The New York Metropolitans - An Alternate Dimension
Forward - Tricky Tray
New York, June 2018
I guess it just had to come to this. After all, I had just spent the bulk of the last week or so hunkered down in front of the damned box watching this year's collection of miscreants blow save after save. Could yet another season be wasted with nothing left to do but watch old "Rat Patrol" reruns and experiment with edibles and the latest micro-brewed sensation? It was turning ugly, plug-ugly if you will. I had taken to barricading myself in the bathroom and snorting mashed Percocet, washing it all down with a new bourbon with a name I can't recall. Every so often I would take my dog for a walk in the park, slinking out, packing major heat, babbling like an incoherent escapee from Bellevue. If some poor bastard was unlucky enough to meet me I would slobber a greeting like "Give me your fucking liver".Yea, ugliness, and paranoia come easily to an addicted baseball fiend, especially when his team has been on the skids since 2006. It had come to this.
The gathering was a strange mix between that of a Ladies Teamsters meeting, without the tobacco haze, and an Oklahoma Farmers Wives for Trump Club. I felt amazingly out of place and super vulnerable to any kind of evil shit that might go down. My wife clung to me for dear life. Little did she know that I was too toasted to help anyone do anything. "So THIS is what the fuck is going down while I'm sleeping?" Just a matter-of-fact tone to my voice. My wife clutched harder.
The line to get into this fiesta was a hopeless clusterfuck of a tangle. All you could do was muscle in and try to blend with the fuckers as they shuffled in through the "Friendly Portals" of the " Soldiers and Sailors Memorial Library and Horse Trough".
Entering the auditorium there were scores of super long tables and surrounding this stuff, ringing the entire perimeter, were the prizes to take a chance at winning. These old bats loved it, a "Tricky Tray" is what it's called. There were zero tricks and no fucking trays that I could see, so much for fucking descriptive names. We sat down, pretty damn alone, the denizens knew what we were about and kept their distance. My wife commenced doing what you do at these things. I sat looking all around, gawking as if I had found a diamond in a globular of peanut butter stuck to the floor. The strength of the edibles kicked into high gear, and the whole situation slowed to a crawl. The women walking about were uniformly rotund and vaguely reptilian. I forced myself to look away whenever one approached. I didn't want to be hexed and fall into their evil grip.
Pulled out a phone, and tried to remember how the hell to work it. found the MLB app. and watched the pitch count and texted an account of the Phillies, Mets game. I swear if I could figure out what my damn Apple ID was I could get the live MLB feed on the phone. No such luck, I'm a stupid man on a smartphone. So I sat and read the game, text by text, line by line. I watched the WHOLE GAME like that and, to make it worse, they blew yet another lead and lost!
Year after year with only a bright spot, what? every 10 years or so? How did this stinking curse begin? How had it been fed to stay alive all these years? I rubbed my palms on my eyes, I had a lot to think about...................
Legends are born out of necessity, the necessity to explain the unexplainable, the necessity to make sense of the nonsensical, and the necessity to allow us to sleep soundly in our beds. At the core of any legend, no matter how small, a kernel of truth resides.
Many times, I had visited the Flushing Bay area of Queens and had heard, just a few times, a tale of such utter depravity that I had to try and find out for myself what lay at the bottom of this fetid and festering cesspool of a story. The most recent incident occurred at McFadden's Bar and Grill, a watering hole for the Mets faithful underneath the rear of centerfield. Like many others, I was drowning my sorrows even before the upcoming ball game had begun, knowing full well what a harrowing nine innings of watching this team might put forth on my psyche. A grizzled old fan with a face filled with more cracks than the Bronx- Queens Expressway sat by me quietly nursing his beer, a lifetime of bad breaks and misery hung above his head like an oily cloud. He mumbled a low guttural string of words that I could barely make out. I leaned in closer, not wanting to disrupt the flow, "Bone meal, bodies, tomatoes gonna kill us all". That was it.
