The Workhorse, Chapter 4, Part 1

The Longest Odyssey in Baseball History, Part 1 of 4

Caleb and the new loser. The last loser in baseball history. You could make the major leagues. You could be the next legendary hero to the fans. You could make history. You are already there. But Caleb and the forgotten weirdo who loved to tell his story too often unprovoked had already passed you by. This means they are just out for the love of baseball in their eyes and their fans still swing by their side to this day, like you could ever get that kind of a pilgrimage in a normal day job.

But their legendary opera has run its course. Now we see the facts first hand. At the end of the day, the mitt, and the bat, both have their own stories. And the people who wield them do not just, at the end of the first day, just up and leave. They are keeping it going. Forever. And that makes them one of a kind.

Caleb, he was a stunningly tall guy. So was the people we forget ever made it somewhere out of their own orchards or off of their patios or away from their television habit or stepping out of the garden and even the yard workers just do not have what it takes to make the big bad world take them seriously, seriously enough to mark their trajectories with the stamp of approval the Major League's give them once they are not the tough guys they used to be.

Caleb, we will forget the name for now, and forever more. They are just ugly words. Names, arcs and even trajectories are all studied in baseball minutiae. And the story goes, they only have to know the place and the time, before they get the time and the pace they once set for themselves broken, and the beaten paths they once treaded, well, those are the hard workers they had to defeat to become legendary.

Who is cooler? The hero, or the macho man on the big screen? The movie hero, or the guy who works hard? The money maker, or the man using it to get your goat? And is the person in the major leagues really that hard up for the bumble when the bumble got him going to the market and back again to the major leagues? Does that not make you want a piece of the action? So, get out there and play ball!

They eat and cheer and really wreck the stands. Sometimes, these people even forget to blow their noses before they speak. They wear out their welcomes, all the time, to some, and to others, they should never go away. Meetings adjourned.

Check this out. It is a new playing field. It has all the makings of the latest and greatest all over it. And they all foot the bill, while you relax, and take a load off, and study this, study that. I am working hard, it says all over it, and they are not even at work. You are not. You worked hard to get here. Them too. So who is the big, bad villainous wild one, and who is the big, bad boy too afraid to show a little good cheer? When the music plays, you know, they sometimes sing along with it.

And the peanuts, and hotdogs, that some say are a staple of the Major Leagues, do you even need to or have to ask? They have beer, too, if you are over 18. In some states, maybe they do not. But over seas, they maybe have other stuff, too, like bratwurst and baked beans, or ice cream and turkey jerky, or pudding stuffed with chilled radishes. These are all hard working people. And they can not make it in life without the team. The major leagues, and the rookies, and the college joeboy's who work hard, but never make it to the major leagues, they are out. And the strikes go to the hard workers who clean up the place, never lucky, they forget to chew and even spit sometimes.

It is hard to believe, but when the major leagues are over, so are the fans and the players and even the markets. They have to need to get out of there, and feel it as well. Or else, what do they feel? Can they swing a bat and play ball without feeling it? The big G and the hard times they live with all collide when the game begins, and ends up, with you in the corner pocket. The pocket is filled with other random old schmoes like yourself. And the major leagues could care less if you stay for a while, or stay to eat it up until way after the game is finished, through and through, left to leave it at that, while the journey is still going on in the real world, the fantasy land of the imaginary and the imaginary fantasy land join up, and meet where the baseball game is held. In your city, or your town, or even out in the open, or tucked away from prying eyes, these legendary folks ought to have some sort of pecking order, do, or do not they? They do.

The legendary ones are not at the top of it. Neither are the rest. The highest that you can go to and still not fall down the pitching order is the major leagues. And we have seen where that height can land you up on in the highest of the houses, and the fastest of the tree fellers. They even carry the signal, and can glance and peck, and do not even need to say a word. They just do sometimes want to amaze you. And that is when they strike.

The ball and the glove, the pitching mitt can not hold a candle to the pitcher inside of it. And neither can the bat handle itself without the pitcher about to strike its wielder out.