A Pair of Shoes to Imagine Filling

*Note: This is Obviously Fiction. Enjoy!

I would like to thank the Sportswriters Association with all of the sincerity and gratitude possible of a lowly middle relief pitcher, for NOT nominating me for the Cy Young Award. Now, I know, it was a tough decision for all of you to NOT pick me. It must have been hard for you, to award instead, Roger Clemens, with this great honor. I mean, we couldn’t find Roger until July, when he had lost his last dollar in the ass crack of a skanky hooker at some shit hole, Podunk strip club in the middle of Texas and decided “Hey, I need some Cash, how about I call up the Yankees. Those dumb fucks will pay me!” But sure enough, he came back, and we all fell awe struck under his deep, penetrating gaze, and we did our best not to come in our pants the moment he drove his broken down Silverado into the Yankee Stadium parking lot.

So the rocket met with George and Joe, picked up a quick 20 mil, put on his pantyhose and Yankee pinstripes, lubed up with his Ben-Gay, and trotted out to the mound in the Bronx, on a sweltering July Afternoon, and somehow managed to work through the obnoxious chants of the fans, and the putrid smell of a sweaty Alex Rodriguez and pulled a two hitter out of his bloated, overpaid, fat ass. Then, we all wept and the rocket cradled us in his arms, and kissed us on the forehead, and slowly fell asleep with us, dreaming together of World Series Rings and Yankee’s Merchandise Receipts.

Meanwhile, I was rotting away in Kansas City, running onto the field with some of the worst players off all time, and putting up K’s like they were going out of style, and in Kansas City, they’ve been out of vogue since 1989. See here’s how it works : I get to the ballpark, say, 10 minutes before the game, I stretch for about two minutes, jog for like, half a minute, force out a quick one in the john, and then I sit on the bench.

Now, August in the Royals bullpen is what god had in mind when he created hell. There’s nothing worse than a 115 degree day, knowing that you’re sweating your balls off to lose by ten runs. And even if those worthless assholes you call your teammates manage to get off to a ten run lead instead of a deficit, by the 6^th, were down by five.

When I think of what I did, in my life to deserve to be a member of the illustrious Kansas City Royals, I somehow seem to forget all those of children and puppies and priests I murdered while fucking myself with a crucifix.

So it’s the seventh inning and its time for me to shine ladies and deadbeat drunks. By this point, I’ve gotten through two, maybe three pints of wild turkey- My steroids come from an oak barrel in Kentucky thank you very much-, and I come out of that fence, and stumble onto the mound. Catch comes up and asks me if I’m going to vomit and shake no, with my head, and he pats me on the shoulder and walks back to the plate. I grab my rosin bag, give it a quick toss in my hand, stare the batter down, and let loose like a Hurricane, WA-HOO!, its going to be a wild inning. One, two, three, I knock em’ down like a fat wife in a trailer. I walk off the mound, puke on the pen catcher, and pass out in the locker room. I wake up, and everyone looks as somber as they always do, every single day from April to September, and I remind myself, that the Gun Shop is only a quarter mile away.

So please three cheers for the Rocket! Let’s give a big round of applause to the guy whose idea of a Journeyman is a hobbit, and covet him with more money, and more endorsements, and more praise for only doing a fraction of the job that a guy like me does day in and day out. So if you’re not going to give me any praise, the least you can do is buy me a drink. That is of course, if there’s any left, considering the company I am in.