So with a shake and a whirl, our magnificent time machine settled down in an unknown corn field. The door dropped opened and as soon as the incomplete combustion gathering near the door had cleared, the three of us stepped into the day.
“Wow, it’s beautiful out here,” I breathe deep and take in the cool, clean fall air.
“It is,” Erik agreed, “but in all honesty, how do we know we’re not still back in Southwick?”
“Outta my way, Doorstop!” Mr. Ty bellows as he gives Erik a shove.
Erik says, “Oof,” and manages to be less in the way.
“We’re not going to see anything standing around here jaw bonin’.” Mr. Ty leads the charge and strides towards an open road, “Come on, the game’s up here.”
Just then a resonating crack of the bat rockets through the scene and the roar of the crowd can be heard. We are definitely not still in Southwick. I feel a chill roll up my spine and when I look at Erik, his eyes are really big.
“How freakin’ cool is this?” I squeal.
“I know,” he was giddy, “we’re going to meet Honus Wagner.”
“Meet?” Mr. Ty snipes, “Nobody said anything about meet. These are ball players and they’re busy playing ball. You get to stand to the side and watch and if that ain’t good enough for you then I got a smack up side the head that will make it fine.”
“Okay, no watch is good.” I mumble.
“Oh yah,” Erik adds, “watching is way more than we ever expected.”
“Good attitude.” Mr. Ty looks back for a second, “Who knows,you two might just turn out to be workable after all. God knows I can teach anybody anything as long as they ain’t already convinced they know it all.”
“We know nothing.” I’m quick to agree.
“Yes, nothing.” Erik sings.
“What’s with talking like a Kraut?” Mr. Ty is not amused.
“Oh nothing, I just naturally go there. Not sure why.”
“Yah and maybe I was too quick with the praise. God knows, if I have one fault it’s that I can be too quick with the praise.” Mr. Ty seems very serious and yet Erik and I must work hard to resist laughter.
Fortunately it got instantly easier when we turned a dog leg in the road and came upon the source of the bat cracks and crowd roars. Before us laid an imposing wood structure that rose out of the ground and leaned against the clouds. The air smelled of popcorn, leather and cigar smoke. Cheers and jeers intermingled and Erik and I found a new skip in our step.
“My God that’s beautiful.” I exclaim.
“Like the Thunderbolt of baseball stadiums.”
Being escorted by Mr. Ty meant we were able to skip the turnstiles and enter through the players’ door. No one seemed to notice our outdated garb as no one seemed eager to make eye contact with Mr. Ty or anyone he was near. Easily we zig zagged through the catacombs of the stadium until a square of bright light appeared. We were drawn like butter on a lobster.
“That’s the playing field, isn’t it?” I asked while pointing at the square of light.
“It sure is,” Mr. Ty stares ahead. It’s the only time his face has looked friendly during our whole adventure, “so why don’t you two tourist head out, grab a seat and wait for me. And try not to let her cause any trouble.” He accusingly points at me, “Dames ain’t really encouraged to cheer or hoot.”
“I’ll try to keep my hooting down to a minimum.”
“Now see, that’s just the attitude....” he starts.
But Erik interrupts, “No we’ll both keep the hooting down.” Mr. Ty and I exchange glares and Erik drags me by the arm to the square of bright light.
Unsure of where exactly to sit, we decide to mingle with the SRO crowd. As you can imagine, no matter where we stood the view was as amazing! We were, after all, watching the 1909 World Series.
“Hey, who are those guys over there?” I point to a contingent of straw hat wearing men.
“Not sure, why?”
“Because they seem sinister.”
“Sinister?”
“Yah sinister and angry and that’s just weird. I mean who comes to a baseball game and stays angry?”
“Not many unless...” Erik’s voice fades.
“Unless what?”
“Unless they’re losing a lot of money or something.”
“Huh?”
“Gamblers,” Erik explains, “this is 1909. The game is loaded with them.”
“What are you talking about? The Black Sox scandal doesn’t happen for another 10 years.”
“I know but the Black Sox scandal was such a small part of the gambling problem. The World Series’ games weren’t the only ones that got thrown. Games got thrown everyday. Not too mention guys giving away meaningless battles for incentive clauses.”
“You lost me with that.”
