shag carpet. Wolf staggers and falls, writhing, into a cauldron of boiling water.
THE TWIG HOUSE
W hat happened back there was an act of God, you hear what I’m saying? That whole damn house just exploded, blew apart like cheap Kleenex. It’s a miracle we’re alive.
Hey, it was luck. That’s all. Like you said, it was just a haystack, and this wood shanty looks just ascheap. Jesus, the pig didn’t even bother to use nails. How do they live like that? Let’s go get him.
No way. I’m quitting. First, it’s that Red Riding Hood incident, then the straw hut, and now this—we’re cruising Fairy Land with a dead pig in the backseat. I’ve had it. I ain’t huffing these sticks. I’m outtahere.
C’mon, man, you can’t quit. How you gonna live?
Way I see it, I’m gonna be a lone wolf. Gonna find me a flock of sheep guarded by some punk with a reputation for calling in false alarms, and I’m just gonna, you know, chill with the lambs.
You’re full of it. No sheep’s gonna trust you. Look at you. You’re salivating now, just thinking about ‘em. C’mon, man, you’re a big bad wolf. This is your job. You can’t just quit.
Done deal. Know what’s wrong with this world? There’s too many fairy frickin’ godmothers flying around, granting wishes. Everybody expects to win at Lotto. Nobody wants to take responsibility. Well, that’s what I’m doing.
You know, I used to recite the Brothers Grimm because I thought the tales offered clear distinctions between good and evil. The older I get, the more Ifigure those stories just tell about the weak and the strong. Life is a choice between the two. Yeah, I’m a big bad wolf. But I can change. What happened back there was a sign. I’m gonna heed it. From here on, I’m living happily evermothergoosinafter.
Steinbrenner in Love
Excerpts from
King George III,
the newly discovered play
penned by William Shakespeare.
February.
ACT I, SCENE I. In a field. Thunder and lightning.
RIZZUTO: Single, double; bullpen trouble.
Owner burn and pitcher bubble.
Though great’st by far his minions be, They’re not great’st by far, enough, for he.
What huckl’berries these mortals be!
YOGI: ’Tis déjà vu—again, I see.
(
Enter George, holding ball.
)
GEORGE : O’er my hearth doth hang the bejeweled broom of series swept.
Yet the stone floor mocks surly ‘neath a new season’s dirt.
O, budget: Thou art paid to brutish beasts!
O Bernie! O Jeter! O Rivera! O’Neill!
And Good David Wells! The hurler burly! Paw of south!
Thane of ale and team!
ALL : Maker of the perfect game!
GEORGE: Ye hath restored the crown to its rightful throne.
Alas, one soul whose yonder curveball breaks
Holds my heart in his split-fingered grip.
O, Roger Clemens, rocket of northern skies domed.
No owner hath lesser need for thee, and yet:
This is the A.L. East, and Roger is the Cy Young.
RIZZUTO: Holy cow! His heart’s imprison’d!
YOGI: To be, it is. To b’not, it isn’t.
ACT II, SCENE III. In the owner’s box. Enter Ghost.
GEORGE : Angels and ministers of security, defend me!
What botch of nature doth appear before me?
GHOST: I am the spirit of ye managers fired.
I bring news sure to screaming headlines capture.
To-night, the Jays tender Clemens to the bidder high.
His breast shall be pin-striped before the cock crows.
But the ransom shall cut sharper than an agent’s tooth:
To-night, David Wells shall from thy castle be snatched, And ye shall be the robber.
GEORGE: Nay! That the heart of my rotation I would sell?
‘Tis a trade rumor told by an idiot, signifying nothing.
True, Clemens in my coat could capture six-and-twenty.
But to peddle dear David; aye, there’s the rub.
‘Tis nobler in the mind to keep him.
GHOST: Owner, is not your summer of discontent foreseen?
Your staff shall wilt ‘neath the gravity of innings hurled.
Put a pennant in thy purse.
Your Wells has drunk ten cups to-night,
And not the milk of human kindness.
