I forgot to water my pumpkins this morning, thought Pablo, I wonder what the temperature is today?
The zoo is open until dusk, thought Harlan, and the elephant cage is right by the entrance.
I wonder, thought Ditto, if Dustin Pedroia ever played rightfield?
Ditto’s birthday is tomorrow, thought Bonny, I hope the Dustin Pedroia jersey isn’t too small.
The team is really focused today, thought Alex, the championship is as good as won.
Wow, thought Blurtso, today’s game decides the championship. I’ve never been a champion. I set a record in the ski jump, but was disqualified for being a donkey. That was a relief, because the paparazzi went away. There aren’t any paparazzi here. Or any fans. I guess they’re all at home, listening on the radio. I wonder who’s doing the broadcast? I’ll bet it’s Jerry Remy. I wonder if Jerry Remy played stickball? He grew up in Somerset, so he probably played baseball, on real grass. That would be distracting, playing on grass. As distracting as playing in a pumpkin pie factory. You don’t see many sporting events in pie factories, for just that reason. I wonder if the winners get a trophy? I’d love to have a trophy, tall and shiny, with an action figure on top. Maybe a donkey taking a Ruthian sing, or a donkey making an over-the-shoulder catch, or a donkey gunning down a runner from third. A trophy would look great in the barn, with a little straw around the base. I wonder if being a champion would go to my head? I wonder if I’d begin to stay out late, and go to nightclubs, and get in trouble with the law? The paparazzi would revel in my fall, encouraging the cracks in my character. And I have many cracks. I’m not a role model. I have too many vices… pumpkin pie, hot cocoa, whipped cream. I wouldn’t want anyone to imitate me. I would be a terrible champion. But I sure would like a trophy, tall and shiny, in the middle of the barn.
Game seven, bottom of the ninth, score tied, two outs, bases loaded… “Ditto” Pedroia steps to the plate… here’s the pitch…
Game seven, bottom of the ninth, three balls, two strikes, two outs, runners on second and third, Redsox up by a run… runners are off with the pitch… it’s a slow roller to Dustin “Ditto” Pedroia…
What are you doing? said Pablo. I’m hitting some grounders, said Bonny, Ditto wants to become the next Dustin Pedroia.
No, said Bonny, I didn’t know Dustin Pedroia won the gold glove at secondbase last year. Really? Twenty-one homeruns and twenty-six stolen bases? And ninety-one RBI’s? That’s a lot for a secondbaseman. No, I don’t think you’re taller than he is.
Great game! said Alex. We’re 9-2. Only a game out of first!
We should play stickball tomorrow, said Alex. Stickball? said Blurtso. Stickball, said Harlan, is the street version of baseball. Yes, said Alex, some of the greatest players in history played stickball… they say Willie Mays was a 4-sewer hitter. A 4-sewer hitter? said Blurtso. Yes, said Alex, he could hit the ball four sewer manholes from the plate. Really? said Blurtso. Yes, said Alex. That’s remarkable, said Blurtso. Yes, said Alex. What’s a manhole? said Blurtso.
And they gathered and said,
“Speak to us of Jacques Derrida.”
And Blurtso replied:
“A koan is an utterance that is devoid of logic.”
I can still remember, said Blurtso, the last time I saw her…
And they gathered and said, “Speak to us of technology.”
And Blurtso replied:
“What does it serve us to become tools of our tools?”