Houston Astros (38-78) vs Chicago Cubs (44-69)

August 13-15, 2012
Wrigley Field

CHICAGO (SnS) – Just another road series for the 2012 Houston Astros, in their season-long day’s journey into night. The only notable thing about this one is that it is in Chicago, specifically on the north side.

I hate to say I’ll miss the FTCubs after this year; but I will, in a way. The Astros have other spirited and even bitter rivalries, but the FTCubs were always reserved a special place in hell by some of us, I think because of the unique combination of a mostly bullshit, lackluster franchise, and a spectacularly offensive and dumbass fan base.

SCHEDULE
Monday – 7:05 CDT (FSH)
Tuesday – 7:05 CDT (FSH)
Wednesday – 1:20 CDT (FSH, WGN)

One of the greatest eruptions ever of SnS anti-Cub bile came from Rebel Jew (nee Joey Trum) several seasons ago.  It was beautiful and very intricate. Me describing it would not do justice, so here’s an excerpt:

… loveable losers loveable losers loveable losers. there’s a certain personality flaw in certain people that just happens to be manifested in the concept of cub fan. it’s analogous to a recent article in the SF weekly about how retarted people are drawn to Huey Lewis and the News. there’s just something comforting about the cubs to certain personality-challenged individuals across our great nation. it’s not unlike the congregation of a joel osteen or that weird lady with the big hair, the cubs give the weak-willed among us a sense of empowerment. the cubs offer an excuse for the helpless idiocy demonstrated in the dumbfuck daily lives of so many. the cubs give an identity (even an outfit) to these people, a way of life through which they can feel special. the cubs offer an endlessly comforting message to its followers, “it’s okay if you’re an idiot. it’s alright if you’re a poser. we’re here to help you celebrate your meaninglessness. you may be a loser, but you’re loveable too.”

Go do a tour of the 2006 TZ Hall of Fame to read the rest of this masterpiece.

PROBABLE PITCHERS
Monday – Armondo Galarraga (0-2, 4.70) vs. Jeff “The Mullet” Samardzija (7-10, 4.21)
Tuesday – Lucas Harrell (9-8, 3.97) vs. Chris Volstad (0-8, 6.94)
Wednesday – Bud Norris (5-9, 4.93) vs. Justin Germano (1-2, 4.26)

Cubs series previews are always great place to find anti-Cubs venom, just about anytime.  Here are a few several selected poisonous posts:

Ron Brand (May 21, 2012)

I hate the Cubs.

I should clarify that. I hate what the Cubs represent, the personification of the culture that celebrates losing. You can see the result anytime you scan the stands of a Cub home game – the men, bald, flabby, weak, most of them drunk and boorishly stupid; their women are ugly, demihuman breeding stock for a legion of ineffectual fools whose purpose in life is to throw all their available money at a towering god who eternally mewls and coughs for more sacrifice with no hope of reward.

I hate the Cubs, and their insipid fans. The people who aren’t strong enough to want to win, who have abandoned all hope and entered the domain of Suck for Suck’s sake. Those who applaud at the barest hint of mediocrity, who celebrate the nearness of victory but would spit out its sweetness at first taste for the familiar bitterness of Loss and the comforting blanket of darkness it provides.

Craig

(September 16, 2011) But these guys are still the Astros and I’ll still root for them to bitch-slap the stupid fucking Cubs. Because no matter where you are in the pecking order, there are some constant truths. Number One being … Fuck the Cubs.

(June 4, 2010) Which brings me to my main point, which is fuck the Cubs. They’re five games under .500 and won’t be going anywhere this year.

(September 14, 2008) Of all the idiotic bullshit moves dreamed up by Bud Selig, this one takes the urinal cake. The fucking pussified Cubs, who were so stoically brave during a tornado and lightning storm when they were behind in a game, wouldn’t get on a goddamn plane to Houston. So Selig tells Drayton McLane, “Hey I know, let’s you and him fight. At my house. I’ll sell tickets.”

Now Cecil Cooper and the Astros, many of whom are still without electricity at their own homes, where, you know, they might be needed, have to travel to Bud’s shitty suburb of Chicago and play a crucial “home” series in front of two fanbases that have a huge interest in seeing the Astros lose.

Jane Doe (April 11, 2011)

What is the difference between Wrigley Field and a cactus?
With a cactus, all the pricks are on the outside.

GreatBagwellsBeard (July 27, 2009)

I haven’t been this torn about a subject since realizing the Scarlett isn’t a good actress as much as she is a good whisperer.  I love the city of Chicago almost as much as I hate the Cubs.  The fucking Cubs.  If they resided in a city that I despised (like Jacksonville), my hate would multiply and increase in power like motherfucking Voltron.  As is, I’ve spent plenty of time in Chicago (even visiting Wrigley once), and I find the people to be friendly, the weather pleasantly brisk, the restaurants fantastic, and it tops the list of cities to which I’d move if Harris County is finally swept out to sea by a God angry at us for tolerating Joel Osteen’s pseudo-Christian pap.  Still, I haven’t come to praise Chicago, but to bury the Cubs.

MRaup (June 8, 2009)

The Astros are starting to play some decent baseball. They’ve won a few series in a row, things are starting to look up as a few of the important bullpen parts are close to returning fairly soon, and there might just be a small light at the end of this early season tunnel… Or that light might just be the oncoming train full of drunken, shirtless cocksucker Cub fans on their way to Minute Maid to out-cheer, out-drunk, out-obnoxious, and out-asshole the Houston fans. It could be either one.

(July 18, 2008) … Hordes of Goddamn Cub fans all over Minute Maid Park, and me doing battle with every single one of the pasty faced douchebags that I hear chanting “Lets Go Cubbies” while slopping smuggled Old Style in a flask all over themselves …

(April 3, 2008) The Astros and Cubs are both slopping around at the bottom of the Central standings. Hopefully not a sign of things to come… Well, at least for the Astros. I hope the Cubs lose the rest of their games this year.

(September 11, 2007) The moral of this preview is… Fuck the Cubs.

Dark Star (May 18, 2008)

The Shit-head Cubbies – the favorite team of such luminaries as Warren Buffet, Bill Murray, Jim Belushi, Pat Sajak (I must say), and John Cusack, as well as George Will, Hillary Clinton, Dick Cheney, and many, many other similar nitwits, drunks, deluded freaks, and just plain losers …

(April 8, 2007) On Tuesday, the Puppies of North Chicago are giving away their version of a magnet schedule to the Wrigley faithful.  I’m not sure why.  The hard core Cub fans – which is to say the drunkest louts of all the drunken louts in the stands – don’t need a schedule.  They are pulled to the park, rain or shine, win or lose, by a force they cannot understand or explain; a primal force, the same sort of thing that sends salmon backwards up a spillway, brings the swallows back to Capistrano each spring, and compels the lemmings to go ahead and jump headfirst off the cliff, en masse.  All CubFan really needs is a big, square magnet he can stick on the ice box that says, “Every Fuckin’ Day!!”

