"Baseball will take our people out-of-doors, fill them with oxygen, give them a larger physical stoicism. Tend to relieve us from being a nervous, dyspeptic set. Repair these losses, and be a blessing to us."Jeff Weaver was spotted at Safeco yesterday thumbing through his dog eared copy of the Portable Whitman. Where, he thought to himself, was the stoicism? Instead all he felt was a massive case of dyspepsia. He popped a Tums in his mouth and chugged it down with a tall glass of Maalox, wiping the blue dregs off his lips on the sleeve of his team issue navy blue turtleneck. He was alone. The last merengue had played in the clubhouse. His mitt sat there on the ground between his sanitary socked feet. It mocked him. He wanted to spit on it, but his mouth was too gooped up with antacids to even work up a good mouthful and when he spit, a goopy foam was all that came out, clinging to his lip and then rolling down his chin before dripping onto his knee. His shoulders shook, and looking quickly around, he began to cry, quietly at first, and then louder. A torrent of grief shook through his lean frame. Snot and tears mixed and these did, somehow, make their way onto his black leather glove. Just then, the clubhouse kid walked in through the door directly across from Weaver's locker. He tried to turn around and leave, but Weaver spotted him and wiped his face with the already dirty shirtsleeve. They started at each other for a long time and then the clubhouse boy spoke up. "Mr. Weaver, they're going to lock up for the night."
"And whoever walks a furlong without sympathy walks to his own funeral drest in his shroud."