"A true artist is known not by the art he creates, but by the art he inspires."

What a profound statement that is.  And I should know -- I just made it up.

Monkeyball's latest Dylanesque creation about a disgruntled A sent to Sacramento inspired me to pen (keyboard?) my own tale of a Rivercat whose dreams of returning to Oakland were cruelly thwarted.

Original lyrics and live performance.
 
 
"Idiot Wind" by Brad Halsey.
 
 
Someone’s got it in for me, they’re planting stories in the Chron,
Whoever it is I wish they’d cut it out quick, because I really have a sore arm,
They say I skipped an MRI and bitched about the training staff
They held me back to call me up, but Billy was just havin’ a laugh
I can’t help it, if I’m pissy.

Coaches see me all the time and they just can’t remember how I throw
They’re tellin’ me that it’s just muscle stiffness, and if I tough it out I’m goin’ to the Show.
Even you, yesterday you had to ask me if I threw slow or fast
I couldn’t believe after all these years, you don’t know my repertoire better than that,
Sweet Billy.

Idiot wind, blowing every time you make a deal
Blowing down the roads to Raley Field.
Idiot wind, blowing every time you curse and yell
You’re an idiot, babe, it’s a wonder you can even spell DL.
 
 
I ran into my agent who said beware of hangers in the zone of strike,
I haven’t known the majors for so long I can’t remember what it’s like.
There’s a lone starter on the mound, smoke pouring out of the bullpen cart
You didn’t know it, you didn’t think it could be done, with the final pitch he won all his starts,
After losing his spot in the rotation.

I woke up in Sacramento, daydreaming ‘bout the way things sometimes are,
Visions of your injured staff shoot through my head and are makin’ me see stars.
You hurt my arm, which I love best, and cover up the truth with lies.
One day you’ll be in last place, your mom and pop team chasin’ Wash’s guys
20 games under .500.

Idiot wind, blowing through your empty bleacher stands,
Blowing over drunken Raider fans.
Idiot wind, blowing every time you curse and yell
You’re an idiot, babe, it’s a wonder you can even spell DL.
 
 
It was Larry Davis who pulled me down, and overuse which broke me apart.
I tamed the slider that I threw, but it wasn’t enough for a major league start.
Now everything is a little upside down, as a matter of fact my starts have stopped.
Who’s up is down, who's down is up, you’ll find out when I shut you out
Pitching for Seattle.

I noticed on the postgame show, your corrupt ways had finally made you blind.
I can’t remember your face anymore, your mouth has changed, your eyes don’t look into mine.
The ump wore blue in the 7th inning stretch and sat stone faced while I struck guys out,
I waited for you in the locker room, near the water cooler while the Southwest plane
Left for Baltimore.

Idiot wind, blowing like an A’s cap round my skull
From Yankee Stadium to Pac Bell
Idiot wind, blowing every time you curse and yell
You’re an idiot, babe, it’s a wonder you can even spell DL
 
 
I can’t feel you any more, I can’t touch the Rivercats cap on my head
Every time I step on your mound, I been wishin’ I pitched somewhere else instead.
Down the highway, down the tracks, down the road to Kansas City
I followed you on the internet, hounded by a big league memory
And the minimum salary.

I been double crossed now for the very last time and I hope now I’m getting out of Hell,
I kissed goodbye to the howling beast that separates Oakland from the PCL.
You’ll never know the hurt I suffered, nor the pain that I pitch through
I’ll never know your frustration, that Harden can never make more than two
Starts in succession.

Idiot wind, blowing through my Majors service time,
Blowing through the contracts that we signed.
Idiot wind, blowing through whichever lineup plays
We’re idiots, babe, it’s a wonder we even know how to spell "A’s."