CHICAGO 9, HOUSTON 5
April 13, 2011
Minute Maid
HOUSTON (SnS) – I was smoking a nice big pipeful of Oaxacan this one time, in this really cool jade-green ceramic bong a friend of mine had brought home, from a trip to Morocco I think it was. Mauritania? Mali? Anyway, this was a long time ago, back when I would occasionally indulge in this sort of anti-social behavior. I was reloading the brass and porcelain bowl for the second or fifth time that evening when to my horror I noticed that one of the cannabis buds I was handling bore a striking resemblance to a then current Chicago Cubs starting pitcher. Here I was, minding my own fucking business, fittin’ to smoke me a little bit more of that good cheeba cheeba, when I gazed down into my stash and realized one of the nicer flower tops down in there looked just exactly like hirsute Cubfuck righthander Rick Sutcliffe. It fucking weirded me out, man. Goddammit!
I quickly struck a Diamond kitchen match on the zipper of my faded 501 shrink-to-fits and held it over the bowl, while inhaling furiously at the other end of the bong. I fucking hated Rick Sutcliffe, even then, and I couldn’t set that North Side motherfucker aflame fast enough.
The Houston Astros lost to the Chicago Cubs 9-5 here Wednesday night, falling to an ugly 3-9 record to kick off Year One of the We Are Your Astros decade. In a battle of two staff aces, the Astros Wandering Wandy Rodriguez got the worst of it, getting himself keelhauled right out of the gate, as the Cubs dropped a 5-spot on Erstwhile Eny in the top of the first, lowlighted by a 3-run ding-dong struck by Cubfuck outfielder (a term we use loosely around here) Alfonso Soriano. Meanwhile, the Cubbies swinging mound dick Carlos Zambrano was throwing bbs at the home team, which the meek Astros hitters were mostly ineffectively flailing at.
Rodriguez righted himself after that ugly 1st inning; but Zambrano was throwing so well one wondered if the home team would score at all on this night. That question was answered in the bottom half of frame six, when the ‘Stros, who were now down 6-0 and up to that point had been submissively dancing with Mr. Z, unexpectedly rose up; and Herr Zambrano suddenly, wonderfully fell apart. There were two outs in the inning, and two on – Michael Bourn, looking lonely over there on third base, and the inimitable Angel Sanchez on second – when the unlikely offensive mini-explosion happened. A couple of singles and a Matt Downs home run later, and it was a game, the Astros now trailing 6-5.
The bullpens dueled for a couple of innings after that, with nothing to choose between them. But in the top of the 9th the normally capable Wilton Lopez gave up three Cub runs, and the game was lost.
For a split second there, I longed for the good old days of sitting around my apartment, drinking beer and smoking herb . . . but, no. Not really. Those days are gone. Time to get up off of the deck, lick the wounds, suck it up, and go kick some Padre ass tomorrow.
You know, time to get back to smoking that good shit again.
**********
(excerpted with permission from The Love Song of John Q. Cubfan, c. 2003)
No, we are not championship material, nor were meant to be,
We are lovable losers, lots of fun,
Someone to get well against, if you’ve been on a bad run,
Come to the ballpark, the ‘Taj Mahal’, and get drunk out in the sun.
We’ve got great starters, but our bullpen sucks,
Our offense has its moments, but is full of holes,
And just when you think they give a fuck,
They blow a lead and lose control,
And the whole damn season comes undone.
We can’t take it. . . we can’t take it. . .
When our Sammy starts to jake it,
Shall we keep our hopes alive? Shall we go into the breech?
We shall play the Reds at home, and watch their offense be unleashed.
I have heard the fat ladies singing, each to each.
I do not think they will sing for me.
We have seen them at night, wearing too-tight slacks
Stumbling out of the bars in Lincoln Park
Looking for their SUV’s double-parked.
We have lingered in the dream world of fantasy
Sustained by our collective hysteria, and a lot of booze
‘Til reality sets in, and we lose
**********