.
.
.
.
2064 in Review
W-L: 84-78; 4th in the Pacific
Pythag: 84-78
Runs Scored: 775
Runs Allowed: 745
Moonlight glistened off the warm intestines and offal strewn over the centerfield warning track dirt at Chico’s Bail Bonds Field in San Fernando. It also glistened off the blood still clinging to the crude knife held by man wearing the skinned head of a bear as a headdress. The man, we’ll call him Chico for the sake of this preview, wore nothing else.
“BA-Aiia-aiagha-aaa!” The still somehow alive goat bleated as Chico tossed its soon to be lifeless carcass aside. “Agh-aghai-aa-aiaia.”
“What the hell do you see?” Nolan said, having taken several steps back after the initial slice into the goat’s underbelly. “Out with it.”
Chico held up his hand for silence. Deciphering the signs of spirits are not to be rushed. He peered into the guts — the twisting bowels, the pink, white-flecked viscera — as the stench of fresh death permeated into his nostrils.
And there it was. The sign.
The voiceless screams of the eternal. The never seizing agony. And the soft whispers of dreams.
Chico reached down and scooped the entrails in his hands and lifted them to the heavens, intestines hanging chaotically down. He turned to Nolan.
“What is it? Tell me!”
Chico’s mouth curved upward beneath the heavy skin of the bear. Then he laughed, full-throated, his laughter somehow echoing through the empty stadium.
And this is what he said:
Well, fuck. I wasn’t expecting that. Those assholes were adamant you gotta change these asinine field dimensions. Actually, seeing as we did this ritual out here in the deepest part of centerfield — what is it, 479 ft from home here — they pretty much made it clear in no uncertain terms that no championship will come to San Fernando while this assault to the beauty of baseball continues to be allowed to take place. Like how the fuck are you supposed to build a team to best play in this amusement park of a field? Christ, we didn’t need to murder some petting zoo goat to learn all this.
Averages are sitting around 1.1 factor while doubles and triples, the only goddamned offering legitimate baseball gods accept, are crushed to a .8 factor. That means you can only hit singles and homers in this sacrilege of a place. If you wanted to watch church league softball, just follow the stench of middle-age roid rage and you’ll stumble onto a field where a bunch of wishes-they-weres yell at underpaid umpires in shorts over a ball hit by an overpriced metal bat 80 feet over the left field foul pole. Like who gives a shit Seth? Get back in the damn chalkless batter’s box.
I digress. All I’m saying is unless you field a team of all Yuu Suzuki’s — guys who only hit singles and homers — you’ll always be an 80s win team looking longingly up at teams who know how to fucking round a base and head to the next one on a full sprint.
Old Bear’s GM, Randy, only won because he focused on singles, homers, and striking everyone on who came to the plate against them. That world is long over, old man! Fix this stadium and you’ll fix everything you’re confused about not working like spreadsheets said they would.
I’ll send you the link of all the players on the 2065 Bears as I refuse to do a rundown of each of them because, quite frankly, the spirits only mentioned Suzuki. The pitching staff is post-season-worthy, the top ⅔’s of the lineup is deep-into-the-playoffs-worthy. Heck, I even love how the bullpen is put together to win the close games. I like this team.
But it’s a 86 win team which won’t be enough to make the playoffs as the Heartland continues its upward swing.
Well, shit. Here’s the numbers the spirits told me in the guts:
2065 Predictions:
86-76
3rd in the Pacific (no playoffs)
25 sac flies
4 sac bunts
1 triple play (they wouldn't say who turned it)
106 RBIs for Suzuki
38 respectable baseball gods upset about not enough doubles and triples
Goat for dinner
