submitted by Bench

It’s wonderfully early in the season, which means we can believe that the quality pitching will continue but that the bats will somehow turn around.  It could happen, so we might as well indulge ourselves.  Sadly, “it could happen” is always the dark side of the coin that the Royals represent.  For years now, we have heard about the loaded Royals farm system, and seen perennial rookie of the year candidates disappoint and fizzle out, or manage to put together some decent, but comparatively underwhelming seasons, years after their initial expectations were dampened.  This is our fear for the Astros.  Years and years of promising futures yield a field of limp clovers.  I think Sting had a horrible song along those lines.

Things managed to come together for the Royals last year, as once-uber prospects Mike Moustakas, Eric Hosmer and Alex Gordon finally all made contributions at the same time, and the short term decision to swap Wil Myers for James Shields stabilized the top of the team’s rotation. The Royals were actually playing meaningful games deep into September for the first time in a decade, and then again in a decade before that.  The Royals finished over .500 in 2013, 2003 and 1993.  So looks like the beginning of another decade of suck for them.  But hey, that’s plenty of time to keep their minor league system stocked with promising prospects.

Anyway, the Royals are proof that this is a tough business, and amassing an impressive array of minor league prospects is no guarantee of future major league success.  In Luhnow we trust.

Pitching Matchups:

Tuesday April 15 at 7:10 on a channel only Budgirl has and Limey won’t watch.

Yordano Ventura (0-0, 0.00 ERA) v. Lucas Harrell (0-2 11.05 ERA)

Ventura is one of the Royals’ never ending much-touted-rookies. In his first ever game he shut down the Rays for six innings, giving up just two hits and no walks but getting no decision.  Ventura has never faced the Astros or any of their players.  If this were 2003 that would guarantee a perfect game 27 K performance, but the curse of facing a hard-throwing right-hander for the first time seems to have abated in the last seven years or so.  Wishful thinking.

Harrell, well, what can we say about Harrell that Great Bagwell’s Beard didn’t already perfectly say?  This likely ends the recent run of Astros quality starts, though at times in his last start Harrell actually showed flashes of his 2012 stuff despite giving up 5 runs in 5 or so innings.  Omar Infante is 5-6 against Harrell, and current Royals are batting a collective .357 against him so expect some action on the base paths.  Prior to this game, the Royals dropped 5 straight road games.  Hopefully Harrell won’t fulfill his destiny as the opposing team’s antidote to losing streaks.

Tuesday, in addition to being an important day for our government’s ability to operate is also Jackie Robinson Day.  LJ Hoes will be wearing #42 in Jackie (and Jose Lima)’s honor.  LJ had this to say about the experience:

“It means a lot, just thinking about what he’s done for all minorities in baseball,” Hoes said. “Being African American, it’s something that’s going to be very special, and I’m very excited. Without him, I wouldn’t have this opportunity to be able to play Major League Baseball. Just realizing what he went through to create an opportunity for everybody to play Major League Baseball, it’s something that’s tremendous.”

Well put.  I’m also glad MLB has stopped making everyone wear the number 42 today as that was confusing enough, even when the roster was full of recognizable veterans.

Wednesay, April 16 at 7:10

Jeremy Guthrie (2-0 3.55 ERA) v. Dallas Keuchel (1-1 3.75)

Guthrie is Mr. April, having not lost a game in his last eight starts this month.  Castro and Dominguez have homered off of him, but nobody else on the squad has had considerable success.

Current Royals have only two extra-base hits off Dallas Keuchel in 33 at bats, both doubles.  Keuchel pitched beautifully in Toronto last week, so hopefully he can keep it going and get the pitching staff back on track post-Harrell.

Thursday, April 17 at 7:10

Bruce Chen (0-1 6.30 ERA) v. TBD (likely Scott Feldman (2-0 0.44 ERA))

Chen had a terrific first start this season against the White Sox, but was lit up by the Twins in his second outing.  Current Astros are only 2-11 off Bruce, despite the fact that he’s been around forever.  Chen is the most tenured Panamanian major leaguer and is known for regaling the youngsters with his madcap tales of stealing mangos from some angry gringo’s tree back home.

