Funkmaster G Dawg

By GREG MAFFETT | Published: February 16, 2012

Act 1 Head Low

The funkmaster exits the aircraft at 14,000 feet, tail to the wind. He gets stable in a sit fly and finds his target, a billowy cloud 2,000 feet below. He cart wheels into his head low position and drove for the cloud as best as he could.

The air is ripping past at 150 or 160 mph, but inside the cloud, it looks quiet, feels silent. Visibility is measured in inches if at all, but who knows? There is nothing else there to gauge the depth. It is an act of faith, this.

And then, the bottom of the cloud at 10,000 feet. It's late in the day, and this was just one lonely cloud, not a canopy. The sun is twice as bright as it would be. The ground twice as green. His jumpsuit, twice as red. Everything doubled, on the other side.

Act II- Cubing

He was laying in bed, cubing numbers when it started. He didn't know it had started. Didn't even know why he was cubing numbers in bed. But his job was not to question, his job was just to cube. So he did. He was doing quite well, cubing every number that popped into his cubing space.

G cubed? 3G?

Act III- Loading One Up

There was a time, years ago, when it was part of the game. A big part of the game. Certain pitchers, we all knew who they were, were spit ballers. They didn't have enough to stay in the majors without the spitball.

They would get behind in the count 3-1. The batter would get the green light to swing. Everyone in the park knew that even out, it was going deep. So the pitch fingers his stash. if it's in his mouth, it's slippery elm. That makes it a true spitter.

Everyone could see it coming. If you were close enough to the field, you could see the droplets flying off the ball as it headed home. Timed perfectly, the batter swings just as the bottom drops out of the pitch. The blinks, sure he was on top that one. The catcher, if he knows it is coming, has his mitt low and smothers it. If not, it's a passed ball. Either way, it's a 3-2 count and the pitcher now has the batter on his heels.

Act IV-Bathroom Door

"She's coming. I should stand up. I don't want her to go into the toilet when she gets here."

She stands up. The father gets into position. He puts two fingers down. Curve? She waves him off. 1 finger, Fastball? Nope. He waves four fingers for the junkball. She nods. Out comes the spitter.

He gloves it perfectly. He looks in his glove.

She blinks, looking at his face as she arrives in this world the way she should, head low.

Act V The Dawgs

The dogs are going nuts. What is that sound? Who is the new hound in crew? Why can't we get in the bathroom? Is the new dog going to come out and play?

Data. Dogs want data. They aren't getting any. The midwife arrives and the pack peppers her with questions. She gives them nothing. It's a dog's life.

Act VI Pressure Drop

The pitcher is getting very very lightheaded. MIdwife takes the BP and sees it sets a record. "Lowest I've ever seen on someone still alive." The answer to that is 911. Soon five paramedics arrive and the pitcher is on the DL, carried off in a stretcher. Maybe it was the spitter, maybe it was fate.

VII The Flow of Life

They hook the pitcher up to an IV. That was the problem, too many spitters. Too much fluid loss. They needed to refill the reservoir. Life flowed back and slowly the color starts to return. This isn't the permanent DL, looks like she'll be back for another run next season.

VIII The Ball

The funkmaster is holding the ball. It is named Mackenzie. It looks exactly like his brother Geoff did at birth. And it won't stop making noise. Constantly going on and on about something incomprehensible. Baseball chatter? Hey batter, hey batter, no stick? Can't tell.

But it is just like his Dad. The only time that man ever stopped making noise was when he was asleep. And this one never sleeps.

This is life. It never really ends. It just flows through us.

IX The End

"So you are a grandpa, now?"

He shook his head. "Nah that title doesn't really fit my style..."

"But the wee one needs to call you something, no?"

"Yep, Funkmaster G Dawg."

"Really? I see a tattoo coming!"

We'll see about that.

Any Comments?


» Wednesday Wine


Published: January 5, 2012

It's short and its a story.

Central Problem

Published: November 11, 2011

The problem is the problem.