charlie sheen: XLB commissioner. [trigger #116]

Another entry into the long list of ideas that are horribly misguided, but will inevitably be fascinating as it goes down in flames, Hindenburg style.

We are now only two months away from the inaugural game of the new XLB. Commissioner and founder Charlie Sheen introduces his new brand of baseball to the world, promising a large improvement over MLB baseball.

Posters and viral marketing have been seen all over American cities, with various provocative images, a few even related to baseball, with the now familiar tag: XLB: Winning.

You’re most probably aware of much that XLB plans to offer, but here is a rundown anyway, just in case.

As far as amenities at stadiums:

• Lingerie Cheerleaders for all teams.
• Discounted Alcohol – any time the home team is winning by more than three runs, alcohol will be half price.
• VIP Rooms for Season Ticket Holders- including porn, strippers, top shelf alcohol, and open 4 hours after the game ends.
• Clips from the movie Major League and Major League II will play between innings.

As far as the game and players are concerned:

• Fistfights at home plate on all plays when the catcher already has the ball and a player comes home. 
• Extra base awarded to all players upon stealing a base. 
• No base awarded for HBP.
• Two runs awarded per homerun. 
• Players will be suspended for not using performance enhancing drugs. 

Like the rest of Sheen’s life, the XLB will undoubtedly be a perversely entertaining disaster. 

the cubs win the world series. [trigger #113]

It’s certainly an interesting story: the tale of how the second city became the first city. Chicago had spent decades climbing out of New York’s shadow, often gaining ground. Yet, the city didn’t truly pass into the greatest of American cities in world influence and import until the Great World Series Renaissance, as it has come to be known in history books.

When the Cubbies finally broke the curse and won it all, most of us had been afraid that those lovable Cubs fans would go the way of Red Sox fans, those New England faithful who somehow surpassed the obnoxious reputations of Yankees and Phillies fans to become a fan base of entitled and deluded fans who somehow still thought of their team as plucky underdogs regardless of how much their payroll bloated.

Alas, those fears were in vain. Cubs fans never turned into a huge group of arrogant NorthEastern fan clones. Instead, the weight of a century of dashed hopes and frustration fell off their shoulders. With that weight gone, the people of Wrigleyville and beyond ascended.

It started with poetry and song. Soon came novels and screenplays. None were about the Cubs, mind you. Still, something had given way inside the formerly tortured souls of so many baseball fans, and their joy overflowed into a creative outpouring that made the Beat Generation look like a drug-addled book club.

Then came the influx of second career graduate students. Suddenly graduate schools in Chicagoland were forced to start changing their class sizes to accomodate the tremendous number of impressive, desperate applicants they were being forced to reject.

Scientific advances, research breakthroughs, political theories: the benefit of this newly educated class of Chicagoans won’t be fully grasped for decades, perhaps centuries.

Of course, it goes without saying that the greatest contribution the Cubs renaissance offered was William Randall. A season ticket holder who had been known for being ever jovial and ever drunk. He emerged from his drunken post-WS stupor three days after the victory parade, making feverish chemistry notations he only half understood. He built a laboratory in his garage, poring over countless texts and journals, until two years later he unveiled affordable cures for AIDS and Cancer before drug companies knew what hit them.

No one would have believed the Cubs victory could mean that much. The Cubs may have won the championship of the world, but their fans saved it.

first and third, base hit, go two! [trigger #9]

**continuation of trigger #8**

Emily and I try to make our way toward the nearest hallway away from the field, but so many people are pressing to see what’s happening on the field that the way is completely jammed.

Idiots!

An idea suddenly strikes me that’s absolutely terrible, but might be our only option. I go with it, leading Emily down to the field. We jump onto the grass. She asks where we’re going and I tell her that if the zombies are only coming from the Sox clubhouse, then the new private player’s entrance from player parking to the Yankees clubhouse might be our best way out of danger, or at least farther from it.

