Beer League. Sunshines. Rainbows. Wine League (today). Vomit stains, if the grass by Pomona track was a carpet. More importantly? I think Beer League isn’t going to last until the end of this year. That is because I’m a soft maybe on showing up at 3pm this Saturday. I might not even go at 4:30 when they stop checking if you’ve done the Venmo for beer. Last week, I threw up too many times. This week, what are they going to do without me? I’m pretty much at the center of the universe.
Beer League is facing an economic crisis if I’m not there. I have been thinking about not drinking beer on weekends anymore. The side effects are potentially enormous. According to the Laws of Economics, the supply of beer would be higher (since I wouldn’t drink it) at the same time the demand for beer (I’m an alcoholic) is precisely the same. Too much beer would drive the prices down. That price drop, combined with the same amount of people buying beer, means that Beer League cannot possibly take in the per-beer revenue required to support me, long-term, drinking Natty Lite until I can’t even see the baseball. Maybe I should go to support my friend? Agh, so hard to decide!
At this point, I am starting to get worried about my friend—Beer League. I got so shitfaced last week that I barely even remember all the good times we had together. It doesn’t matter how good the weather was, because the only thing I can recall is a vague sense of body envy toward the shirtless twink with 5 beers queued up in his tiny beer belly (I call it the “shit pouch”). Is that a healthy relationship? I don’t know, but I think I need some time away from the game. Maybe I’ll just swing by at 5pm and hit the afters?
Also, I’ve been feeling really disrespected by League. They raised the price of unlimited beer by $1 two years ago and that was frankly egregious. I really don’t know how they can live with themselves, spitting in my face like that. The commissioner emails were much funnier when my prefrontal cortex was 18 and not 22. It’s also getting hard to steal the 19 beers per week I need to survive between me and my chud friends. Simón doesn’t always bring his backpack, because he’s studying abroad in Spain. My satchel can only hold short-term beer that won’t last until Wednesday. Ryan is in a position of authority and can be indicted in a League tribunal for embeerzlement. All these things are League’s fault.
That being said, I’ve been missing Beer League a lot since last Saturday. The razor sharp grass when I’m barefoot at Mudd field, making my dogs learn to love the pain. Or the sound of the bat cracking like thunder after 15 pitches and 11 rounds of people slurring, “one more!” Or Mt. Baldy, always on the horizon, with a little snow. It’s the Mount Fuji of the Inland Empire, a short drunk-drive away. Sometimes I indulge in fantasies about living in other places—good ones, with indoor smoking and unfiltered cigarettes. Then I realize I have it all here in Claremont. My little empire of dirt and friendship. My little light age.
I haven’t had a beer in 4 days and the voices are begging my urethra to go, to live, to piss in a bush in sure eyeshot of the Mills Ave. sidewalk. Fuck it, I have to go. I can’t give up on my garden. I’ll be there at 3:45 in my Rainbrew Connection jersey. Dingers only, then Drary.