From Before I Was a Teenager Until Well Past My Thirtieth Birthday
My earliest baseball memories are from either the ‘87 or ‘88 season. The early days of Bonds and Drabek and Jay Bell and Jim Leyland in a cloud of Marlboro smoke.
For a little boy, watching those titans win, dominate the opposition, it was something that had always existed and always would. It was an unbroken chain from Honus Wagner to Pie Traynor to Elroy Face and Bill Mazeroski to Roberto Clemente and Steve Blass to Willie Stargell and Dave Parker.
Then it wasn’t. It was Jason Kendall saying “Welcome to Hell.” It was Operation Shutdown. Screwing up the Farm System like the Dust Bowl. During all those good shithead years, when you’re supposed to drink a thousand gallons of domestic beer and cheer yourself hoarse whilst the Boys of Summer chase the pennant, my team spent more time in the basement than the most rancid blogger.
So now they’re having a blackout at PNC Park for her first playoff game ever. I’m dressed in black, drinking black label whiskey and I might just get blackout drunk, as if that were still age appropriate.
But we’re looking at a condo tomorrow, so I probably won’t.
Hoist the colors. Let’s go Bucs!