18-Feb-2006

Corben’s, Howard’s Grove, WI

George Steinbrenner has been an unlucky bastard lately. Steinbrenner’s recent track record is ugly—losing a grueling ALCS to the Red Sox two years ago while having a 3-0 series lead, and not winning a world series since 2000 despite having the highest paid roster every year—but these events were easy to predict. You see, the current fate of the Yankees is a symptom of something that occurred a mere six years ago. Now, let me tell you the tale.

The hottest pitching prospect of all time happened to be a native of the humble hamlet of Howard’s Grove, Wisconsin. This guy could throw a 100mph fastball and had the nastiest slurve you ever didn’t see. In fact, because of his strong arm, the world’s best scouts—those of the Yankees—recruited him, offering enticing promises of future dates with Mariah Carey and a nice, close haircut.

Despite what can be said about him, George Steinbrenner is not a foolish man. When he saw this Howard’s Grove native whip a fastball he knew that the post-Don-Mattingly Yankees were going to run roughshod on the entire MLB like Dick Cheney on a hunting vacation. This guy was striking out any minor leaguer the Yanks threw in front of him.

But then the sky came crashing down on poor ole’ Georgy Porgy and the future of the Yanks.

This future manager of Corben’s and minor league prospect found that baseball wasn’t his passion; there was something much greater in his life that eclipsed the sport of steroids and blunt, wooden objects. You want to know what it was and still is?

God must’ve shined down his holy light and showed this man the instrument that would forever change the course of his life.

It was the stumpfiddle.

And he took it on stage, after some minor cajoling, with us at the bar he manages. And, when we played, it was like two universes combining to form something greater, the primordial Ying and Yang, an enmeshment that bordered on the preternatural...the heavenly even.

Howard’s Grove will never be the same. We were the first band to play at Corben’s in over 20 years, and the only way we could follow up such a religious moment as we all experienced on that stage together was to return to the crazy Dutchman’s house and play Fireball Island until the wee hours of the morning.

I still think it’s bullshit that I had to kill myself because I rolled a one and my guy was the only guy in the path of a fireball, despite what the rule book says Tate. Bullshit.