[Audience chattering.]
Good afternoon!
I am Reinaldo Garcia.
And you are the audience.
[Laughter, applause.]
Okay! Um, turn off all cel phones, please.
And, we're in a residential neighborhood,
so, no drag racing down the streets of quiet Carmel, when we leave.
The show is about an hour and 10 minutes long.
There is some harsh language in the piece, okay?
I'll be taking confessionals in my booth over here,
after the plays are over,
[Audience chuckles]
if anybody wants to unburden their hearts, okay?
So, welcome to "Dream Butchers."
[Applause.]
PLACE HOLDER
[Acoustic guitars]
[Sings] You crawled across dry thorns
and chewed cut glass.
Please come through my door, lay down on the grass.
[Guitar phrase]
I don't care where you've been, in the dark side of town.
Your history might be shameful.
I will always let you in, I will never let you down.
[Guitar chords]
I'm entertaining angels.
[Acoustic guitars]
Now you're down on your luck, your spirits broke.
I see your beggar's cup filled with busted hope.
Let this new day begin, before the sun goes down.
I'll know I served an angel.
I will always let you in, I will never let you down.
I'm entertaining angels.
[Guitar flourish.]
Hello, stranger. Drop your things. Come on in.
There's no danger. I see the wings beneath your skin.
I am no holy man. Just a human
who must obey the plan for a communion.
It's a mortal sin if I would renounce a man
whose life is painful.
I will always let you in, I will never let you down.
Because I'm entertaining you angels.
[Guitar flourish.]
[End chord holds.]
[Applause.]
[Spoken] I played baseball in 2 different baseball leagues around town.
And I also umpire, uh, baseball.
And our opening piece, "Low and Inside,"
is about a local man
uh, whose career, whose professional career was destroyed.
But there is a romance to baseball.
And I wrote this song up in the San Jose Giants stadium.
Uh, I recommend going to Minor League baseball.
You get right up next to the players.
They are the future stars of the game.
It's really exhilarating to me.
So, I wrote this song, as the players were warming up.
It's called "The Church of Baseball."
[Cheerful acoustic guitars]
The ground crew rakes the infield, they line the batter's box with lime.
Then they spray the baselines, dust it down 'til players take the field.
The church of baseball. Warm in summer air.
The church of baseball. It's all prepared.
Now the players stretch and run. Boys of summer filled with dreams.
The fan girls scream. The local boy warms up in the sun.
The church of baseball. Blesses all the minor leagues.
The church of baseball. It'll last for centuries.
Local talent sings the anthem. Out of tune loudspeakers squeal.
Now the home team takes the field. Bonus babies, tall and handsome.
The church of baseball. It's a sacred space.
The church of baseball. Steal a base.
For Willie, and Maury, Even Ricky Henderson too.
The church of baseball, It welcomes you.
[Guitar flourish.]
"Low and Inside." [Applause.]
[Announcer] I get it.
Baseball is a historical game. I like to compare different things,
compare different eras.
But how in the world, John Ruck, can you compare a guy
getting all these hits in Japan, and then add it up with the Majors,
and then say he truly hit came from a paper on point. You can't.
The people should know. What he has done is incredible.
To say he has passed Pete Rose, as all time hit leader, we can't do that.
[Announcer voices continue.]
Hey Neal. [Drunkenly mumbles.]
Uh. Hm. Uh. [Laughs.]
Gimme a 7 & 7. And go easy on the 7-Up.
Would you turn down the -- turn the TV off?
I gotta give a reason? I been comin' here for 5, 6 years?
Because! I don't wanna see, hear, or read about baseball.
[?]
And another, por favor.
No tab tonight.
I'm leavin' no debts.
You remember Jason? Big, body builder type?
Yeah! With the rash down his neck.
You know any hit men? Ahh, just kidding.
I think. You remember Roosevelt? Fat guy, with a face like a badger?
He went over big time.
R - R - Rosie? Neal. You live upstairs.
There's nobody here. Can I stay a while?
Gracias, mi amigo.
Ahhh. [Exhales.]
You know me. I'm a friendly guy, right?
So does professional baseball.
It was in Marietta, Georgia. Pre-season sessions.
Director of officials tells me I've been elevated to crew chief.
Working beside of me, two guys with me.
Jason Olivetti, and Roosevelt Truman.
"Jason Olivetti!" I said. "Oh no. No, no."
"I heard he's a piece of work."
"Rico!" he says. "You're the kind of
natural-born leader who can get along with anybody."
"Mentor the kid."
Them's my marching orders.
Two years away from the Majors, a lifelong dream. Hmm.
Through Berman, Chatanooga, Jackson, Pensacola, Knoxville, Montgomery.
Mobile, Cogsville. Athletes! Dripping testosterone and doubt.
