issue109observations

                                                              ZYGOTE IN MY COFFEE.COM

***BIO*** KARL KOWESKI: I'm a 33 year old displaced Chicagoan, now living on top of a mountain in Alabama for reasons that involve a woman. I was the lead singer/banjo player of the now defunct country/punk/disco band The Screaming Shits. Now I just work in a machine shop and write articles for porno mags.

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Imaginary Diamonds

by Karl Koweski

Each year as the Ides of March rolls around, my thoughts begin to encompass all things baseball. Fanaticism hits like a herpes outbreak and the fever blisters refuse to recede regardless how many innings I log in on my 2004 EA Baseball season on Playstation 2. By the end of the month I’m dusting off my baseball card collection and gloating over my accumulation of Rusty Kuntz cards. As March segues into April, I start analyzing batting statistics even when I’m not having unprotected sex with meth-addled strippers.

It goes without saying I’m a Cubs fan. Such a simple statement that comes no where close to encompassing the fleeting ecstasies and enduring agonies such an existence entails. I’m a Cub’s fan the way Republicans are Big Oil fans. I would happily throw you and your family under a bus to ensure a Cub’s victory no differently than petroleum-owned politicians will cheerfully sacrifice your loved ones on the altar of larger profit margins.

So it’s with a commingling of desperate optimism and bitter dread I approach each April searching for holes in the Cubbies roster as a chef might check for holes in a sieve. I know that if I could apply this obsessive compulsive facet of my personality to the writing game, I would have had several novels published by now, but, when spring hits, the air blossoms with the scent of Budweiser and the Cubbies starting rotation visits the disabled list, it’s all I can do to write a poem about masturbating in the back of a greyhound bus. So consumed with worry about Alfonso Soriano’s dodgy hamstrings am I, it takes me two weeks to read an entire Chuck Palahniuk novel (rather than the customary hour and a half).

Something had to give. I couldn’t face another 162 gmae course in hopeless anticipation and abject humiliation. Not this year. 2008. The one hundredth anniversary of the last Chicago Cubs World Series championship. I won’t comment on the fact my father and his father lived and died without witnessing their beloved adopted hometown team of stumble bums and no-good-nicks achieve total victory, except to say – fuck the Red Sox.

It was while I wallowed in this state of mind a co-worker approached me with an invitation to join his fantasy baseball league.
'What the fuck’s that?' I asked. Something about the combination of words alarmed me.

'It’s like Dungeons and Dragons. Except for baseball enthusiasts.'

'Holy shit. Count me out. D&D kept me from getting laid all through high school. There’s no way in hell I’m going to pick up a twenty-sided dice and subject my penis to that sort of prolonged celibacy again.'

'All right. Maybe it’s not quite like a role-playing game. There ain’t no dice or Thac0 or anything hazardous to your libido.'

'Groovy. Continue.'

'What happens is: You get a ten man board. In a couple weeks we’re gonna have our draft. You don’t have to be online for that. The computer will automatically pick your players by highest ranking available out of a pool of every major league player.'

'I’ll be there for that.'

'Suit yourself. You basically fill in your roster spots. Fill all positions. Field a team and a roster of starting and relief pitchers. From the ten man board you rotate opponents each week. There’s sixteen categories you compete in. Hits, RBIs, runs, stolen bases, wins, losses, saves, ERA, you get the picture. Each week your individual player’s stats are added up and whoever wins the most categories wins the week. There’s like twenty five weeks not including playoffs. You’d like it. Help take your mind off another soul-crushing Cubbies season.'

As I write this, directly following the All Star game, I see that Todd, like the time he claimed spermicidal jelly protects against sexually transmitted diseases, doesn’t know what the fuck he’s talking about. That’s why Todd’s got the clap and I can’t go five minutes without checking ESPN.com.

Instead of one team breaking my heart, I got twenty five knuckleheads from all over the major leagues giving me fits. Somewhere Jeff Francoeur is wondering why he can’t hit a breaking pitch all of the sudden. It’s not because he needs contact lenses to see during night games. It’s not because he’s pulling every outside pitch directly to the fucking shortstop. It’s because I picked his sorry ass up for my fantasy baseball team.