My research has taken me to the depths of the 7 deadly sins laid out by the almighty himself, not Trump, but a bigger more powerful fucker than even him. These eyes have seen debauchery like none other I have ever experienced. BDSM, black magic practice, shape-shifting demons, bestiality, human sacrifice, body desecration, alternate dimensions, and a plethora of tomatoes, all varieties of all shapes and sizes.
There is a scratching, light but constant at my door, the sound of labored asthmatic breathing. I had better down this last pint of Jack, mash up some more Percocet, and finish this fucking weird tale before whatever it is out there consumes me.
The gathering was a strange mix between that of a Ladies Teamsters meeting, without the tobacco haze, and an Oklahoma Farmers Wives for Trump Club. I felt amazingly out of place and super vulnerable to any kind of evil shit that might go down. My wife clung to me for dear life. Little did she know that I was too toasted to help anyone do anything. "So THIS is what the fuck is going down while I'm sleeping?" Just a matter-of-fact tone to my voice. My wife clutched harder.
The line to get into this fiesta was a hopeless clusterfuck of a tangle. All you could do was muscle in and try to blend with the fuckers as they shuffled in through the "Friendly Portals" of the " Soldiers and Sailors Memorial Library and Horse Trough".
Entering the auditorium there were scores of super long tables and surrounding this stuff, ringing the entire perimeter, were the prizes to take a chance at winning. These old bats loved it, a "Tricky Tray" is what it's called. There were zero tricks and no fucking trays that I could see, so much for fucking descriptive names. We sat down, pretty damn alone, the denizens knew what we were about and kept their distance. My wife commenced doing what you do at these things. I sat looking all around, gawking as if I had found a diamond in a globular of peanut butter stuck to the floor. The strength of the edibles kicked into high gear, and the whole situation slowed to a crawl. The women walking about were uniformly rotund and vaguely reptilian. I forced myself to look away whenever one approached. I didn't want to be hexed and fall into their evil grip.
Pulled out a phone, and tried to remember how the hell to work it. found the MLB app. and watched the pitch count and texted an account of the Phillies, Mets game. I swear if I could figure out what my damn Apple ID was I could get the live MLB feed on the phone. No such luck, I'm a stupid man on a smartphone. So I sat and read the game, text by text, line by line. I watched the WHOLE GAME like that and, to make it worse, they blew yet another lead and lost!
Year after year with only a bright spot, what? every 10 years or so? How did this stinking curse begin? How had it been fed to stay alive all these years? I rubbed my palms on my eyes, I had a lot to think about...................
Legends are born out of necessity, the necessity to explain the unexplainable, the necessity to make sense of the nonsensical, and the necessity to allow us to sleep soundly in our beds. At the core of any legend, no matter how small, a kernel of truth resides.
Many times, I had visited the Flushing Bay area of Queens and had heard, just a few times, a tale of such utter depravity that I had to try and find out for myself what lay at the bottom of this fetid and festering cesspool of a story. The most recent incident occurred at McFadden's Bar and Grill, a watering hole for the Mets faithful underneath the rear of centerfield. Like many others, I was drowning my sorrows even before the upcoming ball game had begun, knowing full well what a harrowing nine innings of watching this team might put forth on my psyche. A grizzled old fan with a face filled with more cracks than the Bronx- Queens Expressway sat by me quietly nursing his beer, a lifetime of bad breaks and misery hung above his head like an oily cloud. He mumbled a low guttural string of words that I could barely make out. I leaned in closer, not wanting to disrupt the flow, "Bone meal, bodies, tomatoes gonna kill us all". That was it.
My research has taken me to the depths of the 7 deadly sins laid out by the almighty himself, not Trump, but a bigger more powerful fucker than even him. These eyes have seen debauchery like none other I have ever experienced. BDSM, black magic practice, shape-shifting demons, bestiality, human sacrifice, body desecration, alternate dimensions, and a plethora of tomatoes, all varieties of all shapes and sizes.
