.”

Father Pat tilted his head and laughed but never lost that still stare. Captain Treble rolled his toes in his shoes. He didn’t believe in any Jesus Jerusalem Israel Mecca Ganges River Buddha stuff. Well, that’s not entirely true. He tuned in to god every once in a while, but it wasn’t a mood thing, more like a moon cycle. He was a fair weather fan, a streaky hitter, a part time devotee.

He smiled at Father Pat and walked out of the church, took the back alleys and for a change, looked up, not down, and enjoyed some casual awe at pigeons lounging communal on a telephone wire and then launching into a figure 8 flight pattern and in the foreground, a solo seagull soaring carefree in the wind world, the world, he thought, not so bad.