“You may ask yourself, ‘Well, how did I get here?’” – The Talking Heads
Last night, at about 7:30 PM Pacific Time, a woman at Las Vegas’ McCarran International Airport looked at me and said “Hashbrown Casserole,” with a nod.
I was briefly bewildered, until I remembered I was wearing the Cracker Barrel t-shirt I bought last May on my way home from the Indy 500, a purchase that prompted the cashier to comment, with scorn, that I was not buying a shirt to support the troops, despite it being Memorial Day.
Flights to and from Las Vegas are always different, but they’re more jarring when Las Vegas is neither origin nor destination. When it’s simply the spot of the layover, the greasy man berating a flight attendant for not letting him carry on three bags (it was Southwest, man—you can check two for free), the couple across the aisle with a Fendi shopping bag, and the middle-aged woman stumbling as she puts her suitcase into the overhead compartment catch a traveler more off-guard.
But to be fair, I was no more conventional than the rest of them. In fact, I was probably less conventional, as I was flying from Texas to Southern California for the purpose of attending the Bobblehead Night of a man with a 7.59 ERA.
I’m hesitant to call myself Joe Kelly’s biggest fan. He has a family, after all, and friends, and that one person running the team.joekelly Instagram account. I’m certainly in the top echelon of his fans, but there are many, I’m sure, who eclipse my devotion.
I do believe, though, based on my research, that The Barking Crow is the world’s most significant Joe Kelly Blog, and I know that this is my doing, because my friend Joe Stunardi refuses to write more than one piece a year about Joe Kelly’s Cy Young chances.
I would also guess that I’m the only person who flew 1,287 miles for the sole purpose of supporting Joe Kelly at his bobblehead night, and the only person who had a shirt custom-made for the occasion with the words “Joe Kelly” on it in something loosely resembling the Dodgers’ font.
To be honest, my cousin is largely to thank for this. A resident of Burbank, he texted me two months ago to let me know Joe Kelly Bobblehead Night was June 13th. He offered to house me. He offered to go to the game, bringing along his two sons—the next generation of Joe Kelly support. It was quite generous of him, because were I a father, and a responsible one at that, I’m not sure I would want my children exposed to a distant relative in a bucket hat who’s willing to fly halfway across the country for a figurine. And while a flight to California for a bobblehead isn’t the most financially responsible decision for a 24-year-old making most of his money as a rideshare driver, here I am. “Gather ye roses” and whatnot.
But enough about me.
As I wrote on Tuesday, Joe Kelly is struggling a bit, though he’s gone through this sort of thing before, and he emerged from that prior funk an otherworldly pitcher, leading his team through muck and mire to the most meaningful World Series title in that franchise’s history (they mean the most when Joe Kelly’s on the roster). Given the Universe’s penchant for resurrecting Joe Kelly’s performance, and given that Joe Kelly’s advanced metrics (FIP, specifically, which is more predictive of future ERA than ERA is) point in a positive direction, it’s reasonable to hold out hope that Joe Kelly turns things around. And given that his last outing was particularly messy, tonight appears a candi-date to be looked back upon as the turning point.
We inhabit an exciting time.
This isn’t to say that my presence will cause a resurgence, or that the presence of 40,000 miniature replicas of an oddly proportioned Joe Kelly will cause the resurgence. The only ones responsible for Joe Kelly are Joe Kelly and the fates. Myself and the veritable army of replica Joe Kelly’s are simply along for the ride. Yet one can’t help but feel the fates aligning. There’s a certain buzz in the air: the energy like that before lightning strikes. A storm is coming. A blitz. A barrage, not of rain, or of physical electricity, but of 99 mile-per-hour fastballs, hummingbirds of offspeed pitches, and metaphorical electricity.
Joe Kelly Bobblehead Night is upon us. A night of reckoning for the haters. A night of hope for the faithful.
Gather ye roses.
