Fear and Loathing in Glendale, Arizona
“I have all the defects of other people and yet everything
they do seems to me inconceivable” –Emil Cioran
It was only after my fourth bloody mary that the stewardess began to eye me warily. Not because I was acting like some mean, belligerent drunk, mind you, but after a certain amount of alcohol has entered one’s system the predictability of one’s behavior takes a nosedive. She grimaced as I asked for a fifth but complied nonetheless – I sensed her disapproving glare as I guzzled it down. It was only upon my request of a sixth drink that she put up some resistance.
“Sir, haven’t you had enough?” She looked me up and down, most likely attempting to judge just how drunk I was. I flashed her a feeble smile, my teeth no doubt dyed a faded hue of red from the tomato juice. For better or worse, alcohol primarily manifests itself in my brain rather than my body. To the outside observer, I was stone cold sober – until I spoke, that was.
“Nonsense, what’s the harm?” Christ, is that really the best rebuttal I could come up with? This poor girl nodded slowly, somewhat reluctantly. Evidently I had passed her test. As she placed my beverage on the tray table, she quickly bent down and hissed in my ear.
“Don’t make me clean any vomit off your seat.” I nodded gravely and she stalked away, smoothing out her uniform. I stared at my drink, then checked my watch. There were still two-and-a-half hours to go. Sweet Jesus, these cross-country flights kill me. The only way to cope with being squeezed into a tin missile and hurtled across the continent at just-below mach 1 is with strong drink. Better make this one last, I thought. I doubted the girl would bring me any more drinks, and I admit I felt slightly bad about forcing her to serve as an accessory to my public intoxication. Better to stick with just this one. It was only after I took a long, slow sip that I noticed the man seated to my left staring at me with a slightly amused look on his face.
“What.” I said flatly, scowling at this man. Beads of sweat were thick on his forehead, and his rumpled dress shirt had dark, damp splotches around his neck and under his arms.
“Boy, you sure like your bloody marys,” he said with a smile. I continued to glower at him – I was in absolutely no mood to continue this chat. Only the most evil, heartless kind of bastard strikes up a conversation on an airplane, their prey forced to smile and nod as they jabbered at them like a lunatic. After all, where could the prey possibly escape to? No sanctuary to be found here.
“What can I say,” I said with a shrug. “I’m not too keen on scurvy.” The man’s smile widened and I immediately recognized by mistake – I had taken his bait. My heart sank. The man readjusted himself in his seat, his body now facing me slightly.
“Well, you know tomato juice is real rich in sodium. Makes you get real bloated – the altitude change makes you bloat up too.” He paused, as if deep in thought. “I’ll tell you, my ex wife used to forget to take her rings off sometimes when we’d fly – we’d go down to Cancun every few years over Christmas, beautiful little place – and her fingers would swell up so much that I’d have to find some WD-40 and spray it all over her hands just so she could slide her rings off!”
At this point he guffawed loudly, his laughter rattling my eardrums. I felt like I had just been issued a life sentence with no possibility of parole. Sweet Jesus, at this point I’d take the chair over having to listen to this bastard for another five minutes, let alone two and a half hours.
Then, a flash of hope: my stewardess was walking down the aisle towards us! Oh thank you Lord, I’ll never doubt you again. I can see it now: she’ll stop at our row and tell my seat neighbor to pipe down as he was disturbing the other passengers. Then, peace for the remainder of the flight! I nearly fell to my knees in gratitude as she approached.
“A lot of people seem to have something against WD-40, so they use other brands. Me, I’ve never had any kind of trouble with it. A few summers ago the screen door to our back porch was just howling every time someone opened it…”
I tried my best to tune him out. After what felt like an eternity, the stewardess neared, and I looked up at her hopefully. She caught my gaze, smirked at me, then walked right past our row. It took a few moments for this to sink in – there was no salvation! No hope for escape from this endless babbling! I finished my drink in one gulp – I was going to need all the booze I could consume if I wanted to survive this flight. My prayers turned to the possibility of my stewardess continuing to bring me drinks, and this time, my prayers were answered.
By the time the plane finally touched down in Phoenix I was thoroughly drunk – drunk to the point of it affecting my body. I vaguely remember giving the pilot a sloppy salute as I staggered past him onto the jetway, and from there it’s all hazy.
After god-knows-how-long, I awoke, finding myself in the Delta Sky Club, my head pounding and my neck sore from sleeping curled-up in a small leather armchair. Evidently I’d had enough sense to sober up before attempting to pick up my rental car – god knows what these Wild West lawmen would do to me for driving while intoxicated. I shuddered at the thought. Shuffling over to the self-serve station, I poured myself a coffee and tried to get my bearings. The view out of one of the floor-to-ceiling windows did nothing to help my head; the pathetic downtown area of Phoenix and the surrounding urban sprawl makes a man wonder what circumstances led him to ending up in this backwater shithole.
What the hell was I doing here? What kind of grim assignment was this? I remember a conversation I had with Sean Okula, editor-in-chief of SportsTalk, a few days ago. Somehow he had talked me into flying out to Glendale to report on the Dodgers’ spring training – perhaps the assignment had been much more tempting in New York, where the constant chilling dampness of winter wears one down after a while. To his credit, he spared no expense. I was flown out first-class (hence the bottomless drinks) and was to be put up in a suite at the Glendale Marriott. On top of it all, I had specifically requested a small, fast car to be rented in my name, which Okula had no qualms with.
The car – right. That’s my next move. I sipped my coffee, chewed a couple of Asprins, and before long I was feeling good enough to drive. Well, as good as one could possibly feel in the middle of the goddamn desert.
—
I finally began to lighten up as I zipped down US 60 in the cherry red Mazda Miata Okula had been kind enough to reserve for me. The convertible top was down and the desert air whistled through my ears as I weaved in and out of the mid-afternoon traffic – some old Conway Twitty rockabilly song was blaring on the stereo and I was more than happy to slap the steering wheel with the palm of my hand to the backbeat. Sure, I may be in this dump of a city, but I’m moving at high speeds (which always boosts the spirits) and I’m out of New York; any escape from that cesspool warrants celebration in my mind.
Sweet mother of Jesus, I thought to myself as I stumbled through the sliding glass doors of the Glendale Marriott. Before me lay a vast ocean of the absolute cream of the crop Los Angeles has to offer – a sea of all-too-small white and blue jerseys wrapped around bulging, sweaty torsos. The entire goddamn population of Northern LA seemed to be jammed into this lobby – evidently that day’s game had just ended. Red-faced mothers were desperately trying to pacify their wailing children, flabby 30-something-year-old men crowded around the hotel bar, guzzling light beer as if their health depended on it, and by god the kids.
For every adult in the lobby there must have been six or seven children, most of them boys, frantically attempting to cause as much mayhem as possible. Some weaved in and out of the mass of flesh at top speed, ducking under outstretched arms and diving through legs. Others threw baseballs back and forth, but often the ball would sail past its intended target and a mad dash to recover it would ensue. Mitts were being oiled, wiffle-ball bats were being swung, one group of confused fans were sporting Rams jerseys and tossing a football around, and to top it all off, everyone in the lobby seemed to be yelling to each other at the top of their lungs.
“Did you get the cooler from the car?”