We move toward the infield, and even during Z-Day the absurdity of me walking on Yankee Stadium grass isn’t lost on me. I can’t enjoy it long though, shit’s getting worse over by the Sox dugout. We reach the infield in time to see Adrian Gonzalez save Jeter’s life by beating Youkilis’ head in with a bat. Jeter arms himself by ripping third base out of the ground.

Just as I’m wondering if that will be any use I see him jam the metal post into a zombified Yankee fan’s eye. It gives new meaning to the phrase ‘base hit.’

Two more undead Yankee fans are closing in on Jeter when he uses the base to quickly dispatch each, as if he’s been fighting off zombies with bases his entire life. He brings the base post crushing down on zombie #3’s head with impressive finality. Already, his count has gone from one kill to three. Then again, Jeter always did go from first to third as well as anyone in the game.

yankees. [trigger #8]

I walk through the open concourse of the new Yankee Stadium. It’s beautiful, far more beautiful than the old, closed, dirty concourse of the stadium of old. Yet, there is still a part of me that misses the way you would emerge from the shadow of that old tunnel into the sunlight, from complete obstruction into a perfect afternoon view of the most storied ballpark in the history of the game. It took my breath away every time.

The atmosphere here in the new stadium is electric, as it always is for games against the Red Sox, even this early in the year. Word is starting to pass through the grapevine between fans that Pedroia won’t be playing in today’s game. Something about flu-like symptoms. Another fan says he saw Youkilis throwing up on the field before batting practice. It looks like this is going to be a strange game, especially if the Sox keep losing players this quickly.

This is frustrating. I hate when injury or illness tampers with the game. Don’t get me wrong, I find Youkilis and Pedroia as arrogant and irritating as the next rational person, but I can’t stand it when a team isn’t at full strength.

Emily and I make the customary rounds along the circular route of the concourse, getting every view of the field I can, basking in the spring glow of baseball goodness. With first pitch approaching, it’s time to find the way to our seats.

The start of the game is approaching in earnest now. The fielders have taken the field, Sabathia is warming up, Crawford is taking his final cuts before the umpire kicks things off. Ellsbury is in the hole, having been moved up to take Pedroia’s spot in the two slot. The game is about to begin, and all is as it should be.

Then there is a strange commotion in the Sox dugout. Crawford and Ellsbury don’t seem to notice, but everyone else on the Red Sox seem to be interrupted by some sort of commotion. That’s when I notice Pedroia stumbling his way out onto the field. Something is wrong, his gait is halted and confused. Pedroia is many things, neither of which are confused, hesitation isn’t in his nature.

Before Ellsbury notices, Pedroia is on him, he’s grabbed him from behind. Suddenly Pedroia bites Ellsbury’s neck hard enough to take off a chunk of flesh. There is commotion on the field. I grip Emily’s hand and get ready to make a move. Most people don’t seem to realize what’s going on, but being a huge nerd doesn’t come without its advantages. I know exactly what’s happening, the zombie apocalypse has begun, and we are in one of the two or three worst possible environments one can find himself in at this moment in history. The bleacher creatures are minutes away from getting a whole lot nastier. Shit is definitely about to hit the fan.

Of course Pedroia would be patient zero. Douche.

We weave our way through our row while everyone else is still craning to see what’s happening on the field. By the time we reach the end of our section, I take another look at the field to see Pedroia has moved on toward Crawford. Carl must do some movie watching in that multi-million dollar Florida condo of his, because he seems to have figured out what’s up as fast as I did. He lets Pedroia get almost within reaching distance when he uses that trademark speed of his to slip to left and around Pedroia’s back before using his bat to crush former middle infielder’s head. One zombie down. Not bad Carl Crawford, not bad at all.

For a moment, Crawford is dazed by having to kill a teammate, he doesn’t see that Ellsbury has reanimated behind him. Ellsbury is about to get his teeth into Crawford when a blistering Sabathia fastball hits Ellsbury right between the eyes, it hits him hard enough to make Ellsbury’s life as a zombie a very short one.

I need to stop watching, fans will start turning soon, if they haven’t already, and things are going to get very ugly, very quickly once that happens. We need to get the hell out of the Bronx, fast.