Louisville baseball is one win away from Omaha.
I’m not sweating. I should be, but I’m not. Sun’s out, full throttle, but there’s this breeze cutting through the Louisville baseball bleachers like it knows what I need. It’s weird. Everyone else looks miserable and I’m just sitting here like I paid extra for the deluxe airflow package. I think this might be the best I’ve felt all week.
And then—
No.
No way.
They’re playing Sabrina Carpenter.
I swear to God. Sabrina. F*****g. Carpenter.
It’s not even the full song—just a few bars of it before the DJ absolutely panics and slams some Jack White over the top like he’s trying to erase the evidence. Now it sounds like the speakers are throwing up. Guitars shrieking, feedback everywhere, like someone’s torturing an iPhone inside a metal trash can.
And now it’s “Green Onions.”
Jesus Christ. “Green Onions.”
We’ve officially entered MLB The Show Menu Screen energy.
What are we doing?
We’re in Louisville. This is not Peoria. This is not a Double-A team in Delaware.
This is bourbon and blood and noise country. My Morning Jacket is from here. White Reaper is down the street. Jack Harlow is probably 15 minutes away doing donuts in a parking lot somewhere. And we’re out here playing the Waffle House breakfast playlist like we’re afraid of real distortion?
The crowd doesn’t even know how to react. Nobody’s moving. Nobody’s vibing. We just exist under this dumbass sonic punishment.
This is a felony.
And I need the name of whoever is in charge of this iTunes war crime.
⸻
Forbes takes the mound.
He’s not pitching. He’s issuing subpoenas.
First one comes in at 97. I don’t even see it. I just hear the pop and feel the air shift like a god just exhaled through a straw.
The next one—same deal. It’s not baseball anymore. It’s judgment day. These aren’t pitches. They’re verdicts. Vengeance. Court orders signed in sweat and spite. Each strike is a statement: you never had a chance.
Miami looks shook. Not in a theatrical way. In a quiet way. One guy watches strike three like it’s a comet, then just turns and walks off like he’s been told his dog ran away. Doesn’t argue. Doesn’t blink. Just leaves.
They’re not trying to win—they’re trying to survive the at-bat.
The whole place is shaking. People stomping, screaming, possessed. I feel it in my chest like a subwoofer made of bourbon barrels. The crowd is freight-train loud and fully unholy and unhinged. Half clapping, half convulsing.
My kid turns to me, dead serious, and says,
“I think I could hit 95.”
He cannot.
Not even close.
He hasn’t even hit puberty.
And I nod. Because that kind of delusion? That’s baseball, baby.
⸻
Forbes gets into trouble.
Not a little trouble.
Like, uh oh trouble.
Bases are buzzing. Miami thinks they’ve got a shot.
Nope.
He gets out of it. Fastballs like hand grenades. Strikeout, groundout, roar. The crowd erupts. Feels like the concrete is bouncing. Forbes loses his mind—arms out, screaming like Thor just chugged two Bangs and threw a hammer through a cop car. My sternum actually shakes. Might’ve cracked. Might be permanent.
And then.
It happens.
First pitch of the next half inning—Garret Pike gets all of one. All of it. Like he owed the ball money. It’s gone before I even realize he swung. Left field. Scorched. Probably took a few atoms with it on the way out.
Next pitch—Jake Munroe.
And he murders it.
Not politely. Not professionally. He swings like the ball insulted his mother. It’s a no-doubt, first-swing felony—just a full-body exorcism disguised as a home run. You could feel it off the bat. One of those line drives that doesn’t climb, it hunts. It’s not going to Indiana, but it damn sure isn’t sticking around long enough for anyone to catch their breath.
His first of the day. No one knows that yet. But it hums off the bat like a warning. The pitcher barely turns. The crowd short-circuits.
Back-to-back bombs.
Two pitches, two explosions.
Pike opened the gate, and Munroe kicked it off the hinges.
The place detonates. I don’t even know what inning we’re in. There’s beer in the air. Someone three rows behind me is just yelling vowels. I feel someone’s drink splash down my calf. I don’t even care. I think it made me stronger.
⸻
Munroe again.
He swings.
And it’s gone. Not “gone” like home run gone.
Gone like disappeared.
Gone like “check the weather radar” gone.
Gone like the ball just quit baseball.
No one even pretends to track it. It’s not majestic—it’s ballistic. The kind of contact that makes you instinctively say “oh shit” before you even realize you’re standing. The kind of sound that gets written into affidavits.
I swear to god that thing cleared left field, cleared the fencing, cleared the berm, and went over the road. If it doesn’t land in New Albany, it definitely waved at it on the way past. You hit a ball to another state and I think you get a discount on your next oil change.
The place detonates. People just start screaming sounds. No words. Just vowels and disbelief. I feel beer hit my shoulder. Someone dropped a hot dog and didn’t even look down. A dad behind me said, “He’s not real,” and I believed him.
Jake Munroe didn’t just hit a homer.
He evicted a baseball from Kentucky.
That thing might still be moving.
And honestly?
I hope it never stops.
They go to the bullpen. And as the pitcher jogs in, it happens. The lowest moment of the night.
“FIRE BURNING” by SEAN KINGSTON.
