The Curse (At Your Service)

THE CURSE (AT YOUR SERVICE)

Springtime used to be my favorite time of year until you ruined it for me. Okay, maybe I shouldn't generalize; it was just three of you, not all of you. But three was all it took. If it wasn't for you, I'd be front and center at the Central Stadium box office, laying down my hard earned money for premium tickets for Opening Day like I did every spring. But not anymore...in fact, never again. Thanks a million.

I still love baseball, though. That'll never change. Seems like a lot of people go out of their way to find things to hate about baseball, especially those obnoxious football fans with their painted faces and overstated intensity. When you have the attention span of a two-year-old, it's real easy to say the game moves too slowly and nothing happens for long periods of time. That's exactly what I love about baseball; it moves at a leisurely clip, like life should.

And it's a humble game for humble people. Ever notice when you go to a ballgame if somebody barks out a swear word, everybody turns and looks at him like he's just punched a child in the face? When you watch a baseball game, you cheer loudly, you boo loudly, you chew out the umpires loudly, but you do it with class and consideration, and that's what I did. I had nothing to prove by getting liquored up and disgracing myself in public. If you ever write a thesis, a newspaper column or even a book about me if you think I deserve it, make sure you include this: "You know that guy, Luther Primm? He was a class act when it came to his favorite sport. No matter the score or the standings, he was proud of those Phoenix Bobcats, and he took pride in how he cheered for them."

At least, I did so in my own ballpark. Central Stadium in Phoenix was the only big league ballpark I had seen in my life, and it was a dream of mine to visit all of them. One day, I guess it was several years ago, I took a mini-vacation and made the road trip to San Diego to see the Bobcats at Gwynn Field. My ticket (I went alone; my girlfriend wasn't interested) was in the right field bleachers, right next to a picnic area covered with beach sand that the locals lovingly refer to as "Homer Beach." It was a long way from home plate, about 410 feet from the fence, but still a decent place to watch the game, which wasn't exactly a sellout.

Now, I know how irritating it is to sit in your home stadium next to a bunch of yahoos rooting for the other team, but it's their right, just like it was my right to wear my Bobcats road jersey in Gwynn Field. It's the whole First Amendment argument: I can't yell "Fire!" in a crowded theatre, but I can yell "Go Cats!" in any ballpark I want. Of course there might be some repercussions, like the hometown faithful screaming back things like "Sit Down!", "Shaddup!" or "Go Home!" at the intruder. Or depending on the size of their balls, lobbing peanuts at him, or maybe a cup of beer if they really don't give a damn. I was mindful of that, and anybody who was there would tell you, anytime we scored a run or made a big defensive play, I made sure never to throw it back in the home fans' faces.

Well, it wasn't easy. San Diego's starting pitching had struggled for most of the year, and in this game, we had their worst pitcher on his worst performance of the year. Just one and two-thirds innings into it, the Cats toasted him for seven runs off ten hits. The relievers weren't much better. Regardless, I stood up for every Phoenix home run; both of them at that point. While most of the Schooner fans treated me with respect, I do remember hearing some smack from a bunch of guys behind me. I knew it was all directed at me, but I never turned around to acknowledge them, because they pelted me with the kind of drunken, irrational babble you hear in situations where people end up in fights. "Your shortstop's a homo!" almost made me chuckle, but the comments about my mother made me clench my fists. I held back, though. The last thing I wanted to do was get involved with a bunch of hammered troublemakers.

That carried on until the sixth inning when the game was decided and all the gutter talk behind me was strangely absent. Either the screaming drunks were ushered to another part of the ballpark or out of it, or maybe they just passed out. Regardless, I never gave it another thought.

I stayed for all nine innings, unlike half the 20,000 or so "fans" who bailed by the seventh inning stretch. The final score escapes me, but we whooped them pretty good. Walking out of that ballpark I felt like I usually do after a Bobcats win: proud, optimistic and basking in the overall experience.

I had no idea my life was in danger.

Gwynn Field's parking lot was no more expansive and confusing than most other huge parking lots. I made a mental note of section G-3, but by the time the game was over I had forgotten that I had driven a rental car to San Diego, and it made my search time a few minutes longer. Just a little too long.