Or, to quote the gifted soliloquist (and former Cub manager) Lee Elia, “Fuck those fuckin’ fans who come out here and say they’re Cub fans that are supposed to be behind you rippin’ every fuckin’ thing you do. . . The motherfuckers don’t even work. That’s why they’re out at the fuckin’ game. They oughta go out and get a fuckin’ job and find out what it’s like to go out and earn a fuckin’ living. Eighty-five percent of the fuckin’ world is working. The other fifteen percent come out here. A fuckin’ playground for the cocksuckers. . . ”

:sigh:  Greatness like that just doesn’t come along every day, folks.

Taras Bulba (August 31, 2007)

Chicago is a mediocre 5-5 over their last ten games but appear to be feeling their oats and spouting off a lot of cocky drivel about being in a pennant race, etc.  Perfect timing for the annual summer rite whereby the hopes and dreams of pathetic Cubs fans everywhere are brutally eviscerated by that mean ass son of a bitch, the God of Baseball, in the guise in the next three days of your Houston Astros.  It’s coming a little late in the season, but nevertheless, it’s here.  Allah, akhbar!

INJURIES
Houston
Chicago

One of my proudest achievements ever at AC/OWA/SnS was inspired by the FTCubs, back when the whole Fuck The Cubs thing was in its fullest flower.  I wrote a take off of T.S. Eliot’s Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock, sometime late in the 2004 season.  I called it the The Love Song of John Q. Cubfan and, though it is highly topical, I still have a fondness for it.

This was the season after the Cubs (and Steve Bartman) folded up against the Marlins in the NLCS.  In 2004, the Cards had taken over 1^st place in the Central in early June, and led the rest of the way. The Astros and Cubs battled neck and neck for 2^nd place and what would be the Wild Card slot. Then there was an infamous 4-game series in late August at Wrigley.  By that time, the FTCubs were still in 2^nd, but fading (and panicking), while the Astros, among others, were making a charge at them. The Cubs won the first game of the series without incident, but the Astros came back and stomped the Cubs 15-7 the next day. The Astros hit 5 HRs that game, and Lance Berkman and Roy Oswalt were hit by pitches, in retalition. The Astros won a close one on Saturday (Clemens beating Zambrano), more or less without incident. They won again on Sunday, 10-3 … by then the Cubs’ and manager Dusty Baker’s frustrations were showing, and a beanball war of sorts ensued.  The highlights were Astros rookie reliever Dan Wheeler dotting the Cubs Derek Lee, and Cub reliever Mike Remlinger throwing at Berkman’s head, which emptied the benches. And so on. The Astros eventually left the Cubs in the dust that year, and won the Wild Card.

Anyway, it was against this backdrop that I composed the poem/parody.

The Love Song of John Q. Cubfan

Vous pouvez connerie le boulanger
Et obtenir les brioches
Que vous pouvez soutenir de chaque affaire
Excepté une

Let us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a Cub fan drunk and passed out in his seat;
Let us go, through certain Wrigleyville streets,
The muttering retreats
Of idiots who believe they’re cursed by goats
Who drink old fashioned beer that tastes like oats:
Streets that follow like a tedious interview
Of a whiny manager with a fucked-up world-view
That leads to an overwhelming question. . .
Oh, do not ask, “What the hell?”
Let us head for Wrigley on the El.

In the stands the vendors come and go
Selling their swill for six bucks a go.

The yellow journalists who just can’t rant enough
The yellow piss that makes the hands so tough
Get mixed together on some lost afternoon
When Sammy the rightfielder, who is a buffoon
Hops around like a bunny at the sight of a long, lazy drive
And gets gunned down at second by four feet or five,
And sensing another sign of the gods’ disdain
We order up another nasty brew to drain.

And indeed there will be time
For the wild card lead to disappear,
Onrushing giants and spacemen getting near;
There will be time, there will be time
To prepare to face the nagging fear;
There will be time to whine and moan,
For the umpires to conspire, the announcers to berate
As after another loss we head for home;
Time for beanballs and ejections,
Time for the sunshine to wear out the whiteys,
And time for Steve Stone to call us un-mighty,
As pointless as a lonely, Viagra-fueled erection.

In the stands the vendors come and go
They sell that shit for six bucks, you know?

And indeed there will be time
To wonder, “What the fuck?” and “What the fuck?”
Is it The Curse? Is it lousy luck?
Or just that our bullpen really sucks?
[They will say, “Your bullpen blows.”]
Borowski’s hurt, so the one we chose
LaTroy, to come in late and close
[They will say, “You cut off your face to spite your nose!”]
Do we dare
Take the Almighty’s name in vain?
In a minute there is time
To curse a blue streak, and go down in flames.

For we have known them all, already, known them all: —
Have known the games pissed away by errors, wind-borne flies, blown saves,
We have measured out our lives by the games we gave away;
We have lost must-win games to chumps, and have been appalled.
From the second deck falls a chunk of concrete, about half a ton
Should I try and run under one?

And we have known the indignities, already, know them all —
Beat out by a team in McDonald’s uniforms back in ’84,
Or ’89 Will Clark went all Babe Ruth on us (“It’s gone! It’s gone!”)
And how could we forget Brant Brown (Brant Brown?!) dropping that fly ball?
What the hell is going on?
Cincinnati (Cincinnati?!) beats us three of four
Should I go and get a gun?

And we know how this ends, already; we must remember –
Confident in a solid lead held almost up to the end,
[“Oh, don’t be silly!” they say, as the inevitable descends]
How will it be this time? Like the ’69 Mets?
Another incredible mind-fuck we will never forget?
Our hopes as dead as the ivy in November.
Could I sneak a knife in, nice and neat
Commit Harry Caray right in my seat?
. . . . .

When Ruth stood pointing out to Waveland Ave., was he really calling his shot?
Or just showing us the way to the exits, saying,
“This thing’s all over, boys; why’n’t you just head on home?”

I should have been a ragged old glove
Scuttling across the floors of silent dugouts
. . . . .

And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!
As smoothed by several rounds
Asleep…tired…slowing down,
Stretched out on the bar next to my ratty blue cap with the “C”.
Should I, after another shot ‘n’ a beer
Have the strength to walk on out of here?
But though I have wept and fasted, blown up balls and genuflected,
Though I have longed to see Dusty’s head [the stupid toothpick in its mouth] brought in upon a platter,
Truth is, I can’t do shit—and here’s no great matter;
I have seen the moment of our greatness flicker,
And I have seen the Base Ball Gods shake their heads, and snicker,
And in short, I’ve seen my own impotence reflected.

And was it all worth it, after all,
After elimination, the acrimony, the accusations,
Bitter doubt entering our conversations?
Was it worth raising the payroll to $100 million
Just to bring the types of players with the skills in
When one skill is not holding onto the fucking ball?
The skill to wear sunglasses and still not see,
The can of corn come wafting out,
While our pitcher grins on the mound with glee,
Saying, “I know you’ll catch that ball.”
“I know you’ll catch that fucking ball!”

And was it all worth it, after all,
Worth all the money, care, and time spent,
Putting together a team which only wasted all its promise?
Which would rather initiate, and then retaliate, than win the game –
Rather kick a wall and get a knee sprain –
And get 15 days on the DL,
While the whole season goes to hell.
Was it worth it, all the discontent?
When, with our backs up against the wall,
Against the lowly Redlegs and the Braves,
They say, “You lost them all.”
“You lost them all!”
. . . . .