Feldman has been amazing.  He’s currently on the bereavement list spending time with his family after his father passed away last Wednesday.  He rejoined the team to pitch on Friday in a classic pitching duel against Darvish.  Our best wishes are with him and his family as they get through this difficult time together.  By all accounts, Scott’s father was a good person and he had a terrific relationship with his son, which is the best any parent and child can hope for.

And hopefully he feels up to pitching on Thursday because TBA usually fucking sucks when he’s pitching for the Astros.  But if not, that’s certainly understandable.  We all eagerly await Mike Francesca’s Hot Sports Take on Feldman’s “responsibilities.”

Baseball facts:

•   The Astros went 2-4 against the Royals last season, but both wins came at Minute Maid Park.

•   Maxwell hit .268 with five homers and 17 RBIs in 35 games for Kansas City after Luhnow traded him at the deadline last year.  He’s lurking on their bench now.

•   The Astros grounded into four double plays on Sunday and had two baserunners caught stealing (which marked the first CS of the season).

•   The Astros are hitting .189 with a slugging percentage of .354 as a team entering Tuesday.  That is horrible.

•   The Royals are off to their worst start on the road since going a franchise-worst 0-12 in 2006.

Non-baseball facts:

•   Prohibition never happened in Kansas City.  Missouri rejected statewide prohibition referenda three times, and once the 18th amendment was enacted Kansas City simply ignored it.  The federal prosecutor was on the payroll of local political bosses James and Tom Pendergast, and despite the fact that no bars closed and the liquor kept flowing, he never brought a single felony prosecution under the federal prohibition laws.

•    I’ve been following Game of Thrones only by reading recaps of the TV show, which is one of the dumber things I have ever done.  It seems like a neat story, but I don’t want to spring for HBO and between work and the young Son of a Bench (or Batkid if you prefer to honor the better half of the household) it’s taken me weeks to make a dent into the delightfully readable “The President and the Assassin:  McKinley, Terror, and Empire at the Dawn of the American Century.”  I can’t imagine when I could delve into ten thousand pages of Ice and Fire Songs.  Instead, I’m getting none of the enjoyment of watching or reading the story and ensuring that I never will.  Sadly, that is basically the same way I have to follow the Astros until CSN finally disintegrates entirely or I swallow my pride and ditch DirecTV for Comcast.

Here’s hoping the bats come around, the starting pitching stays the course, and the Astros can grab another home series.

(submitted by austro)

Thank You, Sir! May I Have Another?

Houston Astros (4-6) @ Texas Rangers (4-5)

The Astros generally fare poorly in Arlington at Whatever-It’s-Called-Today Ballpark-or-Stadium-or-Field, and given the recent performance of their wet noodle bats, there’s not much reason for optimism this time around, either. On the other hand, they’re playing the fucking Rangers and the games will be on TV even in Austin, so I’m expecting a lively time in the GameZone.

Friday, April 11, 7:05 CDT

Feldman (2-0, 0.66) vs Darvish (1-0, 0.00)

Feldman has a .241/.282/.398 line against active Rangers. Kouzmanoff and Wilson have .429 averages, but in only a handful of ABs. Rios has 11 hits and 2 homers in 35 ABs. Fielder only has one hit in 6 ABs, but it’s a homer.

Darvish obviously hasn’t had much trouble with the Astros, sporting a .171/.225/.329 line. Dominguez has 3 hits in 11 ABs, and Krauss and Gonzalez have combined for 5 hits in 14 ABs. Carter brings up the rear, naturally, with an 0-8 with 6 Ks.

Over/under on Astro hits against Darvish: 2 ½.

Saturday, April 12, 7:05 CDT

Cosart (1-1, 4.09) vs Scheppers (0-1, 9.00)

The Rangers only have 14 PAs against Cosart, with a .231/.286/.538 line to show for it. Beltre (2-3, double and homer) and Rios (1-3) have the only hits, but only five current Rangers have faced him.