“Where’s Brandon?”
“How about those few innings-”
“Aw, c’mon!”
“Whaddaya mean, canceled?”
“Stop that right now!”
“What time’s dinner?”
My headache, which had been reduced to a dull throb, was getting worse by the minute – I’d better get up to my suite, and quickly. Using my bag as a sort of battering ram, I shoved my way unto the breach in the crowd and began to muscle my way through this mob of Californians up to the front desk.
“Excuse me, pardon me, journalist coming through, watch out.” I feebly held up the press pass Okula had given me as if I was Moses holding out his staff to part the Red Sea. No sympathy for the devil, however, and I had to start jamming my elbow into the mass of muffin tops just to get through. Just as I was about to reach the reception desk, I felt a hand on my shoulder spin me around.
“Hey buddy, what’s the big idea?” The beet-red face of a very large, very sweaty man was glowering down at me through narrowed eyes. “You knocked my drink outta my hand!”
He took a step closer, and I thought I could feel the linoleum floor trembling under his stride. This was bad news. There is nothing more sacred to a man like this than his end-of-day beer, and now this smarmy-looking little shit jabbering about journalism and frantically waving a press pass had just knocked it from his clutch! Hell, if I were him I’d be pissed too, but seeing as it was my ass on the line, I couldn’t afford that kind of empathy. The veins on his neck bulged as he glared down at me.
“Oh, uh, sorry about that.” I shrugged pathetically and flashed him a toothy grin. “Go Dodgers, right?” His face got even redder.
“Are you being a smartass?”
I had to think quickly. I had no desire to get into any kind of fight with this roidhead seeing as I had absolutely no chance of winning, but I also didn’t want to buy him another beer – my disgust for the scene in the lobby had temporarily rid me of any sense of goodwill. I looked off into the distance over his shoulder, back towards the sliding glass exit doors. My jaw dropped.
“Oh my god, it’s Freddie Freeman!” I yelled at the crowd, pointing frantically at the hotel entrance. The crowd (as well as my angry friend) turned in unison, excited voices began to break out, and the mob surged forward. This brief distraction allowed me to duck into the sea of people and weave my way up to the desk.
“Hello,” I said, slightly out of breath, “I should have a reservation for Dean Morielli.” The receptionist tapped her keyboard a few times.
“Ah yes, welcome Mr. Morielli. Your suite is ready for you, I’ll just get your room keys and you’ll be all set.” I smiled at her, but I was still on edge. At any moment I expected to feel that sweaty palm clapping on my shoulder again, and I don’t think my feeble distraction would have worked a second time. After what seemed like an eternity, I was handed two plain gray cards and I hurried off to the elevators, happy to have escaped the clutches of a rabid Dodgers fan.
The first thing I did once I reached my room was dial up room service on the small black phone sitting on the bedside table.
“Yes, hello, this is Dean Morielli in room 935, I’d just like a few things sent up to my room. Uh huh. Yep. Okay, a fifth of Wild Turkey, a fifth of Casamigos, a few club sandwiches, uhh let’s make it four, and all the grapefruit you can round up. Yep, thanks.”
A treacherous assignment like this required me to be running at 150% efficiency – for that, I needed strong drink and vitamin C. I was to head down to Camelback Ranch tomorrow afternoon to watch the Dodgers play Oakland, and given that self-medication was always a necessity for watching the A’s in action, I figured I’d get a head start tonight.
The game started at 3:05 PM, so I moseyed my way on down to Camelback Ranch around noon. I wanted to get my finger on the pulse of the Dodgers fan base – fully immerse myself in the Los Angelean baseball culture that had made its way out to Arizona for this sunny February morning. In order to suitably blend in with these folks I had donned a slightly-too-small Cody Bellinger jersey – I figured it would indicate that I’ve been a fan for, at the very least, a few years.
I had prepared for the event by stuffing a large Igloo cooler in the tiny trunk of my Mazda and filling it with cans of Budweiser, so upon finding a suitable parking space, I popped the trunk, guzzled one down and cracked open another. In my experience, the best way to blend in at many events, sporting events specifically, was to get blind drunk – such was my strategy for today. Holding the beer can in my hand, I began to make a lap of the parking lot, scoping out the various tailgate sites which were cropping up.
“Heyyyyy, Belli!” A voice cut across the asphalt expanse. I turned and immediately spied a large group of people amid a maze of coolers, grills and lawn chairs. A flagpole had been erected at the center of this camp, proudly flying both the flag of the state of California and a blue flag with the white Dodgers logo in the middle. A man there was waving at me, so I finished my beer, crushed the can on the ground, and made my way over.
Sweet Jesus, I thought as I neared their camp, what an exemplary group of Californians! The entire party looked as though they had come straight from Malibu – they were all young, tan, blonde, tall, lean, and good-looking. Any stereotype you might have about the appearance of LA yuppies was applicable here. Their camp was nestled among four luxury SUVs; two Range Rovers, one BMW and one Lexus. The man who had called me over stumbled up to me.
“Haha! I thought that was a Belli jersey. Ah man I miss him… why’d he have to get good again when he went to the Cubs?”
“Amen to that,” I said with a wry smile. “If only we’d signed him again this year!” Sports-related small talk was never my forte, but I knew it was necessary to hone this skill if I wanted to get a good scoop.
“Yeah man I know,” this very-drunk bastard slurred out, “but at least we’ve got some other big hitters…” He elbowed me as if he was sharing some dirty secret. “I gotta tell you, I think we’re going to the World Series this year. No doubt about it, man. Who could possibly beat us off?” One of his friends had heard this slip of the tongue and turned to correct him.
“Out, you moron, beat us out.”
“Yeah, yeah, whatever, man.”
The more-sober friend flashed me a smile, nearly blinding me with his perfectly white teeth, and he stuck his hand out.
“Hi there, I’m Noah.”
“Dean.” I shook his hand. “Where are you folks from?”
“We live around Laurel Canyon, but we’ve been thinking of moving out to Santa Monica. The closer to the beach, the better, you know?” He flashed me that blinding smile again. “You want a beer?”
“If you’re offering,” I said. He tossed me a Corona from one of the coolers.
“We’ve got sliced limes on that cutting board over there, and Liam will be grilling up some burgers and dogs in a few minutes.” He patted the shoulder of another tan, blonde surfer man. “You’re more than welcome to some.”
Yuppie stigma be damned, these guys were the salt of the Earth. Anyone who shares their beer is a good guy in my book. I planted myself among the rest of the Californians, shaking hands and trying to remember the long list of names. There were Milas and Mias and Jacksons and Theos and Lunas and Sorens and many others which I didn’t quite remember – all in all, their group totalled about 25.
“So I take it you’re all pretty diehard fans?” I asked, addressing the group as we sat around in a large circle, eating hotdogs and guzzling Coronas. The thin blonde girls, adorned in their boyfriends’ oversized jerseys and daisy duke shorts, hardly touched the food, preferring instead to sip on hard seltzers.
“Oh yeah,” a blonde man named (I think) Atticus said. “Every spring we take this road trip down here and spend a week or so watching the games. It may not be as exciting as the regular season, but by the end of the football season we start to get a little antsy.”
