Here is my new baby — an effort to get kids to a ballgame.
Here is my new baby — an effort to get kids to a ballgame.
So I believe I am decompressed enough to tell this story from today. If not, I will be sedated enough by a healthy combination of of beer and hard liquor by time I get to the really hairy parts to finish it.
I attended a funeral today—- some old dude I barely knew on Mrs. Bads maternal side of the family left this mortal world this week, which pretty much fucked up my Saturday. I was supposed to go to the Stanford/USC game with Li’l Bobby today, those plans were NIXED. My wife’s mother was one of twelve kids of immigrant parents, and many of her siblings didn’t turn out to be law abiding citizens. In fact, many of them think the Mexican gang bangers in Training Day were complete pussies for not capping Ethan Hawke in the bathtub. The dude that died wasn’t like that, but he hung with these people because they were FAMILY. I didn’t even remember who this dude was until we showed up at the funeral because my wife only sees these people when somebody gets hitched or croaks. I would have sat through the entire service without knowing who he was if not for a picture that was in the photo slide show of the church. I was sitting there trying to follow football action on my lousy phone when a picture of a much younger me drinking Budweiser and SHOTS! with the recently deceased at his house appeared on the screen—- that party was about twenty years ago.
I must say it was a hell of a bash—I was the only white person there, and initially, I wasn’t really welcome. They started warming up to me after I returned from a beer run with a keg of Bud, started pouring shots of tequila, and challenging their manhood to drink with me. By the end of the night, they wanted the CRAZY WHITE BOY to do crimes with them. That was the last I saw of a lot of them because those guys were sent to prison by THE MAN. But I digress; this is a story about TODAY. I must say I was a bit moved that a picture of me made this guy’s life highlight reel (and I did look damn good in the picture).
I knew this was not a normal Catholic funeral when I saw men wearing Raiders’ jerseys in the church. I know the new Pope is supposed to be liberal, but I don’t think he would approve of Howie Long jerseys at a Mass. I have never really been able to put my head around the Jersey Culture, but wearing your best jersey isn’t even California Casual attire. However, there in front of me was “Long”, “McFadden”, “Pryor”, “Kaufmann”, “Stabler”, and “Allen”. The one that blew my mind was the “Gannon” jersey though—Jesus Janikowski Christ—- the dude threw five pics in one Super Bowl game, three run back for touchdowns—I don’t care if he won an MVP with the Raiders; that is some bad ju-ju. In all, I counted NINETEEN Raiders’ jerseys, including the guy who lost his eye in a street fight.
After the sacrament of Holy Eucharist, the priest turned the mike over to family members to say their last respects. For the next seventy-eight minutes, I listened to all sorts of tales of despair and woe, and how the deceased helped turned these destitute lives around. Sure, they were strong testaments to the deceased’s life, but I wasn’t getting any updates on the Georgia/Auburn game, so I started to get antsy. McFadden, prison tats and all, got up and told Raider stories, and finished by letting the congregation know that the deceased was buried in his Raiders’ jersey. Look, I know football fans are tribal and have different rites and rituals, but that is MESSED UP RELIGION. When I die, I will finally be free of lousy Cleveland sports teams, and I sure as hell don’t want to take the chance of them following me to the afterlife because one of my family members draped a Browns’ jersey over my corpse. The service finally ended, and we were off to the grave site service where seventy-one Raiders’ balloons (one for each year of his life) were released into the sky.
Have I ever told the Lounge how much I despise the Raiders? If Bill Laimbeer were in a gunfight with any Raider, I’d root for Laimbeer. These feelings would come into play later in the afternoon at the reception, which just happened to be at San Manuel Casino because that was the deceased’s dude’s favorite place.
I am going to pause now for a SHOT! and some further reflection.
So the San Manuel Indians are not just in the casino business — they are into the RECEPTION BUSINESS and have built a giant ass reception hall right next to their giant ass sports bar. My day took a sudden turn for the worse when we arrived and was told there would be no alcohol served at the reception. Being the GREAT IMPROVISER that I am, I made a hasty beeline to the sports bar to wash down the bitter Raider aftertaste left over from the service. Already at the bar was the Raider Contingent, drinking Jack SHOTS! and Heineken as chasers. Gannon was there, and my curiosity caused me to make a TACTICAL ERROR. I purchased a Hot Mexican Hooker (The Sam Manuel Sports Bar is nothing but class) and a Pabst Blue Ribbon and made my way towards them, knowing full well that my literary allegory would not be appreciated by this crowd.
