We live in a city without real animals. But it has big cranes, which the crane companies make a point of hanging Christmas lights from in the months of November, December.
That’s all you really need to know about our city.
Except.
Also.
That and our city has a sports team. Multiple teams.
But only one team has The Grobber doing post game.
Smacking his lips and licking his teeth.
And since me and my lady have a little problem with our medicine, we’re always listening to games in the car, and listening after the games when people call in to talk to The Grobber about the games that just happened. I don’t think my lady even likes baseball, but she likes when people care about things, especially late at night. It calms her. Which calms me. Which keeps everything nice and chill when we’re deep on the westside looking for our dope, our medicine, our return to some state of normalcy. It makes the car feel safe: the buzz of my cheap engine and the whistle of my brakes–all that noise mixed with The Grobber asking, “For God sakes can this team find an answer at right field? Hell, I’d put on a glove and get out there!”
We laugh: me and my lady.
The Grobber makes us laugh; see, cause The Grobber loves the Sox the way no one should. And I can say that, because as a baseball fan myself I’ll tell you that the Sox only exist to disappoint people in this city. It’s how they are. The Grobber knows this. He does. But night after night, 162 nights a year, he keeps going. Keeps talking. Keeps taking calls and explaining that base running is taught at the youth level, OBP is misleading, and Alexie Ramirez needs to be better on the cut off.
Then he yawns.
He smacks his lips.
His tongue drifts over his teeth.
🦷🦷🦷
The Grobber’s favorite line after a Sox loss is, “We’ll play um in the parking lot.”
My lady sometimes says it after we score our dope.
We’ll play um in the parking lot, she says, looking at me, taking a little hit to straighten out.
🦷🦷🦷
We start crying real good the night he passes away: me and my lady wiping up each other’s tears with the leftover Wendy’s napkins. It’s a blood moon, which is making everything very serious and orange and beautiful. We’re sick. Sick sick. And listening to the station director, Mitch Rosen, explain that The Grobber went suddenly, painlessly, and surrounded by his loved ones.
I look at my lady.
We’re flying down the expressway to Gargoyle’s girlfriend’s spot.
Gargoyle says he’s got fire.
The kind of stuff that’ll put us on our butts and put a smile on our faces.
“Baby no,” my lady whimpers all tore up.
“I know,” I say. “I know it.”
Then we pull through.
Gargoyle hooks us up fat while the neighborhood kids hopscotch in the lawn.
We drive off calm and tearful.
Once again in possession of the thing we need most.
“We’re good,” I say.
“In the streets,” says my lady, as the orange light of the moon tears my car into a thousand, small, unbearable pieces. “That’s where we’ll play um.”
🌆⚾️
