catfish 16

 I don't know why Beagles thinks that wages are growing more than a few percentage points while the moneybags of the very very rich are soaring higher than the high sierras.  Rather than burden the readers with a long list of links I merely suggest that they google are wages rising?  and peruse the results. Likewise the gap between rich and poor is not narrowing but growing larger than it was in the gilded age.

As for minority unemployment shrinking I would suggest that the reader once more mount the google machine and feed it is black unemployment growing? and you will get the answer to this one.  

"Softball practice, this afternoon guys, look sharp." and then Dan flipped the ball behind his back. then turned around quick to snatch it in his glove on the way down only he didn't make it fast enough and just knocked it a little so that it took a little bounce on the floor and hit Ted, just rousing up from under his blanket and rubbing his knuckles into his eyes flat in the nose and dribbled back into the center of the room where Dan scooped it up like he'd always meant to do that and repeated, "Look sharp," and took his exit.

 Well shit was that coming up? It'd been a big triumph getting George to sponsor the team and all, but after that it had slipped my mind. Doing a little calculating I realized that opening day was just three weeks away, but you know I had never figured on practice, I thought we would just show up and do whatever.  Practice, shit, it sounded a lot like gym class. 

 Almost got on the shovel brigade that morning.  Guy came in and looked at us like we were a sorry lot of recruits which I guess we were, went down the line, this guy and this guy and just before he got to me he was done. 

 Back to the bunkhouse for a nap, sure was grueling getting up that early, and sitting in the hall for like three hours, but the nap was refreshing and then out to The Great Wall for noontime beers. Beers went on kind of late for me because of that practice thing, instead of heading back for my after lunch nap, I might as well suck up beers until we headed out to the field. Truth be told I was rather hoping it would rain, but no such luck.

 Itch, behind the bar, was strangely into it. Around five o'clock he shut us off sharp.  "No more guys. Out to the ball field."

 The ball field? "Is that what you call it?" I asked snatching my glass which was still maybe a quarter full from his grasp.

 "Indeed I do Natty," that stupid nickname he'd stuck on me, which I might say I didn't like a bit. "Because the ball is what rules the field, until it leaves the pitcher's hand nothing happens, just a bunch of guys standing around looking stupid, but once released, twirling in the air then it is in play. It may be a ball, it may be a strike.  It may be that the batter swings and should he make contact, maybe a hard grounder to third, maybe up the middle, maybe a..."

 "Maybe a line drive right at the first baseman's head," I cut in knowing that he would be the first baseman.

 He looked at me a little funny.  Hell I hadn't meant anything, was just trying to cut short his speech, finished my quarter beer and shoved the glass towards the bar. "To the ball field," Itch announced and off we marched. Well we bought a few twelve packs, one for first base, one for third base, and one deep into center field. Dan wasn't too happy about all that beer lugged out onto the field, but we had showed up, what more could he ask?

 I hadn't been too hot about interrupting that cozy early afternoon drinking session, but I have to say that once I got into that fresh air I perked up a bit I staked out my claim in centerfield, and it just felt alright, felt just fine. Of course that twelve back just behind me had something to do with it, but still when Dan ran out and tossed me my glove and I snagged it in the air and slipped it on well I was ready to go, hot to trot. Played a pretty good center field way back in high school, wasn't that long ago. Actually it was, fifteen years ago, doing some quick numbers in my head, but still felt as fresh as that green grass underneath my feet. 

Maybe seven, eight guys out there.  Dan took the mound, pretty drunk guy doing the catching, Itch at first, noticed he claimed it right off, just like I had claimed center field, no second baseman, young guy at shortstop, no third baseman. Just me in the outfield, lot of ground to cover, but that didn't matter because nobody was hitting anything out there. Dan wasn't much of a pitcher so the batter had to swing at almost anything, so it was mostly just slow rollers in the infield.  I kept moving in further, dragging that slowly emptying twelve pack behind me. 

I passed up my time at bat because I wanted to stake my claim in center field, and the truth was I wasn't that great a hitter.  Oh when I smacked one, I smacked it good, but I didn't smack that many, mostly I whiffed. Problem was I closed my eyes just as the ball was coming in. Coach was always on my ass about that, and I saw his point, I agreed with his point, but I don't know, I always did it anyway. The ball always looked like the full moon coming in, and I just wanted to hit it so hard that I squeezed my eyes shut for the extra power, and there it would be strike one, strike two, and strike three. Damn. You know I had gotten into it to impress the babes, not that there were many girls showing up for baseball games, but a few, and what they liked were the guys who got the hits, who put the runs on the boards. I had my share of over the shoulder running out and running in diving catches, but a glove man, you know, just not the same as the guy at the plate blasting them out of there.