I nodded in agreement. At this point, I decided to try to simply blend in and record whatever this group was discussing, assuming it would be Dodgers-related. Instead, the conversation turned to gossip about their friend group. Being an outsider, I was a little lost, but I did my best to piece it all together.
The crux of the conversation seemed to center on a party thrown by Mila’s sister, who lives up in the Hollywood Hills. Mila’s sister, who was dating a Norwegian business-heir named Sven, was celebrating her 29th birthday as well as her 3rd anniversary of being with Sven. By all accounts, Sven was planning on proposing this night, something Mila’s sister was apparently aware of. As the night went on, many of the members of the group I was with got drunker, and as such their memories of what exactly happened were hazy and contradictory, but the one point they all agreed on was that the night ended with Mila’s sister stabbing Sven with a Ginsu knife (just in the arm, nothing fatal) and the ensuing chaos as the partygoers fled before the authorities arrived.
According to a man named Alex, Mila’s sister had discovered Sven sloppily making out with Bridgette in the pool shed, spurring her to arm herself with the Japanese knife and take her revenge. Bridgette, who was present at the tailgate, began to angrily defend herself from this accusation, claiming that while Sven did put the moves on her, she had no interest and quickly turned him down. According to her, after his rejection Sven began targeting a girl named Lisa, but Bridgette admitted that she didn’t know what became of that attempt.
At this point in the conversation, one fellow named Max stood up and asserted that no one here knew what they were talking about, and the reason for the stabbing was the lack of a proposal from Sven. According to Max, Sven made no indication of proposing all night, and when Mila’s sister made a joke about it, he pulled her into a private room, slamming the door behind them. A few minutes later, Mila’s sister came storming out of the room, tears running down her face, and grabbed the Ginsu from the kitchen.
“But who told Mila’s sister that Sven was planning on proposing in the first place?” Asked Theo, which was the same question I had been wondering.
“I heard,” said one man (I think his name was Charlie) with a smile “that it was our own Mia who started that rumor.” Mila’s head whipped around to the other girl.
“Are you fucking kidding me Mia? Why would you do that?” Tears immediately began to well up in Mia’s eyes.
“I didn’t say anything to her, Mila, I swear!”
“She’s going on trial for assault now because of you! What the fuck is your issue?”
“I swear, I swear I didn’t say anything! Why would I even do that?”
“Probably because you were fucking Sven behind her back and wanted him all for yourself!” Mia began to sob and shake her head profusely, but Mila’s tirade continued. “You stupid slut, you can’t keep your fucking legs closed!”
Mila stood up abruptly, grabbed one of the hotdog skewers, and lunged at Mia. Luckily, a few of the men restrained Mila before any damage could be done.
“You fucking whore! I’ll fucking kill you!” She shrieked, fighting against the arms of Theo, who was holding her back.
I figured it was time to take my leave. I finished my beer, patted Noah on the back and gave him a smile.
“Well, thanks a lot. It’s been great.” I had to raise my voice slightly over the constant stream of profanity spewing forth from Mila. He smiled apologetically.
“No problem. Always happy to chat with a fellow Dodgers fan.”
“Does this kind of thing happen a lot?” I gestured towards Mila and Mia.
“Yeah…” Noah sighed. “Mila’s a nice girl, though. I promise. She just tends to get a bit worked up sometimes.”
“I’ll take your word for it.” I began to march back towards my car. “Enjoy the game!” I called over my shoulder, my arm raised in farewell. Checking my watch, I was shocked to find that it was nearly 2:30. Christ, how much time did I waste listening to those lunatics rant about Norwegians and Japanese steak knives? I was on duty, after all – I had an assignment! No slacking here, it was time to get down to the nitty-gritty. But first, I made my way back to the car and had one more beer before heading inside.
Camelback Ranch was, as far as spring training stadiums go, quite nice. It had been built in the late 2000s, and as such it still had that sheen of modernity that had long since worn off that very-dated 1960s generation of ballparks such as the Oakland Coliseum. It was large, too, with the rows of seats completely encircling the field – something you don’t see in every spring training park. It took me a good 15 minutes to find my seat, but this was likely due more to the alcohol than the size of the ranch.
I admit: despite my incessant cynicism, I was excited. Okula had hired me to profile Oakland’s prospects for the upcoming season a month prior, and as such I had a bit of a bid on the young A’s players. As for the Dodgers, I could take them or leave them. I’ve never had anything against the team, but given their successful offseason I was left feeling jaded and bitter. I’m a staunch contrarian, so I felt a certain obligation to vehemently root against the team, no matter how good they might be. There were, admittedly, a few players on the Dodgers I felt charitable towards though, so between the two teams playing today I had a slight emotional investment in a good portion of the players.
My seat was along the first base line so I had a good view of the Dodgers players milling around in their dugout before the lineup was called out to the field. Me being the professional journalist that I am, I decided it was worth a shot to try to talk to them. I could sense the nearby security guard eyeing me as I stumbled down the shallow steps to the front row, but rules be damned! I was hired to write a story – no pudgy enforcer was going to get in my way.
“Hey, Mookie!” I slurred out as I clutched the railing, peering down into the dugout. “Mookie! Dean Morielli from SportsTalk, can I ask you something?” Mookie Betts, the star Dodgers outfielder (who will play the 2024 season as the team’s shortstop), didn’t seem to hear me. He was leaning against the dugout fence with his back to me, staring out into the field and aggressively chewing gum. “C’mon man, just a few quick questions!” There’s no way this guy didn’t hear me, right? Judging by the disturbed looks of the fans sitting near me, I must have been shouting pretty loud.
Not that I could blame their glares, mind you. Imagine trying to enjoy a relaxing spring training game with your family on a balmy February afternoon; you’d finally gotten your kids to settle in their seats, your beautiful wife was looking at you lovingly for having arranged such a fun trip, and you’re just about to have your first beer of the day when along stumbles this drunk asshole. His too-small jersey is unbuttoned to the navel, he reeks of cheap domestic beer and his movements seem so unsteady he might just keel over at any minute. Then, this drunkard pushes past your seats to the railing behind the dugout (your wife clutches the children’s hands in case he tries to do something drastic) and starts shouting obscenities at the Dodgers players!
Obscenities? Well, technically yes. But mark my words, it was no petty sporting feud that fueled my insults, this was real journalism goddammit! Here I was, a professional, respected sports journalist trying to have a leisurely chat with an athlete, and this schmuck wouldn’t even acknowledge me!
“Mookie, you rat bastard, you pig-fucker, you goddamn scumsucker, turn around and talk to me you son of a bitch! It’ll only take a minute, then I’ll be out of your hair. Well, your lack of hair. Ahahaha!”
Looking back on it, perhaps I might have been slightly out of control. Slightly. The Dodgers fans certainly thought so, as shortly after I began my tirade, boos and jeers directed at me started to ring out.
“Get that guy out of here!”
“Hey, leave Mookie alone!”
“Fuck you, asshole!”
“Security! Security!”
I looked over my shoulder and saw two tall, bald security guards lumbering towards me. Time to leave, I thought, and began clambering over the rows of fans, desperate to get to the aisle where I could make my escape. But what then? I was hired to do some reporting and I fully intended on doing so – perhaps I’d hide out in one of the bathroom stalls until the heat died down. My plans never came to fruition, however, for as I was climbing over one row of seats I felt a hand wrap around my ankle. Turning around, my heart sank.
