by BB Sheehan
Ron: From the looks of it she hasn’t forgotten what O’Really is all about. She is sitting in the stands with a meatball and mushroom pizza from Sorrento’s.
Lon: A classic. Don’t forget to mention the ice cold six pack of beer in the little cooler.
Ron: It looks like she forgot to invite the rest of the gang.
Lon: There could be more to this rendezvous than meets the eye.
Ron: Here’s Mickey O’Really. He looks around and wonders where everyone is.
Lon: He sees J.P. and the pizza.
Ron: I’m not sure which one he saw first. I’ve heard of the carrot and the stick, but this one is the pizza, beer and the stick.
Lon: Mickey and J.P. are friendly, they seem okay, but Mickey is still looking around, oh here is the rest of the gang. Two cars are pulling up. Mickey and J.P. won’t have to drink alone.
Ron: That was close. I’d hate to see O’Really’s homecoming spoiled by a lack of support.
Lon: He’s not going to eat all that pizza by himself is he?
Ron: He’s always been a team player.
Lon: And so has his girlfriend.
CHAPTER 87
I can’t get too comfortable, I’m back in Iowa before I even get some sleep. No time to think about where I’m from or where I’m going and I promise I won’t get homesick. Once you’ve seen Iowa it is hard to think of your old neighborhood in just the same old way. I should have brought a pizza with me. There aren’t too many Italians here. I guess they didn’t migrate to places where you can make corn liquor, but you can’t make wine, because the grapes are as wrong as the growing conditions. J.P. bit my neck so I wouldn’t forget about her for at least a couple of days. I’ll just tell the team that I was hit by a pitch.
The team didn’t have any questions, they all had their own trips and now we’re back all with stories to tell that maybe we’ll get to someday when things aren’t as fast and we’re older and slow enough to enjoy the drawn out telling of a story. Young people don’t like long stories. Everything is a long story to old people. Maybe that’s why we don’t always like to listen to each other talk. Players don’t want to talk too much here about little stories, because soon they will be where they talk about us like we’re a big story.
CHAPTER 88
Chicago. Major League Baseball. I’m leaving Iowa. Don’t want to be a one song wonder. I’m going to that place I want to be even if I am player twenty-five on a twenty-five man team. It’s like being the last player picked in a ball yard pick-up game and being made to play right field if another player gets injured and makes room for you on the field. I’ll take it. They say they need three catchers on the team, so here I am catcher number three, guaranteed no one will remember me before they can forget about me. The Iowa coach tells me to bring my gear, but reminds me that I’ll probably catch a cold from the Lake Michigan breezes before I catch a pitch from a major league pitcher. He plays in the tough love league. No one sends him cards at Christmas unless the team is playing and they need a line-up card. Ho, ho, ho, here’s today’s lineup. If Santa Claus strikes out, it just isn’t his day and there’s always next year. Time to toughen up the little elves.
CHAPTER 89
“I’ve had to make a decision.”
St. Sligo is funniest when he thinks he is serious. He is being serious now and I am trying not to break out in a ridiculous grin. We are in a Wrigleyville bar after my first night at Wrigley. The first games I wore the uniform we were on the road in Cincinnati and Colorado. I didn’t play. The players aren’t sure who I am, maybe a super eccentric fan who thinks I am really on the team when I clearly don’t belong on the bus.
“It was me” says Sligo.
I don’t know what to say. I don’t know what he is talking about.
“What, you killed the Kennedys?”
“Almost as bad. I put the curse on the Cubs. All that goat stuff is crap.”
“Remember a few nights ago when you thought I had too much to drink and you started talking about sobriety.”
“That was just the booze talking.”
“No matter, you still made sense.”
“Statistically that is likely to happen.”
“You’ve been talking to Bill James again.”
“Enough with your obscure references. I am responsible for the curse on the Cubs.”
“Where were you when President Kennedy was assassinated?”
“You know there are two things about JFK’s murder that anyone alive then carries with them. They remember where they were when the heard the news and they have theory about what really happened.”
