The Game and Shit

ESPN broadcasted last night’s Cardinal game. ESPN broadcasted last night's Cardinal game. ESPN broadcasted last night's Cardinal game. And I got to watch. Where did I watch? Like you have to ask. My butt was firmly planted on a rickety bar stool in the smelly innards of The Local Pub, where the only aesthetic beauty resides in the faces and bodies of the female staff members, you get the best food by asking the cook what he feels like cooking, and if you’re not careful, a girl named Jennifer will kick your ass.

Some highlights? Fine, fine. Let go of the arm already.

I told the pub’s owner about my blog. I mentioned that I’ll use the real name of his pub in my writing if he cuts me a check for a hundred dollars per reference. Ever have someone look at you like they half-believe you but still think you might be kidding? Yeah, well, that’s the look I get pretty much every time I open my mouth. And that’s the look he gave me. And no, he didn’t reply in the actually-speaking sense of the word. But that look caused four people to lose it and erupt in laughter. You really had to be there. Get a plane ticket already. Lazy readers.

Dave the Bartender came into the pub with a business card from the Hillsborough County Sheriff’s Department and a letter requesting he turn himself in (there’s a warrant out for his arrest and the police were nice enough to remind him by leaving a note on his door—that’s full service policing) but all he wanted to talk about was the fact that you can’t buy any quality toy guns at The Cracker Barrel because of the litigious nature of our politically correct society. He concluded that we should have an annual “Running of the Lions” whereby every sue-happy moron would have to outrun a lion to earn their right to continue living on planet Earth. He then proceeded to ask every female in the bar if he could sleep at their apartments because the police are technically allowed to search his premises and he didn’t really feel like going to jail. In any other bar, this approach might not work, but in The Local Pub… well let’s just say I’m sure he found a place to crash.

Andy, from a few entries ago, is Joe the Tile Guy’s new neighbor. Joe the Tile Guy’s sister is Jennifer, who all but forcibly removed Andy from The Local Pub the last (and first) time I saw him (you don’t mess with Jennifer). See how this all ties together? Pretty soon, you’ll feel like part of the family. Oh yeah, and Joe the Tile Guy has a busted knee, so right now he’s Joe the Out of Work Guy. At least he has lots of free time. Seriously, he could learn a language or something.

Oh yeah, the game. We lost, so I was kind of mad. Especially because LaRussa didn’t pull Jason Marquis when Tony and I were dead sure he was done. Next time, just call me, Coach. The phone number is 1-800-Damn Right.

Albert Pujols is wicked. He’s a model of fine-hitting consistency. He can be best man at my wedding. You know, if I ever get married.

I called Lenny Harris’s base-clearing double. Right before he hit it, Tony said, “I’ll bet he walks in a run.” And I said, “It’s not the walk I’m afraid of. It’s the base-clearing double.” And right then, Lenny Harris hit a base-clearing double. “Now tell me what I’m having for dinner,” Tony said.

Overall, it was a fun time, even though we lost. I like watching games in The Local Pub (where everybody knows your name and shit). And, because the Birds are going up against the Marlins, I get to watch today’s and Thursday’s games there. Overall, I’m happy. And I’ll stay that way.

As long as we at least split this four game series.

So, shortly after posting this and wolfing down some dinner, that’s where I’ll be, sitting in a rickety chair, collecting snippets, watching the game and sipping a beer.

Like Dad always said: do what you love and love what you do.

And shit.

Always shit.