I’m tired of fruity beer. I know some of you really like it and that’s fine, but when I open up a beer I want it to taste like a beer. My taste buds don’t need to sort out the extra flavors, they know what they expect and the extra work is just exhausting. For that matter, I really prefer to drink my beer out of an aluminum can. Bottles are fine but cans are better. They have a simple shape are easy to open and can be easily disposed. A cold can of beer can be pressed to your forehead when you’re hot–try doing that with a bottle. It should be the same but it’s not.
I think those special carbonation devices they place in those fancy European beers are alarming–the idea that they’ve been floating around in there waiting for some magical moment and now they have some mysterious task to perform concerns me. If you can’t make the can work with regular hardware, you have to wonder what you’re doing.
Everyone likes different kinds of beer, but I like plain old American styled beer. Especially in the Summer when it’s really hot and you just want something cold to drink. Not tasteless, but nothing fancy. Beers that amount to some sort of dark potion are fine on Christmas Eve but if you drink them every day they create a sense of gravity that could drive a fella to start listening to his old Pink Floyd albums. I don’t care for light beers either, there just seems to be something missing.
I believe beer shouldn’t be complicated. Beer should stand in the same place in the room every night and smile and greet the guests in a friendly manner. Beer is not jealous, beer does not gossip, beer does not stab you in the back while you are dancing with reckless abandon. Beer is humble and patient but not a sissy. Beer is afraid of no man and when pushed Beer is not afraid to engage in fisticuffs.
If it was possible (and some would argue that it is not only possible but true), Beer would play for the B-Squad. He’d bat in the middle part of the order and be a fairly decent hitter. When beer hits the ball to the outfield, he would beat it out regardless of the possibility of the ball being caught. Beer rounds first and takes a look; Beer will stretch a single to a double if it feels right. Beer would wear a clean uniform every week and probably play in the outfield. Though Beer could be a great first baseman if we needed him there.
Beer comes out for the camaraderie, the summer weather, a chance to stretch his legs and swing a bat. Don’t get me wrong, Beer wants to win as bad as any person on the field. If Beer is anything he’s a competitor, wincing in pain when the valiant B-Squad struggles at the plate. He mutters, “damn nation” under his breath when a ball soars over the outfield. He wants the taste of sweet victory.
This last week might have been a bit problematic for our friend Beer. Sure, things would have looked great during the first inning rally where the B-Squaders scored four runs and then held the Bankers scoreless. He would have celebrated Doug’s pitching, the amazing Shag in the outfield, some smart infield work that marked the start of the game. Ten minutes in, Beer would have felt very, very good. Maybe even optimistically imagining what could, should happen next.
Beer would have been the first guy to yell “shake it off guys” as the bankers scored run after run after run in with two outs. And when the B-Squad turn at the plate ends in an amazingly short three-up-three-down “effort,” Beer would have dutifully grabbed his glove and headed out more determined than ever to make the play that would turn momentum back to his team. But the ball maybe would never come to him–slip sliding around the field as his compatriots fired the ball from position to position seemingly unable to stop the advancing runners. Or, worse yet, maybe the ball would be hit over Beer’s head and he would have humbling task of chasing after it hoping on all hopes that he can stop the runner at third.
Beer would have seen the game slipping away, but held in his heart the idea that we were just an inning, a great catch, a big hit away from getting back in it. Then, he would no doubt wonder what the hell I was thinking when I put Chris Krushell in as pitcher in the last two innings. The innings weren’t pretty–Mr. Krushell had to work a bit to find the plate and that put a bunch of lazy bankers on base. You could hear Beer’s teeth grinding in the outfield as he wondered exactly what was going on up there.
After the game, of course, is where things get kind of ugly. Beer whips out the flask and starts taking pull after pull of whiskey. And everyone knows what happens when you mix beer and whiskey–within a few minutes Beer is picking a fight with some of the Bankers. The rage of losing another game comes out in a perfectly constructed string of insulting obscenities which he hurls about like hand grenades. It is an artful if tremendously destructive display of the awesome power of an alcoholic alcoholic drink. The bankers rush off and he turns on his own mates, dishing out batting critiques and fielding advice. They boil down to the simple idea that when we bat someone should get a fucking hit and that when we are in the field someone should catch the fucking ball.
Then, with the same rush that it started it ends. Beer wants to love and be loved and the remorse of a thousand years comes rushing forward. “I love you guys,” he says between drags on an endless cigarette. “This team is everything to me.” We go to the bar and he sings loudly and he hugs everybody. He starts talking about his dog and how long it’s been since he called his Mom. He eats an Italian meat sandwich, votes Krushel for cape (“I love that guy”), and tells a long story that is kind of hard to follow. At the end of the evening we pour him into a cab and everybody knows that he’s sleeping on the couch tonight and waking up with a monster headache tomorrow.
Cape Honors: The Cape was owned this week by Mr. Christopher Krushel. He earned the honors for some terrific hitting (can someone say smash-mouth-triple?), an inning where he gathered at least two, maybe three outs galloping after fly balls and the leadership and vision to request a trip to the pitcher’s mound. Congratulations Chris!
I would like to see Beer in the middle of the lineup tonight. Can we get this guy, or not?
But some umps don’t let Beer play.