Hey

Essay time, boys and girls, for the first time in a very long time.

I'm haivng a seriously hard time this spring with the whole baseball thing. So is Sarah, by the way, she can't watch baseball at all right now. This is the first spring of my entiire life when I haven't had my Dad to talk baseball with. I can remember being very young, pre-school even, on summer Saturday afternoons there on 78th Street, after the neighborhood men (my Dad, Scotty {Mr. Arscott} , Mr. Smith, Mr. Magee, and a host of others) had cut the grass and gotten the other chores out of the way (someone was always working on their car), they'd all gather in one of their back yards, pull up lawn chairs around a radio, and sit there and drink beer- my Dad drank Ballantine then, out of a clear glass bottle like Miller, only with that cool three rings label on the front, and yeah, he'd always give me a sip when I'd ask him- and shoot the shit while they listened to the Senators game on the radio (the Senators on TV? Science fiction!) That sounds very Mayberry-ish and idyllic, and you know what? It was.

Even though he and I have both gotten pretty damn disgusted with MLB over the years, we both still love- loved- the game of baseball (it's been 'bery 'bery good to me). I'm missing my Dad so much as I sit here right now it genuinely huirts. So, being me, I'll write about baseball, and my Dad, and make it worse.

Memorial Day weekend is a good time to do this, cos for one, it's a time for us all to remember those who've left us (like I need a special fucking day for that, they're in my thoughts always), and for two, Memorial Day weekend '93 and '94 (again, my constant lament, where has the fucking time gone?!) are when my Dad and I took those bus trips, the first to St. Louis to see the Cards vs. Padres- not the best matchup, but just the best weekend, we caught the bus out of Nitro at 8 pm Friday night, rode all night to St, Lous, went to a day game Saturday afternoon- Busch Stadium was right in the middle of downtown, it was one of those Astroturf cauldrons, and it was HOT, even in May, went up in the Arch (a claustrophobe's nightmare) that evening, went to the St. Louis zoo the next day, then to a night game that night, then back to Nitro on Monday- my Dad and I had a wonderful time, one of the best trips we ever took together, we only got into like ten fights over three whole days.

And I'm telling you, it was no surprise to me when I found out Kay Lyons was from St. Louis, cos I saw more great looking women that weeknd than I have ever seen in one place in my life. I know, it's crazy, St. Louis, who would have thought? Almost crippled me, too, I fell down the damn steps at the ball park staring at this girl during the 7th inning stretch- by God, could she ever stretch- my Dad hollering "Get your eyes back in your head, bucko!", and then the next day I fell down the damn steps again at this mall that the bus stopped at between the zoo and the game, staring at this way buxom Hooters girl- the ones on the billboards DO work in St. Louis- who was leaning over the railing above me trying to get someone's attention- she sure as fuck got mine, the funny thing is, these two teenage boys who were going down the steps right behind me fell the same time I did. That girl was dangerous.

I bought Loretta a Cards jersey and ball cap on that trip, nice just because, but it also paid unexpected dividends later when I took some photos of her wearing nothing but the jersey, unbuttoned, and the cap- for some reason I have always liked seeing hot women in ball caps, especailly if they have a long ponytail sticking out the back- and doing some truly stimulating things with a Louisville slugger. Just the ticket to get your boy in the mood to, uhm, play ball.

The next year my Dad, Tommy and I went to Atlanta to see the Braves play the Reds, it was a good time but not nearly as good as the year before. So . . .

If you never read "Bill Vs. Baseball'" from WAY back sometime in 2002 (geez) you might want to, but you don't have to, this tale can stand alone.

So, a little refresher history to start. Bill played baseball in MD for seven years, the last four- or more accurately, three and change, since I got kicked out that last year for deliberately hitting an umpire (he was an asshole) in the head with a pitch- for the Camp Springs Boys Club (not the Little League). Those were tumultuous times, especailly as my Dad was the coach of our team- the Nomads, named by someone with a cruel sense of humor, as we were a ramshackle new team added my first year- we'd just moved to Camp Springs- made up either of kids new to the BC, like me, or rejects and cast offs from the other teams, like Richie "You Little Monkey Shit" Sonntag, or Mickey Watson, who, the only time in the entire two years he was a Nomad that his bat made contact with the ball, pissed himself with excitement running to first base, stopped to annouce this fact to eveyone in the stands (as if they couldn't see for themselves the great big piss stain blossming on his pants), and was thrown out by approximately one mile.

