Dead Religions

Fast Eddie used to always call in a frantic voice, saying police choppers were circling. However, half of whatever came out of Fast Eddie’s mouth was a lie, and the most of the other half was twisted facts. For instance, back in 2001 with the whole story about him being a scout in the Dominican — sure, he had shown me pay stubs from the Orioles when I called bullshit, but later internet inquiries showed the Orioles didn’t have an academy in the DR back then. Who knows where he had been working in the Orioles organization. He has never come clean on that one.

Flash to 2004, with the Yard Gnome and I are sitting on a burm along the outfield lawn of Scottsdale Stadium, drinking strawberry daiquiris to fool our bodies that we are re-hydrating after day of drinking. The Yard Gnome is singing a song by a new band called the Killers. The game is over, the battle won, and now we are enjoying THE SPOILS.

Me: I love you, Man.
YG: I love you too, you demented jackass.

Flash to 2001, in the bathroom of Scottsdale Stadium. Things are about to get real ugly, so remember the scene from 2004. Once the Astros’ scout said he was going to get the cops, Fast Eddie calmly folded his arms, a sign that he was about to go beserk. The Yard Gnome returned to his lines, not knowing Fast Eddie’s body language. An adrenaline surge brought me out of my malaise, realizing that Fast Eddie was about to cross a line that cannot be uncrossed. I cursed Powell for not being there; he was the only one who could talk Eddie down at this point. I knew I had to knock Eddie out because inflicting serious bodily harm on a major league scout would not look good on my resume. We were now all in this together, and we were fucked.

Fast Eddie began walking towards the scout, another very bad sign — a calm Fast Eddie is dangerous. I charged across the bathroom, my backpack with the [em]the Total Baseball Encyclopedia [/em] raised to smack Eddie in the head. [em]The Total Baseball Encyclopedia [/em] is a tome, a wonderful wealth of baseball information that was invaluable before Sean Forman made it obsolete. I never made it across the floor because I was tackled by a 5’3″ former Kansas University baseball standout who was consumed by cocaine who now went by the moniker “The Yard Gnome.” We both crashed to the concrete floor, the Yard Gnome trying to wrest my backpack from me.

“My cocaine!” was all he offered for an explanation. Suddenly, Fast Eddie dove on both of us, then began pummeling the Yard Gnome, who responded with a vicious elbow to the side of the head. Fast Eddie dropped his entire weight on both us, and I could feel the Yard Gnome’s raspy breath on my left ear. Suddenly, my outer ear exploded in pain, and I felt something warm running down my neck. The bastard had bitten me! Then Fast Eddie tossed the Yard Gnome across the floor, and the Yard Gnome’s hard head smacked against the urinal.

“That had to hurt,” Sir Jolters mused, seemingly annoyed that his jersey conversation had been interrupted. “If you assholes are done, we really should go.” The scout was gone.

I’ve never told the full story about Fast Eddie and the Astros’ scout at the Arizona Fall League, at least in written form. Even the oral version has only been told in hushed snippets. It is a dangerous story, Liberty Valance territory. To understand the story, one must understand the setting, which is no longer really there. Maybe it was never really there, but it felt real at the time as it was THE NOW. Powell says it really doesn’t matter, and he is usually right about these things, but I wonder. THE NOW is long gone.

Back then cell phones were only leashes, not shackles like today. Corporate Baseball had swallowed the regular MLB season, but was just starting to invade the Cactus League. Rain would send pilgrims of the Cactus League scurrying to local drug stores to purchase vast amounts of baby oil and plastic sheets so unspeakable acts could be committed in hotel rooms, but the Jackalopes would take to the streets, looking for unsuspecting Cubs’ fans lost in the flood. At first, the naive Cubs fans thought we were there to rescue them, but their relief would soon turn to terror when they realized we were not Angels of Mercy. Sure, we would pull them from the mud, but that was when our fun began.