Come May, he will be as
THE TWIG HOUSE
W hat happened back there was an act of God, you hear what I’m saying? That whole damn house just exploded, blew apart like cheap Kleenex. It’s a miracle we’re alive.
Hey, it was luck. That’s all. Like you said, it was just a haystack, and this wood shanty looks just ascheap. Jesus, the pig didn’t even bother to use nails. How do they live like that? Let’s go get him.
No way. I’m quitting. First, it’s that Red Riding Hood incident, then the straw hut, and now this—we’re cruising Fairy Land with a dead pig in the backseat. I’ve had it. I ain’t huffing these sticks. I’m outtahere.
C’mon, man, you can’t quit. How you gonna live?
Way I see it, I’m gonna be a lone wolf. Gonna find me a flock of sheep guarded by some punk with a reputation for calling in false alarms, and I’m just gonna, you know, chill with the lambs.
You’re full of it. No sheep’s gonna trust you. Look at you. You’re salivating now, just thinking about ‘em. C’mon, man, you’re a big bad wolf. This is your job. You can’t just quit.
Done deal. Know what’s wrong with this world? There’s too many fairy frickin’ godmothers flying around, granting wishes. Everybody expects to win at Lotto. Nobody wants to take responsibility. Well, that’s what I’m doing.
You know, I used to recite the Brothers Grimm because I thought the tales offered clear distinctions between good and evil. The older I get, the more Ifigure those stories just tell about the weak and the strong. Life is a choice between the two. Yeah, I’m a big bad wolf. But I can change. What happened back there was a sign. I’m gonna heed it. From here on, I’m living happily evermothergoosinafter.
Steinbrenner in Love
Excerpts from
King George III,
the newly discovered play
penned by William Shakespeare.
February.
ACT I, SCENE I. In a field. Thunder and lightning.
RIZZUTO: Single, double; bullpen trouble.
Owner burn and pitcher bubble.
Though great’st by far his minions be, They’re not great’st by far, enough, for he.
What huckl’berries these mortals be!
YOGI: ’Tis déjà vu—again, I see.
(
Enter George, holding ball.
)
GEORGE : O’er my hearth doth hang the bejeweled broom of series swept.
Yet the stone floor mocks surly ‘neath a new season’s dirt.
O, budget: Thou art paid to brutish beasts!
O Bernie! O Jeter! O Rivera! O’Neill!
And Good David Wells! The hurler burly! Paw of south!
Thane of ale and team!
ALL : Maker of the perfect game!
GEORGE: Ye hath restored the crown to its rightful throne.
Alas, one soul whose yonder curveball breaks
Holds my heart in his split-fingered grip.
O, Roger Clemens, rocket of northern skies domed.
No owner hath lesser need for thee, and yet:
This is the A.L. East, and Roger is the Cy Young.
RIZZUTO: Holy cow! His heart’s imprison’d!
YOGI: To be, it is. To b’not, it isn’t.
ACT II, SCENE III. In the owner’s box. Enter Ghost.
GEORGE : Angels and ministers of security, defend me!
What botch of nature doth appear before me?
GHOST: I am the spirit of ye managers fired.
I bring news sure to screaming headlines capture.
To-night, the Jays tender Clemens to the bidder high.
His breast shall be pin-striped before the cock crows.
But the ransom shall cut sharper than an agent’s tooth:
To-night, David Wells shall from thy castle be snatched, And ye shall be the robber.
GEORGE: Nay! That the heart of my rotation I would sell?
‘Tis a trade rumor told by an idiot, signifying nothing.
True, Clemens in my coat could capture six-and-twenty.
But to peddle dear David; aye, there’s the rub.
‘Tis nobler in the mind to keep him.
GHOST: Owner, is not your summer of discontent foreseen?
Your staff shall wilt ‘neath the gravity of innings hurled.
Put a pennant in thy purse.
Your Wells has drunk ten cups to-night,
And not the milk of human kindness.
Come May, he will be as
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