Bukowski on Baseball

Not actually Bukowski. Just a butchering style.

Losses hurt the soul

I don't think I have a soul, but baseball tells me otherwise

it's kind of like how Chinese food reminds me of that ulcer.

You make a lot of effort to watch these games

nine innings is a lot of time

to sit in front of a stupid box and yell, especially when there's other shit to do.

Like work.

Leaving guys on base should be a sin. Not venial sin. A mortal one.

Canadians who can't hit the Japanese is like the story of my life

and Okajima reminds me of that island in the Pacific, can't remember why

but I know it's not good. And Canadians had no part in it.

I had a woman once, she was good, but she didn't like baseball.

That wasn't good.

Couldn't understand why I got so upset when we lost.

"Hank, you're in first place," she'd say. "Cheer the hell up and let's get some food."

Not my girl anymore. I think she doesn't like drunks who can't take perspective.

It's ok, I don't like women who don't understand.

You get over this but it takes time. Gotta blow some steam as they say.

Me?

I blow my steam at a bar. Bottle of beer. Shot of Jamison.

This bartender from Philadelphia who listens to my whining.

This guy from Boston I know is gonna bust my chops.

This Bronx jerk who doesn't know Minnesota is a state. Or has a team.

Probably some barfly from Kansas City doesn't give a crap about anything these days.

I'll take 'em all. Part of the routine. You grin, you joke, you talk about your loss,

but you don't talk about that soul hurt.

The soul you don't have.

Or so you think.

Then the next morning you shake off that whisky-beer cloud,

stand under some water

hit the street,

light a cigarette,

and crawl into a tunnel full of people

that smell like

sweat and

hope and

some faint odor of damp shampoo.

Don't forget your taxes.

And you wonder if you lose again today and start it all over.

We'll win.