Ed. Note: Curry's near-true Tampa tale was originally written in 1997. The recent Subway Series gave us a reason to throw this back on air. The story revolves around a matchup between the minor-league Mets and Yankees and will provide startling insight into the monomaniacal relationship between these two organizations.

THE RITES OF SUMMER - unemployment, citrus fruit, and minor-league baseball - were being threatened. A growing sense of guilt coupled with a shrinking bank account had left me scrambling to find a job. Work was a venomous institution, and guilt a debilitating emotion. I longed to eliminate them both. But until I had the freedom to do so, financial or otherwise, my only alternative was to carpet bomb the bowling alleys with applications, or maybe that job as curator of the Big Daddy Don Garlits Museum of Drag Racing would come through.

Meanwhile, citrus groves across the country were infested by the Mediterranean fruit fly. Like most plagues found in America, the medfly was common to California. Now it had hit Florida and the Department of Agriculture had responded with a series of Malathion air-strikes against infested groves. Malathion is a pesticide with "very mild" side effects for humans. If this defense failed, the next, and last, resort would be the scorched earth theory. Burn the infested groves to the ground to avoid citrus genocide. If your eye is your downfall, then gouge it out. Still, I was pissed. There was nothing I despised more than a lackluster grapefruit crop.

It had been only two years since the last strike, but eleven years since the Mets had won the World Series, and nearly twenty years since the "Mad Hungarian" Al Hrabosky had stalked the mound of Busch Stadium cursing at midair. But these were major league concerns and my passion was for minor league baseball. It was mental Novocaine sitting in 3 dollar seats, bloodshot eyes hidden behind dark sunglasses, harassing two umpires for failing to do the job of four.

But the local minor league scene had suddenly assumed a couple of major league characteristics in the form of two high priced foreign pitchers. The Tampa Bay Devil Rays, a team that didn't begin major league play until 1998, had signed right-handed pitcher and Cuban defector Rolando Arrojo to a $7 million contract. Arrojo had fled the Georgia hotel where the Cuban National team was staying during the 1996 Summer Olympics by strapping himself to the back bumper of a 1984 Dodge Aries.

The Devil Rays assigned Arrojo to their single A club in St. Petersburg. His first start drew twice the usual crowd to St. Pete's Al Lang Stadium. It bored me. Arrojo brought legitimacy to a level of baseball which had historically relied upon dubious acts of promotion to draw in fans. The Devil Rays' minor league organization, though in its infancy, had been no different. Their Charleston, South Carolina farm team The Riverdogs, celebrated Father's Day this year with "Vasectomy Night." No more than two weeks before Arrojo's debut, the St. Pete Devil Rays staged a "Botched Assassination Attempts of the 20th Century Night." After the fifth inning several groups of lucky fans were called onto the field to re-enact an assassination gone awry. The group receiving the best crowd response won a free dinner at the Sizzler. As I stood there in a shoulder-length black wig and coke bottle ambervisions—portraying Yoko Ono in the failed attempt on her life that resulted in John Lennon's tragic death—I could almost taste the sirloin tips. Then I caught sight of the Gerald Ford contingent. Damn it if that girl wasn't a dead ringer for Squeaky Fromm.

Across the bay from St. Petersburg Hideki Irabu was the new pitcher for the Tampa Yankees; a $12.8 million import from Japan. Irabu's rights had originally belonged to the San Diego Padres, but he refused to sign with any other team than the Yankees. What would Billy Martin have thought of this? Probably something about sake. Unlike Arrojo, who had a full year to prepare for the majors, Irabu's time in the minors would be fleeting. The New York Yankees required his 98 mph fastball in the Bronx by July. That gave him three weeks in the minors to work off any rust. His first tune-up start for Tampa was a Monday night home game against the St. Lucie Mets.

Legends Field, home of the Tampa Bay Yankees, was a scaled-down version of Yankee stadium, baseball's cathedral and the most hallowed grounds in professional athletics. Legends lacked one key element of Yankee stadium—the right field bleachers. The bleachers housed a hedonistic congregation of hopheads, stoners, coke fiends, gallon drunks and gigolos. [Ed. Note: not any more] No architect could, or would, duplicate those bleachers.

I arrived at Legends Field a half-hour before game time. The plan was to upgrade my seating arrangements from general admission to a vacant box seat sometime before the first pitch. A large group of reporters, mostly Japanese, headed onto the field for pre-game interviews. With my game face on I followed the reporters. I made my way into the Tampa Yankees dugout and sat down next to manager Lee Mazzilli.

Mazzilli had spent fourteen years in the majors, nine with the Mets. He did time on the Mets of the late 70's, batting .303 in 1979. He endured the doubleheader sweeps on Banner Day and the 100 loss seasons. He endured the sight of Dave Kingman hitting a 500-foot solo home run after striking out twice with the bases loaded. The Mets brought Mazzilli back in the championship year of Ô86. He was a reliable bat off the bench. But there was more to the decision than pinch-hitting. There was remuneration.

Now he worked for the Yankees, overseeing the lowest rung in their hierarchy of evil. Were the allegations of witchcraft, human sacrifice, and rampant whoring true? I wanted to know, but I had to start subtle.

"You know," I said, "I'm none too thrilled with the intentional walk. You should have to pitch to each batter and if he burns you, so be it."