It should be noted at this juncture that I didn’t recall knowing any of these guys.
Me: Hail The Raiders! (slams shot, downs half the PBR to keep that nasty shit down)
Kaufmman: Who the fuck are you?
Me: Family of [the deceased] (SILENCE) Obviously by marriage. He will be greatly missed.
Long#1: You don’t look like a Raiders’ fan.
Me: I’m not! I hate them, Dude. I am a Browns’ fan. Red Right 88. But (get ready for a BIG LIE) I respect Raider fans. You guys are hardcore. (Bottles clink; toast)
Allen: What the fuck stinks?
Me (pointing at the reside in the shot glass): Tuna juice and tequila. Tastes like shit, but it’s great for the morning dooker. At my age, you have to worry about things like that.
Long#2: You put tuna juice in tequila?
Me: They won’t serve pussy juice. (pointing to Gannon) What’s up with you wearing that jersey?
Me: Rich Fucking Gannon. Super Bowl Goat. Why not Plunkett or Stabler? I understand everyone else (pointing to Allen). Marcus Allen — he wasn’t no Jim FUCKING Brown, but he was great. (pointing to McFadden) Lot’s of potential. The hope of the future. So far he ain’t even Eric Metcalf, but there is still TIME. (pointing to Stabler) The Snake! (pointing to Kaufmman( Frist name Napoleon. That is bad ass! But Gannon? Why wear the pain?
Gannon: I’ve had this since I was a kid. Plus, we eat pain.
Me: That is got to hurt! Hardcore! I still have a Brian Sipe jersey, Dude, so I think I know where you are coming from. Red Right 88. He gave you guys a Super Bowl, and I still have his jersey. I’m too fat to wear it anymore though.
McFadden (vein in forehead starting to noticeably pulse) Are you trying to fuck with us?
Me: A little. (another big lie coming) But you guys seem cool. I hope you beat Houston this week, like 57-54. I’ve got Keenum in one of my money leagues, and I really need the points. I really don’t understand the Gannon thing though. That would be like me wearing a Kosar Jersey.
Gannon: Kosar was a puss!
Me: No shit, dude. He lost 3 AFC Championship games. If he doesn’t throw in interception in the Red Zone in the first half, there is no DRIVE. If I had his jersey, I wouldn’t even wipe my ass with it because I’d be afraid I would get crotch rot on my taint.
Gannon: What the fuck is your taint?
Me: The skin between your nutsack and your asshole. Taint much, but you’d be in a world of shit without it.
McFadden (vein now pulsating): Only chicks have taints, Dickfuck. Men have gooches.
Me: Wow. I didn’t know that. Don’t I feel foolish.
Things might have rapidly deteriorated from there because I was ill equipped to argue the nuances taints and gooches with Radiers’ fans, but Little Bads and Kat showed up.
LB: Mom says you need to get back NOW! Grandpa isn’t feeling well. (guffaws from Raiders’ fans)
McFadden: Grandpa just saved your ass.
Me: Yeah, [FIL's name] does that a lot.
McFadden: Wait, you’re [FIL's name] son-in-law?
McFadden: I remember you! You brought a keg to [the deceased]‘s Halloween party that year! (bear hugs me) Go make sure [FIL] is okay, and get your ass back in here.
Had I just gone back and kept my head down, the stuff that unfolded later probably wouldn’t have gone down. However, I grew THIRSTY so I went back.
Before I go any further, I will have you know I have pondered the question why I decided to screw with Raiders’ fan at a funeral reception. I mean, these guys obviously were in mourning, and here I was, some smart ass dill weed needling them. Just what type of dick am I? The answer, as far as can determine with self reflection, can be found in the parable about the scorpion and the frog. It all boils down to NATURAL BEHAVIOR, plus I was still intrigued by the Gannon jersey thing.
Our story continues with me really regretting having that gross SHOT! after eating some carne asada tacos. Perhaps it was the tacos that caused the displeasure, but my FIL ate them, and he was fine. In fact they greatly improved his condition to the point that I could return to the sports bar. I can say though, with almost absolute certainty, that had I not returned to the sports bar, the night would not have ended at Applebee’s with me talking to the Po-Po.
