After consecutive late inning meltdowns against the Feelies over the receding weekend, the Fish bounced back like sturgeon, braining the Brooze 4-1* on their way back to the water. The main takeaway from the big show under the stars beyond the peeled back roof of Macondo Banana Massacre Field as the recent cool front dissipated and the usual early summer dense-as-mud tropical air once more overlays our little dystopia on the karst is that EL KEED IS BACK. After a slightly shaky first in which he walked but stranded two, the only one of the Feesh who has ackcherley spent any meaningful time in the water pitched six more dominant innings, allowing two hits, no runs while striking out eleven (yes dear friends, El Keed can go to eleven again!). He looked like El Keed of old. Those sour, frustrated grimaces he’s been sporting when missing his spots were replaced by that cryogenic plateward stare. His body language was supple, smooth and compact. He threw neutrinos and, when necessary, spin three charmed quarks. He was, to put it mildly, the physiognomic incarnation of great modern poetry. Jar Jar baseball let him fire 100 pitches in his first start of the season going seven hegemonic frames. Jar Jar Baseball felt so bad for Craig Counsell, he wanted to give him a big hug and say “there there, you won’t have to face him again this series. You get Adam Conley tomorrow.”
On the other hand, one of the quackiest moments in the still neotenic Feesh season occurred in the second inning, when with Marcell the Damned on first J T Realmuto crushed a pill onto Tommy’s toefins which should have been a two run homer, but for reasons known only to Marcell – who might have been undergoing a brief spell of Jobu possession for all we know – the Excoriated One, apparently thinking the ball had been caught, ran back to first base where he was passed by Realmuto on his trot. Realmuto was called out, the home run recalled as a single, Ozuna was allowed to score, and the Twilight Zone squirted out the rest of the game back to ordinary time and space like a watermelon seed.
Once again, the strange attractor ruptures and confronts the trauma of dissipation as the Feesh climb back to 17-14 and gain a half parsec on the inert Feelies for the honor of third place (which, if you were Kundalini oriented, would be the bellybutton chakra):
*Just a note: “4-1” has had mystical connotations for me, the way, say, 9-9-9 bejiggles Reslugnicans, ever since this exchange from Miller’s Crossing, one of my (and Craig Calcaterra’s) sacred texts:
Tom: What’s the disposition?
Terry: Last night four to one. Dana Cudahy went up with the house.
Tom: And the others?
Terry: Leo’s. The old man is still an artist with the Thompson.