The Workhorse, Chapter 2, Part 2

Around the end of his career, he also started to sign autographs. This was new to him. He played with some children in the park and at their schools, whenever he could muster up the courage to step into the new world and away from his work, life and book routine. He signed books as well and wrote a few himself, fewer than most, but still not quite up to par as his golf playing was taking off, over another career in the Airforce. He was riding down wind of another airplane one day when it hit him. He had gone over 235-mph in a sturdy Airforce jet of another rango-and-tango odd job he was deemed to do fitless of duty-rigged as was his bajeesus-scared little mortenheimer was tangoed with, odd-job style to say the least, but odd-job was there to say, honestly enough, he liked it mean and fierce, and would protect America with his life, if he needed to, out of the Airforce, he became something of a trainer to most people, but he also knew what not to say. And that was to scare the bajeesus out of folks in no time flat at all, no time, no way. And away he went.

Before he finally quit baseball and the things he loved in life forever, he also went up in the air on a few questions. What if, then, and why? He said he'd rejoin the Airforce again one day, if it mattered to him, but not at quite right now lengths of time, but some day. He died in his home of a sleeping apnea problem called going home to God. He died and his wife left him on that same day a picture of their lifetime together. He was a friend to most, and an honest to God sailor when it came to playing a pitcher's least favorite sport, baseball. He was a race car driver and also a sailor as well. When the news hit the news sail object that was the nightly, daily and everythingy news, he became big to the news as the news was as big to some other tough guys who liked to ramble on about perversity and newvish freedoms and other nouveau riche fashionablisms like perversity and relish the chance to drive a fast car once in a while. He had a poster of his wife, a super model, on his locker in the stadiums when he went on his off days, which was every day of his mean and rough and tumble lifestyle as a racketeer or a barnstormer, no, as a pitcher for the Orioles, his favorite baseball team and one he was proud of to be playing for, and with as well. He was everythingy is okay-y and all finey one day, and then gone the nextish of his life left in a limbo of a brute storm of poltics, bread and gravy over rice and beans and meaningless toasts of cheer, good will and hunting for bits and bobs of quotation marks silver beans, he would go on to say nothing, ever again.

Who was he replaced with?

And why should we care about this fella to begin with?

Well, first, let's go over the facts.

But that's not to say there aren't any. Oh, there just isn't any reason to try any harder than that, no sirree bob, no way but how and why and what gotcha into this mess, old partner, eh boy howdy? He said howdy doody goody two-shoes routineity was not for some, and not for that lard ass playing poker, sometimes, but his routineity was none the less quite portly as some other men found it shameless to be playing both sides of the roundtable without chafing their tuckus. Tuck it in there, pal, because he never wound up winning any awards over swimming, either bub. He's the champ, trust me, but he's not that good. He never won any awards for racing either. He was a middling sportsman. But a great baseball player. And probably the greatest man you ever knew. He sure was something. Not like me. I'm 20-someting and getting ready to ramble on over to the dugout's den myself, boy howdy! Junior's like me need star's growing up, but not ones growing down, you know what I mean? I told the boss man he wasn't seeing it like me, likely he wasn't seeing the big picture, oh boy howdy how'd he know, eh guesser? He told me just be careful. And I just am the man to be the big, clearer picture kind of fellow old Caleb would like to see playing in and for and by just a smidge of God's mercy, behind and for a bit, ahead of the Major League games we used to play, oh boy howdy indeed. And not a ton of cut corners. Not one was missed. Caleb, my friend, my terrible, demonic friend with the weird attributes and the sharpened pig's noggin' on his front lawn, you gotta be careful. You gotta be kidding me. If you're gone, this world ain't getting any bigger. It's just the same size as you and me, kiddo.

I signed a few autographs and told the kids that we were out of juice and lucky lemonadey drinks for them, and Caleb and me both, sister. Caleb and me met once on the pitch. But he never played soccer, either, and I never liked it much myself. My names Albert. And I'm a star pitcher for the Dugout Orioles just like this old jokester here. Sure, I haven't been around long either, but he's not messing with me, man. No way but how. And how but no way, no how, no sirree bob, no way, and no sirree no way but howdy doody.

I tried my luck, and never made it to gambling. I had nothing to lose, but nothing to gain but never, I was always a sweet tooth and a sour and sore spot on the other opponent's legacies and what not.

I also ate with chopsticks, sure, yeah right. I never would use them things.

Give me a mommy and a daddy who loved to tango with the Red's.

We always gave them just desserts. Just not in the ways they liked. They were just pitiful on the playing field. I played the game meaner than most, just better by a smidge, and then was out of there, same as old Caleb, and old Cody, and the rest of the Dugout Orioles who met with me, man to man, and on and off and on to be off again. I walked to the pitching mound. I touched it, bent over, to feel it out. It was nice. Cody wasn't here no more. Caleb, who? My man. I'm the best pitcher around. They can't beat me. No one can. I throw faster and hit bases harder than anybody. Curse me with a word, and that's niceness. So sometimes I can't, or sometimes I cannot, but always that I can, I do without words. I need nothing but baseball. I love my career. And I need nothing else in this life I've lived for, oh, say about 20-odd something years now and a half of a stick or a pack if you prefer of gumball nets and treaty gracies. I pitch for the fans. And not for the career-minded sticklers who think gracies are just corndog's and ice pitchers of sourdough and beanspotters. The bean counters love me. And the fans do, too. Half as much as the nextist bestist, and that's the truth, friend. That's just the God's honest fan's worthy mouth breathingest way to say that I love baseball.

And nothing else gets me as high as that kind of 'round the pitch striking out abouts half past 9 and a half to a quarter inch of steel hitting your face and melting in the sun, baking in the death of another lost totter, because I mean it, I am the best pitcher there's ever gonna be, and mark my words, there's never gonna be another one, bar none, but ever, no buts about it, no way, Jose, and a mackerel cannon of a gunshot wound wouldn't ever even get me outta this fix I'm in where I love baseball more than my life, even at most times I'm living it, I need it, to be honest. The mackerel cannon is my biggest, and most prized joy and possession. I love hitting the iron and also playing for the Dugout Orioles and also my mama and better playing father-in-law, Joseph Stalin. Stay that way all the time, brother. That's just the way I like it.