Fucking Applebee’s, man — the last refuge for derelicts trying to pretend they are normal — something right out of a HST acid trip. No one in there right mind goes there unless they are separated from their family and have been forced to leave other establishments because things went south. By time I was at Applebee’s, Mrs. Bads had left me in the hands of the Beloved Nephew, who couldn’t drink because of oral surgery (an excuse he has been milking for MONTHS, and as a result, is facing STIFF FINES in the League). I will argue that nothing really bad happened in the sports bar — just good natured, really foul mouthed trash talking between passionate football fans. However, it seems that is frowned upon in that establishment, and like the E-trade Baby, we were put on a time out. Instead of a crib, we were banished to another drinking establishment, and since Applebee’s can sniff trouble, there was one just down the block.
Only about half the Raiders’ entourage made it to Applebee’s because the sense to go home. Let it be known that a group of Raiders’ fans had more sense than me today. Not since I spat a hotdog on an ASU student after a Browns/Cardinals’ game have I questioned how my fanhood is unhealthy, but that is a story for another time. However, McFadden and Gannon made it to Applebee’s, and their pride had been WOUNDED by our dismissal from the sports bar. In retrospect, giving them FIREBALL! to assuage that wounded pride was not my smartest idea, but now we are back to the scorpion and the frog. Had I known the trouble to follow, perhaps I would have left. I mean, I knew trouble was coming; I just thought I could handle it, plus I was determined to get to the bottom of the Gannon thing.
Me: I still don’t get it. Rich Gannon, dude. I don’t think I can respect you anymore as long as you are wearing that. Turn it inside out, man. People are going to think I am drinking next to a guy who buys his clothes at Goodwill.
Gannon (looking all sad with puppy dog eyes (rottweiler puppy, but still): C’mon, man. I like this jersey. It reminds me of watching games with [the deceased].
Me: Well, I can respect that (glasses clink), but the general public just isn’t ready for that. I’m looking out for you, man.
Beloved Nephew: Yeah, man, that is li–
All of us (in unison): Fuck you, Chiefs’ fan!
Me (to Gannon): Tell me, did you get that jersey before or after the Super Bowl?
Me: Well, have you ever thought about buying a new one?
Gannon: I did this summer!
Me: Which one?
Gannon (head down in shame): Flynn.
McFadden: You moron!
Kauffman (slurring dangerously, raising his glass): To Christensen! (glasses clink)
Long#1: That is like the 34th time you’ve done that. I loved Todd, man, but stop.
Kauffman: long string of expletives, knocks over glass, spills beer, glass bounces on floor, but doesn’t break.
Bartender: He’s done. No more.
Raiders’ fans (in unison) WTF!!!!!
Bartender: He’s done. Period.
Me: Why didn’t that glass break?
Me: Seriously, what type of glasses are your serving this beer in? It bounced like a bottle of Canadian whiskey. A real glass would break.
Bartender: We have special floors.
Me: Bullshit! Your glasses are bunk! I got some really cool pint glasses this week — never mind, your glasses are horseshit!
Bartender” No, really, its the floor.
Me (tactical error #2 — or 213, who was counting at this point?) So if we were to throw the glass against the wall it would break?
Bartender: It would shatter. (Pryor, who I thought was the mellow one — another gross miscalculation, hurls his empty glass at the wall, and… drum roll…. it shatters!)
Me: Special floors, huh? What will they think of next? SHOTS!
Kaufmann: To Christensen!
Needless to say, we weren’t served any SHOTS! Had we been smart, we would have left immediately — it wasn’t as if fucking Applebbe’s had let us run a tab. They took one look at the Raiders’ fans and said, CASH UPFRONT!* Instead, we tried to overtip our way out of this mess, but that only works in movies and in Scottsdale, Arizona. If I were I lifelong criminal, I would have been cognizant to the fact that since we were near a really big fucking casino with a recent history of its patrons getting robbed on their way home, there would be a large POLICE PRESENCE nearby. However, I am just a simple school teacher that hasn’t been convicted** of any crimes since my college roommate watched Cool Hand Luke and came home with two parking meters one night in 1988 (another story for another time), I didn’t think Johhny Law would get there as quick as they did. I tell you what though, the residents of San Bernardino County are getting bang for their buck with their sheriff department because those guys arrived en masse.
