Fug or Die Trying

It's a typical Tuesday night at the local bar. The crowd is light but smoky. A few of the patrons sit in tight groups of twos and threes, holding private conversation in a public place. There are a couple loners watching the various TVs around the large open room, most of which have tuned to Oriole's game. I'm seated to the left of my right hand man, Sloppy, front and center at the bar, casually watching the game and toasting what sweet lives we have.

Jay Gibbons, the O's eight spot batter and arguably their worst hitting ball player, save the pitching staff, steps to the plate and begins his pre-at-bat routine. We're not paying much attention. It's Jay Gibbons, we know what's going to happen. No one's on base so he's not going to ground into a double (or triple) play. He'll probably fly out, most likely to right field, or strike out on three pitches. I'm mid-swig when I hear that tell-tale crack of the bat. Could it be? He's already had two hits. A third and a home run to boot, well that's just uncalled for.

"No fucking way," I said while letting the glass drop slowly from my mouth as I watched the ball arc gracefully over the high right field wall. I forgot to swallow again and almost spit up beer all over the bar top. Drinking and talking don't mix. Much like drinking and driving in LA. What's going on out there anyway? They hire more cops or something?

"HA HA!" was the triumphant reply from my barfly friend. Not the most intelligent retort but it got the job done.

"He must have sacrificed a small child to the devil before the game tonight or something."

"Who knows, I'll take it though." Sloppy takes the flaming shot off the bar and downs it without blowing it out first.

"I wonder if he sold his soul."

"That's...how...he...SHOULD...be...playing," Sloppy screamed in between tiny burst of fire ejecting from his mouth each time it opened. I pushed his beer closer, an offering of peace to subside the war raging in his throat. "He has the potential."

"To be fugly?" I questioned. "Cause I think he's got more than potential. Mission accomplished my friend."

We raise our beers and knock them together in a traditional American ritual of agreement.


*A note for one: Sloppy, I realize I transposed our conversation from its original format. Trust me, this way makes us look much cooler than we actually are.*