Well, sports fans, my baseball bum life for this year is about over. Most part, it was a major success, even if it was about as weird as it gets.
Think about this: my beloved Chicago Cubs finished with the same exact record they finished with in 2023, namely, 83-79, and we all know about my South Side of Chicago and Northwest Indiana team, the White Sox, on the crawl through baseball hell with the worst, and we’re talking worst, record in the history of modern baseball: 41-121, a whopping 51.5 games out of first place, which they just couldn’t make up for a run on at least a wild card spot, LOLS. Not like the Cubs, who did, but ended up running out of steam at the end, getting swept by the generally bad Pirates at home even, which was the sign to me that they were about ready to hit brick wall.
Now usually, when the season is over, it’s over, my friend. No watching wild card, real playoffs and a World Series on digitally streaming TV that goes to the last week of October, might as well be November, when all I really care about is college football. But this year, okay, I’m watching the Brewers Mets wild card three-game-whatever series, just because I was a serious domehead this year.
What do I mean by this? See, I am not a fan of spring baseball outdoors. Too cold, rainy, even sleety at Wrigley, let alone at The Rate. So you know what I do, take the cheap Amtrak to Milwaukee and start the baseball bum season watching the first week of play under the retractable roof dome of American Family Park, or whatever they’re calling the place these days, my friend.
I went up there a couple of times this year: for spring I saw the Brewers beat the Twins, though why you’d want to start your season playing interleague baseball is beyond yours truly. Brewers beat them, matter of fact, the Brewers didn’t lose a game all three or four I forget times I went. Yeah, Miller Park, I mean, American Family Park, great place to watch baseball, lots of room for baseball bum styling and profiling: slouching around in a near-empty section of the park, talking to myself about this play and that play, and in general, enjoying my meditations from on high of the Zen symmetry of the game, or whatever they’re calling it these days.
By the way, the Wisconsin sausages in that park are the best in the US of A ballparks I visited: nice work on the sauerkraut, guys, goes down smoothly tasty, if you know what I’m saying.
As for my beloved Cubs, I saw them lose at American Family Park, I mean, Miller Park, and was hoping to see the White Sox the next day for a Chicago doubleheader, but something came up having to do with The Museum of Post-Punk and Industrial Music back in Chicago that was featuring Wax Trax rock and roll hero Chris Connelly, who did one of the mightiest screams I ever heard on the Revolting Cocks track Stainless Steel Providers, back in the day. Even the baseball bum has his exceptions to the rules.
Don’t go much to Wrigley these days, though, my friend. Not very friendly confines for the baseball bum life. Damn place is too expensive, thanks to Scrooge McDuck, I mean, Tom Ricketts.
I did splurge about 50 bucks on one game, beautiful day, good play and all, but … you don’t even want to buy a hot dog under such hardships to the pocketbook, if you know what I’m saying. Now, I did go to a game in the late summer, when I could get an okay-priced ticket, around the time when the Cubs were about out of it … but still too high for your average baseball bum, being me.
Whatever, even if they keep screwing up, the damn team is still in my heart and soul … you know, like the Joy Division song on that album Closer. Specially this Japanese player, Seiya Suzuki, who had a solid year, keeps getting better and better actually from season to season.
Why do I like Seiya Suzuki, you might ask? Well, my friend, they got him from the Hiroshima Toyo Carp Japanese baseball team, that is why: favorite team of some Japanese dancing girls I know who were what they call Carp Girls back in the day and, whenever I go to one of their concerts, like I’m doing in Albuquerque in November, they dance just for me in a routine involving swinging a baseball bat and pitching a ball when they see I am wearing my Hiroshima Toyo Carp hat that looks exactly like a Cincinnati Reds hat, go figure.
Yeah, sure they do.
Anyway, when it comes to the Hiroshima Toyo Carp … not so good either. They hung on to a 1 game lead most of the year, only to go into a godawful slump in the last few weeks to the point where they won’t make the playoffs even, it’s looking like. Oh well, good for the Cubs, getting a player from my favorite Japanese baseball team anyway. Lots of choice synchronicity going down there, if you know what I’m saying.