I am often asked why the Jackalopes held Cubs’ fans in such disdain. Well, the short answer answer is they are Cubs’ fans — pasty, hideously dressed creatures from the Midwest escaping harsh winters that fail to release in a timely manner to spring. They flock to the Cactus League to fill a stadium in Mesa that is overrun with feral cats, then follow the Cubs to other venues and try to put the Wrigley Field experience on everyone around them. The long answer is more complicated, but it involves Harry Caray eating himself to death.

As an older man, I am not proud what we did to Cubs’ fans with the kitty litter during rain delays, but it felt like it was a necessary course of action at the time. As far as I know, none of them died, they just left scarred, and everyone needs a few scars as souvenirs of their past. Besides, normal personal hygiene would remove any remaining kitty litter that the garden hoses didn’t remove from their orifices. Like I said, it was a different time back then. The local cops wouldn’t blink if you drove around town in the rain with a Cubs’ fan hog tied to your car.

But I digress. The incident with Fast Eddie and the Astros’ scout was in the Arizona Fall League, which doesn’t contain the hoards. We were at Scottsdale Stadium, minding our own business, arguing about normal things like Vic Powers’ worth. There might have been fifty people in the stands, mostly scouts and an old man with an oxygen tank and a new radar gun. The trouble started over the old man, but he had nothing to do with it. He was just there to watch baseball with his new toy, a gift from his wife. He really was a pathetic looking creature, but we weren’t there to judge. However, guys like that are often the targets of bullies, and it wasn’t long before a couple of the asshole scouts began making loud cracks about him, which did not sit well with us at all.

We moved behind him to get his story, which wasn’t much to tell, and to offer him support because an ugly vibe had permeated the stands (that might have had something to do with two of the guys in my group being out of their mind on really good blow). The barbs continued, unfunny and plain mean. The two biggest culprits were the Astros’ scout and a Yankees’ scout, who hadn’t stopped talking about the ring the Yankees had given him for the entire game. We had had enough.

Yard Gnome: Why don’t you fellows leave him alone?
Me: (to the old man) Don’t let those assholes bother you.
Yankees’ Scout: Who are you?
YG: Someone who is tired of your mouth.
Yankees’ Scout: What are you going to do about it?
Sir Jolters: How old are you? Ten? BTW, what position do you play for the Yankees? It must be an important one to get that ring. The Yankees are rich, but even they don’t give their AFL scouts rings.

From there, the rooster posturing began on both sides. The details aren’t important; we eviscerated those clowns to the point that even the other scouts were splitting a gut — I do remember one of them making a crack about bringing a big stats book to a game, and I replying something about to hit people over the head with, not one of my finer moments). The old man and his wife were grateful. An uneasy peace settled, and things almost went back to normal — until we went to the bathroom, and the Astros’ scout smirked he was going to call the cops on us, then Fast Eddie went to work.

The somewhat crazed Alfie is banging away on a mechanical keyboard, trying to get it all down before things blur together. I can relate to that, sort of like the way I relate to Fast Eddie’s bullshit about our era ending. Things are started to blur, and times are certainly changing. Soon, people who weren’t THERE aren’t even going to believe we lived in a world in which things could happen the way they did. Alfie  is not batshit insane like Fast Eddie, but he never spent time in a Dominican prison for stabbing someone like Fast Eddie did. Or perhaps Alfie is just as crazy as Fast Eddie; I’ve never met the dude. He is part of the network of loons on the internet I have been running with now that the Jackalopes are gone. I can tell Alfie has been to the edge though (or at least to the liquor store many times), and that is all that really matters.

Yes, the Jackalopes have disappeared — we only exchange Christmas cards these days, although I am the only one who seems to remember to send the fucking cards anymore because I am filled with the holiday spirit. HO! HO! HO! — that’s me. Sir Jolters might even be dead; I haven’t heard from him in years. Up until last summer, he drafted in our fantasy leagues and paid his fees, but he never cleared his fees this past summer, which is very un-Sir Jolters like.