Sitting in the row behind me, with a large, meaty paw clutching my leg, was the roidhead from the hotel lobby. He grinned an evil yellow grin at me.
“You’re not going anywhere, pal.” I gulped. Oh Lord, why hath thou forsaken me? This was it, this was the end! I tried to squirm my way free, but his other hand latched on to my leg as well. “So, you think you can talk to Mookie that way?”
I began frantically kicking against his grip, but he held on. The security guards were closing in. I gave one last death throe, spasming my entire body in a feeble attempt to break free, but the meaty bastard gave no quarter. The next thing I knew, both of my arms were pinned behind my back and I was being forcibly led towards the exit of the stadium. Discarded cups, cans, and food containers were thrown at me and jeers rang out as I tried to reason with my captors.
“No, goddammit, this is just a big misunderstanding! Look, I just wanted to talk to Mookie! I’m a reporter, see? A reporter! A doctor of journalism! Just let me talk to some of the players! I have to get this story!”
My pleas fell on deaf ears, and I was thrown unceremoniously onto the sun-baked asphalt outside – covered with food scraps, bleeding in a few places, and still quite drunk.
The next morning I found myself on a flight back to New York. Okula had been furious when he found out what happened and he demanded I return east at once. I ended up being permanently banned from any Dodgers and Dodgers-affiliated venues, so there was no hope of me completing the assignment. Okula shut down the tab I was running up at the hotel, canceled the remainder of my reservation, and rebooked my flight. This time, I was flying coach.
As I sipped my bloody mary (paid for by myself) I contemplated the trip. What was I to make of all of this? What was the moral of this story? I stared at the ice in my drink, slowly melting in the oppressive heat of the cabin. Maybe, I thought, I should cut back on the drinking while I’m on the clock. For now, though, I was free – a man on the move. As I hurtled eastward across the US, I felt a sick pleasure begin to grow inside me. Back to New York, back to security, back to the grime and filth that I knew and loved. Los Angeles be damned, I showed those bastards!
The Geiaunt Kinge
Ypon thie inninge fifthe of o day derke,
Whil stonden ydely by amonge thie gras,
Soler gan for to feele, thurgheoute thie perke,
A sodeyn rumblynge whiche semyde as bass,
He thougt for seur that this wolde anon passe,
Thie noise hou-ever wax to swich a roore,
Whiche mad the peplen crye ot som-thyng crasse,
Thie lykess of whiche he never herde bifoore,
Thie grond dide roughlie shakke ond Soler kneewe no mor.
Whan that he wook he myghte nat fynde him waye,
Thie pathe was queynte ond diid nat reche his hoom,
Sharely, he thoughte, Y hav ben lad astrayed,
This looketh me as som maner-be tombe,
Tis derke ond daump juste lich a woman-wombe,
Y muste eschap ond finde myne own waie back,
Y muste spye once aigean thie light of mone,
Ond on he wauke, expectaunt somme ataqque,
Fromme who efre might lurke wittinne thie inkiye blacke.
Afitir a spanne whiche semyde lich magnie mones,
A voys rong ot in middes thie freight’ning derke,
Forn-said “what beene ye do-on in mine roume,
Who dar to distourben mine privee werke,
Far yeors Y lieved binethe Oracle Perke,
Ond plotted waeht Y’d do to taeke revenge,
On thos hou treted me lich sich a jerke,”
Soler was shoked bi waeht thie voys had seid,
Ond knou-en his tem-mates he as to nou defende.
“Whye do ye hid en shadwe” Soler axed,
“Sheu me yor face ond telle me who thoue art,
Praye telle of al yo’ve don ond of ye past,
Whye do ye haven hete withinne ye herte”
Thie crature mouen ond geve Soler a stert,
Geiaunt he was ond hade a freight’ning face,
Ond in his hande he helde a pointen derte,
“Y ones was knoun as Bonds, but notte an ase,
Y was thie gret-est pleiere in that bas-balle spasce.”
“Thie peplen louen me so botte notte thie leage,
Y was not letten in thie Halle of Faime,
Ond so Y comb doun here with muche faiteague,
For yers Y sat hatinge thos who Y bleime,
For not letten me plei this speciale gaim,
But nou my time to stricke is nerely here,
Thie peplen wille tremblen oppon my naime,
Thie onli thinge Y want to bring is feere,
Ond sheu thie worlde thie freight’ning waye thatte Y apperre.”
“Y can-not let ye don thate” Soler seid,
“Thiee peplen of thie Baie are goode tu mye,
Ond if Y haue to Y wille make ye bleet,
Y muste protecte thie ounes Y loue dereli,”
Soler helde up a bakke with siche espirite,
Ond swange at Bonds no mater his larch sige,
Not lange aftere Bonds lette oute siche a screme,
Soler had swuong ond hitte at bouth his eies,
Thie geiaunt was no bliend ond treuli terrifede.
“Nou go ond do-not comme backe heire againe,
Y wille not be mersifell thie nexe tieme,”
Thie geiaunt scurride offe to ‘nother glenne,
Soler was nou woridde aboute thie teime,
He sauge thie light ond thus bigon to climbe,
Oute of thie caive ond beck in thie cite,
His frends asken if he was truellie fiene,
He smilled ond seid “it is a reil pette,
Y reilisse nowe thie Baie is wunder-flie prettie.”
Excerpts From the Diary of Charlie Blackmon
Blogger’s Note:
The following narrative was written in a small, leatherbound journal discovered near the corpse of Charlie Blackmon. His body, along with what was left of some of his teammates, was found among the melting snowdrifts in an isolated section of the Sierra Nevadas by a lost hiker in the spring of 2024. These words, which serve as Blackmon’s final testament, are reproduced here in their unaltered state. Be warned: this account is not for the faint of heart.
October 3, 2023
Finally, this disaster of a season has come to a close. We finished last in the entire National League, winning barely a third of our games. By August I was dreading having to slink across the diamond to my spot in the outfield each night in front of thousands of disappointed fans. Ah, who am I kidding; we were lucky to get a few hundred people to show up to our pathetic games. To make matters more frustrating, I’m not getting any younger – I’ll be retiring soon, but I want my final season to be good. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not delusional – I don’t need any kind of pennant, I just want a season I can look back on and feel pride in. I had toyed with the idea of retiring after this season, but what a miserable way to go out – not with a bang, but with a whimper. No, I fear I’ll have to stick around for at least one more year. Who knows, maybe I’ll get lucky and fuck up my leg so bad I can bow out mid-season. No one can blame you for a career-ending injury, right? Whatever the future holds, at least I have a few months of peace and quiet to contemplate the best course of action.
October 8, 2023
Some good news, for once: Kris has suggested a road trip! We’ll get a few other guys on the team to come along, we’ll all pile into Kris’ Range Rover and we’ll head west – out to the ocean. From there, maybe south, down the Pacific Coast Highway to Los Angeles or San Diego. It’s already becoming quite chilly up here in the mountains, so I wouldn’t mind one last glimpse of summer before settling in for the long, dark winter. After a soul-crushing season, this sounds like just the thing I was looking for to raise my spirits.
