Dearest Mates,
Once again we find ourselves on the precipice of a “non-Syndicate” cycle. Time for your friendly bookie to slither and squirm back into the “ViceCave” from whence he came. The next time we convene, we’ll all be contending with the sweltering summer heat. Consider that for a moment. No gentlemen will be prompted to enter their wagers until the sultry calefaction of the brutal Summer compels us all to make insipidly insane decisions…like buying a ticket for “The Fast and the Furious—Part Six” in order to spend at least one hour in an air-conditioned movie theater. Sorry to augur such unforgivable stupidity, but it will happen.
Let’s briefly discuss the future of this tournament.
Hardball enthusiasts will be pleased to note that nearly 800,000 fans worldwide
packed the eight separate venues to cheer on their countries. That sounds
impressive…until one recalls that this constitutes slightly less of the
population in that hellhole Detroit. Moreover, once one divides total
attendance by the number of matches, one arrives at an average audience of
approximately 19,000 spectators per game. Yikes. Teams in the Second Bundesliga
routinely average more.
The television ratings have been abysmal, partially owing to
the fact that MLB Network acquired the exclusive rights at rock bottom prices.
ESPN wasn’t even remotely interested in instigating a bidding war for the
rights to televise this intriguing competition. Their executives knew full that
most Americans would greet the third installment of this experiment with a
resonant “Ho-hum”. Hence, tournament matches routinely lost out to Grapefruit
League exhibition games. That’s terribly sad. More people were interested in
watching a meaningless match up between the third stringers of the Tampa Bay
Rays and the Cleveland Indians. Not a terribly encouraging sign.
Apropos MLB Spring Training, a rethink of the tournament’s
timing is absolutely called for. Holding it in March was never a bright idea.
Most MLB Players are contractually obligated to sit matters out by their
respective ball clubs. Even if their contracts don’t explicitly forbid them
from skipping Spring Training, many stars opt not to risk injury or jeopardize
their starting positions. To add further context, the players haven’t been in
peak form since September. March often serves as a critical juncture for
players to get back into shape and solidify their status with their teams. Much
like the toiling American worker, American ballplayers live in perpetual fear
of taking a vacation. It’s unwise to consider taking a leave of absence from
work. By the time you get back, someone else has taken over your job. Such is
life.
A practical solution appears on the horizon. The
Commissioner’s office is said to be strongly considering moving the tournament
to November, December, or January. Naturally, this would require selecting a
Southern Hemisphere host. Okay. Do we really have much to lose at this point?
Irrespective of all of this, expect your friendly bookie to be back in full
force by 2017 (assuming he hasn’t succumbed to lung cancer by then). I still
genuinely love baseball. I’ll follow my Philles “phorever”, through every
torrid summer slog. No Spring trip down to Baton Rouge will be complete without
at afternoon at the new Alex Box Stadium, keeping score with beer in hand.
Should I ever have a son, Daddy will play catch with him in the backyard at
least once a week….whether he wants to or not. I’ve got quite a bit of ground
to make up, considering my father could never play catch with me. It wasn’t exactly
a “Cats in the Cradle” situation. It was just that, being a German, my father
had no clue how to throw a baseball.
“When ya comin home son?
I don’t know when,
But we’ll eat some Spätzle then ya,
You know we’ll have a good time then.”
Well, gentlemen, it’s been yet another wild ride. All the
usual tender and warmhearted gratitude is warranted for all your contributions:
The wagers, the texts, the e-mails, the calls, and every last riff included
therein. Difficult to fathom, but all of this began less than three weeks ago.
I attached a few sentimental words about growing up with a love for baseball to
an old piece and we were off. The predominant reaction to the Primer Section
for “WBC—Syndicate Reloaded” labeled it “a dry history lesson as irresistible as
the goofball who wrote it”. Wow. Thanks. I couldn’t have been more pleased.
That particular syndicate member could write for the New York Review of Books.
Over the subsequent seventeen days, we slogged through NINE
rounds of lines. Though this installment of the Book didn’t feature Dailies,
the ever-changing constellation of the tournament necessitated continuously
updated lines. Coincidentally enough, the record number of rounds matches the
number of innings in a baseball game. “Neat-o”, would you not agree? In
addition to real-time lines, there were random ramblings on everything from
books to movies to whatever left your friendly bookie pissed off enough to
light up the keys. At one point God himself even rudely interrupted us. His
“holier than thou” attitude forced us to drop everything and stare at a chimney
for 36 hours. We witnessed the dramatic rise and fall of the American team.
Together we observed the rabid behavior of fans both Asian and Caribbean. We
all watched over twenty five games decided in the final innings, and somehow
found time to greet a guy in a dress standing on a balcony along the way.
All that remains is our traditional “Saccharine Section”,
the part in which your friendly bookie composes something from the deepest
recesses of his heart. Excuse me as I set the mood. Drink? Check. Music?
Hmmm….Randy Crawford worked brilliantly last time, but this is a very different
syndicate. Hmmm…Loreena Mckennitt? Nah. That’s WAY TOO sweet. “The Eels”? Nah.
That’s a bit too hard. Brian Eno? Fuck off! As many times as I could listen to
“And then So Clear”, it’s still one song stuck on a loop. Eric Bibb?
Grrr…again, “Panama Hat” is but one song. John Hiatt? ONE SONG…..but wait a
second. That chorus to that one song, “My Old Friend” aptly summarizes how I
feel about all of you:
“My old friend(s)
You make me feel young again”
Look, guys. Even Mr. Wordsmith here has difficulty
constructing something that adequately conveys how touching and vitally
important it is that we can all get together like this. Life’s a cruel bitch.
One might even deem life a mentally unstable girlfriend. Occasionally she
coquettishly invites you to partake in the most uplifting of spiritually
intimate moments. For the most part, however, she’s busy sticking her finger in
your face, reminding you that you’re no good, and telling you to get lost.
We’ve all been there. We rise up every morning to face a
fresh set of challenges. Even the most positive of attitudes can’t withstand
all the finger pointing we must endure. I write such words in order to speak
directly with those members who might not have had the strength to compose
something witty for this book. Your bookie cares about you. He cares about your
adversity. He loves you, and will always be there for you.
No one travels the obscure path of a Shadow Scholar without
good reason. You’re my reasons. One shouldn’t anticipate an upgrade in the
optics of my little blog anytime soon. It may come straight from the heart, but
this large and gentle heart has many obligations beyond producing and starring
in a “one-man-show”. Whether you’re on Cloud Nine or sloshing through the muck
of self-doubt, you’re always welcome here. I’ll always be glad to hear from
you.
On that happy note, it’s time for us all to enjoy a
ballgame. We’re underway in San Francisco’s AT&T Park. The Dominicans have
jumped out to an early lead in bottom of the 1st. ALL BETS ARE OFF.
Enjoy the game, along with the rest of your Spring.
My Final Stats:
Spread: 11-24-3
Straight up: 19-16-3
Damn you, America. It’s all your fault. Too much faith in
Uncle Sam. Setting lines with one’s heart remains a recipe for disaster. May my
long-ago jettisoned cynicism be restored.
Supreme Champion of the Baseball Universe—Puerto Rico vs.
Dominican Republic
There’s still a great deal in store for us on this early
Spring evening. This game will run another two and half hours. Stretch out and
take it in. You won’t regret it
THE
PICK: Puerto Rico +1 Run
We’ll meet again. The Syndicate will return. For the time
being……
“Go play catch with a stranger.”
--S.S. P.J.W.