PRONTO! That is how fast those deputies were there. We might have been able to get out of there with just Pryor taking the fall — in retrospect, that felon was SHIFTY, but McFadden and Gannon, still stinging from the sports bar ejection, went apeshit when they saw the billy clubs, and just like that, I had three compatriots in the back of squad cars and was facing some hard stares from the deputies.
Me: Let’s be reasonable here.
Deputy#1: That went out the door when your buddy threw the glass.
Me: I will pay for the glass. We’ve had hard day. We were at the funeral of someone dear.
Deputy#2: Those guys weren’t at a funeral. They are wearing Raider’s jerseys! Who wears that to a funeral!
Me: My thoughts exactly. I was initially harsh with judgment also. Who wears Raiders’ jerseys to a funeral, especially a Gannon jersey?
Deputy #1: Gannon was an MVP, man! What is wrong with Gannon?
Me (sensing hope): Are you a Raiders’ fan?
Deputy#1: No! I am Niners’ fan, but Gannon was good, man. (hope DASHED)
Deputy#2. Gannon is not important here. You people through a glass at the TV!
Me: Oh, C’mon, the TV isn’t even near the wall. Let me just take them to their hotel.
Deputy#1: You are in no condition to drive, Sir.
Beloved Nephew: I am. I haven’t drank all day. I had oral surgery this week, and the doctor said the antibiotics wouldn’t work if I drank.
Me (in my head) You are getting so fined for that. (Aloud) It’s true. Think of the paperwork you are going to have to fill out. Is it worth it over a glass?
And back and forth it went, the sheriffs unyielding at first, but then starting to soften, especially after the bartender went on break. The Beloved Nephew passed a field sobriety test. Our story about the funeral reception at San Manuel checked out. The Raiders’ fans did indeed have rooms for the night. Just when I thought we had a chance, Kauffman started puking all over himself in the parking lot. I started imagining what the phone call from jail to my wife would be like. I wondered if I’d be released in time to watch the Battle of Ohio tomorrow. I hoped my fantasy rosters were set correctly. I was a beaten man. Then, in my moment of despair, the Beloved Nephew stepped to the plate and hit a GAME CHANGER.
Beloved Nephew: Do you want that smell in your car? Let me take them back to the hotel. We all go on with our lives. It’s been a long day, and you guys can go catch the real bad guys.
The deal went down pretty fast after that. The Applebee’s manger was cool with us paying damages — – $123.00 seemed like a lot for one glass, but one can’t put a price on FREEDOM. The deputies had already run background checks on us, and to my immense surprise, no one in the group had outstanding warrants, not even Pryor. The Raiders fans had to promise they were in their hotel for the night. We had to go straight home. The only hitch was we couldn’t fit everyone in the Beloved Nephew’s Audi, so I had to stay with the Po-Po and the GROUP LEFT BEHIND until after the return trip. Soon, the Beloved Nephew and I were on our way to Redlands, and upon our arrival, we lit one hell of a bonfire and fired up the jacuzzi to soak our taints. Or are they gooches?
Mrs. Bads: I was getting worried. Did it go alright?
Us (in unison): Fucking Raiders fans!
* They didn’t really say that; I am employing DRAMATIC EFFECT, but we all know they thought it.
** key word, convicted. Arrested doesn’t count if you beat the rap.
I have a few game summaries that I never posted her from the 66er playoff run last year. This was the last home game against the San Jose Giants:
Huge crowd tonight – last game here at San Manuel no matter what. Even the lawn is full. I am so pumped that I brought my cleats in case The Skipper needs me.
I smell tires burning. Or perhaps it human flesh. I believe The Faithful is making a sacrifice.
This isn’t your idyllic minor league crowd – these animals are smelling blood. They realize what is at stake, a Cal League Championship, which will undoubtedly return this dying city to splendor. Rapid urban decay will be replaced by prosperity, and the Welfare Warlords who run this town will be driven into the desert. Even the little kids are carrying side arms tonight.
No hits after one inning for either team. I really hope The Faithful didn’t half ass their sacrifice, or I am going to grab the kid working the deep fryer and light him on fire once it gets completely dark , and people will be able to see the flames from the grease fire for miles.
