Redemption.

Sometimes, it’s a small thing. Like, this one time I was walking in the woods and came across a bear. Now, this is usually cause for concern, but I felt a strange calm overtake me; I knew no fear. My heart, it did not flutter. My palms, they were dry. We stood there a long time, this bear and I, staring at each other. He rose up to his full height, this bear, a massive Kodiak. He rose up, silently, without leaving eye contact.

A soft wind blew.

There were roses on the air.

“I know you,” The bear said, in a lisping, New Jersey-accented falsetto. “You are the chosen one.”

“I am,” I answered, and instantly knew it to be so. “I am here to lead your people to victory.”

I was aware of a growing presence; the beasts of the forest and field, the birds of the air, even, yes, even the creatures of the sea had begun to gather about me. They came in pairs, in threes, and they came alone. Horses, camels, donkeys and zebras; lions, tigers, ocelots and jaguars; gull and falcon, eagle and dove. They formed in rank and file, all before me.

A stag appeared. I saddled him with a mat of straw, and reined him with a vine. I fashioned a staff from a fallen oaken branch, lashing a quartz spearhead to its forked haft. The bear summoned a turtle, and upon its back was a helmet of spectacular craftsmanship. It was fashioned of ornately worked gold, with silver and platinum filigreed upon it; it’s crest of horsehair died a blood red, it’s visor black as onyx, with the spectre of a skull etched upon it’s surface .

“TOGETHER!” I cried, as I climbed upon the back of my mount. “WE! SHALL! CLAIM! VICTORY!”

Suddenly, a bell rung. The music stopped. The ride ended.

“AGAIN!” I shrieked in cotton-candy-fueled hysteria.

“I don’t got a quarter.” My father said, in between his teeth. “I need my cash for a pack of lucky’s.”

I spent the rest of the day sorting through trash for cans. I cut my hand, badly, on a broken bottle, and I may have been stabbed by a needle or two. This was the ’80’s, though, so there weren’t any blood diseases to worry about then. I finally gathered enough 16-ounce glass Pepsi bottles, and brought them to the local Osco. I got $.50 in return.

In…redemption.

Kind of like Jeff.

Mr. Weaver to you.

Mr. Jeff
“I threw a motherfucking shutout for the Zombie Killas”
Weaver.

Redemption indeed.

It is thus that I begin the eighth and belated episode of this, The Week That Was.

As Follows:

MOVERS AND SHAKERS

Since the last time that I put pixel to screen, low these many weeks ago, there have been exactly zero (0) trades. Come on people. Where’s the love? Where’s the ill-fated, badly timed, poorly thought out trades that somehow, illogically, manage to hurt both teams? That manage to somehow add two positives together and get a negative? Because, you know, those are pretty hilarious to watch from afar. Don’t forget, the trade deadline is looming; you’ve got about a month left to fulfill my vicarious dreams.

TOP PERFORMERS

You know, there was a time, not that long ago, that people wrote me off. “That Warren,” they’d say, “I’m writing him off.” Well, I have two words for those people: First. Place.

Thanks for keeping the seat warm, kids, but daddy’s home.

TOP PERFORMERS: ADDENDUM
I want to make sure to give an honest and heartfelt shoutout to your friend and mine, Pat Berry. Pat’s been having a tough time, a real tough time. Howard just hasn’t been the same, Oswalt has gotten old in a hurry, and Dice-K was more like Dice-HR for a while. But the little guy kept on keeping on, fighting the good fight.

It was like that Sunday Night Disney Special, from back in the 80’s, where there’s like a retarded midget or something. And he’s on the basketball (volleyball?) team, as the waterboy or some shit. And then the team captain sprains his ankle or gets herpes or something, and it’s the final game of the championship, and there’s nobody left to play because the coach is a goddamn drunk and told everyone else on the team to go to the wrong gymnasium. So for most of 4 quarters it’s been the coach’s son, the cafeteria lady, two hobos and the team captain all out on the court, and they’ve managed to only be down by two. Now the captain is out with running sores on his genitals, and the midget retard needs to take his place.

So the first hobo puts down his 40, inbounds the ball to the cafeteria lady, who passes off to the retard, who shits himself. And laughs about it.

The second hobo (played by, I believe, Isaiah Thomas) grabs the ball, drives to the hole, and, just before he’s fouled, passes back to the retard. The retard takes the ball, squeals like some kind of possessed animal, and starts to run with it, football style, to the paint. The opposing team’s center (Andre the Giant), a gentle but easily-spooked Croatian, screams, believing the midget to be an obscure, ineffectual Croatian god, come to bear his wrath upon the center for letting the head cheerleader touch his Balkans (if you know what I mean), and kicks the midget full in the face with his size 19 work boot. A foul is called, the retard misses both free throws, Isaiah rebounds and hits the three at the buzzer, and the crowd goes wild.

Drunk on the sweet elixir of victory, and possibly the handle of plastic-bottle gin they had hidden in their pants, the hobos hoist the now-comatose retard on their shoulders, ignorant of, or perhaps unfazed by, the fecal fouling. Parents cry, music swells, credits roll, and Michael Eisner comes out and says in his whiskey-and-cigar rasp that this was a true story, and even though that herpes-stained captain couldn’t deliver in the big game, he went on to be the head of his fraternity in college, and at this very moment was running one of the leading entertainment and theme park conglomerates in the world. And that midget? Well, the kick didn’t do his still-soft skull any favors, and a week later he had an embolism and spent the next 20 years in a vegetative state, receiving sub-standard care in a state-run hospital. Then, in a fatherly tone, Eisner gave the lowdown on which Disney girls were and weren’t jailbait, and which one’s he’d taken to Adventureland, and which one’s he had to settle for taking to Fantasyland.

And that’s Pat’s team, ladies and gentlemen. That little, retarded, soft-headed midget; laughed at, scorned, and ultimately forgotten. But he had his moment—he had his glorious, shining moment, where he almost did something relevant. That’s right folks. Pat is now in third-to-last place. Give him a big ol’ hand.

BASEBALL, RAY
The Cubs have been playing better of late, but are still 7 back of the comedy central leading Brewers. The Giants have found new and progressively more entertaining ways to lose. The Braves are finding out that age and guile can usually be found in equal measure with age and joint issues. The A’s are looking like they’re done rope-a-doping, and are ready to ride their new horse in Haren all the way back to the promised land.

FIN
And that…was The Week That Was.