August 11, 1979 - Saturday (on Friday night)

I was a classic example of fucked up last night. It started about 6:30 when I went down to the Atlantic-everyone was supposed to be there, it was Pitts' birthday and we were sort of going to have a celebration. When I got there, just Sandy, Jay, and John DeCunha were there. In a little bit, Dave and Ilda got there, and I started in, about 7:00, and I didn't stop until 9:00. I was totally shitfaced, just gone. I think I even stepped on Brenda's foot on the way out. In short, I made a fool out of myself.
I don't even remember driving from the Atlantic to the ballpark, that's how bad I was. I was at least twice as bad last night as I was Monday night.
Somebody could have punched me out last night, and I wouldn't have remembered it. I changed into my uniform in the bathroom when I got there. I went back to the car, threw my clothes in the front seat, and went in the back to get my gloves. I was searching through the back when John and Dino came running over. John was a little drunk, but Dino wasn't because he had already gotten thrown out of the Atlantic. Maybe I should have been. I found my batting glove and put on my cleats, but I couldn't find my baseball glove. John and Dino went all through my car, but they couldn't find it either. I found it under the front seat. I sat over on the bleachers and vaguely remember Eva talking to me, something about my haircut, but that's all I remember. I must have sat there for an hour in a trance.
I was noticeably bombed for the game, and everybody knew it. In bp before the game, I couldn't catch a thing. Ground balls got by me, fly balls dropped, and I couldn't throw it straight.
Thank God I was extra batter. Jay was so bad, Jack took him out after one inning and put in Chris. The first time up, I made contact somehow and hit a ground ball somewhere in the infield. The second time up, I struck out swinging. Then Jack offered to put himself in for me. Later he found he couldn't do it, and I had to stay in. With two outs in the seventh, and two on, I ended the game with a wild cut.
I wouldn't talk to anyone after the game. I apologized to Eric, who had also struck out, but looking. He said it was OK. The only one who didn't understand was Marty, who always has something bad to say anyway. I couldn't stand myself after, so I came home, changed, and went back to the Atlantic to talk to somebody.
I apologized to Jack right off. He seemed to understand, too. Then I had a good long talk with Dave. Denise kept looking over at me and waved once, but she was the last thing from my mind last night.
I told Pitts that I shouldn't have been playing last night. He said, hey, he could play drunk, and I experimented, and found that I couldn't. He said it was his fault because he was pouring them. Then I told him I blew the game. He told me that I wasn't the only one. When you play a team sport, you take it as a team loss or a team victory, and no one person is to blame. Everybody had something to drink last night, and I was the one that couldn't perform with it. He told me that I get my key base hits and singles in games, and I couldn't get them tonight, so I'll get them next time. It isn't the end of my career. I shook his hand, and said "Happy birthday, Pitts." Now there's a friend. I got up to leave. He wanted me to stay, but I told him I had to go home and think things over. I almost stepped on Brenda's foot again on the way out. She won't talk to me anymore. I went home and went to bed.

Wow, I guess there really was a different approach to bar drinking back in those days. In these socially conscious times, any bartender would shut you off if you were so trashed you couldn't even walk straight. Again, I wonder why, if I was THAT drunk, anyone would have let me drive.