Throat Punch brought a bottle of rum into the park, so I am drinking brown booze for dinner. I wonder if she has any cocaine. If Mrs. Bads and I were younger, we would be doing rails off Throat Punch’s ass .
Why is she called Throat Punch? Long story, one that time does not permit to tell now.
Crowd is tense. San Jose has runners on first and second, with one out. The kid in front of me looks like he is going to knife his aunt, which would leave a stain on the concrete. Boom! The 66ers catcher throws behind the runner on first to pick him off, then a can of corn to end the inning. The kid visibly relaxes, and the aunt is spared …. for now.
The charge trumpet sounds, and someone shouts, “Custer died! Sound The Horn!” These are my people. Fuck the exurbs; this is my home.
Throat Punch just made snide remark about my socialist tendencies because I am bitching about Corporate America taking over the Beer Batter Promotion. That’s the second time today someone has made that type of remark. I need to work on my image.
This game is going too fast. The Deep Fryer Kid is in the waning minutes of his life unless the 66ers start a rally.
Woody Woodpecker is on the Big Screen. People are booing for reasons unknown. I hope they throw trash on the field, and I like Woody Woodpecker.
Andy Workman, I am going to find the tire store you will be working at next year, and shit on your counter.Sherman Johnson gets a hit, meaning the Deep Fryer Kid has a few more minutes let in his life.
The 66er’s bullpen have chewed sucker sticks in the holes of their caps – some sort of fucked up Alvaro Espinoza type rally cap. They look ridiculous. However, it works, they are geniuses.
The city of San Bernardino appears to have assigned a shitload of firefighters to this game (or these guys just got tired of watching porn). It’s a good thing because things are going to hell really quick. Twenty-minute wait for beer, which is just UNACCEPTABLE. People are going to riot, plus the 66ers are down 1-0 now, meaning the Deep Fryer Kid is back on borrowed time.
A really hot young Latina just spilled nachos on her enormous breasts and is now making her boyfriend lick up the mess. Now that is a Rally Monkey. Just like that, the 66ers have runners on first and second. Sound that motherfucking horn and spill some more cheese! 1-1. Hat tip to the lads in the bullpen.
Bases loaded for Andy Workman. He yanks a homer two feet foul, then K’s. Sherman Williams, Assbite. Familiarize yourself with Feces Brown because I am coming for you.
Sound the Horn! The backup catcher walks, chasing San Jose’s starting pitcher from the game. Deep Fryer Kid is saved… for now
Fifth Inning Flyby – will the beer gardens survive?
The Strikeout Batter whiffs, so someone is getting Red Robin instead of everyone else getting cheap beer.
Sound the Horn! Andy Workman with the two run jack. Yes, that Andy Workman might have just become the Ed Sprague of the California League.
Seventh inning stretch. The crowd is happy drunk with a 4-1 lead. Things can still go bad in the eighth though.
Sound the Horn! 5-1. And now it is a laugher as all tension drains away in the stands. 8-1. 9-1, who cares? No one has to die tonight. The Deep Fryer Kid might live long enough to lose his virginity once the acne clears up.
Cake or Pie! Where has this promo been all year? A kid gets to pick what desert he is going to smash in his parent’s face. You unveil this in the last half inning of the season?
Now we are celebrating. The Faithful are hugging each other. Nacho Tits is kissing her girlfriend as her boyfriend rubs her ass. I high five Andy Workman and wonder if I should drive to San Jose in the morning, or catch a ride with the front office because I AM LOVED. Then I remember there is football on Sunday, and all the boozers from the fantasy leagues will be over. I might need Deep Fryer kid at my place on Sunday.
I have a few game summaries that I never posted her from the 66er playoff run last year. This was the first game against the San Jose Giants:
Bigger crowd tonight at San Manuel Stadium because this is the start of taking home all the marbles. A lot of these people have been hit by low limbs in the Ugly Forest.
The crowd is tense because there is no Thirsty Thursday tonight, which is enough to piss off the Pope. However, the Strikeout Batter is happening.
PA with wonderful news — Thirsty Thursday is back on! The crowd goes wild, and the mad dash for the concessions begins. And the beer gardens, gone for the playoffs, are re-opened! Brilliant strategy by the owners!