The Astros are 8-23 in 28 PAs against Scheppers, so there is some hope for the good guys’ offense in this one. Altuve (3-7), Carter (!) (2-6), and Grossman (2-2) are the leading lights.

Prop bet: Which will be greater, Astro runs or Carter strikeouts?

Sunday, April 13, 7:05 CDT

Oberholtzer (0-2, 4.91) vs Perez (1-0, 4.50)

Oberholtzer has a .286/.318/.381 career line against current Rangers. Once again, Beltre is the guy to watch out for: he’s 3-4 with a double. Martin is 2-5 with a walk. Moreland has the only other hit, which was a double.

The Astros are hit-or-miss with Perez: Carter (!) is 6-11 with a double and two homers, and Altuve is 3-7 with two doubles. Nobody else who’s likely to play has done squat.

Over/under on Ron Washington confused cocker spaniel stares during the game: 5 ½.

Injuries

Astros

Jesse Crain: Still recovering from biceps surgery. Could be back in mid-May.

Alex White: Still recovering from Tommy John surgery. Could be back in May, but I wouldn’t count on it.

Asher Wojo: Still suffering from a lat strain. Day-to-day, I guess.

Jerome Williams: Day-to-day with a groin strain. Sorry, I can’t help myself: it never gets old.

Rangers:

Adrian Beltre: Day-to-day with a strained quad, and killing my fantasy team while he’s away.

Engel Beltre: Crushed ego from living in the shadow of Adrian. Also has a broken tibia.

Matt Harrison: Back surgery. May be back in late April.

Derek Holland: Knee surgery from some fluke off-season accident. Back at the All-Star break.

Joseph Ortiz: Fractured left foot. May be back at the All-Star break.

Jurickson Profar: Torn muscle in his right shoulder. Due back mid-to-late June.

Joe Saunders: Bruised left ankle. Due back in late April.

Geovany Soto: Knee surgery. Due back mid-to-late June.

Not only are these guys a bunch of obnoxious pricks, they’re fragile, too. Unfortunately, that won’t keep them from taking this series 2-1. But at the end of the series, the Astros will get to leave the Metroplex, and the Rangers will still be stuck there.

Oh Henry, have you got something to tell me?

‘Cause everybody’s been sayin’

You been runnin’ around

Oh Henry, I know you wouldn’t hurt me

Don’t you know that we don’t need

One more grave in this town

***

 The Pine Tree Market sits in the middle of town along Chilnualna Road, four aisles of groceries hidden beneath a canopy of pine needles.  It is quite literally the only place in town, so you’re stuck with whatever lines its shelves.  The essentials are stocked daily – milk, beer and two racks of candy – but if you have a specific recipe in mind you might end up plating a chicken caesar salad on a full bed of parsley.   It’s a tiny shop with random groceries at the end of a long distribution line, but it’s been there forever and the locals love it.

The tradition in my family is that the first person who wakes up walks down to grab a Fresno Bee or USA Today (the national equivalent of the Bee).  It’s a great tradition when you’re a teenager who sleeps until 11am, but you end up making a lot of early morning walks when you have a 2-year-old who’s adjusted to a different time zone.

Tuesday marked my third morning in a row, and Gene met me at the front door of the market with a cup of coffee and a Twizzler for my daughter.  We talked a bit about water levels and the Rim Fire, and he made fun of my Astros hat yet again.  Just another early morning in the trees.

I heard a clack-CLACK on the wooden railing outside, followed with a sharp aahk-aahk-aahk.  I caught Eleanor as she darted to the front of the store, just in time to see a slender silhouette pop up and down in the window shade.

“Ah, that must be Henry,” Gene said as he checked his watch.  He grabbed a pair of tall-boy Keystone Lights on his way to the door and flung it open to greet an old friend.

Henry, while not human, weighed every bit as much as my daughter and seemed to talk more.  He hopped on the railing and tossed a pair of pull-tabs in a recycle bin nearby.  Gene made some chirping sounds and stood the beers on either side of the beast before turning back in to grab a ringing phone.