There is a scratching, light but constant at my door, the sound of labored asthmatic breathing. I had better down this last pint of Jack, mash up some more Percocet, and finish this fucking weird tale before whatever it is out there consumes me.
1 - It's in the sauce
Deep in the bowels of the New York Public Library is a small room where an old lady lays claim to all the deep, dark secrets contained in the many dust volumes and notebooks from eons ago. Her name is Miss Timmons, once a kindergarten teacher, she gave it all up for her real love, being a sentinel for all that truly needs to be guarded against prying eyes, lest the secrets are revealed and society, as we know it, would crumble. Slim, about 4'8", 95 lbs. soaking wet with grey hair in a bun, her glasses dangle at the end of a chain against her faded calico blouse and matching skirt.
To find your way down there ain't easy, a multitude of locked doors and secret panels bring you down as deep as the sewer system. Dank, musty, and filled with the smell of old parchment and intrigue, Miss Timmons enters this sacred portal by a series of dumb waiters only recently revealed to me. Her digs are an old wooden teacher's desk and wooden chair, a desk lamp, and a Select Typewriter completing her meager surroundings. A 1934 calendar adorns the wall, the significance of the year? I have no idea.
I had heard about her through my researching of old book stores, patrons spoke of a master Jedi-like librarian who held the key to a lot of scary shit, but no one had cracked the code on how the hell to get to her. I spent weeks loitering around Bryant Park, trying to get a glimpse of her leaving work. I was beginning to be mistaken for one of the panhandlers who hung out, as I was always there. One night my luck paid off. she ambled out, in the middle of the night it seemed, and walked down 42nd street with not a care in the world. I think she noticed me following her, and, after a few blocks, she turned and cast a frightening pair of coal-red eyes in my direction. I was stopped dead in my tracks then, she disappeared. The next night I accosted her again, Once again she turned and fired those eyes right through me, in a guttural voice she growled "Quid Vis?" It sounded Latin "I need to know what you know" I pleaded, "Please" She came closer and pressed a piece of paper into my hand, the hair on my arms stood on end. "Bring me these things tomorrow night and speak to NO ONE!" She paused "Jetzt geh weg!!
2 - The Tam O' Shanter
On the corner of 29th and 8th, on the outskirts of Soho, was home. I believe it was called a cold-water flat at one time, that term was an injustice, and it was far worse. However, it was affordable and a place to gather my thoughts as I continued to fall down this abyss of a rabbit hole. It was only affordable as I had a deal with the landlord, the owner of a seedy old man bar on the street, The Tam O' Shanter. I did the grunt work. I mopped, swept up, did the disgusting cracked old dishes, and, in general, helped keep the place one step above the chaos. It was one of those places that served a buffet lunch along with your drink. You can imagine what that was like. A petrified corned beef swimming in grease with undercooked potatoes and a wilted beyond repair head of cabbage. Actually, not too many of the "regulars" ate it as it would impede the flow of the cheap whisky and gin with which they plied themselves. I lived on the stuff mostly as I got the choicest chunks of fat. You see, I was also the Chef.
I climbed the stairs after my run-in with Miss Timmons and flicked on the single bulb on the ceiling of my room. It cast a pale glow about the dingy dump which contained a bed, desk and chair, sink, and a tiny refrigerator That held a small army of roaches who only entered there because they wanted someplace warm to relax. I took the crumpled note I had been given, sat down on the edge of the bed, and examined it. "Dammit!!" I took a breath and re-read it, "Where the hell am I going to get this shit?" The note simply stated:
6 pigeon eggs
Chock Full O' Nuts coffee can (empty)
Package Kahns Beef Franks
6 pack of Rheingold Extra Dry beer
2 Beefsteak Tomatoes, almost rotten
1 ounce dried psilocybin mushrooms
This was some serious shit, what the hell did she want this stuff for? Do I actually want to go through with this? I took a long pull from a bottle of Old Grand-Dad and figured I had come this far, the story had to come to light. Besides if everything went South, I'd still have the shrooms. I lay down and began to formulate a plan for gathering together this odd cornucopia.
