Crash Chronicles

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Crash Chronicles

By Jeff "Crash" Cook

It is a plaid time for the Rebellion. The Syph Emperor Gaulke has finished the training of his bed-a-wet and has sent him to infiltrate the Classic League. To combat the threat, the baseball gods have summoned Crash Skycooker from his exile in Rapidscoon to appear at Council in Lonespur.

“There has been a great disturbance in the Farce,” says Master Ira as the other PineTar Masters nod in agreement.

“The Syph have appointed a new Darth, capable of insidious terror within the Classic League. Their plot is to place him as manager of a team.  His evil lineups will eventually result in hurt feelings, dugout dissent, and player walkout; thus giving Emperor Gaulke a chance to supplant the real game with his 1-1 count rule.”

Crash furled his brow from his on-deck-circle in the middle of the room. This was grim news, indeed.  The Syph had already waylaid aluminum from the Classic League and had converted Schmitty’s girlfriends to the Kiemel side of the Farce.

“You are to go immediately to Wig Billow and there meet Obi-Jon Kanoonan. Only together can you identify and turn this menace.”

Crash bowed to the Masters and left the room.

As he walked to his ship, young Skycooker assessed the situation. He had been away from events of the League since his self-imposed exile after the Strikezone Wars. He knew that his old friend, Obi-Jon, had migrated to Kalone to assist in the training of Joe-Joe Biggs. The other PineTar Masters were scattered around the leagues in an attempt to discover the identity of the Emperor’s apprentice. The Syph had grown strong in his absence and the ascension of the apprentice to Darth status was ominous.

“I must be cautious….” concludes Crash as he jumps in to his bigs-wing fighter.

“Eicher-D2, fire up the converters!”

………………………………………..to be continued as the season unfolds…………………………………………….

 

LUCKY FOR CRASH

1/6/2005

“I brought you two bottles of Newcastle Brown Ale.” Crash announced as he barged into Room #417, Bed 2.

“Crash! I don’t believe you’re here!” said an awakened Scotty Lawrence lurching forward in his hospital chair, his tubes jerking towards Robbinsdale as the bedpan spilled on his wife.

(“Shit!” cried Debbie jumping from her chair.)

“No, it’s pee not shit……” scolded Lucky as she rushed out of the room.

“Crash!  Great to see you. Great of you to come.”

“I wouldn’t have missed it. I read all about nurse Bonnie and had to come right down.  How ya doin?”

“OK.  They took the throat tubes out today so I’m a bit sore.”

“You look great.” Crash opened one of the two beers. “Where’s Bonnie?”

“Push that button and she’ll show up.”

Crash pushed the button and then sat down on the other hospital bed - pouring a bit of his beer into Lucky’s i.v. drip on the way.

“Luck, I retire from the game and you pull this shit.  What’s up with that?”

“Crash, it’s the damndest thing. I was fine all summer until August when I started to feel this annoying sensation in my mouth.”

“Any idea what caused it?”

“Yeah, one night in August Cuz was sitting next to me at the Lonespur and I kept accidentally drinking out of his beer glass. I thought the beer tasted weird and eventually figured out the deal and switched back to my glass.  It was right after that when I noticed a slight tingling in my mouth.”

“What did the doctors say?”

“’Cuzzatosis.’  We had to schedule the surgery right away.”

“Whew, sorry.  Didn’t know it was that,” Crash replied, shaking his head.

“Hi Bonnie, this here’s Crash.”  Lucky managed the introduction notwithstanding his otherwise indisposed condition.

There stood Bonnie – about 5’11”, blonde, and prepared to go four-for-four in the rubber game of the series.

“Hi, I’m Crash and my entire life has been spent preparing for this moment.”  smiled Crash, reaching his hand out and offering her the other beer.  “With the help of the two of us, Lucky will beat this rap.  I suggest dinner at Manny’s to discuss a course of therapy.”

“Mmmmmmmmm…….I love their bone-in baseball steak.” sighed Bonnie.

“And I prefer the bone-in after the baseball steak.” replied Crash. “How about tonight?”

“I would love to except that I accepted a date with Eicher for tonight.”

“Eicher? Always trying to get ahead of me in the line-up. Tomorrow?”