As you may have gathered, we sucked on ice, as we used to say back in the day, which was hard for Mister Sore Loser Billy to deal with, not to mention his Dad/Coach, who would frequently almost give hmself a coronary/heat prostration/apoplexy chasing me all the way home on foot from the ball field (a distance of a mile and a half) after one display of bad sportsmanship or another on my part.

What was most frustrating for me is that individually I was an excellent fuckng ballplayer, as my four All Star game patches attest to (and you know I had to be DAMN good to get voted onto the All Star team- the coaches voted- as unpopular as I was), it was the rest of those damn Nomads that couldn't hit. Or field. Or know the difference between the base path and the bathroom. Lord GOD, was it frustrating, I'm getting wound up again tonight just thnking about it (and it wasn't just me, I remember after one particularly loathsome pounding we took, my Dad shaking his head and saying "I don't know what that was, but it wasn't baseball").

My last All Star game they still tried to screw me, even though I was arguably the best pitcher in the whole fucking twelve team league, as well as the best third baseman- trust me, I don't exxagerate, my Dad would back me on this- grudgingly- if he could- they stuck me in right field for the All Star game, a position at that age where you traditionally put your weakest player.

That pissed me off (imagine) so I spent my two inninigs in the field over along the damn fence, chatting up this really cute girl named Sandy (never saw her before or after, sad to say). I did catch the only ball hit to right during those two innings, a spectacular running shoe string catch only neccesitated by my starting out standing practically in foul territory while I tried my best to make time with the coquettish Miss Sandy, cos if I'd been playing where I should have been the ball would have hit me on the head.

If the Nomads were the scrubs of the league, the Jaguars- or the Jags, as they called themselves, Jag Offs is more like it, punk asses- were its royalty, even down to the purple uniforms- as I remarked in the first essay, this was the psychedelic end of the Sixties. They won the League championship the first three years I played, don't know about the last one cos once I was banned I quit giving a shit (wish I could do that with women).

To give credit where it was due, the Jags could play some ball, but I didn't care, I hated them to a fucking man. I'll say straight up I was green eyed jealous of their success, but also they were all cocky motherfuckers, and if there's anything I can't stomach, it's a cocky motherfucker- and I'm not trying to be funny. I know I've been accused of being cocky in my life, but I'm not. I'm confident, and there's a difference. Quit laughing, goddammit.

Of all the hated Jags, the one I hated far and away the most was their main pitcher, this tall, lanky, big black rimmed glasses wearing- we all wore them Poindexter glasses back then- shit named Kevin. Out of all that cocky crew, Kevin was the cockiest. He was a good pitcher, and he could throw hard, damn hard, but his final downfall with me was when I over heard my Dad saying to one of our assistant coaches "I think he may actually throw harder than Billy." Oh fuck me, no way. I'M the hardest throwing motherfucker in this here league, pardner, and I set out to prove it.

Next few games I was on that mound just blazing, sore shoulder and all, in fact my current shoulder woes may extend all the way back to those days when I was abusing my right arm from neck socket to fingertips trying to prove to anyone who may have had the slighest doubt that Billy By Fucking God Bitner was the hardest throwing son of a bitch in the CSBC, and buddy, if you did get around on one of my pitches you'd better be wearing a suit of damn armor the next time you came to bat cos I was taking your head off. It was SO much better being a kid back in those days, you could put a pitch in another kid's ear and knock him the fuck out and it was no big deal, in these candy ass PC days they'd make a federal case out of it, send you (or your hapless parents) to jail, or for counselling, or whatever. Maybe even electroschock your ass (yeah, all this shit came out at that trial, "And he tries to kiil the other kids when he plays baseball", shit, if I'd known they were keeping score . . .)

So, we have a home game against the Jags (they'd already beaten us without a shred of remorse or mercy on their field), being that they were such hotshots they always had a crew of partisan fans who came to all their away games, there were more people that evening cheering for them than there were for us. My Dad was going to let David Frieze pitch and have me play third. David wasn't as good a pitcher as I was, but my Dad figured we were going to lose anyway, and I needed the rest, cos even though he didn't know my arm was killing me- cos I didn't tell him (I didn't want to listen to my Mom going on about it)- he did know I'd been pitchng a hell of a lot recently, and hard.

Then right before the game, as my Dad was getting ready to hand in the lineup card, a bunch of the Jags fans- alleged adults- started riding us from the stands, our team in general for sucking, and then my ass in particular, cos I'd thrown a tantrum when we'd lost at their field a couple weeks earlier, threw my glove over the damn backstop, took my hat off and stomped on it, got yelled at by my Dad, you know, the usual. I don't give a shit, I have never, ever taken losing well, and I never fucking will.