October 10, 2023
Brendan had the great idea to really kick it old-school – we’ll bring along some warm clothes, maybe a tent or two, and we’ll camp out along the way! Hotels be damned, we’ll be sleeping out under the stars like the pioneers did so many years ago. Tomorrow I’ll be running some errands at the sporting goods store, stocking up on all the essentials for a long camping trip. I doubt we’ll ever be far enough from civilization to warrant using half of what I’ve got on my list, but better safe than sorry, right?
October 15, 2023
At last, our day of departure has arrived! Kris, Brendan, Ryan, Nolan and I* must have spent a good two hours this morning checking the packing list, verifying that all of our supplies were in front of us before loading it into the trunk of Kris’ SUV. With all five of us (as well as all the gear) crammed into the Range Rover, it was a bit of a tight squeeze, but our spirits were high as we departed from Denver. I’ve always felt a profound sense of peace overtake me as the city slowly shrinks in the rear-view mirror before eventually disappearing among the crags of the mountain passes, and this time was no exception. As we climbed higher and higher above Denver, racing along I-50, I felt as though the entire world was at my fingertips. Here I was, surrounded by some of my best friends with the limitless expanse of the Rocky Mountains stretched out in front of us. I felt as though nothing could go wrong.
It had taken longer than expected to check, double-check and pack our supplies, so we didn’t get much driving done today. We had just passed through Grand Junction and over the Utah border when we decided to make camp – pulling off of the highway, Kris steered us through some backroads until we found a suitably isolated section of forest. Our first night was a very optimistic one; we sat around a small yet very warm fire for hours just shooting the shit and drinking beers. It had been a long day, though, so we all decided to turn in early.
*Blogger’s note: the people on this trip were Kris Bryant, Brendan Rodgers, Ryan McMahon, Nolan Jones, and Charlie Blackmon.
October 16, 2023
Given the fact that our “beds” for the camping trip were sleeping bags rolled out over the tent floor, I didn’t get much sleep last night. It’s been a while since I’ve done any kind of camping, and I’d forgotten just how loud the outdoors can be! The wind blowing through the tops of the pine trees, dead leaves crunching under the paws of animals as they meander past our campsite, the hoots of owls and the fading chirps of crickets – what an incredible symphony! I lay awake for most of the night, not unhappy about my lack of sleep but rather content to have been treated to such a concert. We made good progress today – by the time we called it a night, we had driven across the entirety of Utah and well into Nevada! Our evening was much like yesterday’s – a campfire, beers, stories being swapped, good times had by all. In another day or two we’ll be in San Francisco, but I have to admit I’m growing quite fond of immersing myself in nature. It’ll be a bittersweet feeling, finding myself among civilization again.
October 17, 2023
Things have rapidly turned from good to bad, then from bad to worse. I’m exhausted and my entire body hurts, but I feel a sort of duty to record exactly what happened today in case… well, no. I’m not going to think about “in cases.” No point in dampening my spirits any further.
The day started as normally as the previous few – we awoke, had a quick breakfast, packed up our camping gear in the Range Rover and drove back out to the highway. We rocketed across the Nevada desert, passing Austin, Middlegate, Fallon and finally Reno before we began our ascent into the Sierra Nevadas. By this time it was growing dark, and from what we could hear on the FM radio a weather warning had been issued for the region. A freak blizzard was apparently going to hit the higher elevations in the mountains, dropping the temperature and dumping a few feet of snow on the peaks. Good news for skiers perhaps, but not for us. Rather than spending a night camped out in a snowstorm, the entire group decided the best course of action was to speed through the mountain passes and into San Francisco as quickly as we could, hopefully beating the storm before things got real hairy. Little did we know what a mistake we had made.
By the time we were well into the mountains, the snow was coming down hard. Despite us being only six or seven thousand feet above sea level, there was at least a foot of snow on the ground already as we crawled along US 80. The dashboard thermometer read 22 degrees. Eventually, the sight of an overturned tractor-trailer loomed out of the whiteness at us – a ranger on the scene told us the road would be closed until they could haul the truck away, which would have to wait until the storm had subsided. There was no way we could’ve camped out there, in those conditions, but Kris spied a narrow, winding road that led high up into the mountains. There was no cell reception at this elevation so we couldn’t check where it went, but we knew we only had to get a mile or so west of the truck to get back on the highway and continue our journey, so higher up we went. The Range Rover groaned and protested as it was pushed to its limits, but we seemed to be making progress. This was when disaster struck.
As we were inching across a particularly narrow section of the road – a dropoff on one side, a sheer mountain face on the other – a loud crash of lightning struck the road just ahead of us. Kris, startled by this, jerked the wheel to the left, steering us towards the precipice. He braked hard, spun the wheel in the other direction and floored the gas, but it was too late. We all watched in horror as our inertia carried us slowly to the edge. There was a sickening feeling of freefall, and then there was simply blackness.
When I came to, the Range Rover was upside down (thank God I was wearing my seatbelt). All of the windows were shattered and my head was pressed up against the now-caved-in roof. Lacerations covered my arms, and I felt blood dripping down the side of my head, but other than that I appeared to be okay. Ryan and Brendan were already outside of the wreck, having crawled through the broken windows, and they helped me out when they saw I was conscious. Kris and Nolan, however, were pinned in by the crumpled metal, and it took a while to pry them both free from the wreckage. As I write this, neither of them have woken up yet.
We did our best to make them warm, then took stock of the situation we were in. The Range Rover appeared to be at the bottom of a ravine maybe a few hundred feet in area. Steep, rocky walls surrounded us. Some of our equipment was ruined, but in a stroke of good fortune our tent made it through the crash unscathed. None of our phones were getting any reception, so calling for help was off the table for now. We erected the tent, put on as many layers of clothing we could find, and crawled in, pulling Kris and Nolan in after us. Unfortunately, we were not prepared for below-freezing temperatures, so we were forced to huddle together for a while to get the feeling back in our fingers and toes.
I feel as though I am in shock as I write this – I can hardly believe what’s happened – I feel like I’m dreaming. Hopefully tomorrow the storm will die down and we can begin to figure out a rescue plan.
October 18, 2023
The snowfall stopped sometime in the night, thank God, but the cold temperatures persisted throughout the day. Kris and Nolan both awoke this morning, but their situations are dire. They both appear to have suffered multiple fractures throughout the bodies, as they can hardly move and have spent the entire day lying on their backs in the tent under a few layers of blankets. To make matters worse, they are both running high fevers. I pray this is not an early sign of infection, as we have no way to treat such a thing. Ryan, Brendan and I bandaged ourselves up with the small first-aid kit I had bought just a week prior – luckily for us, our injuries were all superficial, and as such, we were able to truly explore our surroundings.