In a Super Regional. In a stadium packed with bloodthirsty fans. The vibe dies so fast you can hear it crash. This isn’t a song. It’s a war crime. It’s what plays during bad decisions and cheaper vodka.
This is Louisville. We are built from dive bars and vinyl stacks and half-drunk guitar solos. Play My Morning Jacket. Play Jack Harlow. Hell, play White Reaper with the amp on fire. Don’t give me something I heard during a middle school glow dance.
The DJ should be fired. Then rehired. Then fired again harder.
⸻
I look past the left field fence and—there they are. The Unauthorized Luxury Suite.
Twelve of them. Maybe more. Hard to get a headcount with all the shirtlessness and chaos. They’re stacked like human Jenga—folding chairs on top of coolers, one guy half-sitting, half-sliding off the edge of a dorm room mini-fridge. Somebody’s definitely standing on a Yeti, arms spread wide, shouting “MOON SHOT ME, KING!” into the Louisville sky like he’s challenging the sun to a duel. He’s got a towel around his shoulders like a cape. Might be a toga. Could be a flag. Hard to tell from here, but the energy is historic.
And then I see it.
The dog.
Dead center. Front row. Curled up on a dog bed like he’s watching his team play. Not excited. Not nervous. Just… overseeing. Like he’s been here before. Like he holds season tickets and a vendetta. This dog has emotional baggage. Probably drives a Buick and drinks coffee black. Might have a court date coming up. You can feel the backstory.
They’ve got beers. They’ve got binoculars. I think one guy is wearing a batting helmet just in case.
These guys aren’t just watching the game—they’re daring it to get better.
Rooftop legends. No press passes. No tickets. Just elevated chaos and poor life choices.
And I respect the hell out of it.
⸻
Foul ball—third base side. It’s way up there with the helicopters and airplanes.
I lose it in the gray sky. Everyone loses it. Except him.
He rises—slow. Calm. Like he knew the ball was coming and wanted it to earn his attention.
And this man…
He’s not dressed like DiCaprio in Django Unchained—no cravat, no blood-red suit, no monologue about skull dimples. But he is him.
The hair. The smug serenity. The smirk that suggests he’s either about to deliver a TED Talk or burn your plantation to the goddamn ground. He’s got that Southern aristocrat gone full Bond villain aura. Slightly heavier than Leo, sure, but the vibe? Unmistakable.
And then—
snatch
One-handed grab. Casual. Effortless. Like the ball belonged to him in a past life.
He doesn’t smile. He doesn’t flinch. He just… bows.
Not a little head nod. A full-body, 19th-century, your move, Monsieur Candie kind of bow. Like he’s accepting an Oscar and daring you to say otherwise.
I audibly gasp.
A kid behind me whispers “whoa.”
Someone claps once—just once. That’s all it needed.
It was divine.
It was disgusting.
It was art.
Calvin Candie lives. And he’s got seats down the third base line.
⸻
The woman with the pretzel. She emerges from the aisle like a Roman empress with snacks. Giant salted monstrosity in one hand, full beer in the other. Stops in front of the kid behind me.
“Can you hold this?”
He grins: “Don’t mind if I do.”
She offers him a sip. Squints. Studies him.
“You look too young.”
He answers, smooth as Tennessee whiskey: “I’m 25.”
His dad, without looking up from his beer:
“No he’s fucking not.”
I aged ten years and laughed off five.
⸻
The duck call. Oh God, the duck call.
Somewhere in the crowd, every other inning or so—QUACK. No irony. No context. Just raw, one single quack.. Either a spiritual ritual or Gordon Bombay was in the crowd. We’ll never know.
⸻
Eddie King Jr. hits a foul ball that slams into a house.
A house. Like with a mailbox and property tax. The type of place where someone just sat down to watch Wheel of Fortune and suddenly got a 108-mph reminder that Louisville baseball means business.
⸻
Dan makes the walk. Forbes is done. Sixth inning. Not the seventh.
But Forbes doesn’t wait. He meets his replacement halfway between first and second base. Hands him the ball. Walks off like a myth fading into the mist.
The ovation? Deafening. Biblical. My ears are still ringing.
The sky, by the way? Starting to turn. Gray. Wet. Angry.
I don’t know who replaced him. He was definitely from God’s country. Or at least Prospect.
⸻
People begin to leave. Lightweights. Casual fans. People who get up early for brunch.
We find two open seats. Claim them like squatters with a death wish.
Matt Klein lines out on a screamer.
Then the heavens open.
Weather delay.
Game suspended.
Louisville 8, Miami 1.
⸻
We flee south of the river. Into the meat-drenched sanctuary of Texas Roadhouse. We want steaks.
My son, still talking about how he could hit 90+.
He cannot.
He never will.
But I let him believe it anyway.
Because on a night like this, everyone believes something stupid.
⸻
Final Thoughts from the Vortex:
• Forbes didn’t pitch. He delivered judgment.
• Munroe destroyed gravity.
• That dog saw everything and barked zero times.
• The DiCaprio lookalike is now my religion.
• And whoever controlled the music should be forced to explain themselves in front of a panel of retired Motown musicians and Rick Pitino.
Some games end in celebration.
Some end in rain.
This one?
This one ends as a spiritual event ruined only by a playlist from hell.
And somewhere, just off Eastern Parkway, that dog still lies in his rooftop bed…
Waiting for the next pitch.
…
