The Workhorse, Chapter 2, Part 1

IV. Chapter 2

Night Fellowship of Dark and Light, Post-Game Wrap Up, Victory in the Chalice

Bob Barker once said that you must spay and neuter your pets. Caleb didn't think so. He thought better of getting the better of someone. He and Cody were best friends on and off the playing field. He and Cody also had the same race car driving attitude that nobody else had and no one ever thought of. He was also writing a new book about race car driving. He wasn't that old enough to consider any other actions. Bob Barker had also said that the price was right. On countless occasions, too many to name sometimes, but not at other times, when the name said the name, Caleb had found himself tight in a spot of jam. He had a calling, and that was baseball.

He had a 0.300 batting average partner. And his team was the highest scorer in the MLB. Remember that? Because he doesn't. He told a news crew that he was tired of being referred to as off-kilter. He wanted to be known as the one who would win, and not the one who needed to be seen as anything but that. In NASCAR, he managed to make it to the Fortune 500 and beyond that, but not back again, because he wasn't done yet. He had managed to win in the Fortune 500 somewhat, but never made it to first place. He was finding it hard to make it to the running man's proportionately sized betting man's playfield, so to say, because he had a hard time differentiating from racing and running. He said he ran NASCAR and wasn't into not running a racing triathlete style gazebo, and wasn't just putting on airs in spite of splitting hairs and getting Gertrude into bed tonight over sticks and digs, he was the champion, here and now. He had won the Fortune 500 several times in the qualifying matches he had to gamble or lose during, and only missed by a slight handle of a fortune of similar tall tales of treacherous treachery and batting averages.

He became concerned about his weight. His car, a Camaro, was bright red and #97 in the racing game. He was scorned by the loser's playing for weight. He and #97 were never that big. You're probably right, he wasn't that bad of a sore loser. He did his part and his team did the same, time and time again, but they just weren't the problem. It was that darn Jeff Gordon. He and his brother had to make amends. They won, but not the Fortune 500, that was Tony Stewart and #91, but it was Caleb who made it to first place in America's hearts, and on a news channel once, they saw him but didn't ask him to say what he had in mind. Tony Stewart was the winner, and Caleb was the greatest guy in baseball, sure, but Tony had never beaten Caleb, Caleb was just warming up. He was racing so big and so fast that he was sure to be a sure thing come winter, or whatever, as he was up to something. He ran in a charity race for Teens for Joe Biden and won for them as well. He came in 9th place to Jeff Gordon's 1st place victory. Jeff was astounding to see in action. He was fairer to most than Jeff was. Jeff and Tony said they were proud of Joe for putting in the effort but not the race horse. They had the race horse to do in once more than ever, it was over and done with by Christmas time. Once again, Caleb was playing baseball for the major leagues. He also played basketball some and even air hockey, golf, horse back riding, and ice skiing and snow fishing. He was also a mountain climber and loved to shoot pool and gamble on the horse races he used to go to as a child. They found him astonishing. He was also sincere, and sincerely well loved, because he had a lot of hats to wear, for sure, and he wore them out but never.

He and his team won the Major Leagues never again. They got to them once or twice, but bowed out to the losers on the playing field, them. They were losers for a while there afterwards as well. But Cody retired and so did Caleb once in a while near the everlasting fountain of youth before it dawned on them to continue. He and Cody were also into swimming competitively. He and his other friends, rivals maybe sometimes, but always good friends, also bet on snooker and poker playing tournaments with other rivals, and maybe gamblers, if you squinted and saw them that way while they were showing you their hands without folding them. He was an honest answerer and won a few spitting matches with God as well as held hands with the decently dressed people of an obnoxiously long set of arms wielders on another continent. He and the African prince Mel Royalty met once or twice in a blind scramble for supremacy. While he was never a sore stiffler, he did not like to play favorites. He was always the team player. He also wanted people to remember to breathe. They had to stay calm, and look onward, for if they don't, then they didn't, whatever.

He thought they needed a stiffer lifestyle. He wasn't into drinking or any of that stuff. He was a man's man, and played by his own rules. He tried to pick up boxing and even dirt biking, but those weren't really his jam, man. He was excited by them, of course, he said, but they weren't going to take him very far before he leapt off that horse and onto new scores of other heights, like he was going to do, but didn't stray very far away from his norms and decently oversized but accountable features, which were stringently tied, and tightened, to become something he adored playing for.

His team, the Orioles, were surely the highest and mightiest of the major league baseball teams, but he was not alone. The Matchsticks and the other teams like the Blue Tigers from North Alabama and other College football stars were average at best. He had never played for a non-major league team in his life. He was a Credence Clearwater Revival fan and a fan of wine and algae-drinking and not smoking as well. He had a harem of fans he considered way better at winning than at losing.

He also had a ton of baseball players who wanted to rumble with the big, sore thumb. He threw a 143-mph speedball once instead of a pitch and talked to people about it from the trees. He seemed to be honest to God a specimen of some kind of special weapons program, because his arms were gigantically placed in their tiny holes. His jersey was mint and fresh and contained all of the salt, sweaty as it warts to do, and cottonly blessed his skin, which was blessed itself with his brute physique, which was immensely popular to some, but his hairiness got his fans restless in their dugouts. They wanted him to keep playing forever. Bar none, the most popular man in sports, but he was a rarity anywhere else. He tried to collect baseball cards like he knew the names of his favorite sports teams, but those were just apples and not the whole orchard like he liked to boast about.

He ate apples and kept ducks as pets. He was also a sure thinger for the dead ringer crew and compost heap. He was a trained volunteer firefighter and also a police officer thinger ringer, so he could go and come as he pleases to this day, darn near there abouts. But his hopes and dreams were to be on the stage. While he didn't get any movie parts, he did sing in a few bands he owned the record labels to sue over a few thousand times less than he'd have liked. None were Credence Clearwater Revival cover bands, like he hoped would be something he could add to his resume, but they were pretty much downwind of the leftist ideals he held near and dear to some other idiots on the other man's best teams of the year awards he didn't give a damn about suing you over, no way at all, broheim. He said he was a fan first and foremost, and then a lackey second, and then a dead ringer of sorts for the sort of baseball trophyians that he courted and dorted over, but he also sharted and galarted less than he had hoped to be over and done with by season's end and Turkeyball's start. He was a festival goer and a restival knower. He had a lot of games to play.