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Speaking Boontling At Dick’s

A few weeks ago Bruce Anderson wrote “A Breath­less Look Back at the San Francisco Giants” — a mini-history from when they arrived at Babylon by the Bay to 2010 World Series big dogs.

You know the improbable Mets did it as well, briefly detouring the Yankees' empire even though Casey Stengel said the Mets had some lifestyle issues where the “catching wasn't their problem, it was the chasing.”

It certainly led to the greatest home-boy political moment of my life. That moment of pissed off hope was during the series' first game in Texas.

After hearing the game action with the guys telling it like it is on 92.7, when I got to the heart of Mendoland I just had to sneak a peek before being where I was sup­posed to be, and the hotel looked too tame so I slid on down to Dick's navigating by the by the bobbing buoy of only one severely inebriated patron at the door.

The bar was packed, maybe 35 ir 40 souls thirsty for deliverance from the humorless dead zone of our current every day affairs. Bruce Anderson correctly states that the awareness of any politicians at a Giants game would resurrect the Bronx jeer.

I had entered the door for a taste and a look just at the seventh inning stretch. In the midst of my shot-and-a-beer lean through the crowd the Ranger fans and others started in on “America the Beautiful” Texas style with all of Arlington placing hands to heart.

I thought I'd straighten up and be prepared for a civic moment because Bruce Anderson says it is confirmed Mendolib lore that the happy patrons at places like Dick's vote against their self interest and so I better be prepared for a fast approaching Texas moment with lots of standing with due diligence.

But not a move by even one — no standing, no hands on heart, just a steady murfle that went something like this: “If they, and we all know who fuckin’ they are are, think it's so fuckin’ beautiful these days why do they have to work so fucking hard to fuck us in the fucking you know where."

And then completely unprepared for a posse of Bushes behind home plate I followed the centerfield camera as it zoomed by Nolan, scowling at his non-no-hit- pitching, tight and hard to W, still grinning as he was pictured the night when as governor of Texas he denied Carla Faye Baker's plea from being strapped to a gurney for her doctor sanctioned lethal injection.

When the camera did a close up of W during the national sing-along, 40 fingers of each and every right hand, rose vehemently as one, breaking the coastal air with a perceptible whoosh.

Overwhelmed, I was almost knocked off my feet by the recoil from the dynamic motion of the American fin­ger, and couldn't help but turn and applaud my fellow citizens — shit, maybe there is some hope before the great Bush slouches to Bethlehem just in time for the Second Coming maybe even of the World Series.

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