The Social Event of The Season.
The Boston Red Sox, a collection of millionaire heartbreakers and steely-eyed, crazy-bearded maniacs are on the brink of a second world championship in four years. Who is responsible for this? Who is the hero, you ask? Was it gorilla-costumed, crap guitarist GM Theo Epstein? Was it karate-enthusiast/right wing lapdog Curt Schilling? How about a pair of flame-throwing, River-Dancing righties, Beckett and Papelbon? No. Perhaps it was the tag-team, clutch-hitting, champions of the world, from the jungles of the Dominican Republic, Ramirez and Ortiz? No - but I would pony up a week’s pay if they were introduced as “The Twin Engines of Destruction, from deepest, darkest Dominica, at a combined weight of 524 pounds, Manny “The Night Stalker” Ramirez and “Diamond” David Ortiz!” Then gave the nearest human in a Rockies cap The Doomsday Device. But that’s not important. The real hero was a young man by the name of Danny Wise. Of game six of the ALCS anyway.
Wise loves fishing and tacos and sleeping on his floor and having ADD and driving a foolish, red van. He hates sports. Hates. But, as much as he hates sports, he hates to be alone, as such, he invited us over his place to watch game six of the American league Championship Series. This would be akin to John Wayne inviting a vicious band of Apaches to the Alamo for high tea because he was afraid of the dark. Sort of. Ish. Anyway.
To compensate for the hatred of sports, Wise spent the first few innings making us a delicious supper of Hamburger Helper and strawberry Hoodsies. Then he smoked some “purple nurple” (purchased from some guy at a record store. Strong medicine). Then he began drinking Crystal Light fruit punch mixed with Captain Morgan’s Parrot Bay rum. High as a hippie playing Frisbee in a college quad, full of beef and processed cheese sauce, drunk and presumably bored, he pulled a wooden kitchen chair in front of the TV, placed his hand on his forehead, and shut his eyes. He looked like a swami in a trance. Because of that I said, “Are you putting the whammy on that guy?”
He said, “No.”
“Could you?”
“Yes.”
His focus deepened. “All he can think about is how bad he wants to wipe his ass,” Wise said of vaunted Indians pitcher, Fausto Carmona. “He doesn’t even care about the game. He just wants to go home and take a diarrhea.” With that proclamation, or spell, or incantation, Fausto was shelled.
As he was being pulled Wise shouted, “Eddie Carmona! Mother wants to bone ya!” A victory cheer. We didn’t explain Fausto’s name was not, in fact. “Eddie.” We were in the presence of a magician, we just gave him room to work. With that, we were into the Tribe’s bullpen.
The camera cut to a gentleman in the bleachers. A lanky, curly-haired creep in sunglasses with a mustache. I said, “Man, John McEnroe looks tough.” VJ, a known dirtbag said. “He looks like a roller derby announcer.” I have no idea what he meant by that, but he was absolutely right. On the other side of the room, Wise’s resolve hadn’t wavered.
Hand on forehead, eyes closed, almost chanting, he took apart the relief pitcher. “He’s thinking about when he was a kid. One time his mother left him alone in the house. He was so scared. So scared…” Home run.
Wise. Soothsayer. Witch Doctor. Swami. Magician.
If you love the Red Sox, come thank him at his annual Halloween bash Saturday night.
Trick or treat, kids.
Man up.
Wise loves fishing and tacos and sleeping on his floor and having ADD and driving a foolish, red van. He hates sports. Hates. But, as much as he hates sports, he hates to be alone, as such, he invited us over his place to watch game six of the American league Championship Series. This would be akin to John Wayne inviting a vicious band of Apaches to the Alamo for high tea because he was afraid of the dark. Sort of. Ish. Anyway.
To compensate for the hatred of sports, Wise spent the first few innings making us a delicious supper of Hamburger Helper and strawberry Hoodsies. Then he smoked some “purple nurple” (purchased from some guy at a record store. Strong medicine). Then he began drinking Crystal Light fruit punch mixed with Captain Morgan’s Parrot Bay rum. High as a hippie playing Frisbee in a college quad, full of beef and processed cheese sauce, drunk and presumably bored, he pulled a wooden kitchen chair in front of the TV, placed his hand on his forehead, and shut his eyes. He looked like a swami in a trance. Because of that I said, “Are you putting the whammy on that guy?”
He said, “No.”
“Could you?”
“Yes.”
His focus deepened. “All he can think about is how bad he wants to wipe his ass,” Wise said of vaunted Indians pitcher, Fausto Carmona. “He doesn’t even care about the game. He just wants to go home and take a diarrhea.” With that proclamation, or spell, or incantation, Fausto was shelled.
As he was being pulled Wise shouted, “Eddie Carmona! Mother wants to bone ya!” A victory cheer. We didn’t explain Fausto’s name was not, in fact. “Eddie.” We were in the presence of a magician, we just gave him room to work. With that, we were into the Tribe’s bullpen.
The camera cut to a gentleman in the bleachers. A lanky, curly-haired creep in sunglasses with a mustache. I said, “Man, John McEnroe looks tough.” VJ, a known dirtbag said. “He looks like a roller derby announcer.” I have no idea what he meant by that, but he was absolutely right. On the other side of the room, Wise’s resolve hadn’t wavered.
Hand on forehead, eyes closed, almost chanting, he took apart the relief pitcher. “He’s thinking about when he was a kid. One time his mother left him alone in the house. He was so scared. So scared…” Home run.
Wise. Soothsayer. Witch Doctor. Swami. Magician.
If you love the Red Sox, come thank him at his annual Halloween bash Saturday night.
Trick or treat, kids.
Man up.