Dear Alex Stimson [Media Relations; Eugene Emeralds]:
I regret to inform you I will not be able to attend your big media party this Wednesday for the two University of Oregon baseball players, Kenyon Yovan and Kyle Kasser, who now play for the repulsive Tri-City Dirt Devils. I have other professional commitments, plus the word on the street is that Bongwater is back in the region, so I need to procure a meaner alligator for the moat, and the sniper tower is not going to man itself. You see Bongwater had been living in Canada without proper documentation since the end of the 2016 season, so he probably has all sorts of goofy notions running through his head, like LaBatts is an acceptable beer to drink. In these tumultuous times, once should just not let radicalized acquaintances back into their lives, especially since wherever Bongwater goes, the Feds soon follow as well as angry, impregnated strippers.
Yes, Bongwater was part of the magical 2014 season at San Manuel Stadium, the year we went to Opening Night not realizing we would be saving rock ’n roll that season. Memories are not binding in the minor leagues though. No one grows up wanting to be a minor league baseball fan; it just sort of happens, kind of like the choice to de a drug dealer. For many, MiLB fandom is what happens after love and glory. For Bongwater, it is what happened after the local brothels slapped those restraining orders on his tortured soul. Bongwater once told Section 102 of San Manuel Stadium that it was Thomas Wolfe that said “You can’t go home again, but you can always see the 66ers, even if they are playing in Lancaster, except in the winter or when it rains.”
The rains did come in 2014. That was the year of the series of violent flash floods at the ballpark, and when Bongwater single handily save a doomed tarp pull by jumping onto the field to rally a despondent front office staff. Whiskey Jack and I were under the tent of the right field pavilion, sipping Maker’s Mark from our flask because getting wet is a fool’s errand. Bongwater jump onto the stalled tarps, arms extended into the storm like a defiant Christ figure singing “Iron Man”. Lightning flashed crossed the dark afternoon sky, and the front office rallied and pushed that tarp across the infield just as the game was called, a pyrrhic victory, but pyrrhic victories still go in the win column.
But I digress. I will miss Sluggo’s birthday celebration tomorrow night. Will there be a cake for Sluggo? Ice cream? A military flyover? I fear my gift will not arrive in Eugene in time because I have yet to purchase it. What do you get for the mascot that has everything? Please pour Sluggo a large shot of Rumple Minz for me, and pour one for yourself so Sluggo does not have to drink alone. Perhaps you should pour Allan Benavides [General Manager; Eugene Emeralds] one also because I am sure he misses me terribly and will be saddened that I am not in attendance. We were supposed to get Squatch tattoos together.
Hey Alex, do you ever have nightmares of the Tri-City Dust Devils mascot? I sure do. They are always the same, a napalm strike on a unsuspecting bean field filled with camping hobos, and from the fire emerges Dusty, the angry topsoil turd of the apocalypse, bringing pain and suffering to the small, furry creatures because he never received enough hugs as a child because his father skipped town to shack up with a carney lady. I am not sure of the significance of this dream, but I give Pasco and all its broken a wide berth. Cheesecake seems to keep the dreams away though.
Your friend in baseball,