So the Quakes game Tuesday night went eleven innings, a brief four hours and eleven minute affair, mainly because the Quakes are not very good at fielding baseball the baseball. It was the type of game that can be seen often in the Cal League as August approaches — the type of game and time of year that dooms many players to just a few more weeks in the sun. August in the Cal League is when many dreams begin their death march, but late July is when FEAR begins to take hold. But this tale isn’t really about the crushed dreams of minor leaguers, it is about a little incident I had with a church group at the game tonight, and an illustration of why, on their home turf, the baseball gods will beat Little Baby Jesus’s ass every time.
I could start at the beginning of the narrative, but that would mean it would take longer than the game to tell this tale, and I have an early tee time tomorrow, so that shit ain’t happening. Let’s jump to the chase with a minimal of back story — the family and I, along with Mad Jack (who, thanks to modern technology, met us at the game on last minute notice went to the Quakes game) because tickets were essentially free as long as one brought four bottles because it was Recycling Night, plus Steve Lyons was really pissing me off, and Fast Eddie had been on my ass to go see this kid name Scott Schebler, but Fast Eddie is another story right now, a story that involves some serious analysis of Gaslight Anthem’s “I Would Have Called You ‘Woody’, Joe” and I just don’t have time to get into that now because I need to get to how Mad Jack called down some SMITE from the baseball gods.
So there were about thirty members of a church groups in front of us, and as church groups go, they were pretty well behaved, not passing out pamphlets or telling little kids that their daddy is going to HELL because he keeps going to the beer stand. However, there was a cruise ship director of fun in the group that I wanted to pummel because forced fun coupled with Jesus really pisses me off. However, I did a pretty good job of ignoring Mr. Big Red Shoes for Jesus until that fucker told Mad Jack he was going to burn in hell, then we kind of unloaded, and then the Baseball Gods had our back.
The flash point was the Starbursts, but the real trouble started with the [em]In and Out Double Hitter[/em] of the night (none other than Scott Schebler) in which if the selected home team batter hits a double, one lucky section gets a free Double/Double from In and Out. Well, Schebler came through, but Section Four, not Section One, was selected. Red Shoes For Jesus wasn’t happy and let his little band of churchgoers into a “We Want In and Out” chant, which lasted for five batters, then Red Shoes For Jesus started berating some poor college girl just working her summer job about how his God wreaks vengeance when his people are wronged. He was trying to act as if he were joking, but it was obvious he was an angry on the inside, full of shit on the inside type clown.
BOOM! Just like that, Mad Jack and I were on our feet to drop some thunder, but Mad Jack beat me to the punch by yelling, “Maybe if your God didn’t demand so much in His collection plate, you’d be able to afford a burger!” Red Shoes certainly wasn’t expecting that, and thing might have escalated, but the Quakes’ manager launched into a tirade on an umpire, and the church group forgot all about their burger as they screamed for Blue’s head. To be fair, we did too because Blue needed a bit of an ass beating at that point in the game, but since this story really isn’t about a baseball game, we won’t get into that.
The following inning, Red Shoes began tossing Starbursts into the crowd as if he worked for the Quakes, and it was his job to ENTERTAIN. He had one big ass bag of Starbursts, and that bastard was going to block our view until that entire bag had been dispersed. Two Starbursts hit me rather hard, and I knew Red Shoes was fucking with me, and I would probably have defecate down his throat soon. However, security made him knock it off, which he did for a while, but he was soon it again, and Starbursts started coming at Mad Jack and I with an an unfriendly velocity. I was about to go beat some ass, especially because Kat and Little Bads didn’t mind if Dad got hit in the head because that was easy candy for them to scoop up.
Red Shoes was gaining some confidence, probably experiencing a raging zealous hard on, and let loose a handful of Starburst at Mad Jack, who responded by screaming, “MY EYE! MY EYE! I CAN’T SEE! I THINK I AM BLEEDING!” Of course, there was noting wrong with Mad Jack’s eye, but Red Shoes wasn’t sure.
Mad Jack: You took my eye out like [em]A Christmas Story[/em], but this is real! I hope your God SMITES you for this!
Me: My God will beat your ass! He makes better bombs than your god!
Well, the church group was stunned by this turn of events, and I started to feel bad for them. They were just sheep that wanted to have fun, and it wasn’t their fault that their shepard wore big red shoes, but Mad Jack was having none of that.
Mad Jack (still holding his eye): An eye for an eye is what the Bible says! You took mine out, so guess what? That’s right, you’re getting THE THUMB!
Mad Jack, still holding his eye with his left hand, lurched towards Red Shoes, with his right thumb extended, and I thought I was going to loosen my bowels because I was laughing so hard. I might have done that, but the Baseball Gods intervened, and a foul ball hit the railing right behind Red Shoes and caromed into his ass, which brought the first responders and security into our section. Mad Jack wasn’t letting go of his eye, moaning about being blind, and the Quakes crack staff thought he had been hit by the foul ball.
Sigh, I need to get to bed, so I need to cut this short (Red Shoes told Mad Jack that he was going to burn in Hell, which set me off a bit), but we ended up watching the rest of the game right behind the dish. I might burn in hell, but Mad Jack will be there with me, so it won’t be all bad.