2008

18-12
[Franchise record: 411-394-6]

“Slow-Pitch Scorecard as Chromosomal Scan,” by the not-particularly-noted artist
Leonardo van Wicktengogh (the Younger). Used by permission of the Walker Art Center,
where it is Scotch-taped to the wall in the employee breakroom.

As the designated mouthpiece for the Historian, I am used to being treated with a fair degree of snark and hauteur. That seems to be the way of semi-divine beings. If they were 100 percent holy, they’d be blissful and kind, and if they were purely mortal, they couldn’t enter your home through the walls and fog up your mirrors and doorknobs with their chilly, horsehide-scented breath.

          It’s no big deal-I’m used to it. What I’m not used to is the Historian taking a nonchalant, almost indifferent attitude toward the ballclub. When he showed up this year to dictate his observations, the first words out of his mouth were “Sorry I couldn’t make it to the tournament this year, dude. I hear you guys did great, though. I read about it on your website. Kudos and all that. Two championships in a row.” He paused, and then he said, very pro-forma, “Whoo-hoo.”

          “Hey,” I said. “You’ve never called me ‘dude’ before.”

          “Oops, my bad,” he said. “I’m really tired. I forgot I wasn’t speaking to an equal.”

          “So what happened?” I said. “You were busy feeding clichés to Ron Gardenhire? You were making prank phone calls to Barry Bonds?”

          “I was on kid duty that day,” he said proudly.

          “You had to chaperone the Little League World Series?”

          “No. Kid duty. My kid. His mother was in Beijing with the women’s softball team.”

          My mind was reeling. “Hold on,” I said. “Just hold on. Aren’t you, like, 237 years old? Didn’t you once tell me you were hovering over Elihu Phinney’s cow pasture when Abner Doubleday chalked the first foul line? And don’t you belong to an order of beings that has evolved beyond such messy enterprises as reproduction?”

          “Clearly you didn’t pay much attention in Greek mythology class,” the Historian said with a snort. “People like me actually have quite the social life.”

          I really didn’t want to go there, so I said nothing.

          “Anyway, I was tied up with Feigner that day,” he said. “He had a little bit of an aura infection.”

          “You named your kid Feigner?” I said.

          “It was between that and Eichten,” he replied. “Two men with legendary wings, but Eddie Feigner pitched 238 perfect games.”

          There was a silence, during which the Historian seemed to be chuckling, no doubt at the thought of some incredibly precious thing his Feigner had done.

          “Do you have kids?” he asked.

          “For Pete’s sake,” I said. “How many times have you been here? Yes, I have kids. Including a baby.”

          “Cloth or disposable?” he said. “Never mind, I see the pallet-load of Pampers in the nipper’s room. We use cloth. Our diapers are made from the uniforms of defunct minor-league baseball teams. I got the idea from Cindy McCain.”

          “Whatever,” I said.

          “Ah, kids,” he mused. “Aren’t they great?”

          I allowed as how, yes, they were pretty great.

          “I approve, by the way, of this baby boomlet your ballclub is having lately,” he said. “The last time this happened, it worked out pretty well. I mean, didn’t your second-generation players, Ben Wareham and Johnny Rothman, pretty much spark the team in the tournament? Would you have this dynasty-in-the making without them?”

          “Well, it’s a team effort,” I said. “Everybody makes a contribution-”

          “Hey, and isn’t it true that Johnny Rothman did that thing his old man is famous for? You know, where there’s a guy on second and you’re playing short, and someone hits you a ground ball, and you wind up like you’re going to throw it to first, but you hang onto it, and the guy on second starts digging for third, and he runs right into your tag, and he looks-and feels-like a complete dork?”

          “He sure did,” I said.

          “Man, that’s awesome,” said the Historian. “Imagine having your kid do something like that. Do you think that’s genetic, or-”

          But then he was gone. He must have heard Feigner crying.

Roster

Rebecca Apel
Brian Bakst
Chris Benson
Clifford Bentley
Jim Bickal
Jeff Bina
Chris Bjork
Fred Child
Liz Dadd
Chris Danforth
Tim Dennis
Linda Fantin
Allison Gredesky
Randy Greenly
Amy Hyatt-Blat
Ward Jacobson
Jeff Johnson
Laurie Johnson
Jeff Jones
Valerie Kahler
Jenner Klemme
Gus Liepitz
Maria Montello
Kari Ness
Srini Radhakrishna
Jill Riley
Johnny Rothman
Tom Rothman
Tom Scheck
Al Schoch
Elizabeth Stawicki
David Temple
Ben Wareham
Bill Wareham
Linda Wareham
Tom Weber
Kate Weinstock
Mason Wibstad

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