The Team

The Team was in dire straits, or maybe just way too into Dire Straits. Not that we knew the difference then. Or now.

Our play was abysmal, our shit decidedly not together in any meaningful way. We habitually muffed routine grounders, turned cans of corn into cans of processed puke in front of our Loved Ones and the gaggle of predatory lenders known to skulk about the concession stand. We treated Strike Zones like their erogenous cousins, left the various goddesses responsible for run production clamoring for their personal massagers with our awkward stabbings and discipline deficiencies at the plate. There wasn’t a single square inch of field that we didn’t collectively, unequivocally, fuck up.

Our uniforms were worse, raggedy and mismatched. Our irregular tuxedo bottoms, generously donated by our local David’s Bridal, were the constant butt of The Asshole Teams of The League’s jokes, particularly the Union Stonemasons that comprised the Mr. Beef Ram Parts.

“Nice pants,” their First Baseman would sneer, and as he manipulated his testes. “Is it fundraising season already for The Daughters of the American Revolution?”

There were no comebacks.

The call came late, and with my phone hand already down the front of my sweats. I recognized the Miskolc area code, knew it was Cannibal from Plywood Purveyors. I feigned surprise at his European expansion.

“Didn’t know you guys had gone Hungarian on me.”

“This is costing me a fuck-ton, so listen and listen well.”

The gist came hard, and right in my face. He would give The Team one last chance to succeed, a single game with which to right the ship, or Plywood would pull its sponsorship. I took the opportunity to remind Cannibal that, to date, the same had only consisted of some leftover laminate of varying quality, despite early promises of cleats and adjustable trucker-style caps.

“Plywood Purveyors can’t guarantee the durability of any Return Items. You know that.”

“I was told your word was your bond, Can.”

I was extended an olive branch in the human form of Wee Willie Kowalczyk. Cannibal insisted he’d seen the world twice, maybe three times over, and if anyone could motivate The Team to take things to an all-new, reasonably-satisfactory level, it was him. Mr. Kowalczyk would bundle us up like kindling, set us ablaze with phrases like Go All In! and Dare to Dream! and Eat Up Your Piece of the Market Share! And such and such. Cannibal would arrange for the meet-and-greet, fill me in as to the whens and wheres.

“He will need a ride to the diamond, however. On account of his sciatica.”

I arrived at Wee Willie’s home to find it was no home at all, just a room at the Ramada with limited-to-no continental breakfast privileges. There was turn-of-the-century pornography everywhere, grainy shots of half-naked ladies in lung-smothering corsets and circulation-destroying garters. Overgrown bush scaling their pubic bones like ivy.

“All this stuff’s on the computer now. You don’t need hard copies.”

Wee Willie got up off the edge of his twin bed, its paisley comforter wrapped housekeeping-tight around the mattress.  In the lifetime it took him to do so, I grabbed a Sacagawea dollar I found on the nightstand and bounced the fucker off the covers military-style, watched it wobble to rest in what was presumably the dust of dead hookers.

Once completely upright and an inch from my face, Wee Willie finally spoke, smelling of Vicks and margarita mix.

“Who the fuck do you think you are? Hiram Plunkett?”

Wee Willie sat us down on the bleachers, advised us to test the levels on any assisted-listening devices we may employ because he was only giving us but the one chance, comprenez-vous?

“That’s French, for all you bootlickers who haven’t served your country or ordered Basic Cable.”

We were malleable motherfuckers, The Team. We sat wide-eyed and slack-jawed, prepared to be moved to tears or, failing that, the batting cages at Odyssey Fun World for some pre-redemption cuts. We wanted to open-mouth kiss Victory, rugburn our knees taking Athletic Triumph from behind on worn-out shag in the back of a Dodge Caravan.

We wanted to continue to receive surplus corkboard and mop head replacements, well below MSRP.

Wee Willie demanded we take a knee, open our hearts. We ignored the former out of concern for our pre-existing joint issues.

