Let me start this by saying that probably the best movie ever made (that you don’t have to be in a hotel room to watch) is Bull Durham. Just so you know.
So yesterday I walk out of Wrigley and, across from Murphy’s, there’s this guy with a Jesus sign going on and on about how Jesus saves, and this and that. So I’m thinking, well we got Kerry Wood, pal. (Not that he got a chance to save jack in game 1.) Anyway he’s looking right at me, so I say, “Oh, yeah, where?” So he says “In heaven, son, in heaven. You just gotta belieeeeeeve.” You know, like one of those white suit-wearing TV evangelist dudes, all in a rapture, waving his arms and throwing his head back like he’s Tim Lincecum.
Right about then I realize it was a big mistake making eye contact with this whacko, cuz he points right at me and says, “Do ya belieeeeeve, son, do ya belieeeeeeeeeeeeeve?!” even more agitated than the first time. So I just go off on him. “I believe in the brat. The day game. The temperature of Zambrano’s heater. I believe the only juice players should be on is orange, apple or kiwi grape. I believe the Yankees don’t have a monopoly on pinstripes, great fans, or championship rings. I believe beer in a plastic cup is better than beer in a glass. I believe chin music oughta be played more often; that anyone not running out a weak grounder should be sent down; and that instant replay belongs on a grid iron, not a diamond. I believe that the DH is an abomination second only to the Astros uniforms of the 70’s. I believe there’s nothing in the art world (except for those Picasso women with 3 or 4 boobs) quite so beautiful as a well-executed hook slide, or a right fielder laying the guns of Navarone on some pinhead trying to score from second.” I can see he’s a little surprised that someone is giving him his own medicine, but I continue. “I believe that the yay-hoos who think there’ll be lap dances in the Sistine Chapel before the Cubs win the World Series happen to be the same yay-hoos that like to parade around the house in their wive’s underwear, have iPods with multiple Boy George playlists, and stand on corners with cardboard signs about God, WHEN I JUST HAD 9 INNINGS OF PROOF THAT THERE ISN’T ONE!!!!” He’s definitely frightened now. “And, my friend, I believe when you serve up 8 walks, 2 to the friggin’ pitcher, 3 dingers and 1 error to anybody, you just ain’t gonna win!!!”
I love Bull Durham. I hate the Dodgers.
PS. I also believe in that three-day-long, slow, deep wet kisses thing, but I left it out because I didn’t want him to think I was a Dodgers fan.