At the time, it was the closest I’d ever been to a living raven.  I clutched Eleanor out of instinct but stood frozen in place.  Henry was huge – nearly twice the size of a chicken – and as beautiful as he was frightening.  The damn bird seemed to look me right in the eyes, as if gauging my character in a primal way.  Then he hopped up, carefully clutched the beers and took off.

***

Monday, Labor Day, 1pm MMPUS

(Andrew) Albers vs (Paul) Clemens

Tuesday, 7pm MMPUS

TBD vs Cosart

Wednesday, 1pm MMPUS

Hendriks vs Lyles

***

Twizzlers from a package just aren’t the same as the licorice you find in the big glass jars.  I never really enjoyed the candy all that much, maybe because the ones from the tub seem stale yet somehow better, but I gripped several of them in my right hand as I rode my father’s shoulders, straight from the Pine Tree Market.  We walked a short distance along the highway towards a group of Park Rangers, several of them puffing at cigarettes.  They casually hung around a gigantic white septic tank and seemed to be congratulating each other as they awaited further instructions.

As we drew closer, the giant tank shook violently on its trailer and bellowed out in anger.  Everybody ducked in fear, including my dad and me atop his frame, and time stood still.  The roar trailed off to a whimper, and only the four-year-old in the group had the balls to call back gleefully, “BEAR!!!”

So, not a septic tank: a cage.  A big fucking cage with wheels and a single grated air-hole on each side.  A Sharpie above the window on the port side named its occupant “Snaggletooth,” and ol’ Snaggle seemed to be pissed right the fuck off.

We smiled at the Rangers as they clumsily flicked their lighters.  My father and I share a brain, so he talked his way to the side of the cage and hoisted me up to peek in the window – he knew I wouldn’t leave without a look inside.

Snaggletooth shook as he stood, his thick brown coat moving independently from the massive body that twitched underneath.  If I hadn’t known better, I would have guessed Woolly Mammoth.  He wrestled with his restraints and bit at his paws.  Then the four-year-old caught his attention.

“Tickle, tickle, tickle,” I cooed as I made the Universal Tickle Hand Signal.

He snorted and looked up.  Bloodshot eyes caught mine and he bore his teeth in recognition.  He was every bit the bear I knew from my picture books, but like nothing I’ve seen since.  The entire left side of his face drooped dramatically as dozens of shotgun slugs weighed it down.  His fur was caked red and pocked with a pale pink that was either skin or flesh.  Snaggletooth sneered and rushed the window.

My father pulled me back as he charged but the beast came up short of the window and didn’t roar.  I lurched forward and quickly stuffed three licorice sticks in the air-hole.  Snaggletooth sniffed the air, inspected the sugary snacks, looked back at me and swallowed them in one bite.

I mashed my face against the grate and called out again.  “Tickle, tickle, tickle!”

Snaggletooth looked back, his enormous head hovering six inches from mine, and sneezed, covering my face with blood, fur and snot.

The Park Rangers chortled in relief.  “He’s saying thank you.”

***

Injuries

 Twins

Oswaldo Arcia – heads

Samuel Deduno – shoulders

Joe Mauer – knees

Wilkin Ramirez – toes

Astros

Corporan – concussion

Gonzalez – right shoulder

JD Martinez – left wrist

Stassi – concussion

White – blah

***

The beer wasn’t for Henry, obviously.

Henry was a servant, sort of.  Like a carrier pigeon, but, you know, not at all.  The story goes that Henry’s owner was originally given Parakeets for companionship – an idiotic idea in a place like Yosemite – and that Henry dutifully killed off three of them before Operation Parakeet Happiness was fully dismantled.  But Henry hung around (possibly hoping for more parakeets) and developed a relationship with the old man.

The old man, The Hermit Templeton, never set foot outside his house and never allowed visitors.  Nobody knew all that much about him, which, in a small community, meant that everybody knew something about him.  Henry became Mr. Templeton’s lone connection to the outside world and after five years the locals quit bothering and accepted the arrangement.  That was ten years ago.

