"Octagon, who dubs himself the “paramedic fetus of the east,” is from the church of the operating room and was born on the planet Jupiter. His physical features include having yellow eyes, green and silver skin which also changes to blue and brown, a pink-and-white Afro, and a brain that glows yellow, black, red, green, and purple. Octagon also states that he can change his face with the press of a button, disappear, and wears a 7XL which has not yet been invented, X Ray sunglasses, hard shoes with razor blades, and a white suit and stethoscope."
"In general human time, each new second arrives like a vertical line. Between each line and the last line is a space, and into this space human surprise flashes quickly. Unpleasant surprises transfer to other states, ranging from fairly bummed to utter despair. In any such case, the surprise dies so that the longer state can live. Pleasant surprise, of course, disappears quickly into the receding horizon."
I enjoy writing about baseball more than I can say.
If they would have just stopped at the Blazer hi I would have been fine with the whole thing. But you dudes have been talked into silly prices for some real stupid-looking footwear. Not to make everything about Nike.
"I make occasional eye contact with sentences in magazines and books and often wonder what on earth the words see in each other, what on earth they’re doing together, because they don’t look as if they’ve found excitement in each other’s company. Shouldn’t writing be far more sexual than sex? Sex is messier and doesn’t leave you with anything, unless you come out with a kid, and then the kid will likely as not grow up to be some brute vagrant anthology of your every ugliness—yours and the other party’s. Why is it that kids usually look like sick, sniggery parodies of their parents? Get your caricature done by some tank-topped street-fair charcoalist and be done with it already."
It’s American, of course, with its odd balance of isolation and teamwork, a distinct division of labor. Stand roughly here in the grass or dirt and be ready because nobody can predict, man, when the ball might come your way. Chew whatever you like. Spit. When it comes, pursue the ball then throw it to the right place. Know beforehand to whom. Which is to say, plan ahead.
Step to the plate, take your cuts, focus. Reach base and don’t stray too far, observe and think then hustle hard. Hustle harder. Score the run, celebrate, and take the field to protect that for which you’ve worked. Offense and defense, everyone hits, runs, catches, throws — the designated hitter is a tax break for the wealthy.
Call it physical poetry amidst an ongoing war between numbers and intangibles, the novelistic pace of a 162-game season dense with intertwined narratives, rookies and veterans, middle-relief specialists and franchise superstars, all laboring beneath the strategic aegis of the old, grizzled manager who, god bless him, is wearing the same uniform. Playing ball.
"If these Redbirds succeed, if they again march deep into the postseason, the rest of baseball will curse and groan and roll their eyes at the deterministic banality of it all. And they will be so, so wrong."