“You know what an incentive clause is, right?”
“Sure, players get money for certain statistical achievements.”
“Right, only in the early part of the century owners held a monopoly on players and could pay them crap. To make it seem a little less like crap they’d throw in these unattainable incentive clauses. Players couldn’t complain because the money was offered but they knew they’d be kept from reaching most of them. Like managers would bench a guy who was a few hits short or skip a pitcher who was a few strikeouts away.”
“Nice.”
“To get around it, players would feed each other opportunities to attain the milestones needed for payouts.”
“So pitchers would give guys meatball pitches to slam.”
“And fielders would hold up on making plays. Not too mention guys giving away at bats to give pitchers wins.”
“So it sounds like the early statistics of the game can’t really be trusted.”
“Probably not. Even at the time, a lot of guys would keep their own stats to counter management’s bogus numbers. So who knows what the early numbers really were.”
“All righty then, it’s time to go.” Mr. Ty reappears on the concourse and there’s something hurried in his approach, “Come on, let’s go!”
“We’re leaving?” I ask with a confused look on my face, “But it’s only the seventh inning. I never leave a ballgame early, even in the rain.”
“Well let’s put it this way, I’m leaving. You wanna stay, you’re more than welcome.”
“No, 1909 does not seem like my kind of time.”
“The women’s rights issues?” Eric queries.
“No, no NESN.”
“Ah, yes. Well than we better run because Ty’s gone.”
“And it looks like that’s why.” I point down the concourse at a gang of suspendered men raging their way towards us.
“Holy crap they’re ugly.”
“And big. Come on, let’s boogie.”
Erik and I take off and blast our way out of the stadium. Once we hit the wide open dirt road though, we realize we may not exactly know our way back to the time machine. A bit of panic rolls through us.
“We can not get left behind in 1909. I’m Irish. This was not a good time for my people.”
“You’re worried about being Irish?” Erik looks confused, “What about the whole gay thing?”
“Oh that’s not even an issue.”
“It’s not?”
“No, there were no gay people in 1909. We weren’t invented until the sixties.”
“Really?”
“Yes, really.”
“THERE THEY ARE!!!” the big ugly men scream, “GET ‘EM!!!”
“Okay, well this is no time for a Stonehenge reunion,” Erik yells, “let’s go.”
“Stonewall and I’m right behind you!!!”
03 March, 2009
12 February, 2009
Time Out In Time
Okay, here it is. After long agonizing hours of pondering what to entertain you with, I've fallen back on two tried and true staples: Baseball and Time Travel. See if you can discern the subtler themes.
“Okay, What are we going to call this little adventure?” I ask as we sit down to pen our travels.
“I don’t know,” my partner Erik adds, “but change the font. I like the one that looks like typewriting better.”
“Are you kidding?”
“No, why would I be?”
“Right,” I question, “when would you ever be kidding? Okay, is this the one you’re looking for?”
“No, the one that looks like typewriting. Like the screenwriters use.” Erik swats at an imaginary bug, “Get this crap off me. I don’t like it,” he changes his voice to do a M*A*S*H joke, “I don’t like it at all.”
“Okay Corporal Captain, how’s this?”
“Can’t see enough. Give me a larger sample size.”
“Nice, getting all Sabermetric on me.”
“Okay, yah, that’s it. That’s the one I like, now I feel like Julius and Philip Epstein. They wrote Casablanca.”
“Great segway as they’re also the uncles of Red Sox brainchild Theo Epstein and here we are after all telling a baseball story.”
“Good follow but I do believe what we’re doing here is so much more than just a baseball story. After all, what is the poetry of baseball if it is not that the game itself mimics life? It’s always so much more than what it appears to be at first glance.”
“Okay, you’re getting a little philosophical for a roofer.”
“I’m also a second baseman.”
“Well that explains it better. So what is our bigger story here?”
“Oh I don’t think we should give that away right from the start.”
“Leave something for the dramatic question?”
“Exactly.”
“So let’s try this. This is a story about two people named Erik and Carney, who found a time machine and took it for a spin. How did they find a time machine, you ask? Well it happened one day when....”
“Whoa whoa whoa,” Erik interrupts, “what are you doing?”