The day was half gone by the time I cleaned up downstairs and set the delicious buffet out. It was surprisingly easy finding many of the items, I didn't think many even existed anymore. Obviously, the tough one would be the mushrooms, but I had a friend who knew a guy who knew a guy that might be able to help me out. By the time I scored some down by the Bowery I came to realize that the fucking things were grown all over the city! I grabbed a cab and headed back to the "Tam".
3 - Chief Squawking Bird
He stood gazing out over the waters of the bay. In the future, it would be known as Flushing Bay replete with its chop shops and land that would be used for the 1964 World's Fair. A new baseball stadium was planned as well, but all of that was far into the future. His name was Squawking Bird and he was Chief of the Maspeth tribe that lived hereabouts on the shore of this bay. His original name was he who squawks like a bird, derived from the sounds he made when his mother would paddle his backside when he was a young boy. Far across the bay, he could see wisps of smoke rising from the hearths of the small settlement on the southern tip of the island. "These strange human beings are not of this earth," he thought. "They destroy as much as they try to replenish, if not more". The bay from which sustained their life from the food they caught was already showing signs of depletion, a strange sickness had already ravaged his village killing many with strange puss-filled boils all over the skin. He was afraid for his people, he was afraid for the earth.
A few months later, Squawking Bird and the remnants of his tribe would journey west to join other tribes in the nation and try and put some distance between the strange invaders and themselves. However, he had one last task to perform. On a small hill, not far from the village was a place where the grass was lush and the trees, plentiful. It offered a wonderful view of the bay. This place was the last resting place of all those who had died in the past, the recent and distant. Alone, facing the setting sun the Chief voiced a prayer into the wind which would carry it across the hilltop down to the bay. He prayed that this wonderful, peaceful resting place should never be disturbed and to punish any who should desecrate it. If indeed, it was desecrated. then a curse would fall upon the place until it was restored to its former self. Not just any curse, but one that would rain down terror and bad luck unbounded followed by short periods of seeming peacefulness and prosperity only to be dashed again into the bowels of the underworld. Even the old Chief had no idea how many centuries into the future this curse would wreak havoc.
The urban sprawl would reach this peaceful area and it would become part of the county of Queens, New York. This began happening almost as soon as the Native Americans had pulled up stacks. The town located there was named "Vlissengen" and was a Dutch settlement ruled over by New Netherlands. Soon, the locals started calling it "Vilshing". Later it was anglicized to "Flushing".
4 - The Ghost of Toe Blake
It was a pleasant enough walk up to 42nd street that evening. Still lots of folks wondering about including the usual cast of stew bums and 3 card monte hustlers. With my sack under my arm I hurried into Bryant Park towards the back of the library, I suddenly realized that the library was closed and I had zero ideas on how to find the old sea hag. I passed a bench where an old man with a rumpled brown fedora and tattered overcoat sat. As I hurried by I glanced at him and he raised his head and looked straight at me. His eyes were like two huge saucers that gave off a shimmer like sunlight on a lake. I felt something dry crack in my throat then an incredible itch in my midriff and I felt something pull me to a door behind some shrubs. The hag, Miss Timmons was there and pulled me inside and slammed the door shut.