I grabbed a tall-boy of Keystone Light as I left the market and walked back to my cabin.

***

Promotions

Mon thru Weds – Jack Shit Sponsored by CraneCo.

***

Naptime is a wondrous thing, especially when on vacation, so I took advantage of my two free hours and walked down Chilnualna Road.  I was told to look for the most impeccably manicured cabin on the road – first one on the right after the Billy Goat Bridge.  I found it after 20 minutes and slowed my steps, Keystone Light stretched out in front of me in plain view.  The constant hum of heavy machinery drowned out the gurgle of the Merced River as a deep, regular wheezing came to the forefront.

Aahk, aahk, aahk called from above.

“Um, hi, Henry, I brought some beer?” I asked stupidly as I looked up to the front porch eave.

“And what the fuck is he supposed to do with that?” an old man’s voice shot from behind the house.

“Mr. Templeton?” I shouted back.

“Why are you here?  What the fuck do you want?”

“Well sir, I met Henry this morning at the market and was quite impressed with him.  I thought maybe he’d grab three beers if he could carry them, and, well, here I am.  I have the third beer.”  I’d rehearsed that.

“My worthless asshole of a nephew left an hour ago for Oakhurst.  You brought me a beer I can’t open or drink.”

A long pause, then

“Fuck it, come around back,” he called.  “I think I see a straw.”

Henry dropped to my level and led me around the right side of the house.  A brown wooden deck wrapped from front to back, well-swept and newly-stained.  No furniture littered the planks; a patio with no seats and no discernible appeal other than its view, as the massive pines thinned out near the bank of the Merced.

My gaze followed the railing to the back door and fell upon Mr. Templeton, propped upright, encased in a gigantic steel tube.  The contraption stood five feet tall and gleamed in the sunlight.  Thick, clear plastic holes dotted each side with latches that surely allowed access to the body inside.  Dials whirred and knobs turned haphazardly as it wheezed its occupant alive.  Emerson Iron Lung read the brand-plate.

Heavy rubber wheels had been crudely welded to the backside near the bottom and two handles protruded the top.  A seventy-year-old head poked out the top, greasy white hair tucked behind the ears, long whiskers concealing most of the face.  It turned toward me.

“There’s a straw on the deck next to this fucking coffin.  Henry will help you.  Then get the fuck out.”

I inched toward Mr. Templeton, beer held high.

Henry snatched a green bendy straw from an empty beer can and flew towards me.  Then in one swift motion he pecked a hole in the top of the can and landed on my arm.   I inserted the straw, placed the fresh beer on the top ledge of the iron lung and looked Old Man Templeton in the eyes.

Then I got the fuck out.

Aahk, aahk, aahk followed me.

“He’s saying thank you,” Mr. Templeton yelled.

***

Finally

This is my last scheduled Series Preview for the year, and I’d like to say thanks to those of you who read and enjoyed them.  I’d like to say that, if invited back next year, I’ll write more about actual baseball.  But I won’t.

Welcome, Void.

Seven idiots piled into three canoes and a kayak.  Three days lay before them, unmapped by design, planned specifically to be unplanned.  They brought three coolers of beer, two bottles of Jack Daniels and one flashlight.

They were drunk already, having driven all night from Austin to Arkansas, but they were determined to press on and ignore the call of sleep.  So when the final beer of the night was drained at 7am, the first beer of the next day cracked open at 7:10am.  It was a sprint, not a marathon.  And it wasn’t much of a sprint.

***

The outfitter gave them a two-sided laminated sheet of paper that was generously labeled “Map.”  It had some of the markings of a map – land was beautifully decorated by a generic flat green and water was, predictably, blue – but that’s where the information portion of the “map” ceased.  The Buffalo River elegantly weaved its way from the bottom left corner to the top right, and if you flipped it over and rotated it 90 degrees, the River continued in the same direction.  There was no legend, no North bearing and no other markings but for two small circles on the back page.  The first, he told them, was the town of Gilbert.  If they busted ass that first day they’d be there by nightfall.  But if they wanted to take it easy, as he expected, he would happily pick them up there on the third day.  The second spot was a simple Access Point, where they’d parked their cars an hour before they left.  The Access Point was where most river-goers made their final land-fall, and where these seven idiots set their sights.

