I am worried when in the eighth or ninth inning John Rocker, Atlanta Braves pitcher from the 1990s, comes hauling ass out of the bullpen, lookin pissed as always, but tonight especially so. Pissed like he's pitching against his New York city-slicker god-questioning, queer-forgiving rivals. Or like I've reamed his daughter, maybe even insulted his wife. ("Your ass is mine, Bemberg!") Then we are in a dimly lit room with baby-shit tan walls. Rocker's not able to do the things he gets paid to do (close out baseball games, kick ass, make an ass of himself in the media) until I turn on the light, which I do without hesitation. I push the pin on that fucking construction lamp and the whole thing is over. No pitches thrown. Everyone's favorite shock-jock John Rocker is gone, never to harass our progressive sensibilities again.
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