A dim bulb cast its faint glow on the surroundings She grabbed the bag and peeked in, "Good, Come". We descended several flights of stairs, it had obviously been quite a long time since anyone had descended here. as the steps were thick with dust and cobwebs were everywhere. "What's happening to me, my stomach is killing me", "Quiet!" was all I got as a response. I felt like at any moment the ghost of Jimmy Hoffa and a pissed-off Toe Blake might appear, I grit my teeth and followed her down. We finally came to the bottom and turned to go down a long corridor. I half expected to see burning torches attached to the walls like on all those inane TV detective shows. Nope, just more dim bulbs
We reached the end of the corridor and entered another dimly lit room. My head was throbbing and I had a painful itch in my midsection. I was feeling delirious and quite apprehensive at this juncture, but I had bought the ticket and was going on the ride. "When the going gets weird, the weird turn pro" or something like that. She motioned to a chair and said in a guttural, almost surreal voice, "Sit" The room was no bigger than a small-sized living room I guess. I sat in a wooden chair by a wooden table, old and worn. There was an ancient-looking stove and a small washbasin. That was it. I had a ton of questions but I kept my mouth closed while Ms. Hag pulled items from the bag and set them on the table. She filled a pot with water from the sink, then filled it with the hot dogs. She turned to me and spoke, "You don't understand what's happening do you?" Before I could utter anything she continued with a voice as cold and lonely as the side of the road in a rainstorm. "You've come to be informed, this place contains secrets, many of them, some good, many bad." She turned and stroked the wall, for the first time I noticed it was a wall of huge carved rocks, there was wetness and glaze to it. "This is what is left of the old Croton Reservoir that stood here many years ago. No one comes down here, but this is where one learns about secrets. The items you brought, they will be made into a meal and drink that, once ingested, will begin to reveal the questions you ask of it." Her eyes had that saucer-like look that the old man had on the bench. She turned to the stove and picked up a glass jar next to the burner, inside was a salamander. I swear it was staring at me. She pointed to the reptile, "He will be your guide, he will sit upon your shoulder and tell you what you are witnessing. Do not remove him, under any circumstances! For if you do you will be lost and I may not be able to get you back." I tried to speak, but could not, my midsection was on fire from a bizarre itch and I felt sick. She placed a bowl and mug in front of me. "Eat and drink it all!'. I could taste all the weird contents that I had supplied, but the most overwhelming taste was that of the mushrooms. I finished everything and now began to get amazingly dizzy, the room was spinning, I could no longer feel my legs and I "felt" a luminous rope come out from my solar plexus. I looked down, screamed, and then I passed out.
5 - If You Lived Here You'd Be Home Now
*Drawing by Roger Hane
My head felt like it had been seriously stomped by some dangerous thugs from a Trump rally. As I came to I began to notice my surroundings, I realized I was lying on my side and viewing a landscape being raped by a Back Hoe and some other monstrously huge equipment, all were belching choking clouds of exhaust and moving some serious dirt. Then something truly fascinating happened. A tiny voice on my shoulder told me to stand up. Paralyzed as I seemed to be, I couldn't move a muscle. Again the voice spoke "Just think it you idiot" I could visualize myself standing, and so, due to a miraculous feat of time and space, I was viewing the scene from a standing point. "Now quit thinking and watch" I heard or felt a voice say.
In front of me was a giant hole in the ground, beyond, to my left was a body of water. I heard airplanes taking off and landing, fucking loudly! I zoomed in upon the men standing at the side of the pit. Two of them in construction gear, hard hats, etc. And the lone figure standing nearby was wearing a fedora and topcoat. My hearing felt like a huge trumpet had gone from my ear to the men standing there. I heard them quite clearly. The fedora man was speaking angrily, "Why the hell are we halting?", one of the workers answered, "Mr. Moses, we have found a whole shitload of bones here. I think we should report this to someone at city hall, it could be some sort of ancient burial ground." Moses hissed through his teeth, "my schedule won't wait for that, take the fucking bones, grind 'em up and use 'em for fertilizer, might be good for the grass of the infield." The construction workers shrugged their collective shoulders and the work forged ahead. I felt dizzy again and collapsed.
