December 2008 Archives

It's a sad day for baseball when even the local, substandard version our national pastime is suffering financially. I never thought I'd live to see the words "bailout" and "minor league baseball" used in the same sentence. Leave it to the Joliet JackHammers to find a new way to break uncharted barriers. Read all about it.

I'm not going to mince words about the situation. The Hammers are in dire need of a cold, hard cash. If we want to continue participating in good old fashioned stadium fights to the backdrop of baseball, then I suggest we better get out on the street and start making ends meet for them. Because if our boys don't get their rent money to the city, well, quite frankly, they'll be sitting on the sidewalk somewhere along Jefferson Street. Better yet, they could all end up rollerblading in vacant downtown parking lots.

Sure, the city could work out some kind of secret deal behind closed doors to save the home of the JackHammers. I fear that will only delay the inevitable. My heart similarly aches for Jammer, the furry, blue mascot of the team. He (or is it she) is one of those sad mascots that is less of a fierce beast and more of the muppet offspring of Cookie Monster and Snuffleupagus. In case you were wondering, Snuffy was a hermaphrodite.

Visiting teams and their unruly fans (from Gary or Schaumburg) incessantly mock poor, friendless and deformed Jammer. They call him rude names like "Iron Butt" or "Retard Head." Once I even heard him called... a lot worse. And not to anyone's surprise, Jammer got mad. He became a powder keg of emotion. He briefly disappeared in 2007, after declining ticket sales left him feeling worthless. He went as far as to consider jumping from the top of the stadium. His attempt failed because his fat, stumpy legs couldn't climb over the guard rail.

Jammer's depression sank deeper than an abandoned car in the Des Plaines river. He became dependent on alcohol to get through every day. After most home games, he would walk over to a bar across the street in the early afternoon hours -- only to be tossed out after having spent hundreds of dollars on martinis. He would stumble back to his stadium home as an incoherent pile of blue fur saturated in vomit, cigarette butts and prophylactics.

When Jammer caught word of the team's worsening financial situation, he snapped. A decline in corporate sponsorships for the team literally left a permanent scar on Jammer. He tried cutting himself with a knife, only he somehow ended up lodging a New Year's Eve noisemaker up his nose instead. Now he is reminded of his woes every time he breathes.

After sleeping for a few nights in a pavilion near Billie Lamacher Park, a confused Jammer realized what he had to do. He vowed to save his team, his home, but most importantly, his dignity. The Jammer Solution was a citywide crime spree. And no amount of violence seemed to sway his mission.