this was the month we suspected pharmacists had infiltrated north america, and set up underground shops like gophers. at any minute someone could replace your right fielder with someone who looked like your right fielder, but could run faster, hit over 300, and bat in 100 rbi's a year. it was a new error for fear. it talked to us with the vernacular. it could talk about more stolen bases, crowding the plate, a smaller strike zone. then rise up and cut your career off with a wild pitch.
pitchers started to see it was a different era, their fast balls weren't so fast, so they tried to cherish the smaller things, like the curve ball, the slider, the sinker. but all that happened was they threw fewer change ups, and their era's climbed. sometimes when curled up in their beds under a blanket they'd peer out and squint at their lives, short green manicured furry dusty, chalky- and squinting back! they all just wanted names, like sy young.
life they learned, was not easy, not cake. not fair cake.
the batting average was up, though, and crime did not yet exist. the commissioner brought out graphs on tv, pointed at them. he reminded the people that he was not an evil man, that he, of course, come on now—he just wanted everyone to be happy! In bed, he contemplated the abolition of both anger and unhappiness, the outlawing of them. new happiness, old happiness, one had to go. could he do that? did he have the resources? why hadn't he thought of this before? it was an election year, and the future was very uncertain. Leaders all over the globe began to go on tv with graphs, pie charts, and precariously long series of rhetorical questions.
this was the same month Daryl started experimenting with "baseball-caffeine".