Struggling to my feet I tried to make sense of the surroundings. A large room, more like a cavern loomed in front of me. A large oak table sat in the center around which a covey of demon-like figures sat. Their features gradually came into focus as did my surroundings. This was some sort of subterranean war room. Who the hell were these people? Rudy Guliani? Mike Lindell the pillow guy? Reddy Kilowatt? Mr. Zip? There was one thing for sure whoever these nefarious swollen weasels were, they were up to no earthly good. The faces came into focus, it was a who's who of early Mets royalty. Joan Payson sat and was busy filing her claws, M. Donald Grant, the money-grubbing gigolo sat next to Mrs. Payson playing pocket pool with his hands in his trousers, one down sat a harried-looking man who looked as if the hell's Angels and the Baskerville Hounds were hot on his heels, William Shea, the man who brought the NL back to NYC by forming the now-defunct Continental League. At the head of the table sat a man who made Beelzebub look like Elmer Fudd, it was none other than the main architect of almost everything built-in NYC and its environs, Robert Moses.
"Jesus Creeping Shit," I thought, if these lunatics see me I could get the rack or worse. They were, however, oblivious to me. The little voice in my ear spoke again "Quit thinking and listen".
There was murmuring and then Moses rose and spoke. "This place, deep under Shea Stadium must be kept secret at all costs. We will meet here when a crisis arises and decide our course of action." "Holy shit, we're under Shea Stadium!" I could hardly contain myself. Grant rose and spoke to Moses, "Ok, Bob, enough of this cloak and dagger shit, what are we doing here?" Payson and Shea nodded their heads in agreement. "There is a delicate situation that has developed I'm afraid" Moses continued, " We dug up, what appears to be an ancient Indian burial ground while laying the foundation of the stadium. As you are aware we were already behind schedule and fast approaching our budget, if we contacted the historical dept of the city of New York, Lord knows how long those pencil necks would have taken meticulously digging and cataloging all the shit down there, it could last years. All our work and fortunes would be in a giant shit-filled puss ball and set adrift." "Get to the point for chrissakes" moaned Grant. "It's just this, I took the bones and had them ground to powder they are now part of the fertilizer of the infield." "You savage thug!!" Payson screamed "We built our stadium on top of a fucking burial ground? This isn't good" She sunk back in her chair looking for all the world like a dejected Richard Nixon after his "Checkers" speech." The point" Moses continued after gaining a measure of control, "is that strange, eerie shit has been happening. Christ, one worker fell into cement that was being poured around a stanchion. The poor bastard is now a part of the infrastructure. It took every favor I had to sweep it under the table. Anyway, I found this Indian shaman" Mrs. Payson whispered "I think I'm gonna hurl" "The Shaman told me that there isn't much we can do, he is familiar with curses, the poop making the rounds in the Indian Nations is that this is a well-known curse and could be devastating to the team or teams playing here. He ventured to say that there will be periods of unending agony, followed by miraculous joy, just to make us think it is over, then WHAM! back into the black hole, we go." William Shea rose, "What the hell are gonna do?" "Well", Moses mused, "not a lot can be done we just have to wait it out and see how crazy it gets. It's a giant shit sandwich and we all gotta take a bite." Groans and even weeping could be heard from the quartet of conspirators. They rose to go, Moses interjected, "I'm doing research on possible counter curses we could perform. The military is working with a mind-altering substance that we could feed the patrons so they might not see anything" "Or they could see dive-bombing black kamikaze bats coming from all directions, I vote we sit on this and meet at a later date after we have digested it" Grant said in a low almost indiscernible voice. They filed out. Again, I lost consciousness.
6 - With Apologies to Pearly
Indeed, it is time to bring this lurking, jerking cesspool of a short story to its logical and somewhat tragic end. I have spent months trying to get to this point, fearful of what my fevered brain might unlock to spill forth. It's not an easy time, for me or for my country. We are in the throes of a crisis not seen since Senator Charles Sumner was caned on the Senate floor by Senator Preston Brooks of South Carolina, a blood-sucking vile secessionist. Just when you thought you might finally be left alone the night is shattered by a deep guttural growl from somewhere in Florida, and one can hear the jackboots marching to the strains of "Dixie" or "Free Bird" whichever shingle of shit is easier to swallow.