“What, I’m telling our story. We agreed I’d narrate and you’d provide comic undertone.”
“And impersonations.”
“We didn’t agree on that.”
“But we need to agree on this, we can’t tell people how we found the time machine. Remember, because then we’d have to kill them?”
“Oh yah, we don’t want to have to do that.”
“No, too messy.”
“In any font. Okay, so what’s important then is this...Somehow you and me...uhhhh......”
“Came upon.”
“Yes, came upon a time machine and well, no one from this modern time comes across a time machine and doesn’t hop in it for a spin.”
“Michael J Fox ruined us in so many ways.” Erik seems forlorn, “We are a lost generation.”
“Anyways, there we stood, Erik the roofer, a modern day pirate if you will and...”
"Whoa whoa whoa again,” Erik holds up his hands in protest, “whoa.”
“What?” My patience grows thin with interruptions.
“I got no problem being a pirate but I need to make this clear, I am not wearing a puffy shirt.”
“Did anybody say anything about wearing a puffy shirt?”
“No but even the hint of having to wear a puffy shirt definitely warrants proactive behavior.”
“Fair enough but trust me when I say, I am not the puffy shirt type,” pause for dramatic effect, “at all.”
“Okay then, carry on.”
“So there we were, the pirate and the medic, standing on the precipice...”
“Is precipice another word for linoleum because I believe that’s what the floor was actually made of?”
“No.”
“Oh.”
“So there we were, standing on the precipice of time, staring it coldly in the eyes and laughing at its limitations. We for the moment were immortal and our travels merely subtext.”
“Wow, you’ve really committed to a tone there. Are you going to be able to sustain that for the whole piece?”
“No actually, that took a lot out of me.”
“Well feel free to dial it back some. We are talking to a baseball crowd after all. You know, the people pleased with the mastery of ‘hey batter-batter.’”
“Yah you’re right. How’s this...”
So there we were somewhere in Southwick where Erik and I had come across a time machine. Generally being of the belief of “what the hell could go wrong?” we jumped in and began our journey.
“Maybe it’s one of those gizmos where you have to push in two buttons at a time to start it.” I offer.
“I’d believe that if I could find two buttons. These are more like wing nuts.”
“Hmmm, you know, maybe this is a sign. I’ve always lived by the credo that you should never start something you don’t know how to stop.”
“Well worse comes to worse we still got this big red panic button over here.”
“Boy OSHA’s every where, huh?” I search for an owner’s manual in the glove box, “Hey look here. There’s a switch marked TECH SUPPORT.”
“Well all right. Switch it on.”
“You got it.” PHERRRERRRRERRRRR WHIRRRRRRRRLLLLLLLL SHAKEKEKE SHAKEEKAKKEEKE PHERRRERRRRERRRRR WHIRRRRRRRRLLLLLLLL
“Hey!!!” A gruff voice proclaims, “Who dare wake me from my restful slumber?!?!?!?”
Erik and I look at each other as we ask in unison, “The Great and Wonderful Oz?”
“No idiots, Ty fucking Cobb. But you two morons can call me Mr. Ty.”
“Mr. Ty?” I may have giggled inappropriately.
“Yah, that’s right,” he snapped, “Mr. Ty.” He turns to Erik, “So I take it that it was your bright idea to bring the skirt?”
“The skirt?” Erik looks at me and laughs, “Oh no, she’s no skirt. She’s more of a...”
“Tough broad.”
“Yes,” Erik points into the air, “she’s a tough broad.”
“Thanks, that’s so much nicer than skirt.”
“Okay, What are we going to call this little adventure?” I ask as we sit down to pen our travels.
“I don’t know,” my partner Erik adds, “but change the font. I like the one that looks like typewriting better.”
“Are you kidding?”
“No, why would I be?”
“Right,” I question, “when would you ever be kidding? Okay, is this the one you’re looking for?”
“No, the one that looks like typewriting. Like the screenwriters use.” Erik swats at an imaginary bug, “Get this crap off me. I don’t like it,” he changes his voice to do a M*A*S*H joke, “I don’t like it at all.”
“Okay Corporal Captain, how’s this?”
“Can’t see enough. Give me a larger sample size.”
“Nice, getting all Sabermetric on me.”