“Now, I’m here today as a favor to Cannibal, and in consideration of a tremendous deal I received as a much-younger man.  There was a war going on at the time, The War on Drugs. Made it so taxpayers like me and My Dear Departed Gert had to damn near come up with Fort Knox just to exercise our Inalienable Rights or piss in a Conoco station.  But, your Cannibal fixed me up good, real good. Set me up with some top-shelf bamboo at cost.  So, if you’ll allow me, I’d like to pay it the fuck forward, like that clairvoyant kid in The Pictures.”

There were murmurs of dissent between Team members, super-loose talk of bolting for the Birchwood Avenue Sonic for limeades and tots. A few well-placed shots to the ribs, courtesy of Yours Truly, coupled with Suleiman’s threat to publicly disembowel any deserters, cooled the ranks. I nodded once in the direction of Wee Willie, as if to say, Yes.  Go on.  You’re doing it, you son-of-a-bitch.

“My advice is simple, gents. You wanna talk The Talk, walk The Riverwalk in fancy sneakers your granddaddies would’ve roughed up a Black Irish family of four over, just for the privilege of sniffin’ the box? You wanna climb every mountain from Telluride to Breckenridge in neon getups, like you’re from The Future? Paparazzi just snappin’ and flashin’ away the whole time?  Well, what you do is sit yourself down and you say, Today, I’m gonna eat that balanced breakfast.  I’m gonna have eggs, toast, juice . . . Maybe two different kinds of juice. Some bacon could be good.  Muskmelon. But you gotta get it all in your system early.  Say, eight-ish. Get your metabolism right.”

After several Mississippis of silence, Wee Willie opened up the floor to questions.

“Thought you were a former Major Leaguer.”

Earlier in the day, I’d sold The Team on Wee Willie with that very pretext, relayed his car ride meanderings about coming up hard in the Kansas City Farm System prior to his address, in an effort to bolster his credibility.  Apparently, and during the unraveling of his Life-Fucking-Story, I’d heard Märchenlieber. Roughly-translated from the German, a lover of folktales characterized by elements of magic or the supernatural.

“Hope to see you fellas at The Convention. San Diego, this year.”

Amidst the confusion and slow-boiling rage, I saw a leadership opportunity, begging to be searched and seized. I beseeched The Team to exercise restraint, holster weaponry.

“I think we can all agree there is great value to be found in what Wee Willie is saying about breakfast.”

I watched as The Team schlepped duffel bags full of sunflower seeds and cracked batting helmets across the field, in the direction of the parking lot. Their backs looked broad and strong, suitable for heavy lifting and/or petting.

I wondered why we hadn’t won more games, or any, with backs like those.

Cannibal picked up on the first ring, short of breath. I could hear church bells and the distinct gurgle of a soon-to-be-serviced humidifier in the background.

“I know. Wee Willie texted me.”

The news of our latest, nay, final loss had traveled quickly. TransAtlantic-ly.

“Wee Willie texts?”

Cannibal smacked his lips. I’d caught him mid-gulyás.

“That’s some elitist shit right there.”

I told Cannibal that he’d won, that The Team had disbanded after the trouncing. Free to pursue individual dreams or, most likely, Jack Shit. We wouldn’t be needing those personalized t-shirts or stirrups.

“I can see what’s lying around when I get back. There may be tile, some solvents. You’re welcome to any of it.”

“I’m not a charity case. I just wanted The Team to look like a team. The deadstock was gravy.”

I powered down, snapped my cell shut. The End for The Team. I removed the mitt from my left hand, tossed it on the kitchen counter.  It had endured weeks of warm-ups, mornings of mutilation at the hand of infield gravel.  Its leather had whitened at the heel of the palm but you could still see Derrek Lee’s phony signature, the branding a reminder of a late-night run to Sports Authority and the optimism of Spring.

It would fetch very little at the pawn, I surmised.