Jesus. Nazareth Polytechnic. RF. 5 ft. 1 in. 115 lbs. 0-1 KThe Biscuits were down, 4-1, in the bottom of the ninth. Up to the plate walked Michael Wilson, Biscuits home run king, Southern League all-star, and player of the month. As Wilson calmly strode toward the batter's box, he was struck in the temple by a wayward seagull, rendering him unconscious.
“We thought it was all over then,” said Jasper Naylor, longtime Biscuits season ticket holder. “We had nobody left on the bench but pitchers and not one of those sorry sons a bitches had a shot of hitting the winning homer. Honestly, a sea bird in Alabama? What kind of luck is that? Then suddenly, this light came from above, and a bearded man in a robe descended from the clouds. At first we just thought that skinny traffic guy from Action News 14 fell out of the Action News-Copter. Or maybe a poorly timed promotion, like that time a few years back when they handed out Michael J. Fox “Back to the Future” bobbleheads the day before he announced he had Parkinson’s. But as the man came down we all realized who he was and what was happening. It was Jesus and we felt we were back in that ballgame.”
Indeed it was the Son of God, returned to Earth. As he landed in the on-deck circle, he appeared to open his mouth to speak to the crowd, but almost immediately Jesus was outfitted with a helmet and bat before The Redeemer was shoved towards the batter’s box without a word.
Then it came: fastball, curve ball, fastball. Three pitches, three wild swings by the Lord, the third out, and the Southern League title for the rival Carolina Mudcats.
“He didn’t look like He knew what the fuck He was doing, quite frankly” said Boyd Harper, spectator and amateur theologian. “That last fastball barely broke 85 and that bastard was out in front of it, flailing like a spastic. How in His name could He be so Goddamn incompetent on an 0-2 fastball? It was right over the plate. It looked like he had never played the game before in his life!”
As the Mudcats stormed the field to celebrate, an exasperated Jesus was interviewed by Don "Catfish" Winker, color man for the Biscuits broadcast network. “Why did they put me up there? I’m a two thousand year old Jewish carpenter. The fuck do I know about sports? This was my return to Earth, the Rapture is starting and before I can make the announcement and start the Ascension, I get a piece of maple and a ton of expectations heaped on me and I’m told to go hit a home run. I’ve never held a bat before in my life and know I’ve got to go face down some 19 year-old who’s hurling cowhide at me at, frankly, frightening speeds. Jesus, I’m a fucking spiritual leader and philosopher, not Johnny Fucking Unitas!”
When Winker pointed out to our Savior that Unitas played football and not baseball, a clearly confused Lord just threw up his hands and yelled, “Whatever.”
“How could You have struck out?” yelled Bobby Adams, age 8, to the Lord. “You died and came back to life, healed lepers, gave us a belief system, and redeemed mankind, how come You can’t drive one into the gap? Isn’t hand-eye coordination a little easier than rising from the dead?”
“What about being the Lord makes you assume I’m good at sports, you little shit?” Jesus fired back. “I’m 5’1”, that’s above average height for a first century man, but it means I’d get the shit kicked out of me if a played football, and sure as shit means I can’t tomahawk dunk. I can preach the way of God and save mankind, but that doesn’t translate into bone density and foot speed you FUCKING IGNORANT CRETINS!”
As the frustrated crowd quickly turned angry as shouts of “Judas!” and “You cost us the three-peat” rang through the air. The more inebriated members of the crowd starting throwing soft pretzels, plastic beer bottles, and the Biscuits signature concession item: buttermilk biscuits covered in light or dark syrup.
As an increasingly sticky and biscuited Lord staggered around looking for shelter he yelled “I’m about spiritual enlightenment, not socking ‘dingers’!!” before a bolt of lightning hit the pitchers mound and the crowd was silenced.
“I returned to you to unite us all before the end times and lead you in the battle against Satan's armies, and this is how you treat Me? Fuck you assholes, the Rapture’s off. No one gets into Heaven for free, you all have to fight. Eke out your meaningless existence on this dying planet, for all I care. You won’t have Me to kick around. The Devil is going to run roughshod over your asses and I'm just going to lock the pearly gates and laugh. It's purgatory with the dead unbaptized infants and all Puerto Ricans for you! Maybe Buddha or Shiva or someone will help you, but you’ll probably bitch because they can’t run proper pass routes or shoot the open J. Tossers!” The Son of God then made a rude gesture whose description is unfit for print before ascending back to Heaven.
As the furious crowd fruitlessly tossed objects at the sky, one patron sarcastically remarked “Oh sure he’s got floaty powers and lightning, but somehow he shits the bed when he sees a curveball. Fuckin’ primadonna.”
Most of the crowd filed out the exits, disappointed over the loss but excited for the upcoming apocalyptic battle of Armageddon. They seemed buoyed by the fact that Jesus wouldn't be involved, many seeing a correlation between his stat line (0-1, K) and his tactical command abilities. One man said he had Ganesha's phone number. Some along the third baseline downed two lampposts and fashioned a crude metal crucifix in case the Lord returned.
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