The good news was that there were plenty of trees in this ravine for us to use as fuel for the fire – my main fear had been the brutal cold that we were equipped for, but we felled some smaller pines and before long had a large bonfire going near the tent. The bad news, however, was that there did not appear to be any easy way out of this ravine. No small paths for animals, no rivers flowing out – we seem to be well and truly trapped at the bottom of this pit for the time being. Our phone batteries had long since died from the cold, so calling 911 for help was no longer an option. Brendan spent a few hours shouting himself hoarse, crying out to whoever might be listening for help, but no one replied. For the time being, we’ll keep the fire going strong and hope someone sees the smoke rising out of the ravine. I spent much of the day feeding the few, weak painkillers from the first-aid kit to Kris and Nolan as they drifted in and out of consciousness. With this blizzard we have all the drinking water we could ever need, but food is a problem – only a few days of prepared camp meals survived the crash. I try to push this thought out of my mind, though. Surely we’ll be rescued long before our food runs out, right?
I’d be lying to you if I said I wasn’t scared. I kept myself busy most of the day, attempting to distract myself from the reality of our predicament, but lying awake at night, the “what if” scenarios spiral out of control in my mind. I pray help comes tomorrow.
October 19, 2023
Brendan died today. I was forced to bury the broken body of one of my best friends under a snowdrift today – no family around to mourn him, no last rites, no eulogy. I can hardly write this entry because my hands are shaking so much. Is it from the cold? From grief? From fear?
When we awoke this morning, Nolan and Kris were nearly delirious from their fevers – they were burning up. Ryan, Brendan and I conferred about what our best course of action was. Seeing as the signal fire hadn’t attracted any attention yet, Brendan volunteered to attempt to scale the rocky face of the side of our little pit. Once he reached the top, he could walk back on the road and try to flag someone down to call in help. Neither Ryan nor I liked how risky this plan sounded, but we feared time was running short for Nolan and Kris and this was the only viable idea we could think of. Both of us wanted to attempt the climb instead of Brendan, but he was adamant about going. And so, with our hearts in our throats, Ryan and I watched Brendan as he began to make his way up the cliffside.
He had chosen to climb one of the shortest sections of the wall surrounding us – around 50-60 feet tall. It was steep, but there were plenty of jagged handholds along the entirety of its height. As Brendan kept his grip, he shouldn’t have had too much of a problem. His ascent started off well, and he quickly scaled a third of the total height. It wasn’t long, however, that he began to call down to us that the rock was freezing his fingers and that he didn’t feel as though he could hold on much longer. Ryan screamed at him to climb down as fast as he could, but by this point Brendan was only 15 feet or so from the top, and he continued onwards. Shortly after this, he lost one of his handholds, teetered precariously for a moment, then slipped off the face and crashed into a snowbank at the bottom.
Ryan and I rushed over, but it was already too late – he had hit his head on a small, pointy rock lying underneath the snow. He was dead by the time we reached him. A small trickle of blood ran out of his mouth. We buried him in silence in the snowbank. As I lay awake writing this, I am truly afraid of what tomorrow might bring. God save us all.
October 20, 2023
Another blizzard hit us today – as such, we were confined to the tent unless it was absolutely necessary to go outside to relieve ourselves or to gather snow in a small pot. Our collective body heat inside the tent eventually melts the snow into clean drinking water – one of our few resources left. We are now completely out of the painkillers/fever reducers we had been doling out to Kris and Nolan, and their states continue to worsen. I fear they don’t have much time left. Our food stores are running low, too. Even if we strictly ration, we only have a few days of supplies left. I can’t believe no one has come to rescue us.
October 23, 2023
The blizzard raged on for two more days before subsiding. In that time, Kris passed. Once again, Ryan and I silently buried him in a snowdrift.
We’re running dangerously low on food. Ryan attempted to climb the face today, but the freezing temperatures left a thin coating of ice on the handholds. He aborted his attempt 20 feet up.
I’m still praying for this freak winter weather to relent for a few days, the cold is becoming unbearable. It’s the worst at night. We don’t have a thermometer, but it must be getting down to zero degrees by the early morning hours. The longer we stay here, the worse the cold and the storms will become as winter truly sets in.
October 25, 2023
Frostbite is beginning to set in for Ryan. A few of his fingers and many of his toes are turning black, the flesh dying on his still-living body. I’ve heard of it happening before but I’ve never seen it for myself – I don’t know whether or not we should attempt to amputate the digits or not.
Our food stores officially ran out today. Maybe the bark of the trees around us is edible, but I’m nervous to find out.
I’m not sure how much longer we can last.
October 27, 2023
Nolan finally died today; Ryan and I were shocked at how long he had lasted in his broken state. Ryan’s hands are quickly becoming unusable due to the frostbite, so this time I buried Nolan by myself. It’s getting hard to feel much of anything, now. I carry on through each day physically and mentally numb. Nolan and I had played in the outfield together last year, yet I felt nothing looking at his corpse.
The only identifiable feeling I have now is hunger. It’s been a few days since I’ve eaten, and the pit in my stomach is becoming more and more severe with each passing hour. Ryan and I tried to eat some of the bark from a nearby tree, but both of us quickly vomited it up, expelling what little substance was left in our stomachs. So long as the ice on the cliff-sides remains, we can’t climb out. I don’t know how long we’ll spend stuck in this hell.
October 30, 2023
While another blizzard howled around our tent, I tried to tenderly broach the subject with Ryan. He looked at me as if I was crazy and immediately refused.
November 1, 2023
The hunger is ever-present – insatiable, unending. I can’t remember the last time I ate. Ryan and I gorge ourselves on melted snow, but that only does so much for the pangs. Ryan looks like a skeleton now, a hollow shell of a man. His eyes have sunken deep within their sockets, his hair is unkempt, and his gaunt face is framed by a ragged beard. I can’t imagine what I look like. We spend our days in almost complete silence, moving only if absolutely necessary, otherwise we’re stagnant in the tent. We hardly have the energy for anything.
But still, the hunger persists. Something must be done. I’m not going to die at the bottom of this God-forsaken pit. I won’t allow it to happen.
November 3, 2023
I think Ryan suspects what I’ve done. Has he seen the footprints? The drippings of red blood on the white snow? Has he noticed my unusual absences from the tent? Has he picked up on my sudden energy? He must know. It should be abundantly clear, no?
I had asked him and he had refused all those days ago. His loss. I’ll carry on while he withers away. I am NOT dying here.
November 7, 2023
Ryan finally confronted me about it. He was barely strong enough to raise himself up on his elbows to turn to me. I stared at him calmly as the recognition spread across his face. Once again, I asked if he wanted to partake, but he just stared at me in shock.
After a few hours of silence, he quietly asked me not to… carve into… his body once he was gone. I slowly shook my head. Both he and I knew what would be done with him.
Excerpts From “The Trial of Zac Gallen”
Someone must have pulled a prank on Zac Gallen, for one afternoon, without having done anything truly wrong, he was not taken out. His manager, Torey Lovullo, had a reliever who came in every game around the sixth or seventh inning, but this time he didn’t appear. Zac waited a while longer, watching from the mound an old man who was seated behind home plate, who was peering at him with a curiosity quite unusual for a fan; then, both put out and tired, he began to walk to the dugout. There was an immediate shout and a man he’d never seen before in this stadium came out of the dugout and halted him. He was slender yet solidly built, and was wearing a set of catcher’s pads, which was provided with a variety of straps, buttons, buckles, and a helmet, and thus appeared eminently practical, although its purpose remained obscure.
“Who are you?” asked Zac, and immediately straightened up. But the man ignored the question, as if his presence would have to be accepted, and merely said in turn:
“You’re trying to leave?”
