Dead Religions

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.

Tie game.

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?

66ers win!

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.