Thread by @OldHossRadbourn

Day one of quarantine. I have struck out each one of my children fifteen times. They have no fortitude. And they eat too much.

Day two. I have killed the dairy cow for steaks. But now the children want milk.

Day two continued. I have 400 pounds of beef and, due to an unfortunate planning error, no salt to preserve it. I should not have slaughtered my cow. Old habits die hard. My horrible spawn are already complaining about “steak again.” This is not going well.

Day three. It turns out mouths stuffed full of Hamburg steak cannot loudly complain. The Radbourn residence is unusually quiet. I am down 200 lbs of beef, however, a provisioning dilemma I did not anticipate.

Day three continued. A large crowd of flies has gathered around my barrel of beef. They have also swarmed my son Timothy, who is himself covered in a sort of reddish paste made of his own saliva and the aforementioned beef. I have never wanted to play base ball more.

Day three, post scriptum. I am thinking of starting a podcast.

Day four. These sluggardly children have been indolent for too long. Time to hit the books. I have three pencils, two pieces of foolscap, half of Xenophon’s Anabasis, and a witty bon mot about Newton. Excelsior.

Day four continued. It is not going well.

Amelia has cut up my old Grays uniform to make clothing for her favorite doll. Besides, she told me, I don’t fit into it anymore anyway. Charles Jr. has given me a paper to grade. “Denton True Young, the Greatest of Pitchers.” I have cut his hardtack ration in half.

I see Jedidiah drank my bottle of brandy. Again.

Day five. I am bringing the urchins out to the yard to get fresh air in the cheery sunshine. To my great delight they have asked to play base ball. They do not know it is HBP day. But they will.

Day five continued. I guess I am getting rusty. Bertram took a pitch on the arm, laughed, and said he understood why I’m a “Veterans Committee HoFer.” Amelia 2 hit my best pitch over the fence then stopped at third, declaring that her sister would drive her in for sure.

Day six. It has been a time of contemplation and woe. I have noticed many parents seem to feel teachers are underpaid. But I disagree. Perhaps if teachers had done a better job my horrible brood would not be the monsters they are.

Day six continued. A small horse has arrived unannounced in the yard. Thad has asked if we might keep it. I see no reason why not.

Day seven. No I will not participate in the “Celebrities of Providence Athletics” sing-along viral video sensation.

Day seven continued. A sudden surfeit of glue has led to a rather productive day of arts and crafts. 310 quite fancy Ws festoon the walls of the Radbourn manse.

Day seven, post scriptum. Tonight’s bedtime reading was a success. Not a peep heard in the house.

Day eight. This shit sucks.

Day eight continued. It strikes me that I do not know how many children I have.

Day nine. The President has indicated that an olfacineous reduction of tinctured carborundum will cure this ailment. I have just consumed my entire supply.

Day unknown. Hour unknown. I have lost the use of one leg. My mouth is covered in foam and my tongue is the color of cinchona bark. I do not know where I am. I shouldn’t have taken that medicine. I have dreamt things that cannot be unseen.

I dreamt that Gustavus Adolphus was at tiffin with Max Weber. A hazy white mountain loomed. The king held a cube of sugar between his teeth and sipped tea around it. Weber, laughing, noted the ultimate Protestant spirit was to die in the service of labor. I know, the king said.

In the corner the Earl of Cardigan spun thread, purple and gold, muttering about Balaclava and that ass Raglan. Tennyson stood on hand, mourning the loss and composing an ode to his now-burgeoning coffers.

Day thirteen. The brands are at it again.

Day thirteen continued. Fed the sourdough starter.

Day fourteen. At least I have Opening Day today to cheer my lonely heart.

Oh fuck.

Day fourteen continued. It turns out I have enough children to field two teams. Opening Day is here.

We’ve had our first bench-clearing brawl. Amelia 3 has knocked out four of her brothers. I love this game.

Which one of my children had the better game?