I have taken to sitting on my front stoop with my WWII-era flame thrower, a sack of edibles courtesy of Gov. Murphy, and enough "Devil's Cut" Bourbon to alter the outcome of several super bowls. Yes, it's not the best of times, nor even the worst of times and as Churchill so eloquently said "It is not the end or even the beginning of the end, but the end of the beginning". So there is still time kids, don't cower under the sheets it's time to turn on, tune in, and get into some serious fear-mongering!
But what of the curse? Does anyone really give a damn about something that is so far removed from the world today that it belongs on the back pages of the local Penny Press right below "Wanted: Tyrant to dismantle democracy and burn it all down. No experience is necessary. Call 555-1212 and ask for Rudy" Not yet anyway. So I'll try and piece together the ending of this laborious project and bring this steaming pile of lies and innuendo to rest.
Painting by Ralph Steadman
I gave the owner a month's rent in advance and a little extra as I told him I would not be performing my duties for a while. I went upstairs locked myself in the room and began to wrestle with this twisted saga.
Patrons downstairs would later say that at times heard they hysterical laughing along with periods of loud cursing and threats to parties unknown. I would occasionally slink down to the bar to purchase a case of cheap Old Milwaukee beer and then slither away, muttering about socialism and the raping of young boys at the Vatican. So they tell me anyway. Apparently, the effects of the potion I drank took several days to clear up and in that time I relived my nightmare over and over, After each time I scribbled down all I could remember. When I finally checked out I had a large cardboard box stuffed with napkins, notebooks, and scraps of paper all with notes jotted all over them. I had a lot of work to do.
This brings us to the present and my seat in front of this desktop in the corner of my cluttered kitchen. Two mangy cats screeching to be fed and a seriously paranoid yellow lab who jumps and recoils at the hint of a banging at my door. Even now, he is slinking away from a steaming pile of vomit from his most recent road kill. I'm still waiting for the Trump canvasser to return with his pinhead posse to make a serious example of me to show all their buddies at the next Klan rally. This all stemmed from a visit I received months back during one of my more "unstable" periods. When I realized they were MAGA Republicans I threatened them with a large bug zapper and told them that it was only a matter of time before the ghost of Alger Hiss showed up on the golf course at Bedminster, NJ, and did some serious divot digging.
The curse has grown in size and scope throughout the years. In 1964 Joe Pignatano, the bullpen coach, started a tomato patch that grew in size and fame in a short amount of time. These plants produced a bumper crop of delicious tomatoes year after year. These same tomatoes, grown in the soil laced with pulverized bones of the Squawking Bird National Curse Trust were supplied to the team for their before-game feasts. Huge slabs were thrown on burgers, sandwiches, and Lord knows what else. Visiting teams left town with a big paper shopping bag filled with these evil beauties. Even the Diamond Club restaurant overlooking the field had a special "Bullpen tomato appetizer" Tomatoes in Chef Pierre's own special vinaigrette.
The Baltimore Orioles started their own patch, lovingly attended to by Earl Weaver. The seed came from Shea tomatoes. So the curse has been and still is spreading even as we speak. There is no telling how much evil treachery has gone down as a result of this simple fruit being ingested. Come to think of it, I'm sure old Rudy Guliani partook of some as he attended quite a few games. Makes sense to me, look at what a worthless bagman he has turned out to be. The New York Metropolitans team history is littered with tragedy. Its fortunes rise and fall like an old wooden roller coaster. Stranger shit has gone down in this world, I know, I lived it.
*NEWS FLASH*
On August 7th of 2022, a virus has been seen in Southern India spreading like wildfire. The name of this virus? The Tomato Flu/Virus. And so it goes.
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