Jesse Knutson

oldtimefamilybaseball:

(Images by Jeremy Scheuch)

“Stay inside. Honey, move away from the windows and be quiet. It’s here,” I said, running inside the house and locking the door behind me. 

“What poppa? What is it?” My four-year old daughter, Susie, with nothing but love in her eyes, looked up at me, pulling at the fabric of my pants. 

“I don’t want to scare you. But it’s time to be a big girl now.” I swallowed hard. “The Hall of Fame ballot was announced this week.” 

“Shouldn’t that be a good thing? Isn’t the Hall of Fame for good players?” she asked. The air raid sirens had just gone off in town and the noise was deafening. I got down on a knee. 

“Normally it is, sweetie. But not now. You see, there are still months to go before the award is even announced and every writer, blogger, and carbon based life-form with an opinion will be writing, tweeting, talking,  and calling into the radio about it. And they’ll be really angry the whole time. They’re…they’re no longer human.” My wife walked in the room.

“Honey, what are you doing?” she asked, looking at heavy steel grate I was using to block the door. 

“Jill, don’t panic, but the Hall of Fame ballots came out.” Fear filled her face. She grabbed Susie’s hand. 

“Hurry, come with me,” she said, rushing Susie down the hall. “Let’s hide you in the bathtub, away from the windows and internet.” The wind howled in the distance. 

———————————-

A day later, I had finished my preparations. The windows were boarded, the doors were locked. With luck, we’d make it through. I fired up my phone, there must be some internet left. I opened my Google Reader and like that scene where Wayne Knight’s face fills the computer screen in Jurassic Park, everything was Hall of Fame related. Why Jeff Bagwell was a cheater, why Fred McGriff didn’t stop enough crime to earn the title Crime Dog, why Mike Piazza’s back acne predicted every major natural disaster. I was already too late, society had crumbled. I powered down. We’d have to go without the web for the winter. No gifs in this house. 

Jill, who had been comforting Susie in the bathroom, reading her stories of simpler times when ballplayers were merely racists or tax evaders but not performance enhancing drug users, came up behind me, putting her arm on my shoulder.

“How’s it going?” she asked. 

“Fine,” I said, feigning courage, but she saw through my facade. She glared at me until I gave in. “I’m not sure we have enough food for the winter. We’re out of all of the essentials, including Hostess’ Baseball-shaped snack cakes and Justin Verlander’s Fastball Flakes. I need to get more.”

“You can’t. It’s too dangerous. I heard Fort Dixon fell to the Rafael Palmeirians. We’ll just have to ration our supplies.” 

(Image by Andrew Kazmierski)

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