UNCLE MERL'S BAR & GRILL
By
Peter "Lou" D'Alessio
Copyright 2010
“Hey, Max, what’s in this stuff? I’ve been drinkin’ it all day and…”
“Thoidy-five minutes. You been here for thoidy-five minutes. Time warp or somethin’. J’ever watch ‘Quantum Leap’? That Al, what a card!”
“Time warp?”
“It’s called ‘Butzh’. You’re drinkin’ Butzh. Eye a’ newt, toe a’fhrrog, who d’hell knows! It’s a potion or somethin’. An’ there’s no alcohol…it’s kosha! Go’ head, drink up! This stuff is the last remnant of a time when the d’voild was a good place to be born into! Go’ head, drink up. It’ll calm ya down. By the way, you ain’t drinkin’ what we’re drinkin’. Yours is cut about 20 parts to one.”
“Oh, a Butzh-lite!”
“Call it what’cha want. Boy-oh-boy, we use to dhrrink did schtuff by d’barrel. After the game, both teams would walk over to home plate and…”
“I can’t believe it, people and dragons playing baseball together…”
“Together? Nah, don’t be a schmuck! Can you imagine some putz trying to cut down a three and a half ton base h’runner? OK…every once in a while…we might play a little exhibition ball…”
“Hannibal?”
“Amongst udders. But we never ran the bases! We invented ‘DH’! An’ we’d spot d’udder team 40 or 50 h’runs. Nah, usually we vas d’umpires. Very few arguments that way. It kept the voild from becomin’ a violent place.”
“For Chris’sake, Max, with 4,000 pound umpires I can see why! But what about all those ‘rises and falls’ of great civilizations? All the sacking of great cities and…”
“Yeah, shah! You know who did all dat? D’fans! Nowadays, if d’home team is on a serious losin’ streak, you put a paper bag over ya head wid some eye slots cut in it, say a few nasty dings about the coach’s mudder and go d’hell home! Back den? If the home team lost enough, you and your home team could find yourself shov’lin horse biscuits for Genghis Khan! Den, the winnin’ team’d kill all the coaches, hang all the players and boin’ ya town to d’ground! We looked at it like getting’ hit in d’arm ‘cause you didn’t see the Volkswagen foist! Trust me, dere wasn’t to many ‘free agents’ from losin’ teams! The players union tried to organize a strike to change all dat…”
“Did it work?”
“Ask Spartacus about dat! Why, I h’remem…”
“So folk back then really didn’t have wars.”
“Nah! We tried it once we didn’t like it! Evy’body wound up dead except d’putzs dat started d’whole dam’ ding! Baseball. We all played baseball. Guys dink dey play ball today? Hoi, wad teams we had! Ya dink Babe h’Ruth was a hitter? Rham-ziz d’foist! Now HE was a hitter! Had a number 44 bat carved outa pure h’ivory. Wadda guy! He’d go four-fa-fi’ like nuttin’! An’ talk about a ‘Golden Glove’ outfielder? He had von—a h’real von! The fh’riggin’ mitt would crik like an old door hinge whenever he snapped it shut on a fly ball! BUT DAT…,” Max said dramatically, “was a Pharaoh!” Max paused again to pour out two more.
If anyone besides a dragon wearing a cabby’s cap and chewing an unlit cigar had laid this stuff on me, I wouldn’t believe him. However, given that it was coming from Max, it seemed almost possible. So there I sat, drinking Butzh and talking to a dragon with a Yiddish over-bite.
“Hey Max,” I said absently, “if there was no violence, what were you talking about before? About that guy who could cross a dragon’s eyes with one shot!”
“Oh, dat? We use ta play dis game, see. Gave folk a chance to vent hostilities. Look! I’m t’ree and a half tons! You wanna bang on me wid a bat? Go’head, s’good exercise. Mozel-tov! Nah, the only one a’ use guys ever damage us at all was dat English putz…wad d’hell was his…George! That’s it!”
“Saint George?”
“Yeah, that’s d’schmendrick! He’d wait till your back vas toined, then WHOP! He’d whack ya a schot h’right in da neck! We hated dat ph’rick! Bottoms up!”
