Monday, October 18, 2010

20 Minute or So Fiction: "The Content Kid"

**Note: I bought a used McSweeny's book some time ago and the main reason i picked it up was for this section of stories that were done in about 20 minutes. Some are great and many blew me away with how much depth and story was told in such a short time. I have done some in the past and decided to try one again. The idea of this character in minor league baseball has been bouncing around in my head for some time and i would like to write more with the idea/ character. It touches on a theme that is in my head a lot. Is it bad to be content, should we be grabbing for the brass ring??? Is there more soul in the minors??? Both important questions in my small universe. ****

The Content Kid 10:10-10:33PM October 18, 2010

Conrad “Content” McDoogal was an anomaly in baseball. He had many nicknames, The Single A Kid, The Double A Kid …Junior. But Content seemed to stick.

The TV Reporter interviewing him after the Rivets victory asked him how it feels to be on the championship team for the second year with a smirk. We all know what he was implying and by all I mean the 100 people in the stadium and the 15 or so watching on the local cable channel. What cut thru his words were I know what would feel better than winning again with bums and that would be losing with winners in the bigs.”

But ole McDoogal didn’t blink he just looked at him and told him it felt great and there wasn’t a place on earth or a team around that he would rather be on. And depending on who you asked it was either a great moment in hometown pride or the catch phrase of a chronic underachiever.

Now don’t get me wrong McDoogal had been in the bigs and he really didn’t care much for it. He had even been on some of those teams that had been “close” and it just didn’t feel right. No heart, nothing to strive for, no soul. He often found himself on the big clubs with guys he saw when he was in the minors and often the spark was gone or they were afraid of being traded or worse, sent back down.

The ole Content Kid (actually a full fledge man winding it down) never intentionally played bad, never got himself sent back on purpose. He played hard and had some moments in the big time sun. But it just never suited him. Fans were spoiled expecting perfection while wearing their $300 jerseys. Calling into radio programs and ripping apart the same men who were heroes the night before.

He had to ask himself what was the point, the higher the game the higher the preservation. McDoogal could seem himself eventually making more than he could ever spend, getting more attention than he ever wanted and he simply said no thanks.

The way that he called his own shots to save his sanity in baseball was tricky. He believed it wouldn’t be fair to tank games, no he respected the game and there were many men and boys who wanted to take the yellow brick road. He simply volunteered to learn positions that were brand new to him. He could pick up the skill eventually but never as rapid or as masterful as a pro.

His true home was left field and that was fine with him, he respected the position and was a master at getting a jump on bloopers and reading fair or foul. Managers in the show would sometimes call him up for a solid pinch hitter with a good eye for walks and one of the best swinging bunts ever in the game.

Often they were shocked when they called him in to give him the news he was going back to the Rivets or was traded down south to the Tanners and he grinned and said “Well all right” as if he was receiving a promotion.

He was a content man enjoying the game in the fashion that he wanted to play it. He enjoyed taking pictures with the fans, going to local grade schools and signing his card and riding the bumpy bus to the next town. Life was content and content was good for him.

Tuesday, October 12, 2010

And why do I do this to myself as well? 1 a.
I would like to say these bare images only see life in the reflections of night but I would be lying

They have seen the early morning of a sick day and an afternoon after a dentist visit

Excitement in tingles of situations if were under my nose or belt buckle I would be repulsed by

But how repulsed? Finish the task and as soon as the face is flush the act sets in? Regret?

Or would the toll fare be set in play…

With some thought count me out the distance is fine

Return to faggotry Pt. 2
Really a prize? A medal?

You tell me people really spend their parent’s money on this shit?

There is probably a guy named Frank in accounting at your Dad’s office that could be a poo poo poet scholar if he ever tried

What is more fucked up Confucius? A pant load making $10,000 an inning or a pant load who spend as much a semester for poems?

**(or me sitting here at 10:03 Tuesday night in a sense banging his head against a wall and being the tree that falls and no one hears or cares)**

Sunday, October 10, 2010

Return to faggotry

Thru the course of several jobs and minutes added up to hours

I would jot down on sticky notes and scraps the poetic musings of that particular hour

Always knew when pressed or asked by some little goof in my head I could just jib jab jib jab

Spill out a poem with at least one or two phrases that did not upset the soup in my stomach too much

I knew I would be back… but what for?

Why do I do this to myself? 1

Usually a Saturday night after a pre nap before bed
I prowl the internet streets at night near wee morning looking upon the faces of ex loves with new loves

Those damn blaster self portrait shots of their new loves

And I assign a value to their douch baggery that is usually quiet high and maybe a bit insulting to a functioning douche bag