It had been a while, a little over a year, since we'd last seen Old Testament Tom prowling the by-ways of our town.
But here he came again, snuffling along the ground by the corner Dunkin' Donuts like a cloaked bloodhound, then rearing upright like a wild horse, throwing ratty gray locks and polished curses to heaven.
"HOUSE OF STEINBRENNER! KNOW YE NOT THE ERROR OF YOUR WAYS IN THESE DARK RECESSIONARY DAYS? THE STREETS RUN RED WITH INK AND YOU HEED IT NOT! IT WILL RISETH UP THE WALLS OF YOUR NEW PALACE AND WASH AWAY THE FALSE IDOLS THAT ARE YOUR MONUMENTS! THE BABE HAS FORSAKEN THEE! THE CURSE OF TORRE IS UPON THEE! GIRARDI LEADETH THEE BLINDLY THROUGH THE DESERT!! A-ROD IS NOT THE CHOSEN ONE! SABATHIA IS A GOLDEN CALF!!!"
Much of the assembled crowd at Dunkin Donuts fled before his verbal and olfactory onslaught. Like I said, it's been a while since Tom came around.
"Tom," I said, plucking at his tattered sleeve and breathing through my mouth. "Tom, where have you been?"
He gave me the old thousand-yard stare, but had the consideration to lower his voice to a seething whisper with only the occasional howl that I knew he could not help.
"Have I not walked every HILL and dale of Red Sox Nation, from Hartford to HALIFAX, preaching the RIGHTEOUS WORD, since the glorious October of '07?"
"Preaching?"
"Yes, to great HALLS and assemblages gathered from MILES around."
"People paid to see you?"
"Yes, and DEARLY, delving DEEP into savings and 401Ks now worth little more than the paper upon which their values daily DWINDLE!"
Having done book promotions to mixed success and reminded of my own retirement savings, I found dispiriting envy rising in my heart.
"How can that be?"
"The midges. The sweet, swirling MIDGES that descended upon Joba Chamberlain in the ALDS of '07 like some VISITATION! The hand of I AM WHO AM in Cleveland after an entire season of me HOWLING against the Yankees! I was hailed as a prophet."
"But how did anyone know about that?"
"Because you wrote about me in your blog."
Here was a revelation.
"You gotta be f***in' kidding me."
"No, and MIND THY WICKED TONGUE in my presence! Scott Boras read about me during your 2008 holdout, sent forth his MINIONS, who found me upon a PATH low in protein but rich in marketability. They packaged me up and put me on tour. The appearance fees nearly SMOTE me dumb."
"SO THE PROPHET HAS BOWED BEFORE PROFITS!"
Now it was I who raged and foamed and before whom others fled.
Tom chuckled and ducked into Salon Sciarrino, the very establishment that tends to all my grooming needs on days of book promotions.
My very own Jayneanne was there to greet him.
"Come on, Tom. Get in here and let's get you tidied up."
"It's a new season, son," said Tom, as the door swung to. "A new tour and a whole new GLORIOUS season!"
But here he came again, snuffling along the ground by the corner Dunkin' Donuts like a cloaked bloodhound, then rearing upright like a wild horse, throwing ratty gray locks and polished curses to heaven.
"HOUSE OF STEINBRENNER! KNOW YE NOT THE ERROR OF YOUR WAYS IN THESE DARK RECESSIONARY DAYS? THE STREETS RUN RED WITH INK AND YOU HEED IT NOT! IT WILL RISETH UP THE WALLS OF YOUR NEW PALACE AND WASH AWAY THE FALSE IDOLS THAT ARE YOUR MONUMENTS! THE BABE HAS FORSAKEN THEE! THE CURSE OF TORRE IS UPON THEE! GIRARDI LEADETH THEE BLINDLY THROUGH THE DESERT!! A-ROD IS NOT THE CHOSEN ONE! SABATHIA IS A GOLDEN CALF!!!"
Much of the assembled crowd at Dunkin Donuts fled before his verbal and olfactory onslaught. Like I said, it's been a while since Tom came around.
"Tom," I said, plucking at his tattered sleeve and breathing through my mouth. "Tom, where have you been?"
He gave me the old thousand-yard stare, but had the consideration to lower his voice to a seething whisper with only the occasional howl that I knew he could not help.
"Have I not walked every HILL and dale of Red Sox Nation, from Hartford to HALIFAX, preaching the RIGHTEOUS WORD, since the glorious October of '07?"
"Preaching?"
"Yes, to great HALLS and assemblages gathered from MILES around."
"People paid to see you?"
"Yes, and DEARLY, delving DEEP into savings and 401Ks now worth little more than the paper upon which their values daily DWINDLE!"
Having done book promotions to mixed success and reminded of my own retirement savings, I found dispiriting envy rising in my heart.
"How can that be?"
"The midges. The sweet, swirling MIDGES that descended upon Joba Chamberlain in the ALDS of '07 like some VISITATION! The hand of I AM WHO AM in Cleveland after an entire season of me HOWLING against the Yankees! I was hailed as a prophet."
"But how did anyone know about that?"
"Because you wrote about me in your blog."
Here was a revelation.
"You gotta be f***in' kidding me."
"No, and MIND THY WICKED TONGUE in my presence! Scott Boras read about me during your 2008 holdout, sent forth his MINIONS, who found me upon a PATH low in protein but rich in marketability. They packaged me up and put me on tour. The appearance fees nearly SMOTE me dumb."
"SO THE PROPHET HAS BOWED BEFORE PROFITS!"
Now it was I who raged and foamed and before whom others fled.
Tom chuckled and ducked into Salon Sciarrino, the very establishment that tends to all my grooming needs on days of book promotions.
My very own Jayneanne was there to greet him.
"Come on, Tom. Get in here and let's get you tidied up."
"It's a new season, son," said Tom, as the door swung to. "A new tour and a whole new GLORIOUS season!"
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