“Down the hatch!”
“Anyway, d’foist h’reel team vas the Samarians. Hamma-h’rabbi. Woist player y’ever saw. When he was startin’ put’em together, the team motto was “God help us, please!” This was not a case of leading by example! He couldn’t steal a base if he was the only guy on da field. Liddle fat guy, waddled when he rh’an. But, OI! Wad a commissioner he made! Organized d’whole game. Before Hamma-h’rabbi, three hun’red, four hun’red, FI’HUN’RED guys on a side! Wad a fh’riggin’ mess! You never knew when you vas up at bat! But, honestly, dey wasn't h’real good players; dey just knew d’rh’ules h’real well! Now, d’Egyptians! Dey vas a ball club!”
“You told me already. Ramsis I.”
“Young man, a GREAT TEAM…is NOT…one player!” Maxie stated—a bit over dramatically, I thought. “A great team is thoidy-shix guys takin’ d’field…”
“Thirty six?”
“Thas wad I said! Thoidy-shix! ‘Was a diff’rent game back den! Hell, d’center field wall was 756 feet from home plate! But as I was sayin’, d’Egyptians—dey could h’run, pitch, hit, field! Gh’raceful as h’rain! But don’t misunderstand me, h’evy’body played! Big countries, small…ya shoulda seen Is’ral! We…kicked…butt! Moses? Wada second baseman! Nuttin’ got past him, I mean ta tell ya! An h’run? Like a h’rabbit! OOOI, could he h’run! If Moe got to foist, he was on thoid! Nah, our problem was Joshua! D’kid was all mouth. He’d blow his own horn at d’drop of a hat! He couldn’ bunt fa’squat! He’d leave Moe standin’ on thoid wid his stones in his hands, evy’time! I h’remember one series—in fact, it was against d’Egyptians—Moses got so PO’d at Joshua, evy’time he’d reach thoid? Sh’on-uva-bitch, he’d steal home, before d’kid could strand him. TEN TIMES! ONE SCH’ERIES! Egyptians couldn’ stop’im! Dey jus’ gave up. Tol’ Moses to get d’hell outa their stadium and take his whole fh’riggin’ team wid’im. Wada-guy, an’ a homeboy t’boot!” Max adjusted his cap and restated his cigar stub.
“Nowadays, h’evy’body talks about the Yanks bein’ d’best team in baseball for d’las’ seven’y-fi years. Ha! Ya shoulda seen the h’Romans! A team full of Ty Cobbs, Reggie Jacksons, Babe h’Ruths, Willie Mayses and Hank Aarons…Julius Caesar! Next ta Moses, he was d’best base h’runner I ever saw! Made Maurry Wills look like a toitle. They was number one, eight hun’red years in a row! Oi, could dey beat you up! H’ruff buncha guys!”
“The worst, huh, Max?”
“Nah, the voist was d’musslims. If you stole second, dey cut off your hands!” Max gave me a wink. As we sat there, I could see him turning over in his mind all the great teams and players he had seen in his 7,500 some odd years as one of the ‘reptiles of summer’.
“Kid! Ya had ta see it! Attila d’Hun, thoid base. Stops a screamin’—and I mean SCREEEMMMIIINNN’—grounder from Pope Leo d’foist. Dammed ball was movin’ so hard an’ fast, it spins Attila ha’round and dumps him on his tuchas! Meanwhile, Pope Leo’s got his h’robe hem up ha’round his knees and he’s haulin’ ass up da foist base line!”
As if inspired by some divine vision, Max flew out of his seat on to the dance floor. “Attila! H’up ina flash! Throws a poifect strike all a’vay from thoid to foist!” An imaginary baseball flew straight towards me followed by two huge eyes widened in remembered suspense, as a third baseman’s might waiting for an umpire’s call in a big game. He froze for a second, and then his whole body relaxed as he put his hands on his hips, dropped his head and shook it negatively as if disbelieving the ump’s call.