I don't know if they pissed my Dad off or what, but he comes over to me and asks me if I want to pitch tonight, fucking do I, he changes the line up card, then right before we take the field, as always, he gives us a pep talk. My Dad's pep talks were usually pretty cool, you're kids, go out there and have some damn fun playng baseball, which I really respect, especially as I've gotten older, cos that's what it should be about, having fun, but this time, I don't remember the exact words, but the gist was, "Go out there and beat the damn fuck out of these cocky motherfuckers." By God, I'm ready.

I take the mound just breathing fire, go into my wind up, gonna put the first one in high and tight, put these cocky motherfuckers on notice straight off, I am gonna blow your asses UP tongiht, boys. The ball leaves my fingers just fine . . . and then just sort of floats across the plate, like a warm up toss. What the FUCK?

The Jag guy just looks at it as it hits Ritchie's glove for a strike. I give everyone an "I meant to do that" look, rear back to put some extra mustard on this one- and throw a pitch identical to the first (which again the baffled Jag just looks at as it drifts in for a strike). Sweet Jesus- my arm is wrecked, it's shot, it's dead, it's just . . . GONE. I can still throw straight, I just can't throw hard. And hard's all I got . . .

Let's cut to the chase. Top of the seventh inning (we only played seven in CSBC for some reason), Billy's still on the mound, and the score- Nomads 3, Jaguars 1. It was SO sweet. Everyone on the Nomads played the best game I ever saw them play that night, (maybe my Dad should have given us more "fuck fun, win, you little shits" pep talks) and those dick wad Jags, after getting ready for Fireball Billy, just couldn't adjust to Throws Like A Girl Billy, they were swinging early all night.

We get the first two outs easy, then I walk a guy, and he steals second cos Ritchie Sonntag couldn't even GET the ball to second from behind home plate. So who comes up? Exactly, our boy Kevin. He's scowling to beat hell, cos he is PISSED that the mighty Jags are about to take it up the ass from the lowly Nomads. I lob one in at about girls slow pitch softball speed, he swings like he's trying to crush it- and tops it, hitting a little dribbler back to me. How fucking PERFECT.

I field the ball clean- no Bill Buckner, me- now just a little toss to first and game over, Nomads win. I turn and throw the ball about thirty feet above Mike Ryan's (first baseman's) head. Oh my GOD. Mike runs after it, it goes into some weeds, he can't find it, the Jags fans are going apeshit, laughing and applauding, the guy on second has already scored and Kevin is rounding third, Mike finally finds the ball and my Dad is SCREAMING "BILLY, COVER THE PLATE!!!" cos Ritchie is hiding somewhere in foul territory, but I can't cover the plate cos I'm too busy rolling around on the pitcher's mound having an apoplectic fit, punching myself in the face and yelling, "You're so stupid, I hate you, I HATE YOU!"

Mike, being a good soldier, throws the ball home anyway, but there being no one there to catch it, shitbird Kevin scores, laughng like a damn hyena the whole time, and the whole Jags cheering section was laughing along with him. Score tied. Fuck ME.

My Dad comes out to the mound, I'm still foaming at the mouth and trying to bite my own face off, finally he says he's going to take me out of the game (and to the mental ward) if I don't calm down. Can't have that, so I suck it up . . . the next kid hits a liner to Steve Frieze, and we're out of the inning.

Nomads in the bottom of the seventh, we're around to the top of our lineup. I'm up fourth, so unless someone gets on base . . . first two Nomads go down easy, David Frieze is up next, always a tough out, he hits third, I hit clean up . . . and God love you FOREVER, David Frieze, he lines a hard single to left, and Billy is now up, with a chance to redeem himself and win the game.

And trust me, all I want to do is win this ball game. I will mortgage my future, I will barter my fucking soul, anything, just let me win this fucking ball game. I'm praying like you can't imagine, "Please, please, PLEASE, let me get a hit, I'll be good, I swear, I'll listen to my Mom, I'll listen to my teachers, I'll go to church, whatever you want, I'll stop worshippng Satan and everything, just please, please, fucking please, LET ME GET A HIT!"

What happened next is so perfect you may well believe it didn't happen. Boys and girls, I promise you, it certainly did, and I can only wish my dear departed father was here to back me up (it stuck with him, we talked about it a lot over the years, the last time not two months before he died). First pitch- FIRST PITCH- cocky mother fucker Kevn, still snickering- and you shoud have HEARD the shit the Jags fans were giving me as I stood there at the plate, me a damn kid, a stone obnoxious kid, but a kid just the same- he tries to blow one past me. Ha. Blow THIS, mother fucker.

