2.3. The Unnatural.

Hey folks: The Voice of Larry here. I'm back, y'all! My deep apologies for vanishing on you for the past few months. It started with a hand injury that made typing difficult (fully healed) and then my spare time got completely swallowed up in another project for a long time, which I've just completed. Before we get back into the journal: while I've been adamant to not let the Internet life of this thing wade into the entries themselves, I want to send a shout out to my most loyal reader, Mark Jensen, who is recovering from a health emergency of his own and whose recovery has inspired me to get back into the swing of things. Get better soon, Mark! Without further adieu:

2.3. The Unnatural.

Larry Appleton, reporting from the dugout in baseball city! Look. I'm an athlete, all right? It was sports week here in Chicago, focused on a series of dramatic events surrounding the softball team I manage, which I've never mentioned before today and am unlikely to ever bring up again. So pay attention.

The week started with your old buddy Cousin Larry riding high. Literally. I was carried on the shoulders of the Ritz Discount Royals softball team into the store, with Balki leading a ribald chant of "We're number one!" as the team poured through the front door with their curly-headed Caesar beaming down at them from on high. Twinkacetti greeted us, and he was holding a massive handful of cash and looking anxious and sweaty. He was desperate for the results of the game like he had one of his kids' fingers riding on it (which wouldn't surprise me at all.)

Balki, the team's waterboy, scorekeeper and head cheerleader, launched into a literal play-by-play of the entire game until Twinkie rightfully shut him up and asked for me - the team's manager - to give him the quick and dirty.

Of course I'm the manager, by the way. Managers are the ones with the plan.

It was telling that Twinkie didn't care so much about whether we won, just whether we "beat the spread." You know, it's weird that some degenerate bookie Twinkie knows is actually establishing gambling lines for local rec-league softball games, but that at least explains why he was so twitchy and carrying all that cash around. I told him we had in fact pulled it off, and he spirited away to his office to count his winnings.

I  got the team charged up with a rousing speech about how we just have to beat the Shop and Spend team in the next game and the Championship is ours. They cheered. Jennifer looked at me like she was going to tear me apart the minute we were alone. Mary Anne looked at me like she picked the wrong cousin. Balki looked at me like he didn't understand a word I was saying because he's an idiot, but he was smiling. Our team might just be the Royals, but this is what Kings feel like.

Quick aside - Balki's wardrobe has gotten really out there this year. Today he had on a gray dress shirt, black shorts so long that they somehow were hiked above his belly button but still hanging down to his knees, suspenders, dress socks and wing tips. I honestly don't know if he's going for "French Schoolboy" or "Golfing Granny" but it's weirding me out.

Anyhoo. I told the team how important the win was, because if we pulled it off the Championship trophy would be MINE, and I would graciously share it with all of them - in spirit. They seemed to appreciate this. I dispatched the team and commented offhand to Balki that it was weird how Slugger, the Royals' ringer, didn't hang around for his custom slap on the ass from Coach before taking off. That's when Balki remembered to tell me that Slugger was going to the Grand Canyon with his family next week and wouldn't be around for the big game.

Shiiiiiiiiiit.

I grabbed him by his shirt collar and asked desperately why Slugger wouldn't tell me that himself. Balki pointed out that I would probably assault him the same way I was assaulting Balki right now, and I realized that I had underestimated my own identity as a vicious, domineering, violent man of power. I told Balki how much the team stinks without Slugger, and Balki started hinting around that maybe Slugger's replacement was standing in the room already. I pretended not to get the hint before sneaking out to lick my wounds.

I spent the whole next day trying to recruit a replacement, with no luck. I was really sweatin' it, man. Obviously Twinkacetti, my employer (and maybe landlord, I don't think that's ever been made clear) has been placing an escalating series of bets on the Royals, and anything that comes down hard on his head will undoubtedly come down twice as hard on mine. Also, the trophy! So close to MINE! Anyway Balki came home, overtly pining for the open roster spot now by wearing a child-size baseball cap and wearing a glove. I finally had to confront the question head on, and I told Balki we were headed into the championship and I needed someone who had at least played the game once in his life before.

Balki rolled out that whole standard issue bullcrap line about how it's important that you have fun, not that you win the game, which is the exact wrong thing I'd want to hear from someone trying to worm their way onto a team one game away from the championship. How about a little killer spirit, Balki? You're already climbing uphill trying to get on my team, Sport!

I told Balki that trophies are more important than life, and I cut to the chase that we usually don't get to until after our hijinks of the week by telling him I'm dealing with a web of serious inferiority complexes stemming from my life in a big family with more successful siblings. This time it was my brother Billy, the family athlete, who rubbed his lifetime of trophies in my face every night in our shared bedroom.

But being the good guy I am, I offered Balki the chance to practice with the team the next day so we could see if he had any raw skills. And being the terrible guy that Balki is, he responded with zero gratitude at all and instead launched into his standard selfish little baby routine, whining, "I want practice now." Despite it being dark out and how I was trying to relax with a cold beer after spending all day cold-calling bats for hire, Balki wouldn't let it go.

In the old days, this would have devolved into a vicious shouting match; but I've learned that I could either waste a lot of energy and lose that argument eventually, or just cave immediately and hope I don't get injured. Balki has destroyed my spirit to such a depressing degree that I caved in less than four seconds. He wanted to pitch - a position that is not open on our roster - but instead of directing his first practice toward something productive like fielding slow grounders in deep right field, I issued him a pair of socks and took the bat. Trust me, this was easier.

