Friday, November 21, 2008

Tales From a Prospecting Town

from Woody "Cricket Bat" Flavour

Usually there's sports but there's libations involved so this is where its at....

Back before I was in my mid-twenties when I was doing a little minor league ball, my team the Oysterville Muskrats (featuring myself on the bass) was going on what they used call back in the day a "minor league baseball tour." We'd go from township to township, baseballing (as it was referred to at the time) other teams in order to win the rights to sleep indoors at night.

Anywhat, on one such trip we went through what they used to call a "prospecting town." Now for those of you that aren't "in the know" a prospecting town is a place inhabited mostly by prospectors, whittling away their years with nearly endless amounts of prospecting. The only time that they aren't prospecting is when they are "maintaining their buzz" which was a term used to describe people in the act of baseballing another team.

Anywhy, at around 48:19 pm (which was approximately 10:30 pm in those days) we arrived on the baseballing pitch. We were so tired from traveling every single day, "maintaining our buzz," that by the time it was time for our time to start baseballing the Prospecting Town Prospectors, around 11/12ths of our baseball club had passed out from cocaine psychosis. This meant that I had to take on these prospecting mother fuckers by my lonesome. It went down a little something like this:


The Outlook wasn't brilliant for the Oysterville one that day:
The score stood four to two, with but one inning more to play.
And then when Cooney died at first, and Barrows did the same,
A sickly silence fell upon the patrons of the game.

A straggling few got up to go in deep despair. The rest
Clung to that hope which springs eternal in the human breast;
They thought, if only Flavour could get but a whack at that -
We'd put up even money, now, with Woody at the bat.

But Flynn let drive a single, to the wonderment of all,
And Blake, the much despis-ed, tore the cover off the ball;
And when the dust had lifted, and the men saw what had occurred,
There was Jimmy safe at second and Flynn a-hugging third.

Then from 5,000 throats and more there rose a lusty yell;
It rumbled through the valley, it rattled in the dell;
It knocked upon the mountain and recoiled upon the flat,
For Woody, mighty Woody, was advancing to the bat.

There was ease in Woody's manner as he stepped into his place;
There was pride in Woody's bearing and a smile on Woody's face.
And when, responding to the cheers, he lightly doffed his hat,
No stranger in the crowd could doubt 'twas Woody at the bat.

Ten thousand eyes were on him as he rubbed his hands with dirt;
Five thousand tongues applauded when he wiped them on his shirt.
Then while the writhing pitcher ground the ball into his hip,
Defiance gleamed in Woody's eye, a sneer curled Woody's lip.

And now the leather-covered sphere came hurtling through the air,
And Woody stood a-watching it in haughty grandeur there.
Close by the sturdy batsman the ball unheeded sped-
"That ain't my style," said Woody. "Strike one," the umpire said.

From the benches, black with people, there went up a muffled roar,
Like the beating of the storm-waves on a stern and distant shore.
"Kill him! Kill the umpire!" shouted someone on the stand;
And its likely they'd a-killed him had not Woody raised his hand.

With a smile of Christian charity great Woody's visage shone;
He stilled the rising tumult; he bade the game go on;
He signaled to the pitcher, and once more the spheroid flew;
But Woody still ignored it, and the umpire said, "Strike two."

"Fraud!" cried the maddened thousands, and echo answered fraud;
But one scornful look from Woody and the audience was awed.
They saw his face grow stern and cold, they saw his muscles strain,
And they knew that Woody wouldn't let that ball go by again.

The sneer is gone from Woody's lip, his teeth are clenched in hate;
He pounds with cruel violence his bat upon the plate.
And now the pitcher holds the ball, and now he lets it go,
And now the air is shattered by the force of Woody's blow.

Oh, somewhere in this favored land the sun is shining bright;
The band is playing somewhere, and somewhere hearts are light,
And somewhere men are laughing, and somewhere children shout;
But there is no joy in back home in Oysterville- mighty Woody has struck out.

This meant that Woody's colleagues would outside have to sleep
When the rest of Oystervilles baseball team awoke they did weep
A nightmare became a reality, it was impossible to shake
Sleeping outside had happened too often, they needed a fucking break

It was time for them to hatch a plan, and hatch a plan they did
They would find a way to sleep inside if it were the last thing they ever did
They waited outside the sleeping hall whilst the Prospectors dreamed their dreams
And snuck in at around nearly 3:00 am and murdered them all it seems.


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