Adonises driven by a dream. And, there I am. Deep within it.
Benevolent, dispensing justice. Witnessing brilliance.
John Smokes. Matt Holliday. Juan Fiera. Ah! Ahh.
A cavalcade of future stars. Passing through my station
on their way to immortality.
The baseball field is a timeless Eden.
And, into my crew chief's ear slithered Jason Olivetti.
Dwelling in a body stocking of a rash.
You know it even discolored his weiner?
Yes! I looked. Ahhhh.
Don't be naive, Neal. Everybody looks.
Ahhh. Ehhhh. [Laughs.]
Ahh. [Exhales.]
You know.... I...I...I....
Taking charge of a ball field was just -- almost second nature for me.
I was a catcher in college. Field General. I ran the pitchers.
Directed the fielders. Worked the arms.
And when I wasn't drafted, I went to umpire school.
Vero Beach, Florida. Dodger Town. Heh-heh.
Ahh. Sailed right through. Through rookies. Single ed.
By my 3rd year, I was already crew chief. Two guys under me.
In a [?] applied by the Majors. First class hotels all through the South.
Ha-ha! The future World Series ump!
Tell me...tell me. How does a guy who gets along
with everybody, grow to hate a man?
Who the mere sight of provokes nausea and vomiting? Eh?
Jason was a -- a strapping farm boy who was seduced by big city ambition.
Prostitutes. Marijuana. Hm? Ah! I'll show you what I mean.
We checked into a hotel.
During dinner, Jason is flirting with the waitress.
Flirting. Ha. How's about this.
[Hick accent] "That was one fine meal! Mmm- mmm - mmm!
But it lacked some spice.
Why don't you come up to my room later, and let me taste your pussy?"
[Audience groans.]
[His own voice again] Then, they were down at the front desk.
Proclaiming, bitching that his towels were not white enough.
He would weiner-wag the maid, when he came out of the shower.
Couple of times, he came back to his room to find it ransacked.
Well deserved, I'd say.
Hm? Oh, on the diamond? Okay.
Jason's behind the ditch, right? Guy gets a home run.
As he's circling the bases, Jason picks up the bat,
and leans on it, like Mister Peanut leaning on his cane.
Right on home plate! Hmm?! Ahh.
No, he never smoked it in the van.
It was just the idea of driving through the South, with my protege,
holding grass -- terrified me!
No. Nooo, no. I could never report him.
You have no idea what it would do to my reputation.
[Laughs] And his taste in music.
We had -- we had a rule.
The guy behind the wheel chooses the tunes. Hmm?
Jason wouldn't be out -- we wouldn't be out of the parking lot,
the hotel parking lot, not 5 minutes.
Jason slides in his 'Greatest Hits of the '70s' CD.
"Afternoon Delight." "Summer Breeze."
Da-da-da da-da-da
"Blowin' through the jasmine of my mind."
"One Toke Over the Line."
From Mobile to Jackson!
Jason is the reason I drink these 7 & 7s.
This official beverage of choice.
I, I enjoyed them, to -- to establish rapport.
Roosevelt, too. Drank in the back seat.
Tapping away at his [bleep]ing iPhone.
Watching porn. Aiming the camera at the front seat.
Making what he calls his 'POV dramalogue.'
Ahhh.
Okay. So. So! So.
We are in 'bama now.
The Barons pitted against their arch-rivals, Huntsville Stars.
Battling for the title. Two games left.
Two games, and Jason is out of my life!
Yeah. The Barons, and the Stars.
Huge rivals. Mutual hate.
So.
It all comes down to two outs, bottom of the 9th, bases loaded.
Barons down 3.
22 year old defector Cuban. 22 year old Cuba defector Oscar Morales
is a 5'2" phenom.
Already, he has tripled, and stolen home.
Now, he slides to the plate, with a hit on the line.
Huntsville pitcher launches a fast ball.
Inside and low.
Ball one.
The catcher -- the wisecracking, Polack misfit
Anje Prozinski, asks for a clean one.
"Gimme a ball you can see."
Hm? Of course! I tossed him!
The guy turns on me. Huntsville keeper leaps out of the dugout,
restraining Prozinski with one hand, and screaming for an explanation.
"I dunno what the guy said."
"You're not allowed to argue balls and strikes. You know that."
The manager looks at this catcher. Says, "you say that?"
"Yeah. Hey. If Blue-Hair grew an eye, he'd be a Cyclops."
Huntsville manager nearly breaks his ribs, he's laughing so hard.
The fans are going ape-shit. The pitcher comes in to the ditch.
Jason and Roosevelt run up to restore order. Hmm. Ugghhh.
I'm coming to it. Gimme a sec. Wait a minute.