We cleared some space in the living room and I told Balki to toss it up and over the plate. He went on to pretend he was getting signs from an imaginary catcher for what felt like days, until I totally snapped at him and demanded he throw the ball. He had driven me to a level of frustration so intense that when he finally whipped the socks high and outside, I chased 'em. I should've just let it go past me and wait for my pitch, but I was so determined to cream those socks back at Balki that I lost my cool, swung hard and destroyed yet another living room lamp. The asshole had the nerve to say "Strike one."

In case you all forgot over the hiatus, I just, I hate Balki so much.

Next day. Balki and I returned home in single color sweatsuits. Mine was a spaklingly clean royal blue, and Balki was in a completely filthy banana yellow. Practice had not gone well. I told him I'd never seen such an embarrassing display of baseball in my life. He liked sliding, so he just slid head first into every base while he was supposed to be playing right field. Never took batting practice. He was so disruptive we literally would have been better off with only 8 on the field.

I tried to gently kick Balki off the team, but he pulled the most massive guilt trip ever on me before I could get the words out of my mouth about what an amazing honor it was going to be to play the game he'd spent his whole life worshiping from Mypos; although clearly not worshiping enough to ever watch a single game in his life, and I know they have TV over there.

I couldn't do it. I told him he'd made the team. Balki said they'd throw him a parade on Mypos when they hear about it. HOW PATHETIC IS MYPOS? He sashayed off to tell his stuffed sheep about the whole situation or something, just as Twinkie called to tell me he'd recruited Duke Lyle to fill in for Slugger.

You heard that right. Duke Frigging Lyle.

For those of you who don't live in Chicago, you might not recognize the name; but trust me, in the small business recreation league circles of Chicago, Duke Lyle is kind of a big deal. You don't just turn down a chance to put Duke Lyle on your roster. Twinkie had offered Duke $50, which would come out of my pocket of course. I was walking tall anyway. I was about to get my trophy, which I could rub in Billy's face for the rest of his life. And then I heard Balki singing "The Impossible Dream" from the back, and I remembered the promise I had just made.

I had a turnip to toss off the truck.

The next day, Twinkie showed up with Duke Lyle himself. Duke Lyle! The strapping young ringer was kind of a dick up front, demanding his fifty bucks and then strolling off to get in some BP before game time. As he was walking away Balki, who I'd not bothered to say anything to the night before, arrived in his brand new uniform.

I pulled the team together and gave them a super inspiring speech about how important it was for them to win for me, and sent all but Balki out to the field. I told the turnip I was holding him back as my secret weapon, and I was keeping him on the bench until the perfect moment when I would unload him on the field. On a scale of "brilliant Larry manipulations," I'd put it near the top. Balki drank every word in and called me a genius.

You have no idea, Dummy.

He gleefully took his spot on the bench, and the game started. It didn't go well from the start. The Shop and Spend Spartans got off to an early lead, and I almost got my ass kicked out for going off on the ump like a machine gun.

We were down 4-3 in the bottom of the ninth. Token female player Mary Anne struck out for the second out of the inning, hacking away at the ball overhead with the bat like she was trying to beat Balki with a rubber hose during one of what I can only imagine are the horrifying sex games they play when the lights go out.

Two outs, bottom of the ninth, down one, one runner on base.

Duke was up. Balki tried to call a timeout, and put on the most amazing crybaby voice he's ever unloaded and told me he realized I wasn't putting him in, and that winning a championship must be more important than having a friend.

Low blow, Bartokamous.

All right, look: I know this makes me look bad. That's Balki's specialty. He'd set it all up from the word "Cousin." But think about this for a second. This is my team. I've coached them all season. I've had a LIFELONG FRIGGING COMPLEX from not winning any trophies, in the shadow of Billy Appleton. Balki had to see how important this was to me! I mean, he's been pretty satisfied being the cheerleader all season, and I let him dress for the last game, and all of a sudden the thing I've obviously needed my whole life has to take second fiddle to Balki getting one at bat in a rec league baseball game or we're not friends anymore? WHEN DID THIS, LIKE EVERYTHING ELSE, BECOME ABOUT BALKI???

Twinkie came down from the stands to ask what the eff was going on, and I told him the situation. He played me even harder than Balki, tweaking my trophy-jones and calling me a loser. But I knew the real stakes. The trophy on my shelf would be nice, but it would always carry the stink of Balki's manufactured hurt feelings and it would make me sick looking at it. I sent the turnip in.

Balki stepped up to the plate and held the bat cluelessly while two meatball pitches sailed past him in slow motion. Mary Anne could've drilled a run in off of them, but Balki just watched. I told him he only gets three strikes, and he said he got the strike and ball count mixed up. He asked if he should hit the next one.

Sure enough, the pitch comes in - and by the way, we were playing with some strange silver spray-painted ball for some reason. Balki connected, solid. I've never seen a softball hit so far. Of course he just stood there watching, then ran toward third base before finally getting in motion in the right direction. He slid into every base, as is his custom. But it didn't matter; Balki had hit that silver softball a country mile. Two runs scored. The Royals had won.

Balki and I returned home victors, but the tiny, cheap trophy felt weirdly empty. I realized I'd almost thrown away our friendship over it, and I'd quietly regretted not taking that deal. He then told me he was basically a superstar at home of a much more challenging version of softball where you hit rocks with a stick. Would've been nice to know earlier in the season, buddy.

I put my tiny plastic trophy on the mantle and gazed at it with pride. My first trophy, there by itself, not being overshadowed for the first time in my life. This prompted Balki to take out his absolutely massive wood and metal Most Valuable Player trophy, which seems like bullshit considering he played exactly one at bat in the whole season, and placed it directly next to my little one. The light from the sconce above the mantle shone down on the two trophies, and mine was now literally in the shadow of Balki's much bigger one.

God hates me.