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 whole lot of booze
‘Til reality sets in, and we lose and lose

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Astros lose the series, 0-3.

Follow the action in the Game Zone

(August 6 -9, 2012)

by Foghorn

NOTICE–Persons attempting to find a motive in this Series Preview will be prosecuted; persons attempting to find a moral in it will be banished; persons attempting to find a plot in it will be shot.

Introductory Nonsense
Longtime Houstonians may remember this.  Back in the late 70’s and early-to-mid 80’s, Houston had 2 rock stations on the radio—KLOL 101.1 and KSRR 97 Rock FM.  The #1 morning show was Moby and Matthews on 97 Rock.  This would have been from about 81-85, if a quick internet search is to be believed. Moby either moved to Dallas when the station became top 40, or he moved to Dallas, the ratings tanked, and the station switched formats.  I don’t recall.  Anyway, Houston was down to 1 rock station by 1988 when KLOL announced that Moby was coming back to Houston radio, this time in the afternoon.  KLOL had Stevens & Pruitt in the morning, with Dana Steele in the mid day, leading up to Moby coming back at 3:00.  16 year old Foghorn was stoked!!!

They had a contest before he came back.  Guess what song he would play first and you could win a trip to Hawaii.  Hell, that easy.  I recalled he was a fan of Aerosmith and what better song than “Back in the Saddle”.  So I submitted an entry and eagerly awaited his first day back.  Sure enough, he played “Back in the Saddle”.  Visions of Hawaii danced in my head (hot hula chicks in grass skirts!!!  16-year old Foghorn had wild imaginations about what would happen in the islands).  Turned out, about 1500 people submitted “Back in the Saddle” and I didn’t get dick.

Well, now its my turn to make a triumphant (ha!) return to the Series Preview and to Spikes and Stars in general.  It only seems fitting that we crank up a little “Back in the Saddle” to get things going.  Actually, scratch that.  Seems that over the past 10 years or so I have lost all affinity for anything Steven Tyler or Aerosmith related.  Can’t stand any of their songs.  Wouldn’t waste a squirt of piss if they were on fire standing next to me.  Actually find myself feeling that way with a lot of the old KSRR and KLOL bands.  Van Halen….fuck ‘em.  Hagar.  Roth.  Cherone.  Fuck every one of them.  Only song I can half way stomach from them is Unchained.  Ozzy? Wish the bat he chewed on had rabies and killed the fucker at the height of his popularity.  He and his worthless family helped usher in this reality tv crap.  His last good CD was Diary of a Mad Man.  That was 30 years ago.  Rush…respect the musicianship but hate the music.  I’d rather listen to the sound of my testicles getting punctured than hear Geddy Lee try to hit the high notes in Closer to the Heart.

However, there is one late 70’s/early 80’s rock band I still like and still listen to.  And wouldn’t you know, one of there songs is appropriate for this Series Preview.  So…let’s begin.  {Cue to the muffled rhythmic guitar intro…6 times, then pause for 2 beats….then start the famous intro…}

Back in black
I hit the sack
I’ve been gone too long I’m glad to be back
Yes I’m, let loose
From the noose
That’s kept me hanging about
I keep looking at the sky
Cause its getting me high
Forget the hearse cause I never die
I got…9 lives
Cat’s eys
Using every one cause I’m running wild

And I’m back (x4)
Back in Black
Yes I’m Back in Black

What’s up Astros Fans?  How does a 2nd straight year of sucking feel?  Actually, it feels damn sweet.  I love this year.  I’ve enjoyed this season more than just about any season in a long time.  Why?  Because Drayton McNeck is gone.  Jesus H Christ, praise the lord!!!!

Now that The Grocer is long gone, things can start turning around.  Though he did manage to stick it in up our back side one last time, leaving us with a shitty team, a shitty farm system, and a move to the fuckin’ AL.  What a cock suck.  Worse than John McMullen!!!  Yeah, I said it.  Lemme say it again.

WORSE THAN JOHN MCMULLEN!!!!!

Someone had to say it.  Don’t care about the record or any of the playoff successes.  Fuck that.  Someone else did the hard work…he got the glory.  He rode the coat tails of work done prior to his buying the team.  Astros acquired Bagwell and Biggio before his time, and they were the heart of our championship teams.  The cock sucker didn’t want to spend the money to sign Berkman outta Rice.  The Hun had to talk him into it.  Venezuela Academy…started before McNeck.  Harris County voters built him a stadium and gave him a sweetheart lease.

So as a brief parting shot to Drayton McLane, let me just say this (channeling the great David Naughton from Hot Dog…the Movie):

“Hey Drayton!  You can kiss my ass.  Not on zis side, or on zhat side, but right in zee middle!”

Now that we’re done with the pleasantries, let’s make our way to….

What’s on tap?
Coming off a weekend trip in Atlanta, where apparently the video board guy got a little jab in on the Astros (per a Levine tweet, something about “can’t spell Disastrous without Astro” or something).  The boys may be thirsty in Atlanta, and there is beer in Texarkana, but those chodes can drink fuckin’ Billy Beer for all I care.  Not going to miss playing those assholes on a yearly basis.  Will really miss the loser Brave fans who used to show up at the Dome/MMPUS.  I’ll miss those fuckers like I’d miss jock itch, my first kidney stone, and Mama’s Family.  Unfortunately, they’ll be replaced with Yankee and Red Sox fans.  Guido, the Mooch, Sully and Murph.  Not even a better class of asshole.  Can’t.  Fuckin’.  Wait.

The NL East leading Nationals are in town for 4 games.  As always, Astros.com has all the news you need to know.  Here’s the link

Astros.com Series Preview

What intrigues me about he Nationals is how lucky they’ve been.  They managed to have the worst teams at the exact right time.  They suck real bad and they get the #1 overall pick.  Just so happens the greatest college pitcher since…forever…was available.  Stephen Strausburg…come on down.  Suck ass again, and get the #1 overall pick for a second time.  Just so happens the greatest high school hitter since…forever…was available.  Bryce Harper…come on down.

Compare that to the Astros.  Carlos Correa and (presumably) Mark Appel.  Its not just sucking really bad, its sucking really bad at the exact right time.  When/if the Nationals ever do something worth a shit, remember that luck had as much to do with it than anything else.  Taking nothing away from the other good players they’ve developed (Zimmerman and Zimmerman) or traded for (Gio Gonzales) but when in about 10 years when we look back at the Nationals, Harper and Strausburg are going to be their version of Bagwell/Biggio.

Hey, Houston area fans.  School is about to start up.  Football season is about to start up.  Attendance is only going to get worse from here on in.  Let’s all try to get to at least one more game this year.  Not as a group, just you and your friends/family.  Let’s get our asses in the stadium, buy a couple of beers, and let Jim Crane know we understand the situation.  We’ll take our lumps.  We’ll take the move to the AL.  Because one day, our youngsters will hit their prime, and when we’re one player away and need Crane to open his checkbook, I want him to remember we supported him when we had a middle of the road AAA team for 2 years.  MMPUS is still a fine place to watch a game, even though they have something against silence.  Do we really need some noise and stupid tom foolery between every innings or pitching changes?  Sometimes, less is more.  Let us enjoy the sounds of the ball park.