Now he is really serious. I’ve heard this story before, just stay with me.
“I was on the grassy knoll with Uncle Billy Bob. He was teaching me how to clean a hunting rifle and something went wrong.”
I know that Sligo didn’t move to the US of A until 1964, but a good story is a good story even if it is completely fecal matter.
“Somehow the Warren Report failed to mention that.”
“Since when did you become a conspiracy buff? I came here to talk about baseball.”
“Let’s talk.”
“It was the summer of 69.”
“Goddamn hippie.”
“No, goddamn Cub fan. I didn’t really get baseball at first but I found the left field bleachers to be like a big open air bar and they opened before a lot of the local joints did. Thank god for day baseball. So I got to know some of the regulars in the lean years around 1966 and they were generous enough to explain the intricacies of the game. Not everything they said was true. I found out later that I didn’t really have to buy everyone a beer after the opposing team hit a home run. The Cubs sucked, but I was having a good time making American friends. Then came the summer of 69. The Cubs were becoming big time bashers and I met a wonderful young lovely who I promised to marry as soon as the Cubs were finished winning the World Series. Well history is history. She didn’t like it when I said wait until next year.”
So this is the curse?
“So this is the curse.”
I just thought that.
“The curse is a lack of commitment.”
“Where is she now Slig?”
“I moved to California. I’m not sure what happened to her.”
“Didn’t you ever want to look her up?”
“Yeah, but I never did. I’ve made a decision. My lack of commitment put the real curse on the Cubs. As penance I can never set foot in Wrigley again until the Cubs win the World Series.”
“What about the neighborhood bars?”
“This isn’t eternal damnation. This is penance. There’s a big difference you freaking heathen.”
Which is shorter, eternal damnation, or the length of time it will take the Cubs to win the World Series? I’m not going to argue over statistics.
“So you’ll never set foot in Wrigley again?”
“They have to win the World Series. Then I’ll wait until next year and I’ll be there on Opening Day.”
He is serious and he has a plan. I’ll stay out of the way.
CHAPTER90
So you think I’ve got it all worked out with the Cubs in first place and me finding a way to get with the big club, plus Sligo taking himself out of the old ballgame just to wander the streets of Wrigleyville with his radio headset on while recording every moment on his scorecard. One of the beat reporters notices that I’m always talking to St. before and after the games and decides to do a story on him, because he thinks I’ve befriended a homeless man. Cub fans like the story and all of a sudden I have a fan club and the fan club notices that the Cubs won ten in a row since I was called up from Iowa even though the only time I’m near the field during the games is to warm-up pitchers in the bull pen. A bigger fan club starts in the bleachers called The Sons of Sligo. They check on Uncle’s whereabouts during the game and cheer him especially late in the game after a fe
w cold ones. When he gets tired of walking he’ll take a break in Murphy’s Bleachers especially during the hot August day games. I don’t think he has had to buy a drink yet. People are impressed with his resolve and hope that one day he’ll be back in the stands at Wrigley, buying his own beer for a change.
The writer gets Sligo to talk about the Cubbiephrenia website, so he has to hire a professional web person to handle all the hits. He came up with a new category that he borrowed from the Irish.
Cubs Proverbs, A Blessing or A Curse:
“Beware the Ivy, it hides a brick wall.”
“Put silk on a goat and it’s still a goat.” (Okay that one is Irish)
“Beware of Greeks bearing goats.”
“A curse is just a curse.”
“May the goats of hell bite your butt.”
“May your wife and children root for the White Sox.”
CHAPTER 91
I’m back in Iowa. Back at Wrigley my fan club is following St. Sligo around before, after and during the home games. The management was worried that I would get rusty since I’m not getting any real game time experience. They told me I would be with the Iowa team, playing everyday for two weeks and then I’d be back in Chicago as the third catcher for the stretch drive. The Cubs lost the first two games after I went to Iowa and the fans saw that as a sign that I should return immediately. Even the Sons of Sligo club is getting involved, making signs and sending drunken babbling messages to their favorite blogs. I’m afraid that seeing me play might change their opinion about where I belong so for the next two weeks I’m happy being in Iowa.
