Fresh shots of ironic disaffection.

 

 

                  
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LUDIC LOG

04.15.2003

"Who's up?"

"Dictionary Williams. Black as night, but if he hits, all my life isn't black."

"I'm throwing."

"Throw it down."

"Six. God damn it!"

"Don't swear."

"Two men on and two outs. I should have put in a reliever. Fucking ties it up."

"The empty sky bears witness to his mighty homer."

"Just deal the cards, Jack."

"Sure."

"Next up?"

"Boldieu. Immediately sticks in my mind as Beaulieu -- street where I learned to cry and be scared of the dark and of my brother for many years."

"Can it, for God's sake. Lefty, isn't he?"

"Switch-hitter, madman, bum and angel."

"Screw it. I'm going with the percentages. I'm putting in Corning."

"Corning in for the New York Chevvies. Fireballing southpaw, God's own closer, strange solitary Catholic mystic poet..."

"Jesus, Jack, can't you cut out that fruity crap and play?"

"Don't take the Lord's name in vain, Lionel. It's just to pass the time, at Christmas, a hobby, while the pipes freeze in old Lowell, heroic-looking boys of summer where all around is white..."

"I'm throwing."

"Four. Ball one."

"Come on, baby. Nine! Strike one. At least I can take this into extra innings. Heart of my order coming up, Jacky boy."

"Sampas, left fielder, naked endless head full of love for the bat. Will he turn at a dozen paces (for baseball is a duel) and look up at the short porch for the last time?"

"You're giving me a headache. Let's get this out first."

"Throw, man, throw."

"Seven! Strike two."

"Throw!"

"Four. Ball two."

"This is the night game, what it does to you. I have nothing to offer anybody except my own confusion."

"Shut up, already. I'm throwing...damn! Five. Ball three."

"Full count. Truth revealed in a moment. When you lose your reason, you attain highest perfect knowing. All things are like visions beyond the reach of the human mind."

"If this was a real game I'd bean you, I swear to God."

"Throw."

"Deuce."

"Home run."

"Fuck."

"For hundreds of miles around, black night, the lamps of Desolation are lit, to a childish sport, but the Void is a child too. Mighty Boldieu has gone yard."

"Jack, did you ever wonder why you never made the real baseball team?"

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