How Foghorn spent the 2012 Season
Absolutely love www.milb.com.  Can’t live without it.  Before going to bed each night, I do a quick check of how the kids in the minors are doing.  Check out Corpus to see what Singleton is up to.  Lancaster has George Springer and (as I was pleasantly surprised to see) Domingo Santana who is having a great season.  Lexington?  Can probably count on seeing Delino DeShields Jr. stealing a base or two.  He’s having a strong season.  Love, love, love it.  And once he signed, I have enjoyed looking at Nolan Fontana’s progression.  Anytime you are rocking an OBP near .500, you got my attention.

I never had a clear understanding of Short Season A Ball or the Rookie Leagues, until this year.  Tri City has been awesome, with likely League MVP Andrew Alpin leading the league in both OPS and SBs.  Several pitchers there have crazy K/BB ratios to go along with solid ERA and WHIP numbers.  Greenville has been the D’andre Toney watch for me.  Was hoping to see a bit more from him in 2012, but given that we only gave up Quintero and Burgois, how good could he be?  And the GCL Astros with McCuellars (now at Greenville), Ruiz, and Correa?  Am always excited to check out those box scores.  Question for the group—I take in the GCL doesn’t play games on Sundays?  Why not?

Anyway, I became a more knowledgeable fan this year.  Had to bone up on the rules of the draft.  Had to learn the minor leagues.  Had to put in some time on the ‘net searching things out.  But I’m a better fan for it.

All in all….I had a pretty fun year in 2012.

What’s on Foggy’s mind
(1)  So, have you heard about the porn stars in Miami giving away free blow jobs?  A couple of Miami-based valtrex-laced skanks said that if the Heat win the NBA title, they’d give away a ton of free hummers to anyone who would show up (provided they bring along an STD test, wear a condom, and agree to be filmed for the DVD that is soon to be released).  #TeamBJ for you folks on Twitter.  Seriously.  Un-freaking-believable.

There are a couple of pole dancers who will do the same thing here in Houston if the Astros win 5 more road games this season.

(2)  We are living in the golden age of television right now.  In particular, television drama.  Mad Men, Breaking Bad, Justified, Game of Thrones, Boardwalk Empire, Homeland.  All kick much, much ass.  I can’t put into words how much I love Mad Men.  The writing on that show is stunning.  Matthew Weiner is up there with Aaron Sorkin (loved the Social Network script, and Sports Night and early West Wing were awesome) and the Davids (Milch, Simon, and Chase) as the best television writers of all time.

In fact, I would argue that for the most part, television is better than film these days.  Yes, I am excited to see Daniel Day Lewis in Spielberg’s Abraham Lincoln and Paul Thomas Anderson’s The Master looks awesome.  But the amount of depth that the tv shows can go into that the movies can’t.  I loved the Battle of Helm’s Deep in The Two Towers but the Battle of Blackwater in Game of Thrones was just as much to watch.

For the record, I’ve done my best not to litter Game of Thrones quotes throughout this entire review.  No “Winter is Coming”.  No “I will take my crown.  I will pay the iron price”.  No “stick them with the pointy end”.  Not even “a Lannister pays his debts”.

Have to say that while Tyrion has most of the best lines, my favorite character is probably Arya (Arry/Weasel/Cat/whatever 50 other names she goes by).  SPOILER FOR THOSE WHO HAVE ONLY SEEN THE TV SHOW AND NOT READ THE BOOKS.  I am trying to figure out how she rejoins the main narrative.  I’m assuming she will be sent to assassinate someone.  I also imagine she’ll meet up again with Jaquen H’ghar at some point.  Have always felt that she is the one who needs to kill Littlefinger, as he is one of the main instigators of the entire war(s).  Arya kills Littlefinger and reconciles with Sansa before returning to the House of Black and White awaiting her next job.

(3)  The Olympics are on.  I’ll watch swimming.  I’ll watch Usain Bolt.  But I have no desire to watch the Dream Team 2012.  No desire to watch the gymnastics.  Can’t say I would watch a round of boxing, though it would be interesting to watch a guy get knocked down 6 times in a fight and still be declared the winner.  Amateur athletics is rotten to the core.

Well, that’s about it for me.  Thanks to Dark Star for reaching out to me.  This Series Preview isn’t coming together as I had hoped, but its been fun for me to write.  Hope you enjoyed it as well.  I held back on the f bombs, and I don’t think I called anyone a Mother Fucker.  I reckon I got to light out for the Territory ahead of the rest, because they are going to try an sivilize me and I can’t stand it.  I been there before.

July 6-8, 2012

Milwaukee Brewers (38-44) @ Houston Astros (32-51)

Minute Maid Park
501 Crawford Street
Houston, TX  77002

HOUSTON (SnS) – Staggering into the All Star break after a disastrous road trip – or at least it would have been disastrous were the team going anywhere in the first place, which it is not … the biggest news for the hometown Houston Astros as they limp home to lick their many wounds running sores at the midway point of the 2012 campaign is the trading away of Carlos Lee, the erstwhile OF fixture-now 1B/immobile object, to Miami for some alleged prospects. Unlike the previous deals involving Roy Oswalt, Lance Berkman or Michael Bourn, etc., it is hard to imagine this one creating much if any uproar amongst the rapidly dwindling Astros fan base; save for the drunks fond of hopping around the outfield concourses at MMPUS on stick horses while wearing over-sized sombreros.

In other words, except for the serious fans.

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SCHEDULE
Friday 7:05 p.m. CDT (FSH)

Saturday 3:05 p.m. CDT (FSH)

Sunday 1:05 p.m. CDT (FSH)

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IF SIX WAS NINE. The other day at one point I was presented with a column of 15 or so 3- and 4-digit numbers which needed to be added up, then averaged. I reflexively began to reach for a calculator, and then some existential something-or-other made me stop myself. Was it Jesus? Maybe it was. The ghost of Archimedes? Who knows? All I know is I was suddenly overcome with the urge to add these numbers up, and then derive their average, manually. And, not having pencil and paper handy (not having had pencil and paper handy in years), I resolved to complete the task entirely in my head.

Men have thought the prospect strange
demonic scaring as they woke
from a ravishing crystalline dream
of abstract Eternities
to touch the edge of Change
where all Numbers twist and break. . .

I have this sort of idiot savant skill at basic math. I can add — or subtract, or multiply, or divide — extremely long columns of numbers, carrying over and everything, all in my head, and at tremendous speed, with accuracy. It is not a talent I developed, I just had it from the beginning, as far back as I can remember. From whence it came I can only guess.

I never was much for showing off my odd little skill, because it did not seem very remarkable to me. But my elementary school teachers began to wonder how I was turning in my tests half an hour ahead of everyone else, and getting all the questions right. Naturally, they suspected I was cheating some way.

