Chalk it up to the Boys
So because Rose is, well, “Rose” about things sometimes, I had been informed by Mom that she planned on hanging out Thursday night with Joe and Ben-Hur in Albuquerque over dinner, hop a flight to Phoenix in the opposite direction, catch a red-eye back to STL where she would arrive sometime before 5AM, chat over breakfast with Dad, and hit a full day of work right after that John Bunyan platter of flapjacks and sunny-side-ups she would probably only scratch at.
Meanwhile. Considering I wasn’t going to be able to sleep in on Saturday, I decided to stay in my room half an hour longer and just think things. That is, until Puck decided to bring in the troops to hunt spiders under the bed, which was an earth-shaking sweatshop matter of flashlights, meows, and, “Get back to work, you scoundrels!” What can I say. The kid likes to protect his mama. And drill-sergeant any creature within sight distance. No matter the size.
When I finally mustered my energy to face the day, Puck was back in the kitchen hunting breakfast, chanting, “Raw chicken! Raw chicken! Raw! Raw! Raw chicken!” I suppose there is the possibility available that he was actually saying, “Rah chicken!”, which might make more sense giving the tone of presentation.
Pulled a googly eye out of the clothes dryer while gridding out the small disaster of cat-ness taking over the basement. Such fluffy damage from a kitten the color of – sort of like a gray tiger baby that landed in a tub of brown sugar and couldn’t shake it all off.
It was actually mild today – for the first time since I can remember – which isn’t very long, because the heat has tampered with my short-term memory. You could almost see the Pyramids and palm trees tumbling out peoples’ ears. Today was a day for rejoicing. If only temporarily. I hear we’re set for 100+ through all of next week. But again, I’m beginning not to care so much about that anymore. It’s all sort of mutated into a new idea of what summer’s really all about.
Puck literally spent half an hour after dinner studying a United States Cracker Barrel paper map spread out on the kitchen floor yelling half-volume about numbers and “jobs”, and frankly resembled more a detective storyboard than my Kindergartner stuffed happy with sharp cheddar quesadillas.
He’s not mostly deaf; I’ve tested this theory.
So I keep trying to find that equilibrium of an evening involving a movie night (with Rose) and trying to keep Puck in bed, who heavily reminded me upon his “departure to foreign lands” that I ought to, “Remember to save some snacks for me, Mama. I’m keepin’ an eye on you.”
Rose had stories, including Joe almost wheezing to death on a chip in a crumby fast food joint. She also had a bubbly red shoulder from getting sunburned on the dunes. Something about a lightening storm. And OLeif had picked up unfiltered apple juice and Pocky sticks that had fused together on the ride home. Nothing like a little “Malcolm in the Middle” and forty-three hours without sleep for Rose to forget the disappointments and challenges of the professional working world.
So here’s the thing about baseball.
I love baseball.
Yes, I know. About 74.3% of the rest of the Western Hemisphere and a lot of sushi-eaters love it too, plus a few semi-obscure percents more in the Netherlands.
This is nothing new.
More specifically though, I love the Cardinals.
Now I know that’s a heavy term to just go throwing around on a whim. But since I was born a hospital down from “Baseball Heaven”, I feel I am entitled to a little publishable zeal regarding the boys in red. Or if not publishable, at least proud and, paperly-speaking, loud. Ah… the comforting collection of super heroes — Beltran, Berkman, Carp, Craig, Freese, Furcal, Holliday, Lohse, Yadi, Albert (he’s not chopped liver in every St. Louis heart), Skip, Waino, Westbrook… ah, and so many others… Recipe for True Greatness, Dream Team, Kings of October, cliche, cliche, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah…
Ah, but it’s true.
We all have our favorites, I guess. Some for more noble purposes than others, but all equally idolatrous.
I realize there’s those genres out there…
For example, that — “Yadi’s so hot, I want to marry his batting helmet!”-genre. I can’t… figure out if his wife must be mildly flattered, or just completely annoyed by this strangely eager given-his-marital-status feminine parade. But I can at least empathize with that belief in his level of coolness. Maybe it helps that they always switch on that sort of epic here-comes-an-awesome-guy music when he swaggers over from the bullpen across the field in full gear, somehow naturally equating face mask with Samurai warrior.
But sometimes… I wish I was the only fan the team had to please, especially when things are sort of… rutty.
Why?
Well, they can’t shake me mad, for one. If they tanked to dead last every season, I still wouldn’t give up on on the old boys.
“It’s your 27th error this May? Don’t worry about it. Here’s a bag of Reeses Pieces and a steak. Just go relax and watch a John Wayne film. I’ll take care of everything for you.”
“Some fans just called you names that would embarrass your grandma? I’ll take care of it. Who says they don’t issue ‘banned from all major league baseball parks for life’ notations on drivers licenses? Go take a date night with your wife and forget about it.”
“Not a problem, my friend. You don’t even need to consider the option of retiring until you’ve got a white-gold-diamond-and-ruby-plastered ring on every single finger. But I know you boys are so generous and humble. So donating one — or nine — to Sudan for fresh water and blood supplies is always an option.”
“Broke your finger in your fourth at-bat of the season? No problem. Enjoy a month off in Spain with your family. On the house. Don’t forget to Skype your buddies every Tuesday and Thursday night!”
But then again…
I can’t be the Big Sheriff of Baseball.
I can’t be Big Sister to everybody either.
Besides, it makes life a little more interesting when the world isn’t attempted utopia. Not even the baseball world. Because… we can’t picture the right kind of utopia. Our brains aren’t capable of handling the full understanding of true perfection.
Not yet.
So I kind of have to jump off that train…