The team wants to know about my vacation in the show. I give them the whole story until they’re tired of it. Even though I didn’t play they are looking at me to see if I’m still the same person and how all that attention affected my humble nature. I wasn’t up there long, but somehow things have changed. No one bothered to fill me in on how it went here and I forgot to ask.
Now everyone I know from Pedro wants to see me at Wrigley, but I tell them that for right now I’m not making any promises. Hey, don’t wait, come on and see me play in Iowa. Have all the corn you can eat.
The fans here want to know who I saw and what I heard, so I tried not to get into specifics, especially since I didn’t know many, but now I’m signing autographs and people are taking my picture. All in Iowa. I’m in a good place in the human race today and I’m playing the game.
I’m living and dying the game now and at night I talk to fans at the local brew house. One of them, a guy whose name I never remember, but I remember him because he is always talking about his dog and how I should get one just like it. He tells me about this weird cable show with a guy who wears black eye patches to look like he is blind. I say, “Eddie Wrecks” and the dog guy says, “yes, and you know what is really weird is the blind guy talks about you”. I’m a little worried. This is bad PR. The wrong kind of attention. I’ve already got Sligo stealing headlines. If they connect me with Shane/Wrecks the press will think I’m a weirdo magnet from Lala Land and start asking me if I ever hung out with the Manson Family.
Shane was dangerous enough as a teacher, now he is ranting and raving on TV. So the dog guy arranges for the bar to show the next “Eddie Wrecks: Blind Like Me” and with word of mouth we get a good crowd. Shane is acting like he is blind and hosting a TV talk show to highlight awareness about blind people. One thing he overlooked is that the show won’t help blind people. They can’t see it. They’re blind!!! He is wearing stupid black eye patches that he keeps lifting, like no one is going to notice that he is peeking. He doesn’t really use the show to help the blind. He just rants and raves about whatever he wants to just like he did in the classroom.
He is good for laughs. Except one guy in the crowd stands up and yells, “This guy is making fun of blind people. My little sister is blind and there’s nothing funny about that.”
Shane holds up my picture, then pretends he is looking at it even though he has blinders on.
“This man is part of a conspiracy to ruin baseball.”
Everyone boos.
“I have a memo here from the proper authorities, which I would read if I could, you see I’m blind.”
Several people yell, “You’re not blind.”
“This memo is from a highly secure source on an always right, never wrong channeling the news from heaven straight to your soul on a show called “Belief It Or Go To Hell”.
No one has heard of the show. I think he is making it up. He holds up my picture again.
“My sources will follow this alleged baseball player and we will detect the wrong to which he belongs.”
Booing and sympathy is all I hear. The sympathy of the crowd is nice, but I have a stalker bringing his holy hell night my way.
I should be good, but I’m in crazy territory. Maybe the extra adrenaline of being stalked by a psycho will sharpen up my game, make me look like I’m playing for my life which I am. Like at the beach most people are just floating, but some are really surfing, because in surfing, if you’re doing it right it could kill you.
J.P. shows up in my bar in Iowa unannounced and is not surprised to see me talking to a couple of cute young fans.
“Enjoying the perks of stardom you stud stallion you?”
“Are you stalking me too?”
“Yes, but in a good way.”
I couldn’t think of a better way. I look at her now and yes, maybe I’d give the whole thing up for her.
“Shane wants to kill you.”
“He had his chances in high school.”
“He’ll take his chance with his new show.”
“I don’t know what I did to him that any other student didn’t do to him.”
“I think he wants to be you.”
“That’s good. If he wanted to be you he’d have to dress as a woman and go around kissing lesbians.”
“They’d make a man out of him.”
“Or take it if you know what I mean.”
“You have to be careful. The man is crazy and he is obsessed with you.”
“I’m obsessed with you.”