No, in the city of Chicago, the real drama in baseball this year was out of the South Side, where the White Sox sunk to depths even Lake Michigan hasn’t ever seen. Started with some manager named Pedro who got swept in the all-important Crosstown Classic with the Cubs then inspired the guys to a horrible 20-game losing streak before getting canned. Didn’t help any: they ended up having, like I say, the baddest record in all of modern major league baseball, worse than the 1962 Mets … though not as bad as the 1899 Cleveland Spiders, who own the worst single-season record of all time and for all eras at 20–134.
And it got so bad, that the White Sox couldn’t even lose right in front of their own fans.
What do I mean by this, you might ask? Okay, they were a game away from breaking the record when they entered the final series of the year at home against the similarly lousy California Angels. First night game, those White Sox fans there were ready for history, yelling and hooting and wearing brown paper sacks over their heads with such words as NUKE THE SOX … hell, man, they were even cheering the Angels when they scored a run.
But you know what happened? The freaking Sox go on to sweep these fallen Angels, much to the bitter scorn of the fake-true White Sox fans. I happened to be at the sun-kissed final day game where the mood was a little more up-beat, what with the Sox having won night before on a walk-off run, causing much Gatorade to be spilled on heads that should have been bowed in forever shame, or something.
So, after the Sox won, some grizzled guy who was wearing Sox souvenir gear that looked like he’d never taken it off since they won the World Series, he comes up to me and tells me: “WTF, man, I wanted them to lose, you should have seen it here last few night games, people, they were screaming for another Disco Demolition Night, only with blowing up Jerry Reinsfeld and the whole team on the field.”
One esteemed baseball critic I know says that true Sox fans hate the team almost as much as they hate themselves. I guess that means you can call The Rate “The Hateful Confines” then. Me, I kind of like going to the park myself, comfortable roomy, especially when tickets are going for 6 American dollars a pop.
Got to say, though, that my favorite baseball bum moment this year came out of the Trinidad Triggers team in the town of Trinidad, Colorado, where my Mom etc. lives. They’re right down the street from her, so no parking or public trans hassles. They play in the Pecos League and we are talking very minor league here, but so what, when you have teams like the Austin Weirdos and the Roswell Aliens playing in it.
What happened was, I got to talking with their mascot, Triggy the Trigger about my favorite baseball mascots and all that, when he invites me to throw out the first pitch in the final regular season game of the year.
Well, I thought, this guy, he’s pranking me, but no, the thing really happened, can you believe it? Maybe not big time, but we’re talking a field that is shaped like in the bigs and a league where, get this, THE PITCHERS STILL HIT and let’s hope an experiment the league is running with a pitch clock goes nowhere, and fast.
So, there I was, standing with my also-beloved Trinidad Triggers, during the National Anthem and everything. I didn’t pitch from the mound for fear of falling off and having to be carted away, but I still gave them my best Al “Mad Hungarian” Hrabosky imitation, you know, slapping the glove with your back to the batter and then hulking around to face him as your eyes glare out like a crazy beast man.
Well, I gave good technique and all … but the damn ball hit the ground near the plate so the catcher had to scoop it up. Ah well, so what, throwing out a first pitch, wherever it’s thrown, is the true dream job of your average baseball bum, which I am.
Okay, that’s that. All in all, lots of fun and good eating too … not only those Wisconsin Sausages but some tacos relished with cilantro that really hit the homer when watching the Trinidad Triggers put another one over the fence. Hey, hey, as they used to say at Wrigley, back when you could buy a bleacher seat for 5 American dollars, day of the game. Scrooge McDuck is hiking the price to something like 50 plus American dollars, and their damn corporate mascot doesn’t have the class of Triggy the Trigger or the Sausage Speed Racers at the Milwaukee dome, neither.
So you can go and eat the dog, Ricketts. Course, I could change my mind if you send me free birthday tickets, like the Brewers do.
Yeah, sure you will.
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