the game
The first northern league game of the year. The first for me anyway. The season just started as I was heading east, oh, and they’re still playing.
So off I go at 5:30, rushing down broadway, weaving through the side streets and dancing through the evening traffic, with the sun beating down on the streets and a few big fluffy clouds way up high keeping the sun company, it’s a happy day I thought. Me alone, but that’s okay and nothing new, the boys are all glued to their sets watching the blessed, the blessed, world cup of the universe of the cosmos of soccer. Oh brother, dream of England and the glory of the working class all over the world... but it’s all peasants, peasants, peasants, I say.
So I go through the train station and across the "Earl’s" parking lot where all the university students are shaking around on the patio, girls mostly, wearing tight, striped, tank tops showing off their tits... and hair, hair everywhere, shiny glossy faces, lip gloss, lip gloss, cherry, berry, and apple... prancing around and serving big read steaks on sad hunks of crusty dry bread (it’s a real sin to call bread sad, it’s a real sin indeed) and tall glasses of lord knows what, kool-aid and vodka, to the fellas who make the big downtown their work-a-day home.... Ladies and gentlemen, I say, ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the carnival. Oh, no thanks, I’ve got a place to be....
At the wickets they’re still selling 5 dollar tickets. Twenty dollars buys one seat and three big beers, Mooseheads, one during the first inning, another at the end of the third and the final mid seventh.
Walking to my seat slipping by the old ladies fiddling in their wallets and the sad faced kids with their fingers up their noses tugging on daddy’s big fat fingers... walking to my seat I see the shadow cast by the canopy over the bleechers. Oh, a shadow indeed. The bleechers are full. Good news for Mr. S. Katz the proud owner of this summertime team, but bad news for the average poor baseball fan. The bleechers are full with kids, teachers, and kids and teachers, and parents and babies. All waving their treasured flags and baloons. Wonderful.
So there I am, sitting in a sea of squealing pre-pubescent voices and flailing arms. The teachers who evidentally are charged with some degree of responsibility over these little urchins are oblivious to everyone but themselves. The men are ramming cheesy nachos in their face and drinking big cups of coffee (true story) the woman are constantly standing up adjusting their belts, shirts, pants, socks, eye-glasses, and brushing their hair. The women are my age I’m sure, but they seem so old to me, tired, faces of worn leather painted with crayon. But I do love them, I love them because I want them to be free, free of all of this absurdity, of this suffering, of cheating spouses, of dying fiends and parents, of decay and regret, it makes me cry... but it’s hard, it’s hard, when you want to want a watch a baseball game.
At some point as I’m trying to see a pitch around a big faced and big gutted teacher in blue shorts, shoes and shirt... One of the women teachers catches my eye as if to say, "what are you looking at me for, you creep," then she shuffles in her seat crosses her arms, pulls down on her sweater and shouted to the kids, "Who wants to do the wave?"... But, but, I’d like to be able to see the man swinging the bat, oh, I don’t count.
... Ah, well maybe they were all there to teach me something I’ve yet to learn, the goldeyes won 14-1.
Before even the great Arjuna could be risen for himself not answering the question, not listening, Yudhisthira replied to Yasa:
"... Which is the most surprising thing in this world?"
"Every day people see other creatures leave for the abode of Yama, yet those that remain behind behave as if they were going to live forever. This really is the most astonishing thing in this world...."
So off I go at 5:30, rushing down broadway, weaving through the side streets and dancing through the evening traffic, with the sun beating down on the streets and a few big fluffy clouds way up high keeping the sun company, it’s a happy day I thought. Me alone, but that’s okay and nothing new, the boys are all glued to their sets watching the blessed, the blessed, world cup of the universe of the cosmos of soccer. Oh brother, dream of England and the glory of the working class all over the world... but it’s all peasants, peasants, peasants, I say.
So I go through the train station and across the "Earl’s" parking lot where all the university students are shaking around on the patio, girls mostly, wearing tight, striped, tank tops showing off their tits... and hair, hair everywhere, shiny glossy faces, lip gloss, lip gloss, cherry, berry, and apple... prancing around and serving big read steaks on sad hunks of crusty dry bread (it’s a real sin to call bread sad, it’s a real sin indeed) and tall glasses of lord knows what, kool-aid and vodka, to the fellas who make the big downtown their work-a-day home.... Ladies and gentlemen, I say, ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the carnival. Oh, no thanks, I’ve got a place to be....
At the wickets they’re still selling 5 dollar tickets. Twenty dollars buys one seat and three big beers, Mooseheads, one during the first inning, another at the end of the third and the final mid seventh.
Walking to my seat slipping by the old ladies fiddling in their wallets and the sad faced kids with their fingers up their noses tugging on daddy’s big fat fingers... walking to my seat I see the shadow cast by the canopy over the bleechers. Oh, a shadow indeed. The bleechers are full. Good news for Mr. S. Katz the proud owner of this summertime team, but bad news for the average poor baseball fan. The bleechers are full with kids, teachers, and kids and teachers, and parents and babies. All waving their treasured flags and baloons. Wonderful.
So there I am, sitting in a sea of squealing pre-pubescent voices and flailing arms. The teachers who evidentally are charged with some degree of responsibility over these little urchins are oblivious to everyone but themselves. The men are ramming cheesy nachos in their face and drinking big cups of coffee (true story) the woman are constantly standing up adjusting their belts, shirts, pants, socks, eye-glasses, and brushing their hair. The women are my age I’m sure, but they seem so old to me, tired, faces of worn leather painted with crayon. But I do love them, I love them because I want them to be free, free of all of this absurdity, of this suffering, of cheating spouses, of dying fiends and parents, of decay and regret, it makes me cry... but it’s hard, it’s hard, when you want to want a watch a baseball game.
At some point as I’m trying to see a pitch around a big faced and big gutted teacher in blue shorts, shoes and shirt... One of the women teachers catches my eye as if to say, "what are you looking at me for, you creep," then she shuffles in her seat crosses her arms, pulls down on her sweater and shouted to the kids, "Who wants to do the wave?"... But, but, I’d like to be able to see the man swinging the bat, oh, I don’t count.
... Ah, well maybe they were all there to teach me something I’ve yet to learn, the goldeyes won 14-1.
Before even the great Arjuna could be risen for himself not answering the question, not listening, Yudhisthira replied to Yasa:
"... Which is the most surprising thing in this world?"
"Every day people see other creatures leave for the abode of Yama, yet those that remain behind behave as if they were going to live forever. This really is the most astonishing thing in this world...."
posted by j/r at 12:03 a.m.
1 comments