“Torey’s to take me out of the game,” Zac said, scrutinizing him silently for a moment, trying to figure out who he might be. But the man didn’t allow him to pass by, turning instead to the dugout and leaning back a little in order to tell someone who was apparently standing deep inside:
“He wants Torey to take him out of the game.” A short burst of laughter came from the dugout; it was hard to tell whether more than one person had joined in. Although the stranger could hardly have learned anything new from this, he nonetheless said to Zac, as if passing on a message: “It’s impossible.”
“That’s news to me,” Zac said, taking off his glove. “I’m going to find out who those laughing people are in the dugout, and how Torey can justify such a prank to be pulled on me.”
“Wouldn’t you rather stay out here?”
“I have no wish to stay out here, nor to be addressed by you, until you’ve introduced yourself.”
“I meant well,” the stranger said, and now allowed him into the dugout. It was the Diamondbacks’ dugout; perhaps there was slightly more space than usual amid the clutter of helmets, bats and pads, but it wasn’t immediately obvious, especially since the major change was the absence of his teammates and the presence of a man sitting on the bench with a book, from which he now looked up.
“You should have stayed on the field! Didn’t Hank tell you that?”
“What is it you want, then?” Zac said, glancing from the new man to the one called Hank, who had stopped on the stairs, and then back again. Through the dugout fencing the old man was visible again, having moved with truly senile curiosity to the seats along the first base line, so that he could keep an eye on everything.
“I’d still like Torey–” Zac said, and started to walk into the clubhouse, making a gesture as if he were tearing himself loose from the two men, who were, however, standing some distance from him.
“No,” said the man on the bench, tossing his book down and standing up. “You can’t leave, you’re being held.”
“So it appears,” said Zac. “But why?”
“We weren’t sent here to tell you that. Go to the mound and wait. Proceedings are under way and you’ll learn everything in due course. I’m exceeding my instructions by talking to you in such a friendly way. But I hope no one hears except Hank, and he’s being friendly too, although it’s against all regulations. If you’re as fortunate from now on as you’ve been with the choice of guards, you can rest easy.”
“You’ll come to realize how true that all is,” said Hank, walking toward him with the other man. The latter in particular towered considerably over Zac and patted him several times on the shoulder. Both of them examined Zac’s jersey, saying that he would have to wear a much worse one now, but that they would look after this one, as well as the rest of his uniform, and if his case turned out well, they’d return them to him.
“You’re better off giving the things to us than leaving them in the depository,” they said, “there’s a lot of pilfering there, and besides, they sell everything after a time, whether the proceedings in question have ended or not. And trials like this last so long, particularly these days!”
Zac scarcely listened to this speech; he attached little value to whatever right he might still possess over the disposal of his uniform, it was much more important for him to gain some clarity about his situation; but he couldn’t even think in the presence of these men: the belly of the second guard – they surely must be guards – kept bumping against him in a friendly way, but when he looked up he saw a face completely at odds with that fat body: a dry, bony face, with a large nose set askew, consulting above his head with the other guard. What were they talking about? What office did they represent?
Of course he could treat the whole thing as a joke, a crude joke his teammates were playing on him for some unknown reason, perhaps because today was his twenty-ninth birthday, perhaps all he had to do was laugh in the guards’ faces and they would laugh with him, perhaps they were actors.
Suddenly, the door to the clubhouse opened and Torey Lovullo started to enter the dugout. He was only visible for a moment, for no sooner had he noticed Zac than he seemed seized by embarrassment, apologized, and disappeared, closing the door carefully behind him.
“Why didn’t he come out?” Zac asked.
“He’s not allowed to,” said the tall guard, “after all, you’re under arrest.”
“How can I be under arrest? And in this manner?”
“Now there you go again,” said the guard, “we don’t answer such questions.”
“You’re going to have to answer them,” said Zac. “Show me the arrest warrant!”
“Good heavens!” said the guard, “you can’t just accept your situation; you seem bent on annoying us unnecessarily, although we’re probably the human beings closest to you right now. You’re behaving worse than a child. What is it you want? Do you think you can bring your whole damn trial to a quick conclusion by discussing your arrest warrant with your guards? We’re lowly employees who can barely make our way through such documents, and whose only role in your affairs is to stand guard over you here and get paid for it. That’s all we are, but we’re smart enough to realize that before ordering such an arrest the higher authorities who employ us inform themselves in great detail about the person they’re arresting and the grounds for the arrest.”
“Fine,” Zac said, “take me to your supervisor.”
“When he wishes it; not before,” said the guard named Hank. “And now I advise you,” he added, “to go to the mound, remain there quietly, and wait to find out what’s to be done with you.”
Zac stood quietly for a moment without responding to this. Perhaps if he were to open the door to the clubhouse the two would not dare to stop him, perhaps the best solution would be to bring the whole matter to a head. But then they might indeed grab him, and once subdued he would lose any degree of autonomy he might still have. Therefore he preferred the safety of whatever solution would surely arise in the natural course of things and returned to the mound without a further word.
For some strange reason, the stadium was completely empty now. He was the only player left on the field and the two guards were the only people in the dugout. The fans were nowhere to be seen, and a silence had fallen over the park. Then a shout from the dugout startled him.
“The inspector wants you!” The order itself he gladly welcomed.
“It’s about time,” he called back and hurried into the dugout. He had to walk just ahead of Hank through the empty dugout and into the clubhouse. Across the room there was a desk for the hearing and the inspector was sitting behind it. He had crossed his legs and placed one arm on the back of the chair.
“Zac Gallen?” the inspector asked. Zac nodded. “You’re no doubt greatly surprised by this afternoon’s events?” asked the inspector.
“Of course,” said Zac, overcome by a feeling of relief at finally standing before a reasonable man with whom he could discuss the situation. “Of course I’m surprised, but by no means greatly surprised.”
“Not greatly surprised?” asked the inspector.
“Perhaps you misunderstand me,” Zac hastened to add. “I mean–” Here Zac interrupted himself and looked around for a chair. “I can sit down, can’t I?” he asked.
“It’s not customary,” answered the inspector.
“I mean,” Zac continued without further pause, “I’m of course greatly surprised, but when you’ve been in this world 29 years you get hardened to a lot of surprises and don’t take them too seriously. Particularly not today’s.”
“Why particularly not today’s?”
“Well it can’t be too important a matter. I conclude that from the fact that I’ve been accused of something but can’t think of the slightest offense of which I might be accused. But that’s besides the point, the main question is: Who’s accusing me? What authorities are in charge of the proceedings? Are you officials? No one’s wearing a uniform. I demand clarification on these matters, and I’m convinced that once they’ve been clarified we can part of the friendliest of terms.”
“You’re quite mistaken,” the inspector said. “These gentlemen and I are merely marginal figures in your affair, and in fact know almost nothing about it. You’ve been arrested, that’s true, but that’s all I know. I can’t answer your questions either, but I can at least give you some advice: think less about us and think more about what’s going to happen to you. Also, you should talk less in general; almost everything you’ve said up to now could have been inferred from your behavior, even if you’d said only a few words, and it wasn’t terribly favorable to you in any case. You’re under arrest, that’s all. I was to inform you of that, I’ve done so, and I’ve noted your reaction. That’s enough for today, and we can take our leave, temporarily of course. No doubt you wish to go home now?”
