“I need a miracle, everyday!”

I’ve been listening to sports radio lately because I’m desperate for any new tidbits about the Brewers. It’s not been making me a happy person, because many of the personalities on there are screaming chowderheads.*

For example, this morning, they were clamoring for Ned Yost to be fired. One of their number, the former Brewers beat writer Drew Olson, countered this by asking rhetorically how long they thought it would be before the Brewers could be above .500 again, and how long it could be before they led the division again. They would not answer this question, because the answers are of course “by the end of the game Saturday” and “by the end of the game Tuesday,” respectively.

But when Yovani Gallardo went out for the year with an injury, one of those cackling crackers said something that stuck with me. He was basically saying this:

At this point, with Gallardo being injured, now someone needs to step up. Something out of the ordinary needs to happen. You can no longer expect to coast along with your talented group and make the playoffs. Something extraordinary needs to occur. Someone needs to make something happen.

Such is life. Such is baseball. In the words of Bobby Weir of the Grateful Dead:

“I need a miracle, everyday!”

This song is about a guy looking for a women ’bout twice his age, twice his height and weight, depending on the verse. It’s on Shakedown Street, which includes the title track, “Fire on the Mountain,” “From the Heart of Me,” and the cover of the Monkees “Good Lovin’.” It’s shuffled in on the iPod at Maxie’s.

I can’t get around and I can’t run away
I need a miracle every day

Yes, yes I do. Dan, the esteemed owner of Maxie’s, was a big fan of the Dead back when they were still the Grateful Dead, i.e., before Jerry died. He said that part of the reason Deadheads traveled so well and so often was because the band would make sure there was an allotment of tickets that they could disperse like a bunch of Merry Pranksters. So these were called “miracle tickets” and people would stand outside shows with signs that said “I need a miracle!” and sometimes, they would get ushered right into the show.

My friend Alice was living at home in New York in the summer of 2004 and headed off to see Phish play on Coney Island during the first half of their final tour. I called her randomly just after she had been given a “miracle ticket” of her own. After several hours, she was sitting downtrodden and with no hope on a curb, when a beautiful little hippie pixie appeared behind her and handed her a ticket. She might have even been wearing angel wings, as part of her Burning Man-ish costume.

Alice got into the show, at which Phish introduced Jay-Z. That’s right — from out of the sky, she finds herself listening to Jay-fucking-Z play with Phish. My point is, this stuff has been known to happen.

Manny Parra is pitching tonight. Last June, with Nashville in AAA, Manny Parra pitched a perfect game. I’m just saying.

* Like yesterday morning, they had Leitch on to pimp the book signing, and asked him if Old Media sportswriters viewed bloggers like Bill Simmons as Jerry Seinfeld would view Gallagher. On the radio, Leitch was like “I don’t think that’s a good analogy,” but retelling the story to us at the bar (he recalled the old-school comedian as Chris Rock and not Seinfeld) he let his “you still don’t fucking get it, do you, sports radio jock?” show. First of all, Bill Simmons is now just as bad as Rick Reilly, as explained here, etc, etc…

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