Astros @ Rays Series Preview
contributed by Great Bagwell’s Beard
“Did you want to ask me something about Amy?”
I looked down at my plate of salad and said nothing for a moment. “Yeah.”
He arched his impossibly bushy eyebrows and leaned back in his chair.
“I..I want to court your daughter.”
He smiled warmly.
Within this space, there have been tales of good natured debauchery and heart-wrenching soul searching. The quality of the writing is jaw-dropping. And without fail, I read these authors and think “Shit, my life is boring.” I keep wracking my brain for stories in my past that even hold a candle to the fully embodied characters and images that the other authors have created. Which leads me back to an all you can eat salad restaurant on Highway 249, about ten years ago.
Next to my own father, the man who most shaped my teen years was my basketball coach. When team politics and my own negligible skills shut me out of the team for my sophomore and junior years, he was the one who wrapped an arm around my narrow shoulders as I choked back the tears I didn’t want my teammates to see. “I need an assistant coach for the junior high teams. You interested?” He didn’t need another assistant any more than I needed a horn in the middle of my forehead.
That’s just how he was. Always looking after every kid, from the star forward to the 12th man on the bench, just hoping for some garbage time minutes. I don’t know how many Sonic meals he bought for kids on road trips, but it was an awful lot.
He had calves like you turned spinach-fed Popeye upside down, until those cartoon forearms settled just above his ankles. He was tough on conditioning because even in his fifties, he could run us ragged. I don’t think I’ll ever be in that kind of shape ever again. I could run all day back then. And dunk. Really. There are photos, dammit.
And then there was his daughter.
Maybe it was one of those big fish-small pond kind of things, but all of the guys on the team were in love with her on some level. Like true high schoolers, some of us wanted to fuck her brains out, while others would be content to just hear her say our names. Long dark hair and an easy smile. Athletic legs like her daddy.
She was a few years younger than me, but I’d continue to see her around when I’d come home from college. She was growing into a real woman. She’d abandoned volleyball for choir. She got a lot of solos. And even more guys swooning. Still thinking of myself as a jock, I dismissed the these sensitive choir types as legitimate competition. I mean, seriously, dude: that fedora does not make you Bogart.
It’s here that things get…archaic. In spite of fifty years of backseat copulation, the rise of social media and the ability to send ill-advised dick pics in the time it takes to open a beer, there’s a pocket of society that wishes things could go back in time a bit as far as dating is concerned. Like, far enough back that “dating” isn’t even the word that’s used to describe it. They call it “courtship.”
It’s almost what you’re thinking. Sitting at a girl’s house, trying to have a natural conversation while her family lurks in the other room, checking periodically to make sure that you’re keeping an appropriate distance apart on the sagging couch. This is purported to be the antidote to teen pregnancy and hasty young marriages, but it also kills off any real knowledge of the other person. It proposes that a doe-eyed couple can best get to know each other within the context of their respective families, but all that context shows is what someone is like when they’re really, desperately hoping that their little brother isn’t going to wander in and tell about the time that you found a tick on your dick on that camping trip in third grade.
Somehow, I still thought this was worth it for a shot at Amy. It was the necessary price of admission. Those legs. That smile. You gotta take your shot.
The first step of the process is to contact the girl’s dad. Not the girl directly. Really. Obviously, this raises a whole host of potential pitfalls. She might not, you know, actually like you. She might, but he could cockblock you in a way that your frattiest frat bro could only dream of. He could set conditions that would make Jane Austen roll her eyes like “bitch, please.” It’s like the tradition of asking for a girl’s hand in marriage, but seriously premature, and with a much more powerful “no” in the father’s arsenal. And as an actual adult in his early twenties, I was willing to take this on. So I called my coach and asked to meet with him. He suggested the salad place by Willowbrook.
Only dieters, health freaks and old folks eat a Friday lunch at a salad bar. Nothing against a good salad, but unless you’ve got a pressing nutritional reason, it’s not anyone’s idea of a pleasant social lunch. I wondered if he was stacking the deck against me. Like this masculine tete-a-tete was supposed to take place over huge slabs of meat, so he was flipping the script on me to keep me off balance.
This was worse than actually asking the girl out myself. Faced with one of my lifelong mentors and and preparing to ask for permission to squire his daughter felt like loading up with birdshot and coming across a grizzly.
I shouldn’t have been worried about his response. Once I choked out my supplication between bites of iceberg and raw mushrooms, he smiled and gladly granted his blessing. He only asked that I not press things too quickly so that she could finish her degree.
Amy was headed to college in Dallas that fall, and I stayed in touch, emailing and leaving odd, stilted voicemails. She rarely called back. I sent her a card for her birthday in February, which she didn’t acknowledge until May. I thought I had some competition from another player from the basketball team, but he was thwarted as I was, even though I’d jumped through all the right hoops.