And then, the pitcher says,
"Hey, Blue. We know you're blind. We've seen your wife."
Just a minute here. I'm coming to that.
Okay. Now, back to the game.
Okay. So. The pitcher, the new pitcher delivers a rising fast ball.
Morales fouls it back, knocks off my mask. I go down to my knees.
Someone in the Stars dugout yells,
"Hey, Blue! Get up off your knees! You're BLOWING the game!"
I go over to the Huntsville dugout. I give 'em the 'stink eye.'
That settles them down.
Next pitch, Morales slams way down the right field line.
Fouled by inches. Counts one and two.
Next pitch a slider, outside.
But Morales, already, you know, what we call a professional hitter,
fouls off the next five pitches before taking a ball
millimeters over the plate.
The new catcher goes, "Hey Blue!"
I go, "Ah-ah! One peep out of you,
you shower with your friend."
Guy goes, "Peep!"
I swallow it.
Morales fouls off the next 3 pitches too.
Eh? Good -- good hitter? You better believe it.
OK. So, now...
So now, the Huntsville pitcher hangs a curve.
Oh-ho-ho-ho!
Morales drools.
He spins on it!
And launches the ball high into the Alabama night.
The crowd leaps as one,
as the ball is Pensacola-bound.
Walk off Grand Slam!
[?] by a run.
Hm-hm!
Me and my crew, we have to pass
the Visitors' dugout to exit the field.
The losing pitcher comes up behind me.
"Hey! Lucky you don't have an ERA, Blue.
Those runs are yours!"
So.
So we have a game the next day.
No time to shower. We have to go to Jackson.
We pile into the van, Jason behind the wheel.
[Sings] "Sky rockets in flight! Afternoon -- "
Jason starts to dig in.
"Hey, Rico. That 2 strike call on Morales.
That was strike 3."
"Jason," I said.
"That ball was so far outside, it had a hat and a coat on.
Could you turn it down a bit?"
I look in the back, at Roosevelt, for some support.
Roosevelt is aiming his iPhone at us.
Another chapter in his on the road documentary.
Jason digs in deeper.
"Hey, Rico. You -- You Latinos
look out after each other, don'tcha?
What, did Morales slip you some pesos?
Huh? Huh? One gone call tips the championship.
I thought only horses slept standing up."
"Alright, Jason. That's enough."
"You guys," Roosevelt says, "been goin' at it for 4 solid months.
Since opening day. Why don't you both settle it like men?"
"Just a minute, here. Just a minute."
Hey -- gimme another 7 and 7, huh?
Anyway --
I'm trying every umpire's trick to NOT listen.
One more game left!
And then I notice. We're going in a circle.
I say "Jason, you do have the directions? Right?"
And he says, Jason says, "Uh, I ran out of rolling papers."
"Uh, built me a doobie out of the directions."
"Up in smoke!"
I said, "Jason, go straight. At the lights, turn right.
That will lead you onto highway 20 on ramp to Atlanta."
"Man who doesn't know his way around a strike zone,
giving me directions?"
"Hmmm. Hey! Slip me some pesos, and I'll consider it."
"Hey Rico! Next time you're behind the dish,
bend over. Call the game with your good eye."
Roosevelt is breaking up in the back seat.
"Four solid months. You two should form a comedy team."
"Ahh, getting caught in a wetback conspiracy, Roosevelt
is no laughing matter."
"Hey, maybe -- maybe Rico would call a more accurate game,
if home plate were shaped like a tortilla."
I'm staying cool.
"Hey Rico! Yo Rico, I'm your daddy. Hitchhiked to Salinas once,
and [bleeped] your mother, in a lettuce field."
"OK. OK, listen. One more crack,
I'll wreck your career."
"Crack? Your mamacita's tasted like guacamole."
"Whoa, you gonna take that, Rico?"
"I just about had enough of you, Rico.
Let's settle this like men."
Jasmine is blowing through our minds.
Jason pulls the van over, under the streetlight.
He rips open the driver's door.
Races around the back of the van.
And I've got blood in my eyes.
He yanks open the passenger door,
and before he could remove his hand, I clocked him, with a solid left to the jaw.
Jason grabs my arm, and the Oklahoma farm boy
slings me out, under the street light.
We are tussling like wildcats.
The guy has got 100 pounds on me.
Roosevelt is filming the whole thing on his iPhone.
Thirty seconds later...
it's over.
We get back in the van,
and pull into Jacksonville, just before dawn.
Not a word spoken the whole way.
A week later, our little altercation
shows up on You Tube.
"Posted anonymously."
ESPN runs it.
Jason and I are released.
Fired.
Roosevelt's on his way to the Big Show.
What am I gonna do here?
What am I gonna do.
[Applause.] 26:01