Friday, July 6, 2012

Wright Wrights Himself, Conquers Phillies

In the somber of October, David Wright wandered the streets of Manhattan. His team, the Metropolitans of More Recent York, had won only 77 games in the recently ended season, which might sound like a lot, but, dear reader, you will be shocked and perplexed to learn that a baseball season consists of 162 games. I know. So, while the Improbable Red Birds continued their unlikely flight toward glory, Wright wandered through Battery Park, observing improbable red birds. One of the birds said, "eetootapyeyeploosswaneekwallsssero."

"Yeah, I know Euler's identity," huffed Wright, perhaps harsher than he meant. See, it wasn't just another losing season that bothered David. It was his Wright Time. It hadn't been truly Wright for a while. Many overlong afternoons, he had lambled in his apartment on floor 5 of the Met building.

"Whose Wright?" he asked, in a boxer's pose. "I'M WRIGHT!" throwing a punch.
"What stuff?" ducking imaginary attacks. "The WRIGHT STUFF!" tackling invisible adversaries.

And somehow it just didn't have the same magic.

David purchased a bagel.

"You know," said the bagel merchant, "it's only a matter of time before the ostrich within us swallows the ostrich without us."

"Yeah," sighed Wright, "I know."

He stepped out into the street with a hearty bite. He heard a commotion.

"Mic check!" "MIC CHECK!" "General Assembly..." "GENERAL ASSEMBLY..." "is called to order." "IS CALLED TO ORDER."

Humans, so many of them, gathered together. Yeah. Wright approached.

Over the course of three hours, many things were said, and all of them were repeated by the masses. Through this strange practice, decisions were made, resolutions enacted, societies built, bagels consumed.

"You there," said Max, pointing to Wright, "you look like you have a thing to say, and a missile to whistle, if I may." Hand gestures from the crowd indicated that most people agreed that he may.

"Well I suppose..." said Wright, nervously fwapping his batting gloves. He walked in front of everyone. So many eyes.

"Whose Wright?" he started. "WHOSE WRIGHT?" The eyes gleamed at him. It was the gleaming that did it. He felt catharsis lingering in his nose, as he said.


Hundreds of voices: "I'M WRIGHT!"

A flock of red birds flew past. They heard a larger flock of people below, saying these words:
"What angle? WRIGHT ANGLE!"
"What's on? WRIGHT ON!"
"What this minute? WRIGHT THIS MINUTE!"

David Wright felt majestic. Like he was ready to crush dreams with his fist. The resident of Zuccotti Park felt pretty nifty too. They hadn't been planning on keeping this whole occupation going, but all of a sudden they felt the resolve to survive weather, dicey internal politics and even dicier external politics.

July 5th, 2012
In the third, Hamels pitching with two on: "WRIGHT WHACK!" for a single.

In the fifth, with a man on. Hamels winds up, and Tejada, leading off first, asks, "What kablango?" To which Wright: "WRIGHT KABLANGO!" for a home run. "Doesn't that bug you?" Ruiz asked Hamels as he gave him a fresh sphere. "In spite of myself, I'm pretty into it," said Hamels.

And then in the ninth, it might not have mattered. All that fine whack-stick from Wright, and yet the Philistines led. More than that, they were ready. Wright would unleash his Wright power and whack a line drive. They knew it was coming.
Tejada led off first. "What game-winning single?" he asked.
Wright grinned a grin. He saw how they angled to cut off his Wright angles. Well he had a sneak attack.

Which of course, is exactly what happened.

"Turner!" barked the skipper. "Get the pie!"

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