Mrs. Bads tells me I just need to let the Jackalopes rest, that no one cares about a bunch of drunks trying to recapture their youth during the Cactus League, but deep down she knows the Jackalopes were more than that. She is just afraid of upheaval that might come from just mentioning their names.

Earlier today, I was listening to a familiar voice that I respected lament about how Baseballreference.com and the internet have dampened this time of year when we were still pouring over things like the Bill James Handbook, the Stats Inc. Sourcebook, and the Big Bad Baseball Annual (the Deadly Accuracy Boys were not around yet). About halfway through the tirade the voice stopped because I realized it was my own, and I was being nostalgic for a past that wasn’t better than the present, another sure sign that I am aging.

The last time my mind played that little voice trick on me was Game One of the 1995 ALDS Cleveland versus Boston. Despite going 100-44, the Indians were trailing the inferior Red Sox 4-3 in the bottom of the 11th inning. A rational baseball fan would have not been reeling in desperation; after all, it was just the first game of the series. To a Cleveland fan on that cold, windy night, it was Red Right 88, the Drive, and the Fumble lurking menacingly in the shadows. Disaster was imminent; our souls were about to be crushed by DARKNESS. Over the wind, I could hear a small boy weeping, and I soon realized that boy was me. Then Sir Albert Belle crushed one into the left field bleachers, and Darkness was vanquished, and the little boy, along with the rest of the city, cheered. Of course, Baseballreference.com tells us that Hansel and Gretel didn’t make it out of the woods safely that year, but #### Baseballreference.com; 1995 was the year Albert Belle hit that homerun that, for a while, pushed Darkness back.

My father, who lives somewhat near Washington DC, informed me today on the phone that he is a Redskins’ fan now.

Me: You can’t do that, Quisling. 
Old Man Bads: Do what?
Me: Just pick a new team that is doing well and decide they are your team.
OMB: Why not? I don’t live in Cleveland anymore. 
Me: It doesn’t go away.
OMB: It does if I want it to.
Me: Look, you inflicted your sons with this curse; you can’t just walk away from us. Red Right 88, Byner, Jose Mesa, Tony Fernandez—-
OMB: What the hell is wrong with you?

 December 11, 2012 — the day the UCLA Bruins’ Legend Trevor Bauer became the CLEVELAND INDIANS’ SAVIOR. Word on the street is that Governor Kasich is already calling for an expansion of the Ohio National Guard because he fears the Indians are coming back so fierce that the Iroquois will be resurrected and form an unholy alliance with the British and the Canadians—- an alliance cemented with Hiram Walker.

New Manager Terry Francona was overjoyed with the news. “With Alex White, Drew Pomeranz, and Trevor Bauer, we now have a formidable young pitching staff. Drew Stubbs sucks, but we can flip him at the trading deadline to a contender. The future is just that — the future, but it is much closer now.”

When informed that White and Pomeranz  had been traded to Colorado quite some time ago for Ubaldo Jimenez, Francona promptly resigned.

So Mrs. Bads is going to have a couple of surprises when she gets home this afternoon. First, despite my promise to buy only Christmas inflatables, I purchased a seven foot tall Horseman of the Apocalypse inflatable this morning. It is completely awesome, perhaps my greatest purchase. I can picture the conversation:

Mrs. Bads: You said you’d only buy things for Christmas.
Me: Oh, we are using this for Christmas! We are strapping Baby Jesus on that beast. We are celebrating a vengeful God this holiday season. Hell is coming!
Mrs. Bads: The neighbors are going to be pissed.
Me: They are mad every year. They lack Holiday Spirit.

Secondly, El Diablo is in town.

So Mrs. Bads was quite pleased with her surprises. When I told her my plans for the Horseman Inflatable, she gave that “I will follow that mad genius anywhere” look, which means the cannons and midgets are coming out later tonight. We spent the day upgrading our holiday arsenal, which now includes a nine foot tall “Stack of Pumpkins” inflatable. Now we wait the arrival of El Diablo!

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