7.30.04 HIGH
DESERT MAVERICKS vs RANCHO CUCAMONGA QUAKES
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Boy, do I wish that I knew a Wise Man.
I’d ask him all kinds of questions. “Why is there war, Wise Man?”
“What is true love?” and “Why did they trade Mota?”
I’m sure that my friend, the Wise Man, would answer in a truly cryptic fashion. Probably with another question.
I’m sure that it would ultimately piss me off. I’d probably end up throttling the guy.
But let us travel back to a less complicated time. A time before the questionable trades of Dookie and Mota for Finley and No-Arm.
A time of innocence. I time when I might have asked of my Wise Man, “Am I lucky?” And, in his way that I then found quirky, fun and non-throttle-worthy, he would answer, “Luck travels with you, Tim.”
Well, he’d be right. He’s always right, isn’t he? He is, after all, the Wise Man.
The High Desert Mavericks have enjoyed a dismal season. 12–22 in the first half. 37–67 over-all. Their program was bragging about taking a best of three series for the first time this season. That’s how bad this team is.
That’s why I felt so good as I climbed from my car after a 3-hour drive into the 110 degree heat.
Why? Wise Man or not, I have not attended a ball-game this year where my team has not won.
So I swaggered confidently into the quarter-full stadium, past the VIP-only line (where a bored fatso kidded himself that anyone would buy a VIP ticket), past the desperate “Mavericks Boosters” and then…
I lingered over the entry forms for the between-inning shenanigans. Since I knew that the game was already in the bag (and it was, 3 hours later, MAVERICKS – 9, QUAKES – 5), I was looking for another contest to interest me.
Something that might strike my fancy:
“Race The Mascot.” That’s for kids.
“Frozen T-shirt.” Despite my diet, this would be embarrassing not only to me, but to the game of baseball.
“Pepsi Challenge.” Fuck that.
“Blackjack.” Okay! A game of chance!
As I began to write my name on the card, my vision got all fuzzy and I remembered:
6 years ago. High Desert Mavericks Stadium. Dave Carpenter caught a foul ball. I was called onto the field to don over-sized shorts with tape on my butt and roll around in a wading pool for a $100 dollar bill. Howard watching it all.
I crossed out my name and wrote this one: Howard Drucker.
CUT TO:
Melinda is cruising the aisles, calling out, “Pat? Pat?”
Me: “Hey, you looking for Pat? He’s right here.”
Howard vigorously shakes his head.
Melinda is a Maverick Girl and very hot. She says to Howard, “Are you Pat?”
Me: “Sure he is! This is Pat!”
Howard vigorously shakes his head.
Me: “Hell, I’m Pat!”
CUT TO:
On the field. Me, Gary (who gets free tickets from his wife’s company and has a poor understanding of the suicide squeeze), and mascot Wooly Bully.
The announcer elucidates the rules: we must beat the bull!
The cards are dealt. Gary is sitting pretty with J-10. I draw Q-6.
Wooly turns his cards: 9-8.
“Hit me!”
A breathless moment as the crowd waits.
The 5 of diamonds!
Wooly shits! (See picture above.)
I would like to take a moment to share this victory with all of my friends out there who don’t have a set-up man, who have no reliable hitters in the 3-4-5 spots, who don’t trust their manager, and have little love for the new ownership, in short:
Dodger fans, I salute you!
See you in the World Series.
(“Why is that Wise Man?” “Am I saying that this team has chemistry? I’m not saying that. All I’m saying is that…” SMACK!!!)
Tim Kirk
