This week's He Said She Said is brought to you by the Houston Astros and the letter "D," which stands for disappointment. No other thing in He Said's life, other than a woman, has brought more sadness and dysfunction. But at least the Astros have never broken off an engagement with us or punched us in the mouth for looking at a bartender for too long. Alas, the Astros begin another season in earnest this coming Monday evening against the San Francisco Giants. At this point, He Said and the Astros can be best described as "friends with benefits." He Said hits up the games with some buddies carrying full flasks of whiskey, and we end up drunkenly declaring our love for the team even as they are mired in a bad seven-run deficit. But then we don't care about them until we go to another game. After some games, we unsoberly call up our tattoo artist to try to make an appointment to get an Astros tattoo, but our friends hold us back. They say, "That's like getting your wife's name on you for life." Wives leave you and cheat on you, but at least the Astros have stayed in the same place - the middle - since we were born, without fail.
The Astros can only bring gloominess and misery. But for a few short months each year they make us feel like eight-year olds again, running into that gray old behemoth off Fannin and to our orange seats, carrying our ball glove and a program. A lot of people in town have long since given up on the Astros and that makes us sad. We haven't given up, we just keep our distance so as to not get heartbroken.
Baseball still turns us into little boys, even as we push 30. We still daydream, as we have been doing for the past 20 years or so, about coming out of the bullpen in the ninth inning to the strains Metallica's "For Whom The Bell Tolls" to win the World Series for the 'Stros.
So this year we yet again cringe and take the leap with fingers crossed into another baseball season. Hopefully this year will better than the last, and the one before that, and before that and etc. This HSSS is for our favorite players Ken Caminiti, Jeff Bagwell, Craig Biggio, Xavier Hernandez and the incomparable moustaches of Kevin Bass and Doug Jones, the latter whom had one of the sweetest mullets in baseball history.
John Fogerty, "Centerfield": Does this song remind anyone else of the Astrodome? Don't know what it is but whenever we hear this, all we think of is Dome Dogs and orange seats. And puking up a pickle in fourth grade.
Randy Newman, "Theme From The Natural": Whenever we drive to the batting cage, we play this song as loud as possible in our car on the way over. It makes us feel real men, instead of the whiffing and sweating ape we are, missing every single ball. Screw that slow-pitch softball team for judging us. We were hungover. We always try get shot in the stomach beforehand too.
Bob Dylan, "Catfish": Seriously, WTF, Bob?
Dropkick Murphys, "Tessie": We first heard this song while watching the only baseball movie ever made for men and women both, 2005's Fever Bitch... um, sorry, we mean Fever Pitch. By the time you finish this sentence we will have already bought the domain name for "Fever Bitch," by the way.
Belle & Sebastian, "Piazza, New York Catcher": Growing up, we only played catcher on all our Little League teams. When you are almost as short as you are round as a kid, you sort of gravitate towards the gear. It's like a calling from God. More than likely it just means Mom likes to make you cookies all the time and you eat raw hot dogs like candy. Mike Piazza was always our favorite catcher, along with the batshit Phillies backstop Darren Daulton. Google him sometime. He makes our own conspiracy theories sound like Grandma gibberish.
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