“Poisin’ly, I thought he got’im by half a step.” Max, head hung, walked slowly back to his seat. “But when the foist base ump is flappin’ his arms like a ruptured duck, shouting, “SAFE, SAFE!”… well, that, as they say, is that! Oi ge’val, vas d’Huns pissed off, big time. I thought they was gonna start a fight, but Attila loaded’em back on the team buses and home dey went. Talk about a good sport!”
I pushed into my seat. I had had a startling revelation. The strange creature in front of me possibly held the answer to a question that had plagued mankind for more than a century.
“Hey, Max.”
“Hey, vhat?”
“Who was the greatest pitcher of all time?”
“No question! Alexander d’Gh’reat! Dat guy threw shix ‘no-hitters’ in one week—an’ games in those days was twenny-sch’even innings long! Wad’a arm! Hey, where d’hell did those guys go? I’m starting to get hungry, myself! Wait a minute, I think I know where Moil keeps d’pretzels.”
We sat there munching away on Merl’s pretzel and “Butzhin’ out”, as Max put it. As the rainout movie ended we decided it would be best for all concerned if the Red Sox game was ‘called’.
“I used to drive a cab, you know. When I first got here from the old country…well a horse and carriage, but then a cab.”
“Hey, Max, why’d you guys decide to come here?”
“You startin’ with Nawk again?”
“No, I mean here! The United States. This hasn’t been a real stronghold for dragons, if you know what I mean.”
“Let Campy hear you say that, he’ll h’rip your nose off!” Max downed a claw full of pretzels and thought for a second or two. “After the schmuck got evy’ting screwed up…”
“Arthur?”
“You loin fast, kid—thas’ good. Anyway, Moilin gave us dragons an illusion of ‘peopleness’. Ya got a h’example a’dat oilier ta’day. Dat pretty much stopped d’poisicution, but Moil took was happened pretty poisin’ly! That poor bastid couldn’t apologize enough. God, it was pa’dedik! He told us ta pack up and get lost an’ to take all d’quipment wid us. Us, d’balls, d’gloves, d’bats- evy’ting—gone! Som’vus went t’Australia, some t’Africa…by d’vay; don’t ever play ball wid d’Zulus. They gave d’expression ‘out fa blood’ a whole new meaning. Uncle Moil tried fa years to get Arthur back on track. No good! He finally gave up.”
“Tradition says he went to sleep in…”
“Booschit! He kopt-a-valk! Moilin swung d’mighty magic vand one more time, tossed a spell over h’evy’body and made dem all forget baseball. Instead a schwingin’ at baseballs, folk was free to schwing at each other. D’old guy jus’ gave up. He couldn’t forgive himself. He vashed his hands of d’human h’race and boogied to who d’hell knew where. Myself, I dink he took up wid some liddle piece a’ fluff. But wada I know, I voted for Clinton.
“The las’ ting Moil told us to do was ta come up wid a board a governors, supposedly to look after our own welfare, but mainly to keep an eye on you folk! We used to spend a century here, a century there, no place in particular. Ev’y place ya went, there vas a vwar goin’ on. We figgered it was your business, so we stayed out a tings. But den, somewhere h’round d’middle of the 1700s, we get dis frantic letter from Moil. ‘Cut d’krap, get your tuchases t’America, pronto!’ D’guy hasn’t so much as sent us a Christmas card since Christ vas a teenager! Now we’re supposed t’drop wad we’re doin’ and travel…where? Oi, half of us thought ‘A mirra ka’ was a bar outside a’ Dublin!
