Up from behind me a man came.
It was none other than Jerry Narron himself, just named the new skipper of the Cincinnati Reds. There he was, all slicked up and ready for a night on the town after a saturday night loss.
And there he was. He ditched me to start spittin game at some average looking chick about half his age. It should be noted that I think he’s married. Ah well, no matter. I went back to tell George that I’d just shot the shit with Jerry Narron, manager of the Reds. Among the things he told me on that hazy night:
So then, all the sudden George and I are bullshitting with Mr. Randy Whistler. I don’t remember much about that either except for the fact that we were remarking on the fine piano player in the bar, and Mr. Whistler (1st base coach) enjoyed that as well. We were laughing and enjoying our whiskey, and I was enjoying listening to George talk his way out of a mess with his ex-girlfriend when all the sudden something made me ask for the check.
I looked it over to see a barrage of jack and cokes, and a few beers. Then there was 2 drinks on there, each costing $10 a piece. Grey Goose and soday? What the fuck? George was paying the tab but still, I didn’t drink Grey Goose. Neither did George. We looked across the bar, and there it was, a grin a mile wide on the mouth of Jeraldberger R. Narron. The guy who didn’t want a drink gave us a wink, and with a smile lifted his glass towards us (still hitting on girl). I asked the bartender about the drink(s) in question. You’ll remember, I offered Narron a (1) drink.
“Ma’m, we didn’t order any Grey Goose here. There must be a mistake.”
“Yeah, the gentleman over there said you were buying him drinks.” said the bartender.
Again I looked over across the bar, Grey Goose Narron smiling ear to ear and tipping the glass towards us. George and I felt somewhat cheated. We had to get something out of this. Hell, he should have been buying us drinks.
We walked over to Grey Goose himself, as he was starting to feel a little warm in the belly and sure enough, he was still hitting on that girl I’d made simple convo with. Turns out he is territorial not only with said woman, but also with his Grey Goose. He wanted to enjoy it by himself, and on our coin. Fair enough, but we had a proposition for him.
“Narron, thought you didn’t want any drinks man?”
“I guess I got thirsty boys,” Grey Goose Narron said with a wink.
“We’re going to the game tomorrow,” I said. “You owe us a couple baseballs at the least, eh big guy?”
He nodded with a nod that said ‘yeah, you’ll get your baseballs you leaches, now getoutta here so I can go on and fuck her’ kind of nod, you know?
We show up the next day, and we might have been the only ones in the park knowing why old Narron was sleepy eyed and wearing sunglasses. He saw us first, and before we could even say anything, he hopped into the dugout, grabbed two pearly whites, and tossed them right up to us.
No GG Jerry, thank you.