RECAP: Anemic. Feeble. Broken. Despairing. Disconsolate. Cirrhotic. Incompetent. Sexually undesirable. Pick your description of the Mission Street Dealers at the All-Star Break. I was lurching through my so-called "life" in an anguished, alcoholic fugue state, moaning and bumping into furniture and writing cryptic insults to various 29ers like a bitterly neurotic but ultimately nonthreatening ghost. We hadn't won in nearly two months. Seven losses in a row, some of them to teams that could generously be described as "horrible." Facing the two-time defending champs on Saturday, I really kind of expected to eat shit again.
Then Flowers came down from the heavens and we kicked ass.
Study the background of this image for subtle symbolism
The first four innings comprised a tense pitcher's duel between our beloved,
eccentric, gaily-socked Southerner and the News' crafty, cerebral and oh shit this description of Brian Huey is already racist. It was a classic power-finesse matchup, like Clemens vs. Maddux, or Mike Tyson vs. Barbara Walters. The spiritual and psychological crux of the game occurred in the fifth inning: the News loaded the bases with no outs, but Flowers proceeded to strike out the next two batters on full counts (which was terrifying and exhilarating) and then got David Blanco to pop out harmlessly to Toesy at short. After that emotional victory we started to eke out some runs, while Flowers attained a fearlessly confident state of grace that sort of reminded me of Keanu at the end of the first Matrix when he figures out that he's The One. It was still close going into the bottom of the 8th, when the life force began to visibly ebb from Brian Huey and we pounced on him for five runs to make it 8-0. Flowers came back out and easily completed his 157-pitch, four-hit shutout, and we all sort of spazzed out like confused, overstimulated rabbits. "So, wait...We scored eight runs and they scored zero runs...and we just played nine innings...They're saying the game is over...Is there a word for this? I'm scared, man. Should we call the cops?"
This guy knew what to do.
PLAYER OF THE GAME: For the second week in a row, it's Justin Flowers, the best ballplayer to ever relocate from Leesburg, GA to San Francisco.
Fuck you
He was ON. Talking trash, shoving his fastball up Berkeley asses, twirling beautiful breaking balls that elicited little murmurs of admiration from ex-MLB pitcher Danny, and never losing his nerve no matter how hairy the situation. Speaking of hairy: body hair. He doesn't have any. He's like a dolphin wearing a blonde wig. I don't know why I felt the need to work that in here. Honorable Mention: Newcomer Jimmy (aka "Evil Ray"), who we picked up on waivers from
the Beers and who proved to be absolutely crucial to our success. I'm going to go ahead and give him the Gold Glove of the Game for his involvement in two beautiful double plays (Mickey Thoms, I love you too) and for that popup to no-man's land in shallow center that he somehow ended up catching. He had a big RBI base hit, he smokes Pall Malls, and he has a palpable aura of danger that some unstable women find irresistible.
1955 LE MANS DRIVE OF THE GAME: In the eighth, local huge person and all-around standup guy Andrew Gomez walloped an RBI double over the left-fielder's head for our only real-deal power hit of the game. I was on first base and I wanted to score for Gomez and give him the extra ribeye, but the 180-foot journey from first to third ended up taking me longer than it took that Nazi to walk across Tibet. At one point I think I was actually moving backwards. Sorry, man.
BASERUNNING EXTRAVAGANZA OF THE GAME: Will Cornyn scoring from first on a
GROUNDOUT. Talk about taking the game into your own hands. Also, I am fascinated by the way Will moves. When he runs I always think of the 1929 animated Disney short "Skeleton Dance."
Cornyn family reunion
MOM OF THE GAME: Lana Volk bringing snacks and that kickass futuristic cooler full of beer and non-beer refreshments. (What did we do to deserve this? You think anybody brings treats for the Nobles? No. Nobody loves them.) As always, she kept an immaculate scorebook for us, and if that wasn't enough, she can point you in the right direction if you ever need a good, reasonably-priced hotel room in Norway.
QUOTE OF THE GAME: An oldie but a goodie: "He looks like a monkey trying to fuck a football"-Flowers watching Sam Bull struggle to put on shin guards for the first time. Later re-used when he accidentally walked in on me and a lady friend in the storage room at the Knockout
LEAST VALUABLE PLAYER: Chris "Jennifer" Adams scoring a hat trick of strikeouts with his unhinged Mark Reynoldsian/Adam Dunnish style of swinging as hard as humanly possible no
matter the count. Crizzle attacks baseballs like those mobsters attacked Joe Pesci's head in the cornfield scene in Casino. Can you imagine Crizzle's lovemaking style? Thirty seconds of terrifying, frenetic pounding and then all you're left with is a crushed pelvis and screamed fuckwords ringing in your ears
From L-R: Crizzle, Sam Bull, Toesy, Mark Moss
after they read this blog entry
MARK MOSS OF THE GAME: Spoon. He doesn't get enough attention on this blog. I guess because he just quietly gets the job done in an upright way that doesn't lend itself to mockery. Hon. mentions: Sammy (dog), Mark MossALSO: TIM FUCKING LINCECUM. Yeah, that was a perfect day.
ENJOY YOUR BYE WEEK BOYOS
STATS WILL BE COMPLETED AND POSTED
BY TUES. NIGHT
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