"I was in the toilet reading my contract, and it turns out, I get a bonus when we get to the World Series." - Tom Hanks, A League of Their Own

 

Barry Bonds. No World Series™ for him. Sorry for needling that old joke.

So, even though I’m the youngest child of the Wilder clan (excepting Pugsley, my gigantic progeny) I think I lost favorite son status the other day.

John Wilder is my brother. I know, I betting that you think that I’m John Wilder, but my brother is also John Wilder, John Ezekiel Wilder. I’m John Ingalls Wilder. It’s not that my parents were as unimaginative as your typical Hollywood® executive when they have the bright idea to remake The African Queen starring Harrison Ford and Britney Spears. (Note to folks who haven’t seen the original movie, it’s way better than the remake of the remake of The Dukes of Hazzard.

What happened is that Momma Wilder found me in the bulrushes with two tags around my neck. One said that my name was “John” and the other said that I was fully vaccinated against rabies until 2043. Oh, there were papers that said I’d been wormed. Momma Wilder took me home and then told her son that he’d have to go by the name of “Zeke” forever, while I could go by the name of “John.” Sucks to be the older brother, even if you are Pharaoh Wilder’s son.

Did I mention I freed the Israelites from Egypt? That was a cool story. My brother was soooooo pissed. Anyhow . . .

My brother scored World Series® tickets. Not for one game, but for two games. Four tickets for each game.

I called him and he told me. My brother didn’t cuss much when he was a teen. He cussed constantly. I cannot remember a single sentence my brother uttered between the ages of 12 and 18 (where he went to college on, what else, a baseball scholarship) when he didn’t utter some word or particularly poetic combination of profanity that would have gotten a Pope defrocked. I didn’t cuss at all. Why? Zeke told me if he ever heard me )&(&*^ cuss he’ break my ()&*$%& neck.

I like my neck. I get the last laugh, because he’s married and won’t swear at all because his wife will break his neck. I don’t cuss all that much, but when I talk to Zeke my language becomes saltier than Paris Hilton’s at the doctors when she’s describing what may have given her that latest rash. Do I revel in it? Yes, Internet. Yes I do.

So I’m on the phone with my brother. He tells me that he got the tickets.

Me: “You got World *#(@)_*g Series© tickets?”

Zeke: “Umm, yeah.” His wife is listening.

Me: “C’mon bro, say “World *#(@)_*g Series© tickets. It’s the World *#(@)_*g Series©.”

He doesn’t, because he can’t. This is the revenge of the little brother.

Did he invite me to go with him? No. He’s going to take his wife, his son, and Pharaoh Pop Wilder.

Pop Wilder’s parents moved from some northern state to wherever they settled because it was against the law there to play baseball on Sunday. Baseball is in Pop Wilder’s blood. Baseball is in Zeke’s blood. Some relative once played ball with Ted Williams (an old, dead, Red Sox© dude). Me? My fastball is like 22 miles an hour. I can catch a line drive coming at me at 140 MPH, I can hit a ball 475’ and run to first base before a pitcher can blink. However, when you watch me throw it’s like seeing Hillary Clinton throw a dead cat. Trust me, it’s not pretty. The Mrs. charitably calls it “throwing like a girl.” Sadly, for baseball you have to catch, hit, run and throw. Stupid throwing.

Okay. How do I top my brother taking Pop Wilder to not one but two World Series® games? Oh, sure, Zeke will take Pop to the World Series™ for Christmas and I’ll get him some red and green socks with LEDs in them that spell out “Merrrri Christm” because they got covered in Pacific Ocean spray on their trip over to Wal-Mart©. Sigh.

At least I can say “World *#(@)_*g Series©.”