Now I Can Die In Pieces

Sometimes I begin these posts with a fitting line from a hardcore song. Today's post, however, begins with the name of one of these crews, so aptly named:

His Hero Died Today

That's right. Your worst fears and mine are now the dreaded, bitter, bitter reality.

Papi, Mighty Papi got pinched.

And motherfucker does this one ever hurt.

And as the baseball gods have such an incredibly cruel and twisted way to inflict their wrath on mere mortals when they want to, today they lined the Skip and I up in their sites and began to stock up on quiver after quiver of lightning bolts.

Let me elaborate. As it should happen mon frère and I were just about to embark on a multi-errand mission down St. Laurent. Just before we departed, I happened to punch up the ESPN, to see if there was any unfortunate late breaking news surrounding Roy.

What I found was more worse than unfortunate than you could possibly get at this point.

As the news was breaking, the top sideline headline read something to the effect of "Lawyer tell NY Post that Papi/Manny tested positive in 03."

No. Impossible. Forget it. I pretty much tuned in as it hit the site, as the main page hadn't shifted yet, and the story only had a few sentences basically reiterating the by-line.

Maybe there would be hope. Maybe it would turn out to be an unfounded claim. A crank, a plant, a fabrication. Just maybe.

We left and tried to shake off the news and got to work along the rue that we have got so much work done on, many times in the past. A successful trip to the butcher, a promising order at another one, a scheduled pre-wedding at the salon for Skip and myself.

And hey, look where we ended up. Le Pistol. The bar that so graciously appeared in 03 and eventually became the tavern for our post season hi-jinx that year. Even though it "wasn't a sports bar." Yet. And in the following year housed one of the most insane post season watching stints ever to host post season viewing. We watched the Sox come back from 3-1 in the ALCS for the ages there. We witnessed the 14 inning Papi walkoffs. For two straight nights. We saw the impossible as Curt pitched the bloody sock game. We went wild as the bearded Jesus Johnny Damon drove the final nail in the pinstriped coffin in Game 7.

Our roster at the time was also formidable. Dice C was in our company and was just rediscovering The Game. Gagne, then a student at McGill, was in true form saying very accurate and appropriate Gagne things at very appropriate and accurate Gagne times. There were a couple of gals from Boston who rooted along side us, as well as a very jovial Australian lad, who had just picked an incredibly great time to learn about The Game.

Every night we congregated at Le Pistol, (and eventually were ushered into a private back room which was officially "reserved for baseball.") and every night we cheered like our lives depended on it, as the Red Sox playoff lives and hopes for that elusive World Series in fact did. And every night they delivered in the most dramatic of fashions. And every night everyone just lost their minds and left incredibly drunk, incredibly happy and with shredded vocal cords.

It was The House That The Skip And I Built.

So we stopped in to scope out the scenario and have a chat with the owner, Andre (a huge Red Sox fan as well) who during those days was very gracious in facilitating our rowdiness in this non-sports bar enviro, to possibly arrange a pre wedding get together. And the piece of news he gave us, the second stunner of the day, was that Le Pistol would be shutting its doors for good on Saturday.

Incredible.

One of the baseball gods must have put down an empty quiver at that point.

After expressing complete shock and utter dismay and reminiscing on the days of Octobers past, we exited and continued on our errand running.

Went to finalize details with the wedding planner, and found ourselves in Old Montreal.

The last time I was in this neighbourhood was in '03 and drunkenly shaved my head with a Bick razor in solidarity with the Cowboy Up Red Sox team of the same season who would eventually set the table for the Idiots Of 04.

It was a time to revisit. We strolled past Notre Dame Basilica. Ducked into some winding rues. Viewed the St. Lawrence from the docks. It was as we were making our way back that I inquired about the legitimacy of the Papi claim. Still hoping it would be proven to be evil, vicious, nasty hearsay and malarky.

But no. The Skip did in fact confirm that it wasn't. That there was a full spread on the ESPN front page. Even Gammons had chimed in already.

There was no hope. Paps was done.

And so was our run with him. Literally. It was the end of an era. The end of a legend. It was pretty much the complete antithesis to the term, "good for baseball."

Much later in that night, the Skip and I decided that we had to go for one last drink and send the place off before it sank into St. Laurent lore. We entered and were greeted by a fine fellow from the Island no less, who commiserated with us, and brought us our final order of a Pistol Lager for the Skip and a Rousse for myself and a meat and cheese plate to share.

We reminisced on the many, many good times that the place gave us, ruminated on the Papi situation, and we gave the place its due. As much as you want to find positives, despite the harshest and bitter circumstances, sometimes you just can't. Sometimes you just have to sip your pint and tip your hat. And that's what we did.

"All great dynasties have to come to an end," I said.

To which the Skip replied the only sentiment that one could give at that time,

"Yup."

We thanked our host, and asked him to pass along our deepest appreciation to the rest of the staff for providing such a superb run. The Skip and I both took off our hats in respect and walked out the door.

...

....

Only to be greeted by a local lad wearing a Red Sox hat. Of which I commended him on. And to which he responded, "I like the Blue Jays as well," as he saw the "T" on my lid. And also went on to tell us of his tale of the baseball stars aligning at the right time, as his Mom had woken him up minutes before Joe Carter hit his jack. And to this day, he said, he still thanks his mom for bringing him to consciousness to see it.

If a collective consciousness surrounding The Game ever had a focal point, Le Pistol was definitely the Stonehenge.

And this lad's final words to us? As we were about to saunter down St. Laurent?

"Maybe I'll see you guys one day at The Expos."

Wow. Even when the game takes away so much it hurts, it still leaves the door open, just to make sure you come back through the turnstiles.

Le Pistol. RIP 2003 -2009. Long Live Les Good Times.

Let's see what the next chapter has to offer.