After a chugging contest in which the loser took the helm of the kayak, they were off.  The map found its way into a dry bag and Mr. Daniels came out, ready to party.

***

Astros @ Rangers

Monday, 8/19/13 7:05pm

Harrell (6-13) vs Garza (8-2)

Tuesday, 8/20/13 7:05pm

Cosart (1-0) vs TBD

Wednesday, 8/21/13 7:05pm

Bedard (3-9) vs Holland (9-6)

***

I woke to gurgling and thrashing as my unmanned canoe drifted gently atop the kayak, its captain now swearing loudly and clawing at the water.  My shipmate hadn’t stirred in the commotion, but he woke up in the water a moment later after the second canoe t-boned us.

We oared over to a tiny island, poured a swig of Jack on its surface and declared it – and every island thereafter – as Shot Island.  We passed the bottle in a circle and jumped back in the boats.

And then everything was named.  Shot Islands.  Smoke Caves.  Shotgun Shores.  And dreams of reaching Gilbert by dark vanished.

***

Injuries

Rangers

Berkman – Twinkie poisoning

Feliz – sprouted another toe

Harrison – inverted penis

Kirkman – bad hair day

Lewis – cavities

Ogando – prison

Tepesch – bukkake appointment

Astros

Gonzalez – right shoulder

Martinez – left wrist

Villar – left thumb (day-to-day)

White – blah

***

Nightfall approached, so six of my closest idiots and I began searching for a place to camp.  One spot was too rocky, one spot was too close to the water, one spot was too muddy.  Some of these idiots were from Dallas, for God’s sake, and they wouldn’t camp just anywhere.

At the back-end of a hairpin turn we found The Spot.  There was just enough beach to lodge the rafts on shore, and a wooden trail off to the right led up to a grassy meadow straight out of Tolkein’s writings.  Acres of lush green spread in all directions, and as the sun set below a thick overhang of clouds we stood and watched, mouths agape at the vast expanse of Arkansas and the beauty of it all.

In the distance we saw lights of a small town and we decided we hadn’t done so bad after all, as Gilbert was but a stone’s throw away.

We broke camp in the eaves of a nearby forest and left the coolers and bottles sealed.  A fire cackled to life as the canoes were unburdened of their treasures.  We sat around it, gazing at the cloudbank overhead.  Nobody said a word.  The greys of the clouds and smoke desaturated the greens of the grass and forest, and soon it was misting.  Seven idiots sat in utter greyness looking upward.

The fire grew taller and fought away the mist.  Translucent ash spread outward as smokes of various potencies and qualities melded to create a purple plume that stretched to the heavens, threatening the clouds in an act of earthly dominance.  Rain followed, but the fire grew stronger, burning hotter, raging louder.

And then it died.  The rain stopped.  The sky divided.  Greys receded to blacks and light came down from above, as millions of stars looked down upon us.

***

Promotions

Tuesday – First 30,000 Smile Generation Texas Camo Cap, so all those people who pretend to be Rangers fans can simultaneously pretend to be hunters

Wednesday –Nolan’s Beef Sausage will only cost $1, so Bud need only bring a fiver.

***

I awoke in the same spot, one of seven idiots sitting in a circle.  The clouds were back, but the meadow was gone, the forest was gone.  There was no trace of a fire.  Just a rocky beach at the back-end of a hairpin turn.  We stared at each other aghast until somebody realized it – we’d been there two nights.

We quickly loaded up the boats and oared as fast as we could to the town we once saw in the distance.  We could make it to Gilbert, get in the cars and figure the rest out later.  But as we rowed we saw nothing.  No town, no distinguishable marks on the map.  I fished my cell phone out of my dry bag and called the outfitter.  I didn’t know where we were, but we needed help.  Two hours later he came upon us in a canoe with an outboard motor and towed us back to shore.