The worst thing about the whole “courtship” arrangement is that the girl is absolved of any responsibility for managing the situation. Everything runs through Daddy Dearest. When my phone rang in the fall, I wasn’t expecting to hear from my coach. “Amy wants you to call off the dogs” was the one phrase that I remember from that conversation. The rest of it was a blur with the overarching feel that this was a chickenshit way to call it off. Where was the chivalry and class in sending someone I deeply respected to be the hatchetman for her?
Soon enough, I heard that she had a boyfriend in college. Of course. A fucking choir guy. Of course. This soon became her fiancé. Of course. What I didn’t expect to hear was the crucial communication breakdown. Despite our conversation, her dad had never clued her in to the fact that he and I had ever spoken. She thought I was stalking her, not proceeding with her father’s blessing. Yeesh.
It’s all so mind-bogglingly stupid when you actually type it out. But it had its own internal logic, the overwhelming pressure of a small, single-minded community, and the volatile sloshing hormones to give it enough fuel to go to the moon and back without asking a single question.
There’s no moral here, really. Like so many things that happen in your early twenties, I outgrew courtship, shed that whole social circle, and became a lot happier. Also got a lot more action, though that shouldn’t be surprising. Anything above “nothing” is an improvement.
I found out this week that Amy just had her third kid with the choirboy. Good for her. I hope her daughters have the common decency to shatter a guy’s heart by texting him and then fucking one of his friends like a normal person.
Probable Pitchers
Friday, July 12th
6:10 CT, Crooked Tit Stadium
Jarred Cosart (0-0, 0.00) v. David Price (3-4, 4.18)
The much-awaited Cosart makes his debut tonight against a tough Rays team. High 90’s on the FB, good enough secondary pitches, and so far this year, a newly found maturity. Ace in waiting or just a closer in the making? Who the hell cares. Go get ‘em, kid.
Price has been hurt most of the year but has had success against the Stros in the past, giving up a .130/.174/.374 slash with just a single RBI (Carter) in 25 ABs.
Saturday, July 13th
3:10 CT, Fruit Picked By Poor Migrant Workers Field
Dallas Keuchel (4-5, 4.59) v. Roberto Hernandez (4-10, 4.93)
Well, this is a pretty even matchup. Keuchel’s been the placeholder SP type we expected, probably a 4-5 on any other team, but holding down the middle of the rotation this year. He’s faced the Rays a bit; Zobrist and Sean Rodriguez have both tagged him for doubles. Overall, they’ve got a .903 OPS against him. Ugh.
Hernandez is only 32, but it seems like he’s been in the league forever. Remember when he won 19 (!) games for the Indians. Really. Look it up. Carter is hitting .333 with a homer and no K’s against him, but the team is a collective .167/.278/.522. Guess we need Carter to hit one into the fish tank.
Sunday, July 14th
12:40 CT, I Said No Pulp Asshole Field
Erik Bedard (3-5, 4.67) v. Chris “Sterling” Archer (3-3, 3.59)
That Bedard has been mostly healthy this year is one of my biggest surprises. His inconsistency isn’t. Perhaps that’s cynical of me. Oh well. Only Des Jennings, Luke Scott and James Loney hit him well.
Archer (code name: Duchess) has put up a relatively good year so far. He started the Independence Day game against the Astros, and was sent home with a no-decision. Some way to celebrate the defeat of those aliens by the Fresh Prince. Wallace hit a homer off of him, so there’s that.
Injuries
Astros
Trevor Crowe: Right shoulder sprain. Rehabbing in EST.
Edgar Gonzalez: Right shoulder sprain. Hmm. Suspicious rash of these going around.
Justin Maxwell: Concussion. Thank God Roger Goodell is finally doing something about this.
Alex White: DOA.
Rays
Alex Cobb: Concussion. As a pitcher? Really?
Brandon Gomes: Right lat strain. Do you even lift, bro?
Jeff Niemann (WOOOO RICE!): Out for season (BOOOO RICE!)
Juan Oviedo: TJ Surgery. Unlikely that they’ll start calling in Juan Oviedo Surgery, buddy.
Promotions!
Oh do we have some doozies this time. As if “air conditioning” wasn’t promotion enough.
Saturday: KC & The Motherfucking Sunshine Band in concert!!! And it’s free with your game ticket! It’s two disappointing things for the price of one!
Sunday: DJ Kitty Confetti Globe. This is not actually a series of randomly assembled words, but an actual description of what you’ll receive if you’re not 14 yet.
BUT WAIT, THERE’S MORE
Carly Rae Jepsen post-game concert!!! I really hope she plays Call Me Maybe.