Silly B-Squad, Tricks Are For You!

It was raining. We were standing like a bunch of bewildered cattle enduring yet another strange change of circumstance. Minutes before it was sunny and the game was going to be a light early-Summer romp. But now we were wet, waiting for the next slippery hit and feeling like it was a trick or something.



Playing another trick on the B-Squad!?! Oh we're getting used to that, I can assure you. Your shenanigans do not surprise or impress us. We used to believe in ghosts and bad luck, but now we know it is about your schemes, your contraptions and your tricks. The rain is there for a reason and we know exactly what it is.

Like these bankers dressed in green. You think we don't know about them? Sure, they appear to be a lightly skilled softball team but we know better. They are a real live BASEBALL team staffed by agents from the CIA who are trying to learn more about the BSQUAD. Documenting our every move. You can't fool a fool if you know what I mean.

My favorite attempt at hiding a conspirator was the arrival of Phoebe's parents.



At first they seemed like they might actually be nice people who were related to Phoebe, but then her “Dad” pulled out a “camera” and began to take “pictures” of us. Sure, he looked like any proud pop with a slick new piece of gear, but the careful eye noticed that that camera was taking more than pictures! It was stealing our very souls!

He was taking pictures during those three innings where everyone popped out! Sucking the life-blood out of our bats, I tell you, and to think we'd miss it. Well, we didn't! And he even sent a picture he took with his fancy camera that proves it:



How else would you explain Marty's outstanding play in the first few innings and then his sudden inability to run? I'm telling you it was the spell that Phoebe's Mom placed on him. I heard her uttering magic words under her breath and I knew that there was no way Marty would make it another inning. Sure enough, he limped off the field complaining about some massive nerve problem. I'm telling you, no amount of psychiatry in the world is going to fix that! He's going to need to drink a potion or something.

Not that we could blame even 10% of this game on Phoebe or her supposed “parents.” Besides, “blame” is such a negative word. It was, generally speaking, a swell game. The rain cleared up after the first inning. We were in the hunt for our first win, playing angry defense and aggressive offense. Malibar got his annual smash-mouth-triple, despite being so intoxicated that he could barely stand. There was good hustle and smart bustle and it looked good right to the very last innings.

But don't get me wrong: the fix is in. We know the forces that swirl amongst us—painting our fate with their infra-red scanners and all-night strategy sessions. We know that the same people who brought you the cola wars are sitting in a bunker somewhere close by making sure that each trip to the plate fits into the Master Plan. It's not that I'm not saying that the B-Squad doesn't not think that someone isn't out to get us, because we do.

Or do we?

Cape, part deux. Marty wins the cape tonight for tremndous fielding. As one of his many nominators put it: “Marty upside down = Cape.” Stand up and take a bow, Owens!