We’d gone 200 yards.

The Vodka Queen who lived at the top of the hill smiled little for an old lady.  It wasn’t that she was unpleasant or rude, but she’d make you work for that first smile of the day.  And the smile was worth it.  She smiled with her eyes and her mouth, her cheeks puffed out to form sunburned islets that passed the waves of wrinkles from one to the other.  How often you got the smile depended largely on your age and what you’d been up to.

Her hands contorted inward, as if through time they decided to serve only two purposes – to hold a pencil and to hold a highball glass.  Her knuckles creaked and popped when taken out of their resting positions; brittle oak branches wrapped loosely with a sheer film of skin that dangled the way arm fat does in a Walmart queue.

She dressed inappropriately for someone of her advanced age, in that she wore blouses and pants instead of sleeping garments and orthopedics.  You could say she was too proud to dress informally, but pride had nothing to do with it.  She just didn’t want anybody to think she was disrespectful of their attention.  And the Vodka Queen got a lot of attention.

The sky deferred to her, it seemed.  Deep blue hues would melt away at their first sight of her, yielding to yellow, then nothing but the clearest blue you’ve ever seen.  Pinks and oranges and purples would celebrate the first Wawona of the day, eventually tiring as she made her way inside for the evening.

The sky turned grey the day she died.  It cried at her funeral.

Then she came back.

***

Astros @ Blue Jays

Thursday, July 25 – 6:07pm

Bedard (3-7) vs Buehrle (5-7)

Friday, July 26 – 6:07pm

Lyles (4-4) vs Dickey (8-11)

Saturday, July 27 – 12:07pm

Keuchel (4-5) vs Johnson (1-6)

Sunday, July 28 – 12:05pm

Cosart (1-0) vs Redmond (1-1)

***

I hadn’t been to the neighborhood since her funeral, but I was in town for business and had the day off.  I parked on Highland Ave, not far from the walk-street, and watched the waves for a long time.  This was the beach of my childhood – Galveston and Bolivar were closer, sure, but I went there to fish.  I came to Manhattan Beach to play.

I turned down 4^th Street and dodged parked and passing cars until the lanes ended at a series of thick concrete posts, each about waist-high.  I remember climbing atop these to get a better view of the ocean in my youth, when they seemed to tower above all else.  Now they only served as a barrier for oncoming traffic, which kept the walk-street clean and, more importantly, safe for families.

If you walked the length of the block you’d see decades-old bungalows giving way to multi-tiered mansions – each clamoring to rise above next to achieve a better view of the water.  This proved difficult in many cases, as the hill sharply descended from one end to the other.  Dozens of feaux-Tuscan  skyscrapers now sprouted from the surface, like weeds through cracks in a driveway – new, ugly and completely out of place.

I didn’t have to go far, though, before I found the Vodka Queen’s house.  Her two daughters kept the place in the family, opting to keep a link to the past instead of selling to another stucco enthusiast.  So there it sat, quiet, clean and unchanged.  But not lifeless, I thought.  I pondered going inside.

I closed my eyes and inhaled deeply.  The ocean responded in kind, with an exhale that carried a fresh salty breeze over the surface of the beach, up the hill and past the pink roses that still bloomed in front of me.  The combination of smells dropped my shoulders, fluttered my eyelids and seeped into my skin.  I sighed and continued the conversation.

A voice snapped me out of serenity and beckoned me over.

I hadn’t seen Marsha since that rainy day six years ago, and we embraced like family.  Years of sun and toil scrunched her face to something altogether unrecognizable, like rings of ripples without a splash, but I knew her voice and, of course, knew where she lived.  I took a seat on her patio.

Another benefit of a walk-street is that everybody had a patio on their front porch and, it being southern California, the weather always cooperated.  So if you were, say, retired and had nothing better to do, you’d sit on your patio all day.  Because of this, the neighborhood became a community, and the community became a family.