Then there’s the flipside where I have to ask how can a .230 career hitter suddenly bat .670 during the seven day span he’s in opposition to me. I’m like a karmic steroid to these players. My time playing fantasy baseball is going to go down into history as the Karl Koweski era. Fifteen years from now John Kruk will be on Baseball Tonight saying 'sure, Jeff Francoeur is this generation’s greatest baseball player, but would he be anywhere near this good had Karl Koweski not traded him away from his fantasy team for two nudie pics and a Webkins account?' Jesus Christ, I’ve been a Cub’s fan for thirty fucking years, why am I not immune to the injustices of baseball?

Ever wonder why Justin Verlander just ain’t that dominating a pitcher this year? Yes, I drafted him. And don’t even get me started on Dontrelle Willis. All I can say there is have fun pitching Double A ball, jackass.

Looking back, I can see where maybe drafting half the Cubs wasn’t such a sound strategy. Perhaps I should have tried drafting the talented half. Derek Lee or Aramis Ramirez or, hell, even Geovanny Soto. Instead, I get Fukudome, Theriot, and Mark DeRosa who only wants to hit when I have him replaced in the line-up by the Red Sox’s J.D. Drew. And J.D. Drew can only get hits when I plug in Mark DeRosa. God forbid I put both these clowns in my line-up for any length of time. They’d end up slugging it out in the minors with Francoeur and Willis.

I can say one good thing about fantasy baseball. It has opened a window in my mind through which I can now peer into the future. For example, my team, The Polish Hammers is facing The Beaver Splitters. It’s a Sunday afternoon, the last day of the week’s competition. I’m tied in losses and holds and I’m winning in ERA and WHIP. I’m watching the Cub’s game, an act which has now become an exercise in compromised allegiances. The Beaver Splitters has Derek Lee and Aramis Ramirez and it’s killing me to wish for a strike-out every time they approach the plate. My man, Fukudome, seems capable only of eliciting a base on balls or swinging wildly at pitches sliding down behind his heels. Anyway, the Cubbies bring in Carlos Marmol, the illustrious eight inning set-up man. Of course, he’s a fixture in my fantasy team’s middle relief. The moment his foot touches the rubber, I foresee the outcome. He’s gonna give up the ball game. Boom! I’m like motherfucking Edgar Cayce and Sylvia Browne’s love child reamed in the ass by Ernie Banks. Marmol gives up five earned runs without recording an out. It gives him a weekly ERA of infinity. INFINITY. It means, had Pinella not pulled Marmol’s sorry ass out of the game when he did, Marmol would’ve kept giving up runs UNTIL THE END OF TIME. Goodbye ERA and WHIP lead. Rack up another loss for The Polish Hammers. The Beaver Splitters gives me a licking and I drop down further into the goddam cellar.

And there it is. My mood and sense of self worth decided by a bunch of millionaire ballplayers who wouldn’t know me if I walked up to them and kicked one in the nuts with mountain climbing boots.

The next day at work, Todd, the proud manager of the Beaver Splitters, meets me at my machine. He grins like a lifelong Yankees fan. 'Looks like you got your ass whupped again.'

'Yeah, I really didn’t expect Richie Sexson to strike out eleven times and ground into three double plays. He was so good back in ‘03. Is it possible to have negative RBIs? It should be.'

'Your team’s not really built to win, is it?'

'I can say at least I didn’t draft any players from the Cincinnati Reds.'

'At least the Cubbies are leading their division.'

'Fuck the Cubs.'

'Keep your chin up, champ. If they ever have a fantasy porn league, you’d definitely win it all.'

I can’t deny the truth in this statement. I imagine my dream team. Erica Campbell leading off in the softcore spot. Danni Ashe in the internet pin-up role. Anne-Marie anchoring the meaty BBW position followed by sultry superstar Briana Banks. Aurora Snow goes deep in the anal sex position. Veteran cock-imbiber, Christa Lake, would be the ultimate utility player, able to accommodate anything anywhere. I’d platoon Brandi Belle and Tawney Stone in the Lolita spot. Both girls get the job done with rookie aplomb (and I use the word 'rookie' in the Japanese sense). Rebecca Bardeaux, another wily veteran, catches for young fireballer Bree Olsen with the fearless Tory Lane being the reliever who actually offers some relief. I’d keep Hailey Paige on my permanently disabled list. The beautiful thing is, all the ladies are switch-hitters. Except Hailey Paige. She’s just dead.

Like my hopes for a Chicago Cubs World Series Championship and my dreams for a winning record in the fantasy baseball league, so too my column comes to an end. Now to do some research for my new fantasy team.