“Okay, yah, that’s it. That’s the one I like, now I feel like Julius and Philip Epstein. They wrote Casablanca.”
“Great segway as they’re also the uncles of Red Sox brainchild Theo Epstein and here we are after all telling a baseball story.”
“Good follow but I do believe what we’re doing here is so much more than just a baseball story. After all, what is the poetry of baseball if it is not that the game itself mimics life? It’s always so much more than what it appears to be at first glance.”
“Okay, you’re getting a little philosophical for a roofer.”
“I’m also a second baseman.”
“Well that explains it better. So what is our bigger story here?”
“Oh I don’t think we should give that away right from the start.”
“Leave something for the dramatic question?”
“Exactly.”
“So let’s try this. This is a story about two people named Erik and Carney, who found a time machine and took it for a spin. How did they find a time machine, you ask? Well it happened one day when....”
“Whoa whoa whoa,” Erik interrupts, “what are you doing?”
“What, I’m telling our story. We agreed I’d narrate and you’d provide comic undertone.”
“And impersonations.”
“We didn’t agree on that.”
“But we need to agree on this, we can’t tell people how we found the time machine. Remember, because then we’d have to kill them?”
“Oh yah, we don’t want to have to do that.”
“No, too messy.”
“In any font. Okay, so what’s important then is this...Somehow you and me...uhhhh......”
“Came upon.”
“Yes, came upon a time machine and well, no one from this modern time comes across a time machine and doesn’t hop in it for a spin.”
“Michael J Fox ruined us in so many ways.” Erik seems forlorn, “We are a lost generation.”
“Anyways, there we stood, Erik the roofer, a modern day pirate if you will and...”
"Whoa whoa whoa again,” Erik holds up his hands in protest, “whoa.”
“What?” My patience grows thin with interruptions.
“I got no problem being a pirate but I need to make this clear, I am not wearing a puffy shirt.”
“Did anybody say anything about wearing a puffy shirt?”
“No but even the hint of having to wear a puffy shirt definitely warrants proactive behavior.”
“Fair enough but trust me when I say, I am not the puffy shirt type,” pause for dramatic effect, “at all.”
“Okay then, carry on.”
“So there we were, the pirate and the medic, standing on the precipice...”
“Is precipice another word for linoleum because I believe that’s what the floor was actually made of?”
“No.”
“Oh.”
“So there we were, standing on the precipice of time, staring it coldly in the eyes and laughing at its limitations. We for the moment were immortal and our travels merely subtext.”
“Wow, you’ve really committed to a tone there. Are you going to be able to sustain that for the whole piece?”
“No actually, that took a lot out of me.”
“Well feel free to dial it back some. We are talking to a baseball crowd after all. You know, the people pleased with the mastery of ‘hey batter-batter.’”
“Yah you’re right. How’s this...”
So there we were somewhere in Southwick where Erik and I had come across a time machine. Generally being of the belief of “what the hell could go wrong?” we jumped in and began our journey.
“Maybe it’s one of those gizmos where you have to push in two buttons at a time to start it.” I offer.
“I’d believe that if I could find two buttons. These are more like wing nuts.”
“Hmmm, you know, maybe this is a sign. I’ve always lived by the credo that you should never start something you don’t know how to stop.”
“Well worse comes to worse we still got this big red panic button over here.”
“Boy OSHA’s every where, huh?” I search for an owner’s manual in the glove box, “Hey look here. There’s a switch marked TECH SUPPORT.”
“Well all right. Switch it on.”
“You got it.” PHERRRERRRRERRRRR WHIRRRRRRRRLLLLLLLL SHAKEKEKE SHAKEEKAKKEEKE PHERRRERRRRERRRRR WHIRRRRRRRRLLLLLLLL
“WHOA”
“YOU’D THINK TECH SUPPORT WOULD BE A LITTLE LESS DRAMATIC.”
“WHAT????”
“A LITTLE LESS DRAMATIC.”
“YOU’RE RIGHT, A NEW PNEUMATIC PROBABLY WOULD HELP.”
“YOU’D THINK TECH SUPPORT WOULD BE A LITTLE LESS DRAMATIC.”
“WHAT????”
“A LITTLE LESS DRAMATIC.”
“YOU’RE RIGHT, A NEW PNEUMATIC PROBABLY WOULD HELP.”