This all came to a head in third grade, when one day my teacher gave me a big fat red “F” on a math test on which I’d answered all but 2 of 30 problems correctly, in record time. She openly accused me of cheating, and refused to even consider changing the grade. I finally told my parents about it. They went mildly ballistic, and met with the school principal and everything (I was dubious about all this, I just wanted the grade I’d honestly earned.) It ended up I had to stand in the principal’s office, in front of him and my parents, while my teacher rattled off a series of about 40 numbers at me. When she was done I gave her the sum total of the numbers, which I’d been adding in my head as she went. The total was correct. My principal was very impressed, but I think my teacher just started hating me even more.

Anyway, all the kids eventually heard about this throw down/showdown (not from me), and for awhile I was kind of a hero to the third graders at that school. Seems just about everyone hated that teacher. Anyway, not to bad thing to be, everything considered. The only reason those kids did not start calling me ‘The Human Calculator’ or something similar is because back then calculators weren’t very prevalent at all, and the ones there were approximated the size and weight of the front quarter panel on a 1966 Dodge Charger. Probably cost as much, too.

Luckily, none of my classmates thought to call me The Human Abacus, or The Human Slide Rule. The Human Comptometer kind of has a nice ring to it, but no one thought of that one, either.

I once impressed a very attractive girl with my addition skills, so much so she started dating me.

My freshman year of high school, there was this pretty girl in my class, obviously so far out of my reach I never even dreamt of taking her out. I didn’t mind standing around looking at her, though. She worked at Baskin-Robbins after school, and I happened to be there one evening when she was closing the store. She couldn’t make her cash register balance, even after numerous attempts. So I helped her quickly recount the money and receipts, and then everything balanced out as it should have. She was impressed and seemed very turned on by this, so I asked her out. Even then, I knew an opportunity when I saw one; especially one that walked right up and slapped me in the face.

Alas, a romance based on someone’s math skills is generally not destined to last very long, and this one didn’t, either. But I still remember it all with some fondness. It was the first time I realized that some of the stuff I was being forced to learn in high school really did have practical applications.

My vaunted skill at mathematics came to a screeching halt the next year. That was when I first encountered “higher math”, in this case trigonometry. Try though I might, my brain was simply not wired to grasp the more abstract and esoteric concepts of trig and calculus and matrices and whatever the hell else lay beyond that. My facility for mathematics simply went to a certain level, and then stopped cold. And that was it.

Suddenly, my skill at adding numbers was obsolete. It was, I realized, about as relevant — and useful — as blacksmithing, or alchemy.

What did it all mean? Would my youthful confidence, flowering but still delicate, be utterly destroyed? How would I cope? Well, for one thing, I was going to have to figure out a new and better way to attract girls.
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Nowadays, we are rarely asked to do much math at all. Calculators are everywhere, from one’s laptop to one’s phone to one’s watch, to spreadsheets that do everything for you. No one has to add up anything, anymore.

We are better for it, no doubt. But still, it is fun to go back and try out the old skills again, like I did yesterday. I added up those numbers, and averaged them, all in about 15 seconds, in my head. No pencil and paper, no trees had to die. It was gratifying to find my old skill intact, to know I still “had it.” I started thinking, I wish I knew where that pretty girl from the ice cream parlor lives now. I’d go over to her house and show her, after all these years, that I still knew how to turn her on. Yes.

Okay, maybe that was not such a great idea, but … Stop punching the keys on your phone or your watch or calculator. Add up some numbers in your head. Do some long division, on paper. Figure up a batting average, or an on base percentage. Set yourself free, momentarily at least, from the drowsy ease and convenience of the silicone chip.

By all means, reconnect with the numbers. Follow them. Go with them, all the way out to where the air is thin and there is no light, out to the place where the numbers twist and break.

Some people will tell you, that is the place where God lives.

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PITCHING MATCHUPS

Friday
Yovani Gallardo RHP (6-6, 3.87) vs. J. A. Haap (6-8, 4.81) – Be sure and at least lurk tonight, in the Game Zone, as GZ moderator Mr. Happy is likely to be blowing several gaskets at once. Lefty hurler Haap has this sort of effect on him. +1

Saturday
Zack Greinke RHP (9-2, 3.08) vs. Wandy Rodriguez (6-6, 3.54) – It looks like Greinke is a sure bet to be traded away to someone before the deadline. That was the thinking on Wandy, as well; but now, maybe not.

Sunday
Marco Estrada RHP (0-3, 4.31) vs. Jordan Lyles (2-5, 5.40) – Lotta runs.

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FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS. I saw a guy in a black Jaguar in the drive-thru line at the Taco Bell yesterday. I don’t know why it surprised me. It was the Deadhead-sticker-on-a-Cadillac moment, I think. Why should a rich guy be any less enamored of the ________ (fill in the blank) served out the window of Taco Bell than the rest of us proles? Also, that guy didn’t get rich enough to buy that Jag by throwing his money away; and as everyone knows, if nothing else you get more bang for your buck at Taco Bell than at any other fast food outlet. You can feed a family of four for under ten bucks with ________ (fill in the blank) from Taco Bell, provided no one gags on it. . . which they shouldn’t, unless they get one of those damn “Fiesta” burritos, the ones they put rice in. You don’t put rice in a fucking burrito, goddamn it! It should be against the law to do so, if it isn’t already.
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For a long time now, I don’t eat at Taco Bell if I can help it. I did more than enough of that when I was young. Even back then, the only time I ever really wanted anything from there was late at night when I was headed home after a long night of partying. I don’t know why that was. But I used to find myself there often enough, sitting in the drive-thru line with a lot of other no doubt similarly bewildered drunks, not even able to remember making the decision to go there in the first place. It was like my car drove itself. I would end up ordering way more than I could ever eat, and often by the time I got home I didn’t want any of it. So I’d throw the bag into the ‘fridge and go to bed. And then a week or so later I would throw it away. Taco Bell stockholders got rich off of all the bean burritos I bought back in those days, and never ate.
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The first Taco Bell built here is, I think, a Vietnamese seafood place now. That location in its original incarnation was pretty popular back in high school. It had this faux volcano thing out front, with a smudge pot stuck into the top of it, lit up. We called it the Eternal Flame, and considered it a fitting symbol of the whole Taco Bell experience. Still, most kids went there because it was the only place open after midnight where one could go if one was suffering from an onset of the munchies.

I got thrown out of there one night, by some little burrito-making dude, for laughing too much. That’s right. I was in there with a friend of mine, and for some reason everything he said to me was hilarious, and I went into fits of uncontrollable laughter. Weird.

Another night I walked in there at some ungodly hour and caught the little burrito dude making “refried” beans. He had a steam table tray on the counter, into which he had dumped a couple of institutional-sized cans of pinto beans. He had a Black & Decker ½ inch power drill with a paint-stirrer attachment in it. And he was going to town. This is a true story. He was puréeing the beans with a power drill. I found that both repulsive and, at the time, extremely amusing; and I ended up laughing my way out of there again.

Since then, except for all the times I was legally intoxicated, I have denied myself the pleasure of eating at Taco Bell. My loss, I have no doubt.

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INJURIES
Milwaukee

Houston

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BEACH CULTURE. As it happens, I found myself walking alone along Crystal Beach this past Tuesday night, around 10:30 or so.