Dueling Banjo Cam plays the “Deliverance” song. Dudes are playing the Air Banjo to get on the big screen.
The Faithful have bathed – must be going line dancing at the Branding Iron after the game, which would explain their cowboy hats.
SOUND THE HORN! 66ers take a 1-0 lead in the first. Will it stand?66er have their number two hitter bunt in the third inning with no outs to move the runner because no one wants to see a big inning on a school night. And the middle of the order fails to deliver, once again illustrating that when you play for one run, often you get none. 1-0 after three. Will it stand?
Jay Johnstone is at the game signing autographs because championships series bring out the stars.
Beautiful barehanded play by the 66ers second baseman on a slow bouncer to end the fourth inning.
The Strikeout Batter promotion has changed for the worse — it used to be the entire stadium received dollar beer. Now because of Corporate America, and MADD one section gets Red Robin coupons. What type of horseshit is this? Senator Barbara “Babs” Boxer will be getting a letter in the morning. Meanwhile, Sec 109 is getting some Red Robin.
Moo and Brew is not an eloquent name for a fine steakhouse.
Still 1-0 after the sixth. Will it stand? Quick game – not even 8:30 yet. If this game gets to the bullpen though, it could last well into the morning.
And suddenly, the smell of a rotting corpse rolls across the stadium. Dead hobo or a bad omen?
The song after the seventh inning stretch has switched from Journey ‘ “Don’t Stop Believing” to Bon Jovi’s “Living on a Prayer,” then the organist comes in with “Kasmir” as the inning starts. What, no Hannah Montana?
And just like that, Miley Cyrus is the opposition batter music. And just like that, there is a baserunner.
There are about 50 San Jose fans here. Don’t you people got not no jobs?
After the top of the eighth, still 1-0. Will it hold?
The guy who bunted in the third? 2-2 since then. Runners on second and third, no outs. One out. Bases loaded. Wild pitch. Sound The Horn! Again! 3-0. And again. 4-0. Will it hold?
I have a few game summaries that I never posted her from the 66er playoff run last year This was an early game against the Lancaster JetHawks:
It is the Military Aerospace Industry (JetHawks) versus the Automobile Cruisers (66ers) tonight.
Two dollar tickets for tonite’s game—$8.50 beers though. A Belgian waffle with full toppings in only six bucks. I am a bit alarmed with this development – don’t piss off the baseball gods in the playoffs!
Wind is blowing out at San Manuel Stadium – could be a high scoring affair.
The home crowd is a boisterous for the first inning. I have a feeling that THE FAITHFUL were pounding adult beverages elsewhere before the game. THE FAITHFUL look like unkempt Duck Dynasty dudes. You can sell a group of people season tickets, but you can’t make them bathe.
The Jethawks’ pitcher just lobbed the third out into the stands. Nice form. The pressure of an elimination game is INTENSE.
No score after the first inning because groundballs don’t fly out of the park in the wind.
And the wind turns a long fly into a ground rule double. The Baseball gods heard about the $8.50 beers.
San Manuel Stadium has an organist and a DJ because that is the way they roll. The organist just played “Hey Jude” after at JetHawk strikeout.
It is time for the Subway Cold Cut Combat! Kids race to make a giant fake sandwich on the third baseline. What will they think of next?
Godzilla on the big screen is leading the crowd to clap to “Boom Town Races”. Squash some cars, Big Fella!
Hey, Chris Epps! You are the number seven hitter in A ball. You aren’t allowed to cry to the ump about calls.
Abel Baker is not much of a baseball name. Good thing he won’t be making The Show.
No score after two innings because solid contact is not being made.
No fair making the guy with the highest contact rate the Beer Batter of the Game. The baseball gods are growing angrier.
66er catcher throws behind runner on first to nail his ass for the third out of the inning.
Kat and Little Bads make the big screen for the “YMCA”. God, I am worried about my kids.
No score after three innings because of the absence of clutch hits.
If your last name was Heineman, why would you named your kid Tyler unless you want him to get beat up?
Pop foul ball just hit some old lady in the leg. The baseball gods are demanding a sacrifice!
No score after four innings because these fuckers can’t hit.
No score after five innings because it is a pitchers’ duel!
Five Guy Junior PA Announcer coming up. This kid doesn’t have mange. In fact, he is going to grow up to be a LADY KILLER.