“Well, wad’da’hell, it was Moilin! So we left fa h’America. Talk about disasters? Holy smoke! I may look like your uncle Fred—but I weigh tree-h’ena-hav tons! Chou n’ me sank three ships right there in d’harbor! Anyhow, d’nex’ting I know, there’s Moil wid Campy standin’ on d’dock wavin’ us in. Okay, we’re here, so vas’d’big deal, alh’ready? Campy sez, “I been here f’awhile wid a couple a’ da boys. I’m gonna get’cha on d’ground floor a sompin’ h’real good!” He shows us dis schrap a’ paper he pulled outa a garbage can—Benny Franklin got’im a job as a garbage man, if ya can believe dat! Anyway, it’s dis crumpled up piece a’ paper sum guy named Jefferson’s thrown out. It starts “When in d’course of human tragedy…” and he’s got ‘tragedy’ crossed out. “When in d’course of human history…” and he’s got ‘history’ crossed out. He settled on d’void “events”. I thought it voiked pretty good. He goes on, talkin’ about the need for breakin’ ole ties, and the h’rights of people as individuals and as collective groups. Dey vas all simple voids, but dey were—what? Heavy! Yeah that voiks!” Maxie paused to grab another handful of pretzels and refill our mugs. “Ya know, Tommy Jefferson had a lot to say… and him an’ his buddies had the ‘balls’ to ship it off to d’king a England—Arthur’s old job! Dink we liked dat? But what he said made sense. After all ‘we’ had been through, it was nice to hear any’ting that made sense. Moil sez, “Look, it’s a start. Check it out, see if you like it. If you like it, I got a cousin in Brooklyn, owns a bunch of townhouses. Nice. Clean. Very colonial. I can get ’em for you—cheap!
“So we checked it out. God, dat Benny Franklin, wad a piece a voik! There vas a man who could drink Butzh! We stayed! Got our citizenship papers.” Max paused to catch his breath. “It wasn’t that long ago, not even a drop in Uncle Moil’s bucket. So, now, dis is home. The fh’riggin’ place grows on ya! In d’old voild, evy’ting moves so slowly. Here? Here? So much history—so little time! It jus’ blows h’right by ya like a good fas’ball. What makes it gh’reat? Ya may not hit it, but you kin alvays see it comin’!
“When Mr. Lincoln came along, any doubts we had about ‘here’ bein’ d’h’right place to live was gone. We was h’reel impressed wid Mr. Lincoln, wadda good guy I mean ta tell ya! Do ya know he got rida slavery? It don’t sound like much when ya say it but it took a lotta ‘hutz-pa’ to do wad he did! See, in his day, not evy’body thought that was such a hot idea. You guys have a problem understandin’ dat. Ya never loined to see history through the eyes of the folk livin’ it den. Ya see tings through your eyes, wid your values and 20/20 hindsight. Lemme tell ya sompin’, kid, wh’rong is wh’rong. Mr. Lincoln, he tol’ me dat! If it don’t voik fa you, it ain’t gonna voik for the nex’guy in the line. Damn shame not evy’body sees dat. Well, we knew dere vas a vwar comin’, so we decided we’d do our part. After a quick con’frence we figgered it wasn’t fair we should fight—besides, can you imagine d’voild’s reaction to a brigade a’ dragons showin’ up in union suits?” Max examined the remnant of rolled tobacco hanging from the corner of his jaw. The eye on the far side of his snout seemed to disjoint itself to gain a view over it. Satisfied that the garish brown plug was still properly monumenting his Bronx Cabbieness, he continued.
“Dis was still your business. So we did the nex’ bes’ ting to getting’ into d’fight. We gave ya back baseball. Sompin’ ta’ look forward to when ya got tired a’ killin’ each other, ya know? We find dis guy, see? Abner Doubleday. We figger, hey, he’s a general! Any schmuck whose las’ name leads off wid a double, he’s gotta be our man, right? Wrong! Geval, wada schlameel! He couldn’t understan’ d’principals a’ d’game fa’squat! We had to cut d’number a’ guys playin’ down to nine, an’ den we had ta give’im each their own inning so’s he wouldn’t forget how many innings der vas ina game. Wad d’hell, ya gotta start som’vere! Nah. We figgered Mr. Lincoln needed a lotta balls to do wad he did, so we gave him a few extra. An’ once we got Doubleday ta stop pissin’ his pants evy’time we ran out onto d’field, it all started to voik! Baseball took off like a h’rocket!” Max gingerly plucked the stub from his teeth and rolled the chair backwards over his tail until he could rock back and lean against the wall. “Ya dink Gettysboig was a bloody battle? Ya shoulda seen da foist All-Star game!”
There was a clattering at the front door and in walked Campy and the others, virtually swamped with Chinese food.
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