Sosa. Death of my hope, ice on
my spine. My hate, my hell. So-sssssa: hissing between my teeth
like a serpent, rounding like a jeer, hissing again and finally
the blunt exhalation after a punch in the stomach. So. Sa.
He was Sam, just Sam, with the White Sox, weighing two hundred pounds and Dominican-thin. He is Sammy in pinstripes. He was Samuel at stickball. But in my nightmares he is always Sosa.
Did he have a precursor? Oh yes, yes he did. As a matter of fact, there might have been no Sosa at all had there not been, in Oakland greens and bay-borne blues and dingy Sox grays, a steroid-stuffed gorilla the children all called Canseco, his origins on some communistic island not too far away from the flowery coast. And when? Dare I recall the 1980s, when needles spat their bruting juices, in those summers when boys became men and men became apes? You can always count on a drug addict for a fancy home run trot.
Ladies and gentlemen of
the jury, exhibit number one is who the Cubs fans, the moronic,
drunken, cell-phone-addled yahoos cheered for. Look at this heap
of shit.
Quote of the Day: "An intellectual is someone whose mind watches itself." (Albert Camus)