The girlfriend and I and a few friends of both of ours had come down to the beach for a couple of days, to relax a little, and celebrate Independence Day.  The rest of the crew had settled into the cabin we rented, and had begun listening to music and drinking cocktails. I intended to do very much the same. But one thing I always have to do when I first arrive at the beach – as soon as possible – is reconnect with the beach itself … re-introduce myself to the wind, and sand, and waves, and ocean. I told the others to go ahead and start mixing drinks (which, actually, they had already started doing), and I’d be with them shortly – I just needed some fresh air.

My girlfriend, Lea, is still fairly new, but she is going to be a good one, I think. She pretty much likes to be anywhere I am, bless her. But she already knows there are certain times it is better to let me alone for a little while, and that this was one of them. More than probably most people, I require – in fact, thrive on – my alone time.

So there I was, walking barefoot along the edge of the water, in a pair of canvas shorts and a Bob Marley Legend T-shirt, flip-flops in hand. I was walking alone, but the beach was by no means empty. A lot of people had showed up for the Fourth, and there were people drinking and listening to music and shooting fireworks and even a few bonfires.

Most people are laid back and friendly at the beach, probably more than in their everyday lives.  Hell, I am pretty sure that is what draws many back down there, again and again.  Anyway, a reasonable looking guy walking down the beach alone has zero chance of getting very far before being invited by one stranger or group of strangers or another to have a cold one, to stop and listen to some music, even to sit by the bonfire a bit, and join in the fun. I had several invitations on my walk that night, and I accepted every one. My intention was to go with the flow. Very much like body surfing … I intended to let the wave catch me and pick me up, to let the unique energy of the Bolivar Peninsula guide me and carry me along that night on my walk. I am sure most beaches have their energy, but Bolivar is special … partly because I have spent a large chunk of my childhood and adult life there, sure.  But the place is special, anyway. Took a direct fucking hit from Hurricane Ike, and looked like a bombed out beach on some no-name WWII South Pacific atoll. Left for deader than fucking dead. Lost forever. Gone.

And within two years, one would hardly have known there was any hurricane at all.  The houses and businesses came back, the people came back, and the unique energy of the place came back, too.  If you do not believe in miracles, neither did I. Until I witnessed this one, first hand.

As I walked along, after having stopped to talk and drink with a couple of different groups partying down on the beach, it occurred to me I had been doing this very thing I was doing now – just drifting, waiting for the beach culture to pick me up and carry me along – for nearly 40 years. Amazing. So many good times, and an endless supply of stories and anecdotes and just slips of memories.

After an hour or so of doing my thing down on the beach, I headed back up to the cabin. By the time I arrived, it appeared several rounds of drinks had already been gone through. I poured myself some Early Times over ice, and dumped in a couple of ounces of water to smooth it out. Then I went and sat by Lea on a sofa, and began to ease my way into the ongoing revelry.

I don’t want to feel this way another day, it’s killing me
I don’t want to be the one you try to mess around
I could never see the reason in the way you looked at me
Baby, you’re the one I want, so come on, ’cause I need you now

Say you will
Say you’ll stay with me tonight, girl
You won’t be sorry …

I was 22 or 23 years old, sitting out on the open part of the deck/veranda that wrapped around three sides of the beach cabin, with Diane, my girlfriend. We had been out there awhile. It was night time, maybe close to midnight, maybe after. Who knows? We’d been partying that day for hours and hours, since noon, at least. In fact, there was a party still going on at a beach house down the way – some friends of ours – and we had been there earlier. But an hour or so prior she and I had decided to come back to our cabin.

The deck on that cabin was excellent for stretching out on at night, and looking at the sky. We had dragged a couple of chaise-lounge lawn chairs out there, and had been laying back, watching intently for shooting stars. We’d only seen a couple. In late summer, August and September, one could see hundreds in just a couple of hours. But it was early July, and the action was slow. I had turned on the stereo, and a song Diane really liked came on (“Say You Will”, by Blanket of Secrecy). She reached over and put her arms around my neck. Just then, something really bright flashed by in the sky. We both turned in time to see something large and bright and moving at a very high rate of speed streak low across the shore and go several miles out over the ocean, before crashing into the water with a splash, leaving a brief afterglow.

“What was that?!” my girl asked.

“I don’t know, Jesus! But hey, can you hand me another beer?”

Diane reached over and unhesitatingly plunged her hand into the ice and melted ice water in the cooler on the other side of her chair, and pulled out a cold Miller Lite, and handed it across to me. I loved that girl passionately, for a lot of reasons. Just one of them was the way she handed me a cold beer.

Her song had ended, but she pushed the volume even higher when the next song came on, some dweeb Englishman singing about being blinded by science. But it had a good beat, I guess. It got my girl all worked up, that’s for sure. Which, in turn, got me worked up.

We quickly forgot about the celestial anomaly we saw that night. A UFO crashing spectacularly into the Gulf of Mexico just off the coast of Galveston/Crystal Beach was one thing. My baby, Diane, getting herself all worked up over some Thomas Dolby song was something else entirely. We quickly retired to the privacy of the beach cabin to enjoy each other in the way people have been enjoying each other since all the way back in the olden days, back to when Adam and Eve used to get it on, in that sub-Saharan savannah back in Africa, where we all come from.

If the sun refused to shine
I don’t mind
I don’t mind,

If the mountains fell in the sea,
Let it be
It ain’t me …

Lea looked at me and laughed. She has the most beautiful smile, and I spend a lot of my time trying, in various ways, to elicit it. Just because I get off on it so much. Luckily, it is pretty easy for me to do – for some reason, she thinks I am hilarious. I reached out to the coffee table in front of us and picked up my drink, and took a sizable sip of sweet Kentucky bourbon mixed with a little Ozarka water, and some ice. It felt so good going down, it gave me a bit of a shiver. Just then Lea kissed me in the ear; and when I smiled, our friends laughed. It’s nothing, really. Just a random moment, in a random cabin, on a random road, on a random night. Down at Crystal Beach.

Crystal Beach – the magical place where both kids and grownups come to play, and laugh, and feel good, and just let the beach culture wash them over, and – at least for a little while – carry them away. One day, when I grow up, if I ever do … I want to move down there.

And then stay.

maggie and milly and molly and may
went down to the beach (to play one day)

and maggie discovered a shell that sang
so sweetly she couldn’t remember her troubles, and

milly befriended a stranded star
whose rays five languid fingers were;

and molly was chased by a horrible thing
which raced sideways while blowing bubbles:and

may came home with a smooth round stone
as small as a world and as large as alone.

For whatever we lose (like a you or a me)
it’s always ourselves we find in the sea

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Astros win series, 2-1.

Whatever else you are doing, I implore you – get down to the beach, any beach, as quickly as you can. You will not regret it.

Kansas City Royals (29-35) vs. Houston Astros (27-39)
MMPUS

SCHEDULE
Monday June 18 – 7:05 pm
Tuesday June 19 – 7:05 p.m.
Wednesday June 20 – 1:05 p.m.

(All games on Fox Sports Houston)

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I remember the day my father was put in the ground.  There’d been a funeral earlier in the afternoon, and it was a little odd in a way.  He had died several days before, in a VA hospital out in San Antonio, and had been cremated already, as was his desire.