“Hey!!!” A gruff voice proclaims, “Who dare wake me from my restful slumber?!?!?!?”
Erik and I look at each other as we ask in unison, “The Great and Wonderful Oz?”
“No idiots, Ty fucking Cobb. But you two morons can call me Mr. Ty.”
“Mr. Ty?” I may have giggled inappropriately.
“Yah, that’s right,” he snapped, “Mr. Ty.” He turns to Erik, “So I take it that it was your bright idea to bring the skirt?”
“The skirt?” Erik looks at me and laughs, “Oh no, she’s no skirt. She’s more of a...”
“Tough broad.”
“Yes,” Erik points into the air, “she’s a tough broad.”
“Thanks, that’s so much nicer than skirt.”
“Yah yah honey. Could you just go get us some coffee?” I blankly stare. “Hmmm, yah I heard times had changed. Something too about the president being an actual ni...”
“Nigerian?” Erik quickly offers, “No, I think he’s from Illinois actually.” And in an pale effort to continue the diversion he adds, “So about the wizzenstang, is ours supposed to be connected to the thing a ma bob?”
“What? Spit it out kid, what is it you really need?”
“Tech support,” I answer, “we flipped the switch for tech support. We’d like to take a little trip through time.”
“Oh so you’re looking for a getaway day. Sure, that’s what I’m here for.” Mr. Ty begins fiddling with wing nuts, “But there’s something you nitwits need to know about this baby. This is not your ordinary time machine.”
“You mean there’s such thing as an ordinary time machine?”
“Yah,” I agree with Erik, “they all seem pretty special to me.”
“No, some are different special. Like this one. It only takes you through baseball time so no trying to go back to meet Napoleon or Caesar.”
“Or Cleopatra?” I drool. Erik looks confused, “Come on, Wendie Malick proves Egyptian chicks are hot.”
“Yah I’ll give you that.”
“Anyways,” Mr. Ty interrupts, “where do you wanna go?”
“I don’t know.” I look at Erik, “Where do you wanna go?”
“I don’t know. There’s so many good choices.”
“Seriously, I always wanted to see Jimmie Foxx hit.”
“Or Dizzy Dean pitch.”
“Or Willie May’s catch.”
“Don Larsen’s perfect game.”
“Oh my god, how are we going to chose?”
“Listen to you two,” Mr. Ty cuffs our ears. “I haven’t seen such indecision since watching DiMaggio pick out shoes for a date with Marilyn.” We each say ow.
“You still whining about your ears?”
“No,” I explain, “that was harsh, railing on Joe D.”
“Blah.” He waves me off and gets to wing nut whirling. “And I’m not waiting for you two mental midgets to make up your minds. I’m picking destination one, so just sit back and shut up.”
“So where are we going?”
“World Series, 1909. The Flying Dutchman still owes me twenty bucks.”
“Wow,” I calculate, “that’s gotta be like a hundred bucks, modern money.”
“No, it’s like twenty bucks. He borrowed it last week.”
“Holy crap time machines mess with world economics.”
“Shhh, don’t tell anyone.” Mr. Ty winks, “We got everyone convinced that it’s the damn liberal’s fault. Now hold on. The ride gets bumpy from here.”
PHERRRERRRRERRRRR WHIRRRRRRRRLLLLLLLL SHAKEKEKE SHAKEEKAKKEEKE PHERRRERRRRERRRRR WHIRRRRRRRRLLLLLLLL
“Nigerian?” Erik quickly offers, “No, I think he’s from Illinois actually.” And in an pale effort to continue the diversion he adds, “So about the wizzenstang, is ours supposed to be connected to the thing a ma bob?”
“What? Spit it out kid, what is it you really need?”
“Tech support,” I answer, “we flipped the switch for tech support. We’d like to take a little trip through time.”
“Oh so you’re looking for a getaway day. Sure, that’s what I’m here for.” Mr. Ty begins fiddling with wing nuts, “But there’s something you nitwits need to know about this baby. This is not your ordinary time machine.”
“You mean there’s such thing as an ordinary time machine?”
“Yah,” I agree with Erik, “they all seem pretty special to me.”