"I disagree," said Mazzilli, "you see, baseball is a game of strategy. If I intentionally pass a batter and the next guy gets a hit, the damage is even worse. The key to a game of strategy is that any move can backfire."

"I know your cousin Otto," I said, "he worked with my father."

"Cousin Otto's a good guy."

"A very good man. How Ôbout George Foster? Whaddya think of him? Was it racist?"

"George Foster went two months without hitting a home run. His average dropped fifty points. That's why he was cut, lack of production." Could it be? Had I found an even-tempered Italian? No, there was no such thing. I pressed on.

"So it wasn't a matter of a negro for a dago?"

"What the hell!? Are you here to bust my balls? Or are you gonna fix the goddamn air conditioner?"

"What?"

"The air conditioner, dammit! You are the air-conditioning guy aren't you?"

"You have an air-conditioned dugout?" I shook my head, "Fuckin' Yankees." That was Steinbrenner for you. The more money you spend the more you wanted to win. First there was Rickey Henderson jogging around left-field, a $2.5 million candy-ass, and now an air-conditioned dugout. Mazzilli headed at me, brandishing a Louisville Slugger. It was time for my exit.

If God wanted them to lose, why was the sky Met blue? With that in mind I made my way into the dugout of the visiting St. Lucie Mets. St. Lucie was managed by John Gibbons. Like Mazzilli, Gibbons had played for the New York Mets. His career as a catcher was cut short when his right leg was mangled in a bizarre tarp accident at the Yankees old spring-training complex in Ft. Lauderdale. The leg had to be amputated and was replaced by one fashioned from a baseball bat.

Supported by his good leg, Gibbons stood upon the dugout steps and called out to his counterpart, "You're a traitor to the Mets, Mazzilli! Ya hear me? You're a traitor to the Mets!" He turned to me. "Are you the beer man?"

"No, I'm from Queens."

The players cleared a space for me on the bench. I sat down and took a swig off the fifth of Maker's Mark they were passing around. A utility infielder came into the dugout with a trash barrel full of iced cans of Pabst Blue Ribbon.

"What took you Mr. Starbuck?" said Gibbons. "And where the hell's the Schaefer?"

"None of the supermarkets around here had any Schaefer's skipper so I had to settle for PBR. Then security wouldn't let me back in, pain in the asses, so I hopped the fence and spent twenty minutes hiding in a janitor's closet."

Gibbons brought forth a fifty-cent piece and held it to the setting sun. "This gold doubloon to the first man who hits the ball out of the infield." He paced the dugout with crucifixion in his face trying to gauge the readiness of his ball club. "It was the Yankees that dismasted me; the Yankees that brought me to this dead stump I stand on now. And I'll chase them round the Bronx, round Columbus, round Tampa, round perdition's flames before I give them up. What say you? Are you with me?"

The dugout erupted. The players and I raised high our beers and consented with a toast. There was a single exception. The utility infielder withheld his approval and remained silent.

"What say you, Mr. Starbuck?" said Gibbons.

"I'll play to win and for the love game, but not for my manager's revenge." And with that his name was removed from the lineup.

The game was a close one. Hideki Irabu pitched four strong innings, leaving a scoreless tie in his wake. The Tampa Yankees waited for the departure of their marquee pitcher before putting runs on the board. They rallied for two runs in the fifth inning and put another across across in the seventh.

In the top of the ninth Tampa held a 3-1 lead. St. Lucie batted with two out and a man on second. Catcher Pee Wee Lopez was at the plate. The count was even at two balls and two strikes. Lopez called time and stepped out of the batter's box for a couple of practice swings. He settled back in, squeezing the sawdust out of the bat handle, and struck out looking.

Gibbons ascended the dugout stairs and started for the umpire. "You miserable bastard! That ball was low and away. I'll rip your fucking heart out!" His players rose quickly and struggled to restrain him. Gibbons turned his attention to the Yankees, who were filing down the dugout steps and into their clubhouse. "From hell's heart I stab at thee; for hate's sake I spit my last breath at thee!" He then broke free from his players and pursued the Yankees into their dugout, disappearing into its depths.

"Why was skipper quoting Star Trek II?" said Lopez as he opened the last can of beer.

"Beats the shit out of me," said the center fielder, "but I'm gettin' real tired of that motherfucker calling me Queequeg."

A week later I was offered a job as a benchcoach for the St. Lucie Mets. I could live in a county with an untainted citrus crop and be paid to watch baseball games. Then I thought of that utility infielder; his tacit resignation to the fact that a madman controlled his fate. I thought of John Gibbons; his relentless pursuit of the Yankees when the true enemy was himself. I thought of a thousand things. Then I took that fucking job.

*** OUR DIET AD SERIES: "STUPID-MAGIC! 30 ADS IN 30 DAYS." EVERY DAY IN AUGUST A NEW, STUPID DIET AD WAS EXAMINED AND RIDICULED. ***

WWW.CRANK.COM
WWW.WATERBONG.NET
WWW.METABABY.COM

Symptoms
FOUND BY JOANNE McCAUGHEY

The New Economy
BY STEVE DE SEVE

Videogames
COLLECTED BY TONY LEONARDO

• • •

EMAIL • ABOUT • WHERE CAN I PARK MY CAR IN BROOKLYN? • ARCHIVES • SUBMISSIONS • DIET AD COLLECTION • COOL! MORE ART • FLASH-O-MATIC • TODD'S RAMBLINGS • REVIEWS • THE CROSSED WIRE • HOME