50.06 Swarm of Worms
Posted: Wed Mar 30, 2022 1:30 pm
continued from here
I always knew my hiring was a facade, or should have known. Twelve seasons ago. Twelve seasons of pushing aside clues, closing my eyes, squeezing them tight, to realities glaring back at me, screaming at me. The prior general manager, his crumbled sanity. This organization, like a parasite, weakened the part of him, of us, straining to hold our minds in place, our realities. It wormed through him, around him, and wormed through me. Hollowing me, us.
He held on too long, a mind too stubborn. Unable to comprehend, unwilling to believe things beyond logic, beyond scientific systems, of numbers and formulas, statistical likelihoods. And he fell, fell apart, piece by piece. Grasping.
I’ve fucking had enough, he said as he left on his final day. This never ending bullshit.
A facade, all of this. The game, the organization, me. I’m only now piecing together what I couldn’t face before, piecing together whispers in the wind, fragments of mist. I’m only now allowing myself to see.
Mangrouthormone, the Frankenstein, my Frankenstein, circling the bases, the visiting team walking off the field. The unending explosion of the crowd, cheering, clapping, toasting the last swallows of their $12 beers, the ball held high by a bright-faced fan beyond the left field wall.
I watched from the window of my office, where I always watched without watching.
Mangrouthormone rounding third, shaking the hand of the third base coach. His teammates, my players, circling home plate, massing, swarming. A swarm of mist.
My eyes open, I see it all now.
He held on too long, a mind too stubborn. Unable to comprehend, unwilling to believe things beyond logic, beyond scientific systems, of numbers and formulas, statistical likelihoods. And he fell, fell apart, piece by piece. Grasping.
I’ve fucking had enough, he said as he left on his final day. This never ending bullshit.
A facade, all of this. The game, the organization, me. I’m only now piecing together what I couldn’t face before, piecing together whispers in the wind, fragments of mist. I’m only now allowing myself to see.
Mangrouthormone, the Frankenstein, my Frankenstein, circling the bases, the visiting team walking off the field. The unending explosion of the crowd, cheering, clapping, toasting the last swallows of their $12 beers, the ball held high by a bright-faced fan beyond the left field wall.
I watched from the window of my office, where I always watched without watching.
Mangrouthormone rounding third, shaking the hand of the third base coach. His teammates, my players, circling home plate, massing, swarming. A swarm of mist.
My eyes open, I see it all now.