“No, some are different special. Like this one. It only takes you through baseball time so no trying to go back to meet Napoleon or Caesar.”
“Or Cleopatra?” I drool. Erik looks confused, “Come on, Wendie Malick proves Egyptian chicks are hot.”
“Yah I’ll give you that.”
“Anyways,” Mr. Ty interrupts, “where do you wanna go?”
“I don’t know.” I look at Erik, “Where do you wanna go?”
“I don’t know. There’s so many good choices.”
“Seriously, I always wanted to see Jimmie Foxx hit.”
“Or Dizzy Dean pitch.”
“Or Willie May’s catch.”
“Don Larsen’s perfect game.”
“Oh my god, how are we going to chose?”
“Listen to you two,” Mr. Ty cuffs our ears. “I haven’t seen such indecision since watching DiMaggio pick out shoes for a date with Marilyn.” We each say ow.
“You still whining about your ears?”
“No,” I explain, “that was harsh, railing on Joe D.”
“Blah.” He waves me off and gets to wing nut whirling. “And I’m not waiting for you two mental midgets to make up your minds. I’m picking destination one, so just sit back and shut up.”
“So where are we going?”
“World Series, 1909. The Flying Dutchman still owes me twenty bucks.”
“Wow,” I calculate, “that’s gotta be like a hundred bucks, modern money.”
“No, it’s like twenty bucks. He borrowed it last week.”
“Holy crap time machines mess with world economics.”
“Shhh, don’t tell anyone.” Mr. Ty winks, “We got everyone convinced that it’s the damn liberal’s fault. Now hold on. The ride gets bumpy from here.”
PHERRRERRRRERRRRR WHIRRRRRRRRLLLLLLLL SHAKEKEKE SHAKEEKAKKEEKE PHERRRERRRRERRRRR WHIRRRRRRRRLLLLLLLL
“WHOA”
“THIS IS GOING TO BE ONE CRAZY RIDE.”
“WHAT????”
“CRAZY RIDE.”
“YAH, I DIDN’T KNOW HE HAD A LAZY EYE.”
“THIS IS GOING TO BE ONE CRAZY RIDE.”
“WHAT????”
“CRAZY RIDE.”
“YAH, I DIDN’T KNOW HE HAD A LAZY EYE.”
TO BE CONTINUED
16 January, 2009
15 January, 2009
14 January, 2009
So I think I got it now...
Apparently the trick to this whole blogging thing is to do it a lot. Some even say daily. I don't know, that just seems like excess to me. Besides, coming up with fresh material every day would be tantamount to generating a forced rant. "Forced rant?" you ask and I answer, "Yes, forced rant." And while most of my friends would tell you that I could pull it off, even I recognize that a high percentage of my rants sound great in-studio (metaphor for my brain) but not quite so interesting once you hear them.
The other thing is, I do write every day and late into most nights. But my ideas come in the form of fiction and turn into longer stories. I just can't imagine anyone wants to experience the tedious process of me developing a story over the course of days. Imagine getting hooked on a character or developing plot line only to have it unceremoniously cut out of your life because of "artistic rights of decision". Isn't network television cruel enough? Must blogs also rip out our hearts and punish them for the lone sin of caring too soon?
See, now this is starting to sound too much like a rant. Can't have that. Moving along, I've decided to challenge myself creatively with this blog stuff. I'm going to develop a short story and instead of useless daily rants I'm going to offer less frequent posts that will tell a story. And I'm really going to go for the cliff hangers . Be prepared to be dazzled and say, "Whoa!" at least once.
The other thing is, I do write every day and late into most nights. But my ideas come in the form of fiction and turn into longer stories. I just can't imagine anyone wants to experience the tedious process of me developing a story over the course of days. Imagine getting hooked on a character or developing plot line only to have it unceremoniously cut out of your life because of "artistic rights of decision". Isn't network television cruel enough? Must blogs also rip out our hearts and punish them for the lone sin of caring too soon?
See, now this is starting to sound too much like a rant. Can't have that. Moving along, I've decided to challenge myself creatively with this blog stuff. I'm going to develop a short story and instead of useless daily rants I'm going to offer less frequent posts that will tell a story. And I'm really going to go for the cliff hangers . Be prepared to be dazzled and say, "Whoa!" at least once.
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