2018
November
February


2017
May
April
March
February
January


2016
December
November
October
September
August
July
June
May
April
March
February


Categories

All Episodes
Archives
Categories
Now displaying: Page 1
Mar 15, 2016

Producer/Engineer: Bill Pollock

Editor: Sarah Rendo

Cover: Rob Mitchell

 

A modern Odysseus, Rube Foster was a giant concoction of pitcher, manager, businessmen and visionary, all shaken up together inside a 6 foot 2 Texan frame. In 1920 Rube Foster gathered a group of businessmen to the Paseo YMCA. By the time the men left they had created the modern Negro National League.

 

Some say that Rube Foster never left that room and even though he died in 1930, he never stopped watching over the YMCA. One day someone tried to steal a car outside of the YMCA but the thief retreated when he was pelted by a cascade of ice. Some say it was a freak hailstorm. Some say it was Rube Foster chucking ice at the dude.

 

Some say that Rube Foster never left that room and that his genius is so powerful it resonates through the room in a constant current of electricity. Some say that there’s enough in Rube Foster’s room that if electricity were tiny packets of ketchup there would be enough tomater sauce to overflow a regular sized volcano.

 

Some say that Rube Foster never left that room and if you try to throw away a tiny paper cup it’s going to always land in the bottom of the waste paper basket-even if your eyes are closed.

Some say that Rube Foster never left that room and that if you go that if you go swimming at the YMCA and try to grab some toast you won’t be disappointed. Dolorous Jones wasn’t disappointed

 

Dolorous Jones stopped by the Y to grab some toast and a few laps in the pool. She had half a loaf of bread and a clean women's swimming suit. She stuck one sliver of bread in the central terminal of the public toasting area. And she waited. And she waited. And she waited. But no toast. But suddenly, all of a sudden, without warning, all of a sudden, a floating finger stuck out of the wall and pointed at the toaster and the toasting irons became orange-lava hot, heating those bread shanks from a pale white to a golden brown. When the toaster went “ding-ding-ding” the finger retreated back into the wall.

 

Dolorous Jones ate that toast and gathered her belongings, her swimsuit, her purse, her toast kit, her stick of butter and she headed for the door. As she left, she took one look at that toaster to see if it was a special kind of toaster, like maybe it’s one of those special toasters you read about in the papers. And she was right, it was a special kind of toaster - it wasn’t even plugged in.

0 Comments
Adding comments is not available at this time.