Pitch Schlock

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Art Kumbalek

I’m Art Kumbalek and man oh manischewitz what a world, ain’a? So listen, a quiz to begin with:

Who is most likely to be locked up behind bars in the sort of/near future? Here are your choices:

*Donald focking Trumpel-thinskin.

*Hillary Clinton.

*Pope Francis.

*The corpse of Mr. Fred Rogers.

OK. Make your pick and get your ass down to Vegas, pronto. I’ll bet you a buck two-eighty that with the savvy wager, you got some dough coming for your wallet but good.

But hey, PLAY BALL! Major League Baseball “the one remaining professional sport where some of the players on the field look just as fat and out of shape as Joe Schmo in the left field bleachers complaining about forking out $15 bucks for a cup of beer) has fired up its new season with all kinds of rules changes and such—a pitch clock to prevent pitchers and batters from dicking around until the cows come home to roost, bigger bases that look like Pizza Hut delivery pizza boxes, no more shifting of defensive players around the field so that one-such 2nd-baseman can no longer sneak up to the plate and de-pants the batter in mid-swing. All changes intended to reduce the length of the game so that there’ll be less time spent watching guys whiff on strike three.

I’m all for the change; although, I don’t think they’ve gone far enough. They want to lower the amount of time for game-play—how ’bout they lower the cost of walking through the gate so’s a Joe Six-Pack guy like me doesn’t have to fork over the equivalent medical cost of a liver transplant for a seat to plant my aching butt within it, what the fock.

And just to “indicated” to you’s that I am indeed a bi-partisan sniffer of the days happenings here (even though I have never voted one single Republican for any office and you can go all the way back when I was first legally allowed to cast a ballot back in 1972 at the age of 21, although I could’ve been shipped off to a foreign land, let’s say somewhere in Southeast Asia, at a much younger age so’s I could’ve had my head blown off so’s to add my name of to the list of 58,000 dead American soldiers in Vietnam, so’s to protect… “protect,” cripes, I never understood the “protect” and “”freedom,” there and everywhere over there, but here’s a little nostalgic story culled from all the above:

Back sometime in the ’90s, President Bill Clinton attended the opening day baseball game at Camden Yards in Baltimore with First Lady Hillary Clinton.Before the game began, a secret service man came up to him and whispered in his ear.

The president suddenly picked up Hillary and heaved her out onto the field. The secret service man came running up to Bill and said, “Mr. President, sir, perhaps I had misspoken. I meant to say that it’s time to throw out the first pitch. That would be PITCH, not the word that rhymes with it, Mr. President.” Ba-ding!

And speaking of baseball and stories and time passed, there is this chestnut for your springtime perusal:

Two old guys, Bill and Bert, are sitting on a Pittsburgh park bench feeding pigeons and talking about baseball, just like they did every day. 

Bill turns to Bert and says, “Do you think there’s baseball in heaven?” 

Bert thinks a minute and say, “Don’t know, Bill. But let’s make a deal: If I die first, I’ll come back and tell you, and if you die first, you come back and tell me if there is baseball in heaven.” 

They shake on it and, sadly, a few months later Bill passes on. 

One day soon afterward, Bert is sitting there feeding the pigeons, alone, when he hears a voice whisper, “Bert... Bert....” 

Bert responds, “Bill! Is that you?” 

“At your service, Bert,” whispers the spirit of Bill. 

Bert asks, “So, my friend, is there baseball in heaven?” 

Bill says, “I got good news and I got bad news for you, Bert.” 

“I’ll have the good news first,” says Bert. 

Bill says, “There is baseball in heaven.” 

Bert says, “That’s great! What news could be bad enough to ruin that!?” 

Bill says, “You’re pitching on Friday.” Up, up, and outta here, ba-ding!

So before I go, as tradition dictates this time of year, it occurs to me that you’s may have some kids/grandkids or assorted hanger-ons coming by your place this Easter Sunday ’round the corner. And these katzenjammers, etc., may wonder why the fock they’ve got to go searching for candy baskets and/or decorated eggs instead of simply being handed the booty. Well, here’s the story you can pass over to them, in case you’ve forgotten from my several previous retellings. It may be in the Bible, although I can’t say for sure since I never ever did get all the way through that so-called good book:

After the Roman soldiers took Christ off the cross, they chose a couple flunkies to guard the cave where they’d put the body. Well sir, these two goofballs got good and bored from guarding a dead guy so they went into town to enjoy a couple, three cocktails. The next morning, they made a routine check of the cave and the first thing they said was, “Jesus H. Christ! This cave’s empty,” not realizing that by this time Jesus had been resurrected up to heaven. They thought somebody had snatched the body and hid it somewheres else, but they couldn’t very well ask other soldiers to help ’cause they knew they were in hot water. 

So they asked a bunch of kids who were hanging around to help search. Natch’, they didn’t find the Lord but the kids got a big charge from all the excitement anyways. The next year on the same day, the parents sent the kids out to look for Jesus again, if only to embarrass the Romans for losing or misplacing such a hot-shot like Christ. The years came and went and eventually parents decided to hide little candies and eggs around the town to find ’cause they thought it would be more fun for the kids than looking for a dead body. Ba-ding!!

And so it’s time for my Dismissal of you’s by me with this prayer: “Lord, looks like we’re done here for another focking week. Praise be to me for making it through without losing my marbles all over the floor,” ’cause I’m Art Kumbalek and I told you so.