Blue & Wonder in Aurora: A Savage Journey to the Heart of PEBA, Part One
L.H. Thompson, Manchester Boutique
Sunday, July 12, 2009
“There’s things that even drunks like us will never forget.”
Part One
We were somewhere around the Massachusetts Turnpike on the edge of New York when the doubt began to take hold. I remember saying something like: “Morris, this is a terrible idea; maybe we should turn back…” And suddenly there was a horrific resonating sound all around us and the sky was full of what looked like flurries of black snow and the car, which was carrying us about a hundred miles an hour with the top down to Aurora, jerked out of my control and careened into a ditch. And then Morris was screaming: “Holy Jesus! Didn’t you check the tires before we left?!”
In fact, I had not. The decision to drive across the country in order to view the happenings at the 3rd annual PEBA All-Star Game was so rash and haphazard that I had nearly left my traveling companion, Manchester Maulers Scouting Director Morris Cooley, outside of Whiten Field’s Gate A. Tires? We were on an epic journey! A time-honored American trek to the West. West! To multiple discoveries: of self, of country, of the sordid and depraved kingdom at the heart of the PEBA! Tires! Why, we would be carried by God’s own wind!
Morris didn’t readily see these things as they were. It had taken some effort to talk him into the trip. “What if he sees me with you? He’ll fire me; you know that he will. Oh Christ! What will I do then?! My career is ruined! That method… that f&*k*&^ method!”
“Relax Morris,” I said. “He doesn’t care anymore. He’s so pleased with himself that he can’t see three feet in front of his face. First place is a universal balm. Hell, he actually smiled at me last week!”
This calmed Morris down, temporarily. For Maulers GM and insufferable jackass Jeff Dudas had done quite a number on poor Morris’s reputation and, with it, his self-esteem. The endless, profane taunts (“Suck it, Cooley!”) directed at him at Maulers home games had taken a serious toll. Morris was now edgy, vibrating with anxiety. It was for this specific reason that I had procured street-grade Xanax, which I crushed into Morris’s water bottle immediately following our unfortunate incident with the tires.
But it would take 20 minutes for the Xanax to kick in, and we were still faced with the prospect of three busted tires and no means of communication. Morris had been holding his phone when we hit the ditch and now, having flown out of his hands at impact, it was in shambles. I hadn’t bothered to bring the Boutique phone. Already gouging them for travel expenses, half of which had gone immediately to the stash of high-end liquor still mercifully tucked away in the trunk, I couldn’t bear to deprive the paper of more of its precious few resources. What the hell? I thought: someone will turn up soon.
Sure enough, within 5 minutes a candy-apple red Caddy pulled up. “Sweet Jesus!” Morris exclaimed. “Is that León?” And so it was none other than Manchester Maulers starting pitcher Vicente León. Terminally stupid, but generally a swell guy, León was perfectly obliging.
“Hi guys! Man, I can’t believe it! I just knew when I headed out this morning that something amazing was going to happen! I was up half the night studying the stars and I could tell when the big and small dippers came into exact alignment that today would be a special day. And now here I run into you guys! Fantastic! Hey, what happened to your car?”
Morris was now squinting; his hands were agitated, and they flittered about in an arc. 10 more minutes until relief, I thought. “Big assignment,” I responded to León. “We’re going to Aurora to expose those scoundrels for who they are!” León scrunched up his face. “Huh? Oh hey, listen, I’m going to Aurora also! Talk about fate!” With proof of his foolish cosmology suddenly confirmed, León was positively giddy. And then the inevitable: “I know! Let’s all go together! It’ll be fun! Oh man oh man oh man! I can’t believe it – just the guys on a road trip!”
I could see the beads of sweat forming on Morris’s brow. He couldn’t speak, was standing completely still and had a wild look in his eye. I knew how he felt. Jesus! The thought of spending 3 days on the road with this certifiable lunatic was enough to make me gasp for air. But, hell, what were the options? I had a trunk full of booze, a primal mission and the Boutique expense card. I could always stupor myself and, as long as we didn’t run out of Xanax, Morris could be handled as well.
“Yes, my boy!” I replied to León. “Glory awaits!”
20 minutes later Morris was flying. “Ha! Vicente León! What the hell! It’s a great day!” Although the Xanax had set Morris right, my own doubts were now creeping up.
“Say Vicente,” I started, “why the f&*^ are you going to Aurora? Don’t you use the All-Star break to rearrange your crystals and dreamcatchers?”
“Oh no, I’m going to pitch in the All-Star Game.”
“What?”
“Yes, there was a mistake, an oversight really. I should have been included on the Imperial League roster. I mean, with the way that I’ve been pitching over the last month, they’ve just got to have me on the team.”
So here it was: traveling to the nether regions of the country with a good man in the middle of a nervous breakdown and a nut who was deeply, purely, absolutely unhinged.
“Stop the car!” I shouted. I pulled out a bottle of Maker’s Mark and filled my flask to the brim. After my 5th tug, I was starting to get some perspective. “We’ll just have to leave him behind, that’s all,” I thought to myself.
Meanwhile, León had veered off into dangerous territory. I snapped out of my contemplation of León’s abandonment at the name “Hester”. I peered immediately at Morris, instinctively reaching for the stash of Xanax. I prepared for the worst. Why, oh why, would León speak of Glen Hester?! The same Glen Hester who, in spite of Morris’s full-throated, unending criticism had now legitimately claimed the 2nd base position on a legitimate 1st place playoff-contending team?! Why, it was the success of Hester that had finally sent Morris over the edge, reducing him to a puddle in the corner of the clubhouse. It was after Hester’s recent 2-for-4 performance against New Jersey that the dam had broken: “Glen Hester! Glen Hester!” Morris screamed out. “For God’s sake, why is this happening to me??!!!”
“Yeah, it’s amazing,” León continued, “Fractured skull – he’s out for the season. I told him: go light on the saturated fats and spend more time studying the stars. I warned him that when the moon was at half-crescent, the tides were dangerous. He didn’t listen to me, and now he’s home sleeping it off.”
And then I saw it. It started off as a barely perceptible wrinkle. Then a twitch, and another. Then the spit of white at the corner of his mouth. Then, finally, in an awful, wonderful cackle, Morris belched out the ghost of Glen Hester and the demons of all of the horrendous, stupefying days of the last 4 months. He was reborn, a man out of time.
Things were getting weird. And there wasn’t enough Xanax or Maker’s Mark in the world to stop us now.
TO BE CONTINUED