I hadn't noticed the three college kids following me until they caught up with me just a few feet from my car. "Hey, Bobcat fan!" one of them sneered. His voice sounded vaguely familiar. A part of me wanted to run like hell, but for some reason in this instance I felt more compelled to stand my ground and look my adversaries in the eye. Maybe it was my naive belief that all these jokers wanted to do was hurl one last blast of insult at me to validate their team after a debilitating loss, or at worst, scare me into never setting foot in their city again. I assumed the latter as they surrounded me, covered in authentic Schooner jerseys. Two were wearing their caps backwards; one had his hair cut like Joey on "Friends"; all hid their eyes behind expensive-looking Oakleys. They were all muscular "jock" types buzzing on a deadly combination of testosterone, beer and team spirit. Ten years ago, when I was their age, I probably would have been stupid enough to try to take them on.

They carried no weapons, but standing within a foot of me they didn't need to. The guy with the Joey haircut spoke up. "Going home, faggot?" I wanted to say something, but I couldn't. It wouldn't have mattered anyway. "So you like the Bobcats, huh?"

I looked around them at the parking lot. Everyone in the immediate area was either gone or not paying attention. It was the loneliest I had ever felt in my life. I muttered something resmbling an apology and pleaded for them to let me go, only to hear "He's getting scared, man! Look at him! He looks like a fucking girl!" There was no reasoning with mentalities like theirs.

My throat was drying up and swelling like I had just swallowed a balloon. The three goons were still talking shit to me, but paying attention to them became very low on my list of priorities. I didn't just pray; I internally screamed for God, if not for a machine gun or a sudden bestowment of superpowers, then just an answer, an option. One finally came to me.

I sized up a gap between two of them and made a break for it. They grabbed me and immediatley started pummelling me from head to toe. All manner of self-defense was inadequate and shifted to self-protection. Their fists felt like sledgehammers against my guts and my ribs. One shot landed under my chin and I went limp, and the sunshine faded out. When it came back, the concrete was cooking my cheek, and I felt more hammers on my body, larger and harder ones that resembled shoes. One made my skull feel flat and made my ears ring. That and the taste of blood and bile in my mouth were the last sensations I ever felt. Those idiots probably had no idea they were killing me, but they did.

And I died, right there in the parking lot of a foreign baseball stadium, hundreds of miles from home, without saying goodbye to Mom and Dad, sooner and more violently than I would have preferred.

I didn't know what to expect from death. I was raised to believe in God, but I was never much of churchgoer. Maybe that's why I ended up here instead of heaven, I don't know. At least I'm not smelling brimstone or picking pitchforks out of my ass, and I'm grateful for that. But I'm not sure if this is better. I always thought after you die, you never have to worry about anything ever again. Not that I had any inside information; it was just an assumption. You either swim in rivers of fire or hitchhike on a cloud. Either way, anything having to do with Planet Earth is out the window, no longer your problem.

Not in my case, I guess. No tunnel of light, no singing angels, and if God has a face I haven't seen an inch of it yet. Actually, I'm still hanging out in this stadium, waiting for spring and the first ballgame of the year. And you know what really sucks? I can't leave. Believe me, everytime I've tried to get away, something brings me back...some kind of weird feeling, like there's something I have to do here. It's like being forced to live in house you don't like, and instead of packing up and leaving you fix it up, but no matter how many times you move the furniture or change the drapes, it's still not right. You're never satisfied with your own house.

So I kinda float around fix up the stadium. I mess around with the groundskeeping equipment, make the lights go out on occasion, put some feedback in the P.A. system, little things. Been doing it for a long time, but I'm not sure how long; time doesn't mean a whole lot to me now. The Schooners haven't won a home game since I died. Not one! I've made sure of it. All those little mishaps that made the difference between a win and a loss...seeing-eye ground balls, late-inning errors, horrible calls from the umpire...those were all me. All me. Everybody's made a big deal out of it around here. "The Curse of Luther Primm" they call it. It's flattering in a way. But all that crap is small potatoes compared to what I have in mind for this year. I'm making it personal this time. Expect a couple of torn ACL's, or the ace pitcher's arm snapped in half like a twig. I might even make an appearance in the locker room and scare a couple of players so bad they'll demand a trade. Maybe one of the coaches will get a heart attack. You never know.

Whether or not they catch the guys who beat me to a pulp and left me for dead in a scorching hot parking lot makes no difference. I'm here to stay. I'm fixing up Gwynn Field, and I'm fixing it so that your San Diego Schooners never sniff the playoffs again. You see, they ruined spring for me. I can't help my team win anymore, so I'm gonna make yours lose.

I only wish I had my jersey.