My brother Colin had to drive out from Houston to pick up my father, or what was left of him. By then he was occupying in a small wooden receptacle, about the size of a cigar box.  Colin took possession of the old man at the funeral home, signed him out or whatever, and then tossed him in the back seat of the BMW and headed home, back through Houston, back to Beaumont beyond.

My brother said it was a little awkward at first, riding along IH-10 with the old man in a box in the back seat.  But pretty soon he got used to it, and before long he found they’d fallen into conversation. There was a lot to discuss, because my dad had essentially cut himself off from the rest of the family twenty years earlier.  Since then my youngest brother John had maintained some contact with him.  I only talked to him twice in that time, on the phone, and I doubt seriously he had any recollection of what we discussed, or even that we had talked at all.

Colin had not spoken to him even once in that time; and out of all of us, Colin had been closest to my dad when we were growing up.  They spent a lot of time together hunting and fishing.  John had always been more distant, I don’t think by choice.  John was the youngest, five years behind Colin.  And I think my dad had pretty much lost interest in any more kids by the time John came along.

I was basically the opposite.  As the oldest son, I’d been doted upon, even spoiled a little, maybe.  My dad had big plans for me.  The only problem was, I was nothing like him.  And while I loved him – he was my dad – I didn’t really like him, as a person.  I mostly thought of him as a sort of combination between some tragic figure out of Shakespeare, and a buffoon.  Not really a Falstaff, though he certainly had Falstaff-ian qualities.  Anyway, I loved him, but I did not like him very much; and I did not often take him seriously at all.  At times, as a kid, I used to wonder who my real dad was.  Not this guy, couldn’t be.  As my dad began to face the realization that his anointed firstborn didn’t idolize him, and really didn’t want much to do with him – around the time I’d hit my teens, I think – he began distancing himself from me, slowly but surely.  I could feel it.

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PITCHING MATCHUPS
Monday
Jonathan Sanchez (L) 1-2, 5.93 vs. J.A. Happ 4-7, 5.33

Tuesday
Luke Hochevar (R) 3-7, 6.27 vs. Wandy Rodriguez 6-4, 3.35

Wednesday
Vin Mazzaro (R) 3-1, 2.57 vs. Jordan Lyles 1-3, 5.50

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My dad had nearly died three years before.  He’d had a heart attack or something, and had fallen into a coma.  His doctor called each of my brothers and I, and broke the news.  “Get out here as quickly as you can,” he’d said.  So we did.  At the time John and I lived in Beaumont, so we’d set out, picked up Colin in Kingwood, and headed west to San Antonio for our first brotherly road trip in many years.

One would think this trip would have been far more somber and reserved than some of our storied excursions of the past – an alcohol- and drug-fueled crime spree to Jacksonville Beach, FL back around 1978 comes to mind; or any number of drunken forays into South Texas and Mexico, back when that sort of thing was still a relatively safe recreational activity.  One would have thought the prevailing mood for this one would have been more quiet, and reflective.  But, it wasn’t.  Oh, there wasn’t as much out-and-out substance abuse as in the old days; but as we moved west out of Houston – around Katy, I guess – we gradually eased into the dynamic that had always defined the interaction between my brothers and I … sarcastic and humorous, sometimes roughly so; general smart-assitude; and an all-purpose attitude of “fuck it” toward all life’s big and small questions, and pretty much everything else, as well.  We were headed out to San Antonio to watch the old man die, and we were laughing and having a great time, the whole way.

We went to the VA hospital as soon as we got into town, and there the mood became a bit more somber.  My dad was in a private room, lying still in a bed with railings all around him, hooked up to a gazillion tubes and wires and shit.

The old man was what you call your ‘Black Irish’, and he had maintained a full head of jet black hair into his sixties, at least.  But when I saw him in bed in a coma that day, he was 74 years old and half dead, and he’d gone entirely gray.  It was shocking to me.  It had been years since I’d seen him at all, and the mental picture of him I’d been carrying around with me was from his younger, better days.

An interesting sort of dance went on whenever my brothers and I were in that hospital room that week.  Usually a doctor or a nurse would hover on the periphery, probably studying the complex family dynamic playing out in front of them.  After looking at my dad the first time, I tended to stay on the opposite side of the room from the head of the bed.  I guess I’d seen all I wanted to.  John mostly stood at the foot of the bed, and looked down at the old man with a perplexed look.  Colin stood at the head of the bed for the most part, talking to my comatose father, dripping his tears down onto the old man’s bedsheets.  Colin had been closest to my father in our youth, and the most estranged from him in our adulthood.  Many years ago, my dad had drunkenly called his house several times and left some really nasty messages on the answering machine for Colin and his wife and children; and my brother finally just wrote him off.

Now he was obviously the most affected of the three of us at the old man’s condition.  When I thought about that, it made sense to me.  But it did not make it any less sad.  I think I will remember the image of my forty-something brother, leaning over the bed rail and talking animatedly to this nearly lifeless shell of our dad, crying and showing it pictures of his children during various stages of their childhoods … I think I will remember that for a long, long time.

We hung around out there for several days.  The VA doctor, a really nice guy, insisted there was no way my dad would emerge from the coma.  His heart and lungs were kaput, there just wasn’t enough left to sustain him.  But my dad just wouldn’t die; and eventually the real world of families and jobs beckoned us back to home.  So we left the old man on life support, with instructions to unhook him when it appeared to be truly pointless not to.  It was about a week later that Colin called and said they’d disconnected the old man from life support, and a few hours later he’d emerged from his coma and started barking orders at the VA staff.  Then he called Colin and asked him to come back out and pick him up and take him to his house in Medina.  Colin did, and my dad lived three more years, smoking and drinking and doing legal consulting.  He didn’t change his lifestyle at all.  I think he was on bonus time, grace of God time, and I think he knew it.  So why fucking clean up his act now?  I guess I could understand that sort of logic.

When he fell sick again and was put back in the hospital in San Antonio, it was a few days before we found out.  This time the VA staff there waited until he was dead for sure, before calling family out again.

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INJURIES
Kansas City

Houston

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There was a surprisingly large turnout for the funeral. At least, I thought so. My father had at one time been a well-known and well-thought-of attorney in town, specializing in maritime and railroad law.  But he’d eventually imploded – personally and professionally – and had been gone from Beaumont for thirty years. Still, a lot of his old colleagues turned out, and as most of them usually did when I bumped into them around town, they fell into telling stories about the old man in his glory days.  Groundbreaking legal ploys he’d come up with in service of his clients, pioneering defense strategies and shit.  His big clients back then were the Mobil Oil foreign fleet, and Kansas City Southern, among others.

There was one case I heard about more than once, where a seaman had been washed overboard off of a Mobil tanker, and his family had sued for millions, for wrongful death. My father used a defense strategy that included a rogue wave theory, and got a zero verdict. I don’t think it was even proved at the time that rogue waves actually existed – this was the mid-1970s – but the old man apparently convinced a jury they did.

