Off Topic
Travelblog of Thom S. Hunter
Editor’s Note: Yeah, I know. You skip over this part by now. Or, really, I suppose you skip over the whole of Prospect Beat. It's kind of a piece of crap, isn't it? For those few who are new to it, this is a running blog that will cover minor league players in the Yellow Springs organization. I initiated it because this kid reporter was hired without my knowledge and I needed to do something with him. He’s weird, right? Still, he’s got some hella ties, because try as I might, I can’t fire him. Good luck.
November, 2051: YUMA, AZ – This is a trap, right? I mean, seriously, the dude back home says I need a thousand words about the state of the farm system, then hangs up. I’ve literally just woken up from a bender with Magdalena that started maybe back in 2048, and now my head is the size of Missouri back when it was waterlogged and I gotta pee like a racehorse.
I’m fairly sure the hairy bastards that were chasing us lost the trail, but I say that mostly because when I check it appears my chest is still moving up and down, and I’m pretty sure that if they’d caught us it would be both blue and motionless.
Enough about them, though. This is about me and the dude who says he need words about the Yellow Springs farm system. To be fair, that bender is long enough that it took me a while before I could shake the idea of connecting a yellow spring to aforementioned racehorse. But I did, and then I grabbed my links and all that shit and started to look up Yellow Springs Farm System, and literally got the old 404 from Google. I mean, shit-fire and Stranger Things, man, the concept of the YS9 farm system is pretty much exactly like any thought that might go through Donald Trump’s head (*). I mean. It simply Does Not Exist.
(*) I know that’s theoretically out of date, but it’s also timeless. Deal.
So, I get to thinking and I realize that no, the dude isn’t setting me up or anything. Instead, he’s throwing me a curveball…and not just a wrinkle, either. I’m talking about the Grandpa Charlie. The Koufax Cleaner. The old 12-to-6 that you just don’t see no more.
The Dude wants fiction.
Anyway…so understood, I shake out my cobwebs and go to the fridge for a little of the hair of the dog. A few minutes later I get to typing…
Yellow Springs fans can loo forward to the appearances of Arnold Campos and Eric Grant. These two are like Ricardo Mendoza and Rex Foster on steroids. In fact, I think they are on steroids—or, well, not steroids, because that would be cheating like a Black-hearted Bluebird. No. I’m talking about the NEW, non-cheating monoclonal fiber booster that reputable scientists are providing to only Yellow Springs hitters. Don’t listen to the pundits who call them 45s, Campos and Grant are going to be gargantuan. You read it here first …
I hit that wave, you know. Plaudits and salutations rolled like a stream of flash bulbs off a starlet’s glitter-laden back.
Benjamin Boradbent is the next coming of Jose Chavez and Carlos Valle wrapped into one…the first #1/#2 combo in league history, pitches right handed the first day, the left the next.
Arthur Cole is going to club 65 homers a year at second base some day.
And down in the International complex is this gem of an uncovered gem named Esam Ferran who is only 17 and who no one is talking about at all, but who I have on the best psychic vibe is going to simply break onto the scene like no pitcher since the great Steve Nebraska himself. Those early scout ratings are proof that baseball people have no idea what they are talking about, am I right? Ignore the idiots behind the green Twin Cities and Des Monies curtain.
I was possessed, I say. Smoke rose from the keyboard as I typed. And as I typed I understood. Yes. Yes. Yes. My head literally pounded with excitement. The idea of saying whatever came to my head was freeing. Yes, I thought. Yes. Trump had it right. It was true that he was playing the game at that 58th dimension where once you separate from reality anything is possible, including the idea that the Yellow Springs Nine has a Farm System.
I ranked it Top of Class, of course.
It was so good, I knew I didn’t even need a second pass. So I added a note as to where Dude could send my payment, and suggested a bonus was probably in the future, too. Then pressed send.
My bliss was startled a moment later, though, when footsteps came outside and banging started at the door.
Mags rose her pretty little head, looking all sexy with that hair tumbling around her in all directions.
“Crap,” she said as the door shook. Her eyes grew wide, and she threw on her clothes. “Let’s get outta here.”
November, 2051: YUMA, AZ – This is a trap, right? I mean, seriously, the dude back home says I need a thousand words about the state of the farm system, then hangs up. I’ve literally just woken up from a bender with Magdalena that started maybe back in 2048, and now my head is the size of Missouri back when it was waterlogged and I gotta pee like a racehorse.
I’m fairly sure the hairy bastards that were chasing us lost the trail, but I say that mostly because when I check it appears my chest is still moving up and down, and I’m pretty sure that if they’d caught us it would be both blue and motionless.
Enough about them, though. This is about me and the dude who says he need words about the Yellow Springs farm system. To be fair, that bender is long enough that it took me a while before I could shake the idea of connecting a yellow spring to aforementioned racehorse. But I did, and then I grabbed my links and all that shit and started to look up Yellow Springs Farm System, and literally got the old 404 from Google. I mean, shit-fire and Stranger Things, man, the concept of the YS9 farm system is pretty much exactly like any thought that might go through Donald Trump’s head (*). I mean. It simply Does Not Exist.
(*) I know that’s theoretically out of date, but it’s also timeless. Deal.
So, I get to thinking and I realize that no, the dude isn’t setting me up or anything. Instead, he’s throwing me a curveball…and not just a wrinkle, either. I’m talking about the Grandpa Charlie. The Koufax Cleaner. The old 12-to-6 that you just don’t see no more.
The Dude wants fiction.
Anyway…so understood, I shake out my cobwebs and go to the fridge for a little of the hair of the dog. A few minutes later I get to typing…
Yellow Springs fans can loo forward to the appearances of Arnold Campos and Eric Grant. These two are like Ricardo Mendoza and Rex Foster on steroids. In fact, I think they are on steroids—or, well, not steroids, because that would be cheating like a Black-hearted Bluebird. No. I’m talking about the NEW, non-cheating monoclonal fiber booster that reputable scientists are providing to only Yellow Springs hitters. Don’t listen to the pundits who call them 45s, Campos and Grant are going to be gargantuan. You read it here first …
I hit that wave, you know. Plaudits and salutations rolled like a stream of flash bulbs off a starlet’s glitter-laden back.
Benjamin Boradbent is the next coming of Jose Chavez and Carlos Valle wrapped into one…the first #1/#2 combo in league history, pitches right handed the first day, the left the next.
Arthur Cole is going to club 65 homers a year at second base some day.
And down in the International complex is this gem of an uncovered gem named Esam Ferran who is only 17 and who no one is talking about at all, but who I have on the best psychic vibe is going to simply break onto the scene like no pitcher since the great Steve Nebraska himself. Those early scout ratings are proof that baseball people have no idea what they are talking about, am I right? Ignore the idiots behind the green Twin Cities and Des Monies curtain.
I was possessed, I say. Smoke rose from the keyboard as I typed. And as I typed I understood. Yes. Yes. Yes. My head literally pounded with excitement. The idea of saying whatever came to my head was freeing. Yes, I thought. Yes. Trump had it right. It was true that he was playing the game at that 58th dimension where once you separate from reality anything is possible, including the idea that the Yellow Springs Nine has a Farm System.
I ranked it Top of Class, of course.
It was so good, I knew I didn’t even need a second pass. So I added a note as to where Dude could send my payment, and suggested a bonus was probably in the future, too. Then pressed send.
My bliss was startled a moment later, though, when footsteps came outside and banging started at the door.
Mags rose her pretty little head, looking all sexy with that hair tumbling around her in all directions.
“Crap,” she said as the door shook. Her eyes grew wide, and she threw on her clothes. “Let’s get outta here.”
