Opening Day is tomorrow, Sunday, July the 5th. In the shadows of Tad Gormley Stadium in City Park.
To kick things off at high noon, we have the return of our blue-blooded Blues, in full seersucker southern sexual aristocratic socialite delight. These humble gentlemen gentry will confront the new contentious entente formed by a Voltronic alliance of the Crete St. Riot and Rougarou teams, perhaps now known as… The Fracture? Perhaps we will rename this team weekly and weakly. I can’t decide if there are more punks or hippies on this shaken up roster… either way I expect Parleaux to enjoy stuffing them in a locker.
7 innings later and at 2:30 PM, the historic and legendary 5th Ward Weebies are BACK IN BLACK to pay tribute and vengeance to their fallen hero and beloved patron Saint, namesake. All respect. All hail. It is with no sense of glee that I must report the Pelicans to be on the receiving end of this patriotic onslaught.
And headlining our glorious return to the diamond, at 5:00 PM we will have a rematch of the Fall 2019 Championship game, with the insurgent and well-practiced Secret 9 barking at the door of the perennial all-stars, Parleaux. Like that time a horny little Shih Tzu from down the street snuck into my yard and then we had 6 little puppies to feed. Spay and neuter on and off the field, my friends.
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If you are new to the league, and don’t know what team you are on yet, you are probably a member of THE FRACTURE, and should report to the field by noon. If you do have an idea of which team you are on, go to that game instead.
Rosters are going to be flexible and fluid for the first couple weeks as we figure out what our numbers look like this time around.
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DO THIS: PAY DUES
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And I’d be remiss to commission this post on the 4th of July without deferring on the subject to the wisdom of our game’s greatest hero:
There I was, the black grandson of a slave, the son of a black sharecropper, part of a historic occasion, a symbolic hero to my people. The air was sparkling. The sunlight was warm. The band struck up the national anthem. The flag billowed in the wind. It should have been a glorious moment for me as the stirring words of the national anthem poured from the stands…. Today, as I look back on that opening game of my first World Series, I must tell you that it was Mr. Rickey’s drama and that I was only a principal actor. As I write this twenty years later, I cannot stand and sing the anthem. I cannot salute the flag; I know that I am a black man in a white world. In 1972, in 1947, at my birth in 1919, I know that I never had it made.