Marsha had gone inside to grab us refreshments, and I took the time to stare at the Vodka Queen’s patio next door.  My eyes strained to find some movement, some ghostly sign of the afterlife, not knowing what I would ever do if I succeeded.  Nothing.

Marsha came out with two highball glasses in her hands – Wawonas.  The drink was named after a hotel outside of Yosemite’s valley where the Vodka Queen spent her summers with her daughters and grandchildren.  It was a simple mixture – vodka and pink lemonade – but it tasted clean and crisp and packed a punch.  It probably carries another name in the bartending world, but in this world, on this street, in this family, it was called a Wawona.

I knew why she brought them out.  “Is she really still here?” I asked.

“Of course she is.  She was standing next to you just a moment ago.”

***

Injury Report

Blue Jays

JA Happ – Yeuk

Drew Hutchison – Botanophobia

Brandon Morrow – Jumping Frenchmen of Maine

Ramon Ortiz – Water-Elf Disease

Luis Perez – Galactorrhea

Sergio Santos – Witzelsucht

Astros

Trevor Crowe – right shoulder

Edgar Gonzalez – right shoulder

Alex White – Yep.  Still out.

***

The afternoon filled with neighbors coming by to say hi and catch up on old times.  They’d ask about my mother, ask about my kids, ask about my cousins.  Age isn’t kind to those who spend their days outside, but what weakens the outside only strengthens the inside.  They were genuinely happy to see me and genuinely interested in our conversations.

I kept searching for the Vodka Queen.  I’ve always been afraid of ghosts, just the mere thought of someone – something – watching me without my knowledge creeps me out.  That they had died and lingered only exacerbated the feeling.  But I wanted to see her again.  Needed to.

I asked Marsha, my impromptu guide to all things paranormal, what to look for.  “You’ll know it when you see her,” was all I’d get in response, and I began to entertain ideas about entering the house.  But the Wawonas were sinking in and it was nice outside, so I put it off and tried to enjoy myself.

***

Promotions

Sunday – MR. SUB Cooler Bag to the first 20,000.  Don’t know if it carries over to the next game.

***

The rest of the day carried on in normal fashion.  People came and went, a mother and son walked past us on the way to the beach, a seagull alighted on a lamppost and watched us.  Life continued without asking permission or asking forgiveness.  For the first time I felt the pull of responsibility, like a toddler tugging at my sleeve to get up and go back to the hotel.

Six years ago I came to grips with the fact that I would never see the Vodka Queen again, and once again I felt the familiar stabbing grief.  I wouldn’t – couldn’t – see the ghost today.  It was an outlandish idea anyway.  I believed it only because I wanted to believe it and these poor people were doing just the same.  And besides, even if it was true, I sure as hell wasn’t going in that house at night.

I stood up and thanked Marsha for the drinks and the relaxing afternoon.  The hours were waning and the sun was beginning to duck behind the Pacific.  She looked at me with pity.

“You still can’t see her, can you?” she asked.

“I’m sorry, I can’t.  I’ve been looking all over, looking for something that doesn’t belong in this world, looking for some sort of supernatural sign, and I’ve got nothing.”

“Look again,” she said, “and tell me what you see.”

I sighed.  “I see you.  I see the Vodka Queen’s house.  I see Marv and Shirley sitting on their patio.  Sally and Jack, too.  And there’s Peter, over there is Cassidy and Heather.  Brady is just coming up from the beach.  I don’t know the people down the street, but they’re out, too.  Someone’s cocker spaniel is loose.  The sun is setting.  Are you getting all of this?”

“Are you?”

“Clearly I am!” I said.

“No you’re not.  You’re looking for something supernatural.  You’re looking for something that doesn’t belong.  You’re looking for something that isn’t.  Look at all of these people.  Look at that seagull.  Look at the sunset.  Look inside yourself.  The Vodka Queen, as you call her, is what drew us together in the first place.  She was the constant – she was the rock.  In this family of neighbors, she was our grandmother.  We all see her.”

I closed my eyes and inhaled again.  Then I opened my eyes, for the first time all day, and saw my Grandma Pat.

She was here.  And she was smiling.