In an interesting twist, it turns out during the trial, against their own attorney’s wishes, Mobil had offered a low-ball settlement to the plaintiff’s attorney, who turned it down. Following the trial, the plaintiff’s family found out and sued their attorney for malpractice.  He hired my father to defend him.  Which he did do, successfully.

Anyway, there was a nice turnout for the funeral, but by the time we got to the cemetery, it was mostly family.  My brother had handled most of the arrangements, and I suppose to save money, he arranged for a military funeral.  My father had served in the army during the Korean police action.  Anyway, there was a color guard, and a 21-gun salute, and “Taps”, and a local guy who played bagpipes, I guess in honor of my father’s Irish heritage.

It was nice and all; but the whole time I was feeling it was all vaguely bogus. The old man was very un-military.  He’d served all right – and for years, when we were kids, he let us think he’d been on the front line, dodging bullets.  But he wasn’t.  He never even left the U.S.  He was attached to an entertainment unit out of Fort Benning, I believe.  He produced radio and TV shows for the Armed Forces Network. The thing is, my dad wasn’t particularly upset when we found out the truth. He had a sardonic sense of humor about it all. And out of all the eventful things that happened in his eventful life, I doubt if his military service was even in the Top 50 on his list of most interesting or impactful occurrences.

But he’d got free medical treatment out of it, after he got sick, and now a full-blown funeral.  I suspected that somewhere, he was smiling about that.

The whole ceremony had been somber and respectful.  Then, between the second and third volley of the 21-gun salute, in the silence, we all heard the loudest and most profane expletive imaginable ring out clearly, from the military guard.  It turns out that one of the gunmen had a hot cartridge eject from his rifle and hit him in the eyeball.

“Jesus Christ!  Motherfucker!” the guy yelled out, clearly.  None of us knew what had happened, and I was startled at first. But it occurred to me right away it was kind of humorous, this profanity injecting itself into the quiet of the ceremony. I turned around to make sure the sheer shock of it hadn’t caused my Aunt Helen to go into cardiac arrest.  It hadn’t; but in the process of checking, I caught a glimpse of my brother John, who was looking down at the ground and sniffling. One might have thought, in the context, that he was suppressing tears; but I knew better.  He was trying not to laugh out loud, and I turned away quickly before our eyes met and we would both lose it.  Then I glanced over at Colin, and he was already looking at me. And that was it. I started laughing; so much so eventually, I really was in tears. At that, both of my brothers, and some of their kids, then a couple of my uncles, started laughing, too. Pretty soon, most of the funeral party was … and I knew, for damn sure, the old man was loving it, wherever he had ended up.

Thankfully, the color guard guy wasn’t seriously hurt. Afterward, he handed me the flag from my dad’s ceremony tri-folded, and he’d stuck some of the cartridges from the salute into the folds of it. I apologized for the laughing at his expense, and explained in short-hand how fitting his profane outburst had been, and I thanked him for it. I think he was relieved at our reaction, and said if he’d known my dad, he would probably have liked him. I told him that, yes, he probably would have.

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PROMOTIONS

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My sons took me out to eat for Father’s Day.  They said we could go wherever I wanted, and I opted for a sandwich and salad from a local deli. It was cheaper than some fancy place, and I was fine with it. I was trying to take it easy on them, for one thing. Their mom had just had a birthday, and made them take her to Carraba’s for steak Marsala, or something like that.

The Father’s Day meal was fine but, really, I could not even tell you what I ate. The best part of it for me was just watching my two sons. I get an inordinate amount of joy, just from seeing how they move through the world with such ease and style.  They are different – the 19-year-old is outgoing and social, and always has a million things on his agenda. The 15-year-old is more reserved, and introspective. But that is deceptive, in a way – he shares his brother’s ease and comfort in social situations, and he has many friends.  I like to think they both do so well because they are secure, and comfortable with themselves. Both have complex senses of humor, and a fine eye for the absurd, and are quick to laugh in most situations.

I look at them with enormous pride.  Neither is perfect, but I wouldn’t change anything.  And I can hardly take all the credit for the way they’ve turned out, but it is Father’s Day, and you know what?  I am taking some credit.  They are easily the best thing I have ever done, or ever will do. My friends and family say that whenever they come up in conversation, my mood brightens noticeably. I don’t doubt it at all.

I recently took a picture of the two with my phone, when we were out eating somewhere. I sent it around to friends and family, and by far the predominant response I got was that my boys together very much reminded everyone of my brother Colin and I, when we were the same age.  It was uncanny, they said. My best friend, who has known me forever, said it startled him when he first saw it. “It’s you and CJ (Colin), all over again,” he said.

I started wondering if my father ever looked at my brothers and I with anything approaching the amount of pride and joy I have when looking at my sons. My brothers and I had and have a similar sort of interaction with each other as my boys do – sarcastic and sometimes rough humor, a lot of laughter, a sense of the absurd. I wonder if my dad ever looked at us and thought, Damn, I did good. I love the way they are. And I’m taking credit, dammit, whether I deserve to or not.

I wonder if he ever thought that about us. We judged him harshly at times, when he was alive. I can’t speak for my brothers, but sometimes I feel like it is only now that I am beginning to give him a break, the benefit of the doubt. I wonder now if he loved us more than we thought he did. More than we knew, or were able to know.

Several weeks after his funeral, John sent me a .jpg of the plaque that had been placed on my father’s grave. Just a small brass plate, flat to the ground, with his name, dates, and a brief record of his military service.  That’s it.  All the craziness and achievement and sadness and pain in his life, all the eventfulness, all of it … reduced to a 6 x 8 plaque lying flat on the ground, in a cemetery full of eloquent stones. If someone happens upon that plaque and reads it, they will have absolutely no sense of who or what my father was, what he achieved, how spectacularly he failed. They will have no idea.

I remember being a little sad when I received that picture from my brother, realizing just how quickly my father had been reduced to almost nothing, in death. For some reason, as I sat watching my own two sons at lunch, after awhile I thought a little bit about the ashes of my dad, lying almost unknown under their little plaque, out there in the graveyard somewhere. The thought that no one would know what he had once been made me a little sad. But today it hit me what the greatest sadness was. My old man has been gone five years now, and already I can hardly remember him. He is receding from me, quickly, and at some point I’ll only be able to grasp a memory I have built in my mind, second-hand. I won’t be able to really remember him at all.  My own father.

These two boys of mine don’t know anything about that. They are full of the joy and excitement that comes from being young, and having everything in front of them. Including, right in front of them, a dad who loves them immensely and takes tremendous, ridiculous pride, just in the kind of people they are turning out to be.

I don’t know what my greatest fear has been up to this point, in the lonely hours when I am alone with myself, and have to face my fears. Perhaps it has been a fear of failure, or the fear of inadvertently and irreparably wounding someone I love dearly. I don’t know … I do know what my greatest fear will be, from now on. I will fear that one day my boys won’t be able to remember me. That somehow, when I am gone, they will lose a sense of me, and of who I was, and of how much I loved them. I’ll fear that one day, they will set off to find me, maybe on a Father’s Day in the distant future.  They will search for me, and search for me, and then eventually give up; realizing finally that I am forever gone, lost and adrift on a tiny brass plaque, out in a vast sea of stones.

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Astros win the series, 2-1.

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