Astros 7, Brewers 0
W: Lyles (5-12)
L: Fiers (9-10)
Last weekend Mrs. Brand and I attended the last two games during the 50th Anniversary Legends Weekend and left the big city with a kitty adopted from the shelter a friend of mine runs. Kitty #2 was supposed to go with us too, but he’d developed a cold and we elected to wait a week for his eyes to clear. Kitty #1 has now been christened Rocket J. Squirrel because he’s turned out to be a Somali kitty and he looks everything like a flying squirrel. He also has the flying part down cold. He’s a great kitty, even slept all the way in the carrier on the 160-odd miles back to the homestead.
Today I was informed early that I would be making the second trip alone. Well, it was an option, but Mrs. Brand had a lot to try and take care of today, so sure, I had no problem with the up-and-back.
I made great time, like really great time, just a bit over two hours (don’t tell). Kitty #2 was waiting there, eyes all cleared up and anxious to be on his way to his new home. I put him in the carrier and walked to the car, just as the rain I’d been leading caught up with us again. Kitty #2 proved to be a Houdini, able to get a paw and then his head past the zippered and strapped top of his carrier, so I had to redo that and grab the seam, bending it into a U around my fingers so that he couldn’t catch the miniscule opening and force it wide to escape into the car.
All the while, he is yowling. At the top of his voice. Every second.
It’s raining hard as I pull onto the highway, negotiating the steering wheel, the wipers, closing the escape hatch on the carrier and hoping I can find a clear spot so I can call Mrs. Brand and let her know we’re on our way. The yowling is constant still, and louder than the thoughts in my head.
He’s also scrabbling constantly, fighting and scratching, trying to shred the mesh on the carrier or the top or the ends, anything to get out of what surely is a kitty coffin. Yowling is doing a good job of keeping Kitty Death away but if he stops, something bad might happen so no way that’s going to be halted.
I thumb the speed dial and put the phone on speaker to let her know we’re coming, but it’s not going nearly as well as last week’s trip. The rain stops and starts, making me take my hand off the wheel to slip it between the spokes of the steering wheel to flip the wipers on, or off, or adjust the intermittence. Over and over. While never releasing the grip on the carrier, even though my arm is going to sleep. Or my wrist. Or a couple of fingers, so I’ll adjust and readjust. This only convinces Kitty #2 that Kitty Death is drawing nearer, so more yowls and scratching are necessary.
This goes on for 160 miles or so. I did get a four minute break once, when he took a nap. Then he woke up and was surprised he was still alive, so he redoubled his efforts to stay that way.
At last we made it home. I lifted the carrier, ran the gauntlet of dogs into the master bath we’d set up as a transition area for him, blocked off from Kitty #1 and the bedroom. I sat the carrier down and unzipped the door.
Kitty #2 sauntered out, purring loudly. He looked around, purred, rubbed up against us and immediately felt very nearly at home. We’ve spent the rest of the day introducing him to his new friend Rocky. They’re playing like buddies, snuggling up against us, purring, drooling the drool of love on our noses.
How’re you going to make your way in the world
When you weren’t cut out for working
When your fingers are slender and frail
How’re you going to get around
In this sleazy bedroom town
If you don’t put yourself up for sale
Where will you go with your scarves and your miracles
Who’s gonna know who you are
Drugs and wine and flattering light
You must try it again till you get it right
Maybe you’ll end up with someone different every night
On their way out of this league and into another, the Astros stopped off to drop a steaming turd into Milwaukee’s postseason punchbowl this weekend, capped off by Sunday’s 7-0 chain-whipping of the doomed bratboys. Four home runs, including the first for Lyles, the first this year by an Astro pitcher, and most likely the last an Astro pitcher will ever hit regardless of league buried the offal that Bud Selig did so much to coax into life.
Gleefully avoiding the fifth-inning malaise that has plagued him this year, Lyles fashioned his complete game shutout with guile and poise. He struck out three and only walked one, despite only having command of two pitches today. The fastball and slider was enough to tantalize a fatigued Brewer nine, who never really squared up on anything and certainly didn’t threaten to break through.
Fiers wasn’t so lucky. He surrendered shots in the fourth and fifth to Martinez and Lyles (418 feet!), then two in the sixth to Lowrie and Dominguez before leaving. Corporan added two RBI to cap the scoring on the NL Central’s latest tired whore.
You said you were an actress
Yes, I believe you are
I thought you’d be a star
So I drank up all the money,
Yes, I drank up all the money,
With these phonies in this Hollywood bar,
These friends of mine in this Hollywood bar
Loneliness and frustration
We both came down with an acute case
And when the lights came up at two
I caught a glimpse of you
And your face looked like something
Death brought with him in his suitcase
This journey isn’t one most of us wanted, but it’s one we’re going to take. Maybe it’ll be ok when we all get to the end, but one thing’s for sure – the Astros crapped all over the Brewers’ party this weekend. Fuck you, Bud.