Lowrey Ball

Legend has it that Zeus disguised himself as Alcmene’s husband so he could bang her. She became pregnant with a bastard who would later become Hercules.

What most people don’t know is that after Zeus left Almene’s sh””thole apartment in Tigerland, he went to the Bret Michaels concert at the Texas Club and got cocked on Jägermeister and lyrics. After ten shots and a Marlboro Light, he decided to go for a walk.

On the corner of Harry and Donmoor, he heard the slutty mating call of the three-toed she-sloth. She wasn’t native to these parts, but neither was he. He climbed the tree.

Nine months later, Lowrey was born. Half god and half lazy tree animal, he’s wandered the planet for thousands of years with three words on his lips: Adult. Amateur. Baseball.

Several years ago, the head of our baseball league “placed” Lowrey on my team. When he showed up at the first practice, I went ahead and judged the book by its cover.

On the corner of Harry and Donmoor, he heard the slutty mating call of the three-toed she-sloth. She wasn’t native to these parts, but neither was he. He climbed the tree. 

I asked him how long it had been since he’d thrown, and he said that he threw all the time. I asked him who he threw with, and he said he regularly throws a baseball up against the brick wall of his apartment complex to get ready for the season. When I explained to him that people usually live on the other side of those walls, he just grinned.

I didn’t think there was any way he was good at baseball, but I was wrong. I was wrong about a lot of things.

The Perfect Body

Let me paint a picture of him for you.

He’s 75% torso, which can be a blessing and a curse. He has long monkey arms that give him the whip action necessary to throw a nasty slider or to dart from tree to tree to avoid mountain lions. The curse part is on full display when someone hits a bleeder between the mound and first base. Those tiny, worthless legs flop around like salmon as he morphs through the grass.

He’s hairy as sh””t and he glistens. He looks like he slathered himself in baby oil and slid across the floor at a pubes-only hair salon. He’s just flat-out humid. Sometimes the hair grows together into a helmet/sideburns/vest combo, leaving him looking like Wolverine from X-Men if he had no powers, energy, or muscle-building ability.

There is never a time when you can’t see his teeth. His mouth never closes completely, and it always looks like he’s grinning.

His appearance throws people off. They underestimate his complete lack of give a sh””t.

One time, a player from an opposing team approached me before a game and begged me to start Lowrey. When I told him Lowrey was, in fact, pitching, he laughed like a Viking.

Lowrey absolutely shut him and the rest of his team down. They were swinging at sliders in the dirt, yelling at the umpires, and throwing their equipment.

Lowrey just grinned. Like he has any f””king choice.

Forethought Is for Pussies

After practice one day, he tumbled over to me and said, “I got something to show you.” When I realized it wasn’t his pecker or a giant rubber band ball, I was actually pretty excited to see what it was.

He opened the back door to his car, revealing a painting of a sailboat caught in a raging storm. He had claimed it from his neighbor’s trash pile the day before. At this point, I began to wonder if there was a mild handicap at work.

I’ll be damned if he didn’t sell the painting for $300 on Craigslist. Apparently, the painting was the work of a well-known local artist. Brilliant!

He’s had 37 jobs in the five years that I’ve known him, but art dealer wasn’t one I would have expected. Come to find out, Lowrey’s a pretty good artist, as well.

His art has a cool psychedelic feel to it, and I bet the stoners love it. I keep imagining him walking around with a big cult of Lowrey groupies who see sh””t in his art that changes their lives. He would definitely wear a kimono to show off his chest hair.

When he came to my wedding, I wasn’t expecting a present from Lowrey. I’m not being negative; it would just take way too much thought and gas to get to the store.

As we opened our gifts, I began to feel intoxicated and entranced. Pink Floyd started playing in my head, and I became hungry. The spell was broken suddenly when my wife removed the stack of homemade thank-you cards featuring Lowrey’s art from my view.

How do you thank someone for giving you thank-you cards? He had created another work of art without even knowing it; a continuous loop of giving.

You see, people like Lowrey don’t come along very often. They are those rare, unintentional jesters who perform in our heads long after they are out of our lives.

He’s probably been passed up and underestimated a thousand times in his life. Every overconfident hitter he strikes out or piece of art he creates is a win for the little guy. He is brutally himself, and that’s about all you can ask of a friend. I probably never would have picked him; I’m glad I didn’t have a choice.

About Michael Atkinson

Michael Atkinson
Michael is an angry little white man, shat into the world by a sarcastic God. He collects gas, debt, and disgusting animals.

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