On the same night that Barack Obama became the definitive Democratic nominee and furthered his journey by taking the next step to becoming the president of hope for all US Americans, I too made a bold move that finally gave the people what they wanted. Yes, dear readers, it is true that since late April, I have become somewhat of a recluse and have not made any public appearances at a baseball stadium near you. This decision had nothing to do with those endearing fans who have urged me to come back into the light and everything to do with the fear mongering Cub fans and subsequent paparazzi that have simply been unable to leave me alone. After my shotgun rise to fame, the careening death of my humility and myriad run-ins with the high demands of fans and foes alike, I ultimately found myself spent — empty of emotion, void of volition, destitute of destiny.
But sometimes the voice of the people is so loud and so strong and so motivating that not even I can ignore it.
And so it came to me in the middle of the night — that thunderous roar of resurgence inspired by the people — that no longer would I allow myself, my fans, my chimeric offspring, nor any other US American or world-inhabiting life form to continue down the path of never-ending disappointment. No. It was time to get out. It was time to go to The Joan.
The Royals were in town. The Sox were standing atop the AL Central (still are). And the people were ringing in my ears.
When I first stepped outside my Southside home I was pleasantly surprised to see that the paparazzi, hopeless that I would ever show my face in public again, were already gone. I walked the few short blocks to the #8 Halsted bus stop at 29th & Halsted and to my delight, this is what I saw:
What a beautiful sight to see no one around. The coast was clear. I could breathe easy. Then the bus came. Reality set in. Chaos ensued.
I barely made it out of there alive! As soon as I stepped on the bus it started — the ambush of photographers, autograph seekers, ill-parented children. Someone, somebody tipped them off to my arrival and I’m pretty sure it was my personal stylist, Miguel, who is, coincidentally, now dead. I had nothing to do with his death (he was hit by the #62 Archer bus in a freak accident) but it’s obvious that he deserved it. I’m lucky I survived on the #8 myself.
But I did. And I was determined.
Unfortunately, it just wasn’t going to get any easier at the game. A fog had set in over the city, eerily setting the stage for yet another blitzkrieg on my stardom, and not even Jermaine Dye (who is much more looming in person) could protect me from the evildoing Royals fans:
Yes, folks, Royals fans hate me too. They hate me for my arrogance, righteousness, intelligence. They hate me because I’m a Cardinals fan. They hate me for my unending defamation of Don Denkinger, for my highly praised baseball-politico forum of RSBS and because I root for my neighborhood Sox. But the main reason they hate me is ‘cuz I’m always right.
And one Royals fan couldn’t stand to see me in my element — to see me make a graceful entrance to the section 110 box seats, greeted with fanfare and treated with respect. No. It made him turn blue and then it made him turn on me:
I only blacked out for a second, but in that time A.J. hit a single and Carlos Quentin knocked him in by blasting a 2-run homer that landed just feet from me and the RSBS entourage. I came to and noticed my cellphone was blowing up with text messages from my counterpart, Allen Krause, who was attending the St. Louis Cardinals v. D.C. Nationals matchup. At the same exact time that I was getting beat up by a drunk Royals fan, Allen was getting his teeth kicked in by the Nats’ Elijah Dukes, who actually read Al’s blog entry, way back when, attacking Dukes for his predatory passes at a 17 year-old foster child. It was raining heavily in D.C. and while the Cards were pounding the ball, Al just couldn’t take the excitement, the rain or the pain. He texted me to say he was going home.
But I stayed. The Royals fan was kicked out of the park by my — ahem — the White Sox security:
The Sox would continue to score runs, with homeruns from Alexei Ramirez and (hold your breath!) Nick Swisher, further adding to the Royals’ dismay.
And at the end of a colossally eventful night, the people got what they wanted: Obama won the nomination, Jenks pitched the 9th, the Cardinals beat the Nats, Elijah Dukes beat the snot out of Tiger-lover Allen Krause, and I got out of the house.
Life ain’t worth livin’ if ya don’t take some risks sometimes… and life ain’t worth livin’ if you hate me ‘cuz I’m right. Just ask that Royals fan.
Yesterday Barbara Walters came out and admitted to having a long-time affair with former U.S. Senator Edward Brooke. It only took her 30 years to disclose, which makes the story that less exciting, but hey, she had a reputation to uphold. Now that no one cares about her anymore, I see her confession as a very smart move. There is no such thing as bad press…
Unless you’re Roger Clemens. As if using performance-enhancing drugs to get an edge and then lying to a federal grand jury wasn’t enough, it has now become known that Clemens probably had a predatory affair with a 15-year-old girl. But wait, there’s more: infamous golfer John Daly’s ex-wife, Paulette, is now accused of have having an affair with Roger too! Yikes! Drunks, cheaters and hot-heads, boy, that Paulette sure knows how to pick ’em! Coincidentally, my mother called me this afternoon to report that she too had an affair with Roger Clemens; but she was quick to point out that she ended the relationship shortly after he said “Your son throws like a girl. Let’s shoot him up.”
So all this truth-telling has moved me to disclose my dirty little secret too. I’m not proud of it; but it’s time to come clean. A few years ago, when I was at very low point in my life, I had a promiscuous relationship with a mouse. Yes, a mouse. We had a love child, and though I haven’t seen him since he was born, I keep track of all of his accomplishments through the newspaper. Here’s the only picture I have of him. No matter what distance is between us, I will always love him. He’s so cute. I think he has my ear.
And if this isn’t enough honest drama for you, the Cardinals v. Cubs series kicks off tonight. Though the managerial matchup of LaRussa v. Piniella is not as fiery and bound for mischief as LaRussa v. Baker, remember, LaRussa and Piniella have some history too. Who doesn’t remember the 1990 World Series?
Oh. No one remembers it. That’s right.
In any case, the Cards win this series AND the respect of ESPN. Okay, maybe only the first part is true, but you know what I mean.
Just don’t hate me ‘cuz I’m right.