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Mama Cass Elliot
B. 9.19.41 Baltimore, Maryland / D. 7.29.74 London, England
Heart Attack

A Mets fan speaks. Before tonight’s game, I was thinking about how much I’d like to see Roger Clemens step up to the plate at Shea.
He hit an A in the head the other night. Let Piazza call the pitch—let me hear the stillness, then the screaming. Let me be watching when Piazza stands upright through the chalky dust cloud rising 'round that badass bubba’s huge prone form and oh-so-slowly slings his mask off, to reveal—
Nothing. Precisely no emotion at all disturbing his rodeo clown features.
But now the game is done. Yes, they finally sent an infielder out to pitch the ninth and he got the Padres 1-2-3.
Too bad in the bottom of the inning those Mets just couldn’t manage to come up with the THIRTEEN runs they’d have needed to win. I’ll tell you what—Clemens tartare is officially off my summer menu. I say let the boy roam free—of my own free will I spare him; may he wear my blessing like a flower garland on the field and a shield at the plate if that Hall of Fame on the first ballot motherfucker ever has the balls to pitch at Shea. Let there be no felling to re-play.
Well at least you can say you watched Steve Trachsel give up four home runs in one historic inning. Peace and love. That’s all I’m about this summer.

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