bobby, for god's sake, a base hit if you please
Hank Greenwald didn't say the word 'no-hitter,' but he did say, 'the A's have the only four hits in this game.' Anybody surprised by the double Chase Utley hit two pitches later?
Look, it's about more than semantics. I don't even like that they show the box score during something like that. I squint and hold up my hand to block off the zero. It's luck luck luck. Turns on a dime. Smaller than a dime, even, like, a Euro cent. Which is basically plastic play money. Which is neither here nor there.
*
There's a phenomenon in substance abuse recovery (a program which I have never enlisted in, and yet find myself knowing an awful lot about) called user dreams. It's not complicated. The addict dreams of getting fucked up in their manner of choice. It's real enough to trigger cravings that'll buckle your knees. It's real enough to break you, honestly.
But this isn't a god-i-want-some-speed update, because those are no fun. Thing is, recently, I think I've been having user dreams about Zito. Weird? Highly weird. That motherfucker is constantly around. Sporting godawful ugly ties, moving gracelessly across the grass, his hair growing an inch an hour. Strange stuff.
*
So there's this job of mine, what my friend calls, The Noble Calling of Helping Small Children Be Better At Everything. Which is true, but strange. I'm a role model now? I'm a dirty-minded drug addict with a bad attitude. I am, however, quite charming. And kids love me.
Anyway, having a straight job is biz-fuckin'-arre. Three squares a day for the first time since I was thirteen. Nice clothes and ironed shirts. Shoes that I can't run in, pants that I can't play baseball in. I'm still writing things to remember on my hand, still got Band-Aids on my fingers.
So, whatever. I can pull this off.
*
Strange midway period of time. Watching Zito talk to himself, waiting for some run support, all lost in the supermarket and six more days until the show, baby, and every day goes fast right now.
Look, it's about more than semantics. I don't even like that they show the box score during something like that. I squint and hold up my hand to block off the zero. It's luck luck luck. Turns on a dime. Smaller than a dime, even, like, a Euro cent. Which is basically plastic play money. Which is neither here nor there.
*
There's a phenomenon in substance abuse recovery (a program which I have never enlisted in, and yet find myself knowing an awful lot about) called user dreams. It's not complicated. The addict dreams of getting fucked up in their manner of choice. It's real enough to trigger cravings that'll buckle your knees. It's real enough to break you, honestly.
But this isn't a god-i-want-some-speed update, because those are no fun. Thing is, recently, I think I've been having user dreams about Zito. Weird? Highly weird. That motherfucker is constantly around. Sporting godawful ugly ties, moving gracelessly across the grass, his hair growing an inch an hour. Strange stuff.
*
So there's this job of mine, what my friend calls, The Noble Calling of Helping Small Children Be Better At Everything. Which is true, but strange. I'm a role model now? I'm a dirty-minded drug addict with a bad attitude. I am, however, quite charming. And kids love me.
Anyway, having a straight job is biz-fuckin'-arre. Three squares a day for the first time since I was thirteen. Nice clothes and ironed shirts. Shoes that I can't run in, pants that I can't play baseball in. I'm still writing things to remember on my hand, still got Band-Aids on my fingers.
So, whatever. I can pull this off.
*
Strange midway period of time. Watching Zito talk to himself, waiting for some run support, all lost in the supermarket and six more days until the show, baby, and every day goes fast right now.