“Home?” Zac asked. “I thought I was under arrest. How can I go home if I’m under arrest?”
“You’re under arrest, certainly, but that’s not meant to keep you from carrying on your profession. Nor are you to be hindered in the course of your ordinary life.”
“Then being arrested isn’t so bad,” said Zac, approaching the inspector.
“I never said it was,” the inspector replied.
Zac stared at the inspector.
Zac was informed by telephone that a brief inquiry into his affair would take place the following Saturday. He was notified that such inquiries would now be held on a regular basis, perhaps not every week, but with increasing frequency. On the one hand, it was in the general interest to bring his trial to a rapid conclusion; on the other, the inquiries must be thorough in every respect, yet never last too long, due to the strain involved. Therefore they had selected the expedient of this succession of closely spaced but brief inquiries. Saturday mornings had been chosen for the inquiries to avoid disturbing Zac’s professional life. He was given the number of the building in which he was to appear: it was a building on a street in a distant suburb Zac had never been to before.
Having received this message, Zac hung up the phone without replying; he had resolved at once to go on Saturday; it was clearly necessary, the trial was getting under way and he had to put up a fight; this initial inquiry must also be the last.
Upon his arrival at the building, Zac thought he had walked into a meeting. A crowd of the most varied sort – no one paid any attention to the newcomer – filled a medium-size room with two windows, surrounded by an elevated gallery just below the ceiling that was likewise fully occupied, and where people were forced to crouch with their backs and heads pushing against the ceiling. Most were dressed in black, in old, long, loosely hanging formal coats. This was the only thing Zac found confusing; otherwise he would have taken it all for a town government meeting.
Zac was led to the other end of the hall, where a small table had been placed at an angle on a low and equally overcrowded platform, and behind the table, near the platform’s edge, sat a fat little man, wheezing and chattering with someone standing behind him – the latter was leaning with his elbow on the back of the chair and had crossed his legs – laughing heartily all the while. Zac cleared his throat and the man looked up, pulled out his watch, and glanced over at Zac.
“You should have been here an hour and five minutes ago,” he said. Zac was about to reply, but he didn’t have time, for the man had scarcely spoken when a general muttering arose from the right half of the hall. “You should have been here an hour and five minutes ago,” the man repeated more loudly.
“I may have arrived late, but I’m here now,” Zac replied.
“Yes,” said the man, “but now I’m no longer required to examine you. However, I’ll make an exception for today. But your tardiness must not be repeated. And now step forward!” Someone jumped down from the platform to free a space for Zac, and he stepped up on it.
“So,” said the examining magistrate, leafing through a notebook and turning to Zac as if simply establishing a fact: “You’re a house painter?”
“No,” said Zac, “I’m a baseball player.” This reply was followed by such hearty laughter from the crowd that Zac felt obligated to join in. The people propped their hands on their knees, shaken as if by fits of coughing.
“Your question, Your Honor, about my being a house painter – and you weren’t really asking at all, you were telling me outright – is characteristic of the way these entire proceedings against me are being conducted. I’m not saying these proceedings are sloppy, per se, but I would like to propose that description for your own personal consideration.”
Up to that point the magistrate had been standing as he listened. As Zac, now paused, the magistrate slowly lowered himself back into his chair. In an attempt to regain his composure, no doubt, he took out his little notebook again.
“It’s no use, Your Honor,” Zac continued, “even your little notebook confirms what I’m saying. What has happened to me is merely a single case and as such of no particular consequence, since I don’t take it very seriously, but it is typical of the proceedings being brought against many people. I speak for them, as well as myself. What I seek is simply a public discussion of a public disgrace. Listen: Around ten days ago I was arrested; the arrest itself makes me laugh, but that’s another matter. I was assaulted in the afternoon in the middle of a baseball game; perhaps they’d been ordered to arrest some house painter in the audience. The dugout had been taken over by two coarse guards, and they led me into the clubhouse to see the inspector. I asked the inspector quite calmly why I had been arrested. And what was the reply of the inspector? He had no reply at all, perhaps he actually knew nothing, he had arrested me and that was enough for him.”
There was an immediate silence, so completely did Zac now control the assembly.
“There can be no doubt,” Zac said, “that behind all the pronouncements of this court, and in my case, behind the arrest and today’s inquiry, there exists an extensive organization. An organization that not only engages corrupt guards, inane inspectors, and examining magistrates who are at best mediocre, but that supports as well a system of judges of all ranks, including the highest, with their inevitable entourage of assistants, scribes, gendarmes, and other aides, perhaps even hangmen. And the purpose of this extensive organization? It consists of arresting innocent people and introducing senseless proceedings against them, which for the most part, as in my case, go nowhere.” The magistrate looked at Zac silently.
Seeing as there was no reaction from his speech, Zac picked up his hat, which was lying at the edge of the table, and made his way through the general silence, one of total surprise at least, toward the exit. The examining magistrate, however, seemed to have been even quicker than Zac, for he was waiting for him at the door.
“One moment,” he said. Zac stopped. “I just wanted to draw your attention to the fact that you have today deprived yourself of the advantage that an interrogation offers to the arrested man in each case.”
Zac stared at him blankly, then opened the door and hurried out of the building. Behind him, the magistrate merely shook his head slowly.
“That poor boy doesn’t know what he’s gotten himself into.”
The San Diego Padres
I’m way past the due date for this article already so let’s just buzz through the Padres’ offseason. Blake Snell, Juan Soto, Josh Hader, and other Padres stars like… Ji-man Choi? Gary Sanchez? Matt Carpenter? No matter, they’re all gone. Luckily for the Padres, they’ve managed to more than refill those gaping losses in their roster with folks like… Kyle Higashioka! Yuki Matsui, coming to San Diego from all the way across the Pacific looks promising, and Luis Campusano has been off to a good start in the first few games this season. I think it’s safe to assume that Tatis will be doing as Tatis usually does (sans steroids). Yu Darvish, who had a so-so season last year (that is, compared to his previous performances), looks pretty good so far, and Jake “The Crone-Zone” Cronenworth, who hit the tenth-most triples in the MLB last year, is (as of 4/2/24) tied for the most triples this season (1)! Alright, how else can I pad out this sad excuse for an article? Uh, Xander Bogaerts! He was on the Red Sox when they won in 2013 and 2018. Is he still good? Alexa, pull up his Baseball Reference page… okay yep he seems to still be decent, at the very least. Ha-seong Kim is still hanging around, he’s… uh, certainly a baseball player. According to the 2024 Padres Wikipedia page, they acquired a center-fielder named “Drew Campbell” from the Braves, but he does not have his own Wiki nor Baseball Reference page so I’ll assume he won’t be a game-changer this season. As of the writing of this article, the Padres are 3-4, but in two of their wins (first against the Dodgers, then against the Giants) they put up 15 and 13 runs, respectively. Is this anything? I don’t know, ask Sean. Okay, official prediction time: the Padres will finish third in the NL West, behind the Dodgers and the Diamondbacks, with a record of 79-83. They will not get a Wild Card berth. Is that it? Am I done?
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