“Actually, I’m booked for the week. Tonight Eicher, tomorrow Schmitty, Wednesday Jake, Thursday Staller; Friday Corny and Saturday Orlando’s flying up.” All of Lucky’s teammates want to discuss therapy with me it seems.  I had to turn down Gatzke, though. I mean c’mon - Tony Jaros for dinner? Dutch treat? I mean really.”

“Actually, now that I know the lineup, turns out I have spent my entire life preparing to get out of this moment,” said Crash rolling his eyes.

Bonnie fluffed the pillows as Lucky grinned through his tubes.

“Just like the bar in Chaska, huh Crash?” smirked the Luck.

“It’s certainly has improved my social life having Lucky here,” said Bonnie.  “But you guys have to stop this Cuz from putting any more people in the hospital. “Cuzzatosis” is no laughing matter.  He’s a menace.”

Bonnie poured some of her own Newcastle in Lucky’s i.v. drip before sauntering off. It was then Crash noted the Clapper feature in the room and proceeded to turn the lights on and off from his place on the bed – much to the amusement of the Lucky.

“Wow.  She certainly beats Glove-oleum.” sighed Crash. “Nice of the guys to show so much interest in her for your sake.   Whatever.    I see they even signed a baseball.  May I sign it, too?”

“Please do.  But don’t sign anywhere near Noonan’s autograph.  He’s got prime signing rights and is very possessive about it.”

“I promise.” replied Crash as he signed all over Noonan’s name. “Luck, let’s get down to it……what can I do for you?  I’ll do anything within my resources.”

“Play again, Crash.”

“What?!?”

“Play the game again.”

Lucky gazed at Crash with an intense beseeching stare. 

“Oh, Lucky, that’s the i.v. talking.”

“No no – don’t you see?  If you play again, the team is obligated to return your number to you.  If so, then Cuz won’t have a uniform and can’t play. If you play, Cuz can’t and you may therefore save countless saps from suffering the fate I have had to endure. It’s not me I’m thinking about Crash and it’s not you I’m thinking about.  It’s the future former ballplayers who may not know the risk of associating with Cuz.  If I can help but one such future former ballplayer, I will have realized my struggle here is not for want. I mean, look what happened to poor Shaller. Talk about grim.”

“Crash, the truth is we’ve been through many a cut-off play together. In honor of those plays, and in honor of all of those errors, please do this for me.”

Crash was crushed.  He was committed to retirement. But here, amidst the tubes and the wires and the cards and the flowers, sat a true Saint.  A Minnetonka Saint.  A breed of player so respected, so revered, that grown old men had been known to trip base runners, lose sunglasses, fistfight on ball fields and go to court in an attempt to disparage the good name of the Minnetonka Saints.

How could Crash possibly bring himself to turn his back on this teammate’s request?

“Lucky, I’ll play.  I’ll do it for you.  Crash will be back and Cuz will be backless. No number 9 for him.  Lucky for Crash. Crash for Lucky. 9 for 13. 13 for 9. You for me and me for you.”

“Thanks Crash.”

Lucky’s head sunk back on the pillow with an exhausted plunk.

“But Lucky, I will only do it if you promise me you’ll be in right field before the end of the season.  I can’t play again without knowing that someday soon you will be right there behind me to scoop up the boots and fire a shot over the first baseman’s head into the dugout.  Those moments are too precious.  Without them, there’s no reason for me to put the spikes back on again.” 

Lucky pondered.

He looked away, out the window, his gaze searching the distance – first Crystal, now Brooklyn Park, finally Loretto. 

All was quiet.

Suddenly, amidst the sheer sickness of the hospital room, Lucky jolted up as if possessed; grabbed the baseball, heaved it to Crash who, instinctively, turned and pegged it out the door to a passing orderly who, in turn, placed a perfect tag on Bonnie.

“Yer out!” cried a passing surgeon.

The cut-off had spoken.

“I’ll be there, Crash.   Come hell or high water, or Corny getting a girlfriend, I’ll be there.”

And so it was to be.  Crash low-fived his friend, nodded to the Bonnie on the floor (caught in the remnants of a left hook slide) and left the hospital - satisfied that fate had dictated the future of the teammates.

But as he unlocked his car door, he suddenly stopped, thought a moment, turned, and raced back to Lucky’s room - knocking Debby right into a newly refreshed bedpan.

“Lucky, I almost forgot.”

“Do you validate?”