SOUND THE HORN! Sixers up 1-0 because Zach Borenstein has the will to win. “Welcome to the Jungle” is blasting. THE FAITHFUL can taste a championship.
So the 66ers’ bat boy tonight is the son of one of Mrs. Bads high school friend. It is a small world, but as Steven Wright once said, I wouldn’t want to paint it.
HBP. THE FAITHFUL want blood.
66ers leave the bases loaded. 1-0. This could very well bite them on the ass. And just like that, the JetHawks put a runner on first.
Epps is up again. I wonder if he is related to the Pittsburg Steelers’ coach, Mike Epps. Probably not the son of the dude from House wouldn’t strike out with a runner on base.
Seventh inning stretch. And that infernal Journey song that Tony Soprano brought back to life. The rock n’ roll gods served their justice in an Italian hotel room, but the song still plays.
I think one of THE FAITHFUL just threw up in a popcorn bag because the tension of an elimination game runs high. Or maybe it was the Yukon Jack.
Leadoff double to start he 8th. THE FAITHFUL are quiet, except for the wretching dude.
And just like that tie game.
Now we are doing The Carlton going into the bottom of the inning.
Going into the 9th as Michael Snyder strikes out and says a very bad word. Little Bads is impressed.
Epps with another K. Definitely not Mike Epps’ kid.
Delino Deshields Jr. is up to bat. I smell neptotism.
And into the tenth inning we go. Oh, no! Trainwreck! It will be a long bus ride to Lancaster.
I have a few game summaries that I never posted her from the 66er playoff run last year. This was an early game against the Rancho Cucamonga Quakes:
Quakes blow a sure scoring opportunity when the second baseman does the type face plant on the way home that is usually only seen executed by 18 year old Irish lads on St. Patrick’s Day.
Park is already packed up for winter – a sad day when the beer gardens are mothballed.
No one is here to watch prospects; they are here to taste playoff victory—flags fly forever, even in San Bernardino – unless they are stolen by hobos.
66ers go up by one – Sound The Horn!
Broken bat singles are keys to victory, but only if the fool batting behind you doesn’t whiff.
Smoke the water; fire in the sky. Flash flood warning.
66er pitcher serving up BP.
Quakes run themselves into another dumb out.
Hey Coyle, remember when you a bona fide prospect? Glory Days!
There is one fat bald fuck on the dugout between innings. Reinforced concrete is a wonderful invention.
No Annies here because summer kisses don’t last to September.
Old drunk with a big ass staff is sitting in front of me, mumbling into a cell phone.
Andy Bemboom is sorely lack the power his name advertises.
My kid is finishing his latest Rick Riordan novel instead of watching the game, Look, I am all for the love of reading, but this is the playoffs!
Lot of Quakes fans here – the battle of the IE is raging — so far the biggest casualty is still housing values.
The bacon wrapped hot dog stand is closed. I am not sure I want to live in a world without bacon wrapped hot dogs. The Belgian Waffle stand is open though.
Some obese old lady just called the 66ers lead off hitter a lazy bastard for not beating out a throw. This is the playoffs, and tensions run high, but I wonder if she has a job, or if she just eats sweets. Hey Grandma, why don’t you hustle up to the Belgian Waffle Stand for me?
No pride – grown men wearing chicken suits to get Hooters’ food.
Playing “Dancing Queen” as the opposition batting music seems a bit homophobic, but this is the playoffs, and tensions run high,
Pitching change in the fourth because the one run lead must be protected because this is the playoffs, and tensions run high.
Pitching change FAILS as the reliever walks in the tying run.
Coyle makes the heckler pay with a RBI triple!
66ers regain the lead! Sound the HORN!
Little Bads reading profanity off the lips of frustrated ballplayers – much better than Riordan novels.
Fifth Inning Flyby never gets old, even without the Beer Gardens.
Quakes run themselves out of another inning.
Sound The Horn! Free tacos from the Jack In The Box!
Bernie the Mascot is beloved around these parts, but I will never forgive him for shooting The Bug in cold blood. One day, Bernie, one day. I will avenge The Bug.
The Five Guys “Jr ,Announcer” is stuttering. I know this is the playoffs, and tensions are high, but pull it together, Kid. Plus, what is up with your hair? Do you have mange?