Getting to Know Gary Greene

Like all days that end in a descent to Hell, this was a beauty. Nine am, we made short work of St-Antoine de l'Abbe, the cockiest collection of La Belle Province. Afternoon was an easy test from la meilleure Equipe de L'est, an all-French-speaking bunch of guys going under the peculiar Scottish handle of Bonnie Glen. What was that all about? A no-hitter. Fifty miles back home, ready to rock and roll. Herc, a friend or an acquaintance, was getting married soon, and I was going to the mixed stag. Herc, an amazing athlete who had never stooped to actually get an education when he had the chance, was assured by all that he was going to be the Next Big hockey star. Or even the next Nicklaus. Until he lost an eye. And then he had to get his higher education at Texaco Tech. However his uncanny ability to attract women of means left him home and dry, almost. Play golf, drink with his entourage, and home to supportive domesticity. And now, marriage. (Of course, the lady in question found that the fun of a what-the-hell setup wilted and drooped under the bright glare of permanence, and she left in less than a year). Sarah picked me up, apparently I had a good time, and she poured me out of the passengers' seat onto my doorstep. Two am and hungry, with the fridge bereft of all provision except ketchup and frost. Not relishing the prospect of a ketchup and frost sandwich, a cheeseburger run was necessary. (I say again, 'apparently') Next in my train of memory was a voice in my head yelling 'LOOKOUT!', sitting in the back seat of the nice Constable McConnery's car, and a blurry trip to Crowbar Motel, my home for the remainder of the night. Gary Green was waiting for me in the check-in line, where a frisking and removal of shoelaces and belt awaited. Green, by his long string of screamed obscenity-laced invective, seemed to know the drill and didn't like it much. Notwithstanding voicing his displeasure with yet further obscenity at 110 decibels the rest of the night, a couple of hours sleep in my cozy steel and concrete cell came and went, and then it was time to make it home with 40 cents in my pocket. At 6 am on a Sunday morning. Six miles. I walked. Goodbye, Gary. It was nice being cursed by a master.

Safely home, and approaching sobriety, I needed to think fast. I had to make it back to the ball tournament sans car, money, glove and spikes, and a dressing for my bleeding arm. Fortunately, the news had had a good airing on the underground jungle bongo network. The phone started ringing. Les: "How Aaare ya?' delivered I am sure, with that half-smile he used for such emergencies. "Need a ride down?". Not sure yet, buddy, call me back in a half hour. Randy: "I drove past the accident last night and wondered where you ended up. They didn't beat you up too bad, did they?" The nice officers had been perfect gentlemen. True, they had. One even offered to lend me money for a cab. Sarah: "ARE YOU OK? WHAT HAPPENED???" I drank too much and drove my car. I wouldn't have gone to Harveys if you had stopped for me as I (apparently) asked. I said I might need a ride and promised a call back. Ken (an un-repentant teetotaller): "See what happens? Why don't you ever listen to me?" Thanks for that, I'll nay do it agin. Les: "Gail is on the way, she'll be there in about 45." Thanks, and I really meant it. Called Sarah, told her to come over right away if she wanted to come to the Duchy of Tintagel for the remainder of the tournament. She came in a flash.

Sunny drive to the Duchy, that headache who had been promising an appearance, blasted my poor pate like a couple of wiseguys filling in a deadbeat on the rules. It was a nice ride. Les' old Dodge 318 purred along le quatre-dix-sept at 80, windows open for the breeze and sunny tunes for a sunny day. All I could think of was returning to a real slammer, with a hundred Gary Greens. Too early to think like that, I rode with a couple of pretty girls on to the Duchy. Tired, hungover, headache, squinty eyes and a bloody arm, I was plenty warm for Game One. Skip lent me his spikes two sizes too small, Les gave me his battered old glove. The sinker was doing its' nasty work on right handers, breaking down and back at the calves of the befuddled kids from the far side of P4W. Left handers got a high and tight rise to hit off their fists if they wanted to. At least for eight innings. Les 'forgot' and called for a wasted upshoot on Bernie, the best hitter of their bench. I didn't waste it enough, Bernie dialled 8, and the first game was lost 0-1. Suffice to say, from where I was sitting, we could play until November and not get a run from Finn the farm-kid. I managed a single and a steal of second with none away, and I could have stood on my head on second from that point on, watching three batters chase pitches that started thigh-high, and ended over their heads. Buffalo Gill came back to the bench after striking out on a called pitch to say that the ball sounded kinda high. We still had one game left to win the thing, but it was at night, and although I got better under the lights, Finn became unhittable. Zero-1 again, and I had to face the low and lonely ride home in the backseat of Les' car; head resting in Sarah's lap, and the near future taking shape in a fearful brain. The Perseids were awfully pretty on a cool, moonless night.