“Now you’re talking crazy. You’re obsessed with baseball, not with me.”
“You’re like an umpire calling me out when I’m safe. You think because you say it it’s true.”
“Maybe it is true.”
The conversation ends and we find a different way to resolve our differences.
CHAPTER 92
Only Cub fans, mad dogs and Englishmen go out in the midday sun. You can make an exception for Californians - they never know what time it is or whose time it isn’t. Californians will try to paint colors on the sun. Blind ambition.
I’d like to say that only Shane would go on TV without his sanity, but we all know that never stopped anyone. Who will stop the crazy Shane man? Maybe I can arrange some kind of pay per view match between Sligo and Shane. I’m sure Sligo could handle him no matter what the choice of weapons or whatever the choice of insanity.
My choice of insanity is baseball. I choose the weapons of the game and if I play them sane I can make my name in a one thru nine frame. If I fail the fans can blame me and I’m in the hall of shame.
Shane won’t show up here in Iowa. A blind fool thrashing away at the cornfields would get a lot of attention. They would put him away. He’s in his own blind captivity and is a punishment unto himself. If he would only hurt himself and leave the rest of us alone. We don’t want to feel his insane pain. Watching his show I still don’t know what it feels like to be blind, but I know what it feels like to be blindsided.
CHAPTER 93
I’m back at Wrigley. I say it like I live here. I don’t live here, I play here. I don’t play during game, but I’m big during practice and warm-ups. The count is up to thirteen if you’re counting the consecutive number of games I haven’t appeared in since beginning my big league career. The Cubs have won all thirteen games
, not that I can take any credit. While I was back in Iowa the big league squad only played .500 ball, most of that on the road which is where things don’t go as well as they do in Chicago.
Sligo gets more attention than me walking around the park during games. He had a custom made Cubs jersey and cap made, except it has black where there used to be blue and he has his name stitched on the back of both in case you were wondering about who the fool was walking in circles.
I’m good luck. Until they see me play. The Sun-Times runs a piece on me with the headline, “LUCKY CHARM MICKEY O’REALLY”. The article says that I’m the new Moonlight Graham. That’s a baseball movie reference that either you get or you don’t. If I explained it everything would be lost in the outfield and I don’t want to talk about corn and Iowa anymore. I was hoping I got to play before they labeled me. I want to play here in Chicago. I know he is my uncle, but I wish Saint would leave. This team doesn’t need saints and it doesn’t need the ghost of Cub fans past haunting the streets of Wrigleyville. I had an uncle and now I have his geeks following me around like I’m going to lead them to the promised land. As Saint Sligo’s fictional uncle Billy Bob once told him, “You can’t pick your family, but you can pick them off with a hunting rifle.” I’m afraid to ask Sligo where Uncle Billy Bob is now that we still don’t need him, but I’m afraid he’s out there, watching everything from them there hills. Maybe Shane is fictional Uncle Billy Bob. Or maybe Uncle Sligo has multiple personalities and he is acting out all of them in triple time. I’m just trying to play baseball. If all three of those crazies are in one head then I’m going to slap them silly, stooges style. Nyuk, nyuk, nyuk
CHAPTER 94
The inevitable occurs. I’m used as a pinch hitter. We are thirteen innings into a home game with the Mississippi River Rats, the St. Louis Cardinals and there is no one else but me to pinch hit and I hit a home run to win the game. If Cub fans could vote for the hall of fame I’d be the only player in there with one at bat.
I’m a Cub. The fans love me. I’m going to quit now and become an announcer. My catch phrase, “Oh for the love of Cubs, what the hell just happened?” I don’t want to walk down memory lane with Uncle Sligo, I’m living here and I don’t want to hear about the summer of ’69 and I don’t need to hear the oldies, “Yesterday’s Gone”, “Up On The Roof”, or Jack Brickhouse’s Polka Favorites. Okay, I could hear “She’s Too Fat For Me” one more time, but time has moved on and so has the beer truck. Keep up or fall behind.