That ball may well still be in the air. I didn't hit it, I DESTROYED it, it cleared the fence by twenty (vertical) feet, easy. Home run. Nomads win. I am transcendent.

Oh boy. If you think I went crazy with self hate when I thought I'd lost the game, you should have seen me go crazy with love for Billy when I won it. First I go into my victory dance there at the plate (which was vulgar as fuck for an 11 year old kid- hell, it was vulgar as fuck, period), then I point at Kevin and go into my good winner speech-

"Hey. HEY. I beat you. I beat you. I BEAT YOU! Who did? I DID! I BEAT YOU, I beat your fucking ass, nobody else did, I did, I beat you, I fucking BEAT YOU . . . "

The home plate umpire has heard enough, "Hey, run the bases kid and shut your mouth," yeah, that's cool, I run the bases, sort of, I do this weird hip wagging strut, flipping off the Jags crowd, who are booing ther asses off (music to my fucking ears), I hear one guy bitching, "Jesus, anyone but HIM", my Dad is waitiing for me as I cross home plate, I'm thinking he's happy with me cos I won the game, wrong, he's pissed off over, yet again, my "bad sportsmanship".

Dad: When are you gonna learn how to act? 
Billy: HEY! I beat 'em. I beat those motherfuckers, those pieces of shit, I BEAT 'EM-
Dad: You never know when to quit, do you? 
B: I BEAT EM! 
D: Shut up.

I'm kind of confused, but whatever, I really don't care, cos I fucking BEAT 'EM. We line up to do the handshake thing, never a good idea in my book. I still can't resist putting the boots to the Jags- hey, sincerely, those guys were all callous fucks who were happy to mock other teams when they came out on top, tough fucking shit if they had to take a little of their own damn medicine- or an overdose of their own damn medicine, as the case may have been.

As we go through the line, every guy, instead of shakng his hand, I flip him the bird at waist level (cos God help me if my Dad sees me do it) and tell him, "You suck, you suck, you REALLY suck, you suck, your mama sucks . . . "

Kevin is toward the back of the line, he sees and hears what I'm doing and gives me about as pure a look of hatred as I've ever gotten from anyone outside of Loretta, and that homeless guy who I shit on his head. I just KNOW when Kevin gets up to me the fucker is going to punch me, so . . . I beat him to it.

As we get even with one another, I give him a big cheesy smile, and clock his ass, punch him dead square in the face. I'm thinking it's self defense, honestly. I'm also used to knocking kids down with that sucker punch. I have about half a second to think, "Hey, he isn't fall-" when he punches ME dead square in the face- he hit me so quick I'm not entirely sure he didn't swing first- and his punch knocks me ass over tea cups. Shit

The only thing that saved me from the humiliation of getting my ass kicked by Kevin, (cos I'm pretty sure he could have done it- we had another dust up over a year later while we were playing for the same traveling all star soccer team {I only played soccer cos I got kicked out of football}, being a big tall git with long arms and legs he was goalie, he let a guy score and I was giving him shit for it, cos even playing for the same team I simply could not stand the guy, he got back in my face so again I sucker punched him and again he hit me back and knocked me down- getting hit by that kid was like getting struck by lightning, one minute you're standing there, then there's this flash of light, and you're on your ass- before the soccer coach came running on to the field and took ME out of the game but left Kevin in, there is no justice in this world for Billy) was that the entire Jaguar team followed his lead, and jumped on my ass, literally.

The whole damn team started kicking me while I was down (I was surprised their fans didn't join in), and worse, started stomping on me. You ever been stomped on by an enraged baseball team, all wearing their nice sharp, yet still dirty and rusty, metal baseball cleats? Ouch. I mean seriously, OUCH.

After what seemed like an unconscionably long time to me, the coaches for both teams waded in and pulled the Jaguars off me, I come to my feet swinigng, to be cut off by my Dad. who puts me in a headlock that would have done Dick the Bruiser proud.

Billy: You're . . . choking . . . me 
Dad: Good. 
B: . . . to . . . death . . . 
D: Even better.

We get home and I look like bucket steak, got about a million little cleat holes in me from head to toe, all leaking blood, my Mom wants to go berserk-

Dad: He asked for it. 
Mom: But Bit, he's- 
D: HE ASKED FOR IT!

Well, maybe I did ask to be stomped to a pulp, and maybe I didn't, I don't really care either way, cos you know what? For once in my life, I beat em. I fucking beat 'em.

Later

Bill

Oh yeah. Next issue, Great Big Hairy Giant Issue #200.