A) my son whose name I don’t recall
B) my daughter Lilibet

Final line score: 32 R, 18 H, 34 HBP, 19 E, 12 broken bones, 1 case of the grippe, many drams of whisky consumed by a proud papa

W - Radbourn (1)
L - Radbourn (1)*

* I think this one is one of mine

Day fifteen. After playing yesterday’s contests under “unfair labor conditions” my children are unionizing. What the hell is happening

I have already gotten the older children to negotiate away protections for the younger children. In return I gave them four pieces of candy. This is going quite well.

Day fifteen, post scriptum. I disagree.

Day seventeen. Reading a very good book.

Day nineteen. Played a game with one of the children. Pete and Repeat were sitting in a boat. Pete fell out. Who was left?

Repeat! the urchin yelled.

Pete and Repeat were sitting in a boat. Pete fell out. It’s been 8 hours and he does not learn. At least it passes the time.

Day nineteen post scriptum. This month has been a disaster and I shall not miss it.

Day twenty. Jayson Stark made me sad.

https://twitter.com/jaysonst/status/1245338033806868481

Day twenty continued. Supplies are running low. I must speak to the quartermaster about this. I am the quartermaster.

I enjoy drinking rye from a distillery named after my old rival Denton.

Day twenty-one. I don’t understand.

Day twenty-one continued. Seems like a good time to learn the fine art of craft beer making.

What the god damn hell. I want beer now, not in a fortnight

Day twenty-two. Henrietta has asked to play a board game. God help me. We are going to play some map identification game called Risk.

I see this is a strategy game. I have acquired both halves of the United States and am ready to dominate the globe. Wilhelmina, meanwhile, has decided to make a gambit for Australia and its surrounds. Bleh. I see I need to focus on global history during our home school sessions.

This is not a strategy game. This is a fantasy. There is no way this Australian horde could overrun the earth in such a fashion.

Wilhelmina, or “Grand Hegemon of the Southern Isle and Conqueror of the Outlying Territories,” as she insists she be called, is mocking me. Two armies per turn, daddy. Two armies per turn did this.

Day twenty-two. The suet drop is here.

Dear lord, it is in fact day twenty-three. Land alive.

Day twenty-three, post scriptum. Really wish I hadn’t sent that late night telegram to the former Mrs. Radbourn.

Day twenty-four. “Do you want to play Monopoly, daddy?” Do I want to play Monopoly. Did I not watch the grandees of the beef industry grind workers like my father into scraps? Did I not see the lairds of base ball squeeze every drop of life from my arm? Oh, I’ve played Monopoly.

Oooh, Park Place.

Day twenty-four continued. My horrendous neighbors, the Plinkertons, are back at it again.

That’s a lot of mouths to feed, Radbourn, Mrs. Plinkerton bellows. How many of them are yours? The outrage. Like the great daughter of Augustus, the former Mrs. Radbourn only took on new passengers when the ship’s hold was already full, as Mr. Plinkerton damn well knows.

Day twenty-four, post scriptum. Just tucked in the eldest, Amelia 2 and Nathaniel. They have vowed revenge against the hated Plinkertons. Wrath and havoc arrive on the morrow.

Day twenty-five. Nathaniel has asked to borrow my axe.

Day twenty-five continued. The collection of books by Mitch Albom and Nicholas Sparks and heaping pile of wood means Nathaniel has acquired by force the Pilkington’s Free Little Library. I am loath to damage hallowed institutions of higher learning, but war is hell.

Day twenty-six. Their reprisal was swift and ferocious. I have lost too must blood to write more. But we shall prevail.

Day twenty-six, post scriptum. My skin is pale; the foul Mr. Plinkerington’s dirk struck true. I see things beyond mortal ken now. The heretic Arius stands on porphyry, whispering that a vessel’s maker is not of the same substance as his creation. Constantine looks on, confused.

Day twenty-seven. Had a fever dream that my old bat boy Joe from Scranton was somehow still involved in politics. What wretched poison did those fiends coat that blade with

Day twenty-nine. My children have taken tremendous liberties during my period of convalescence. My bed has been moved to the yard. We are missing several walls. Someone has apparently constructed a trebuchet, and used it to rain suet down on the neighbors.

Day twenty-nine, post scriptum. The children are asleep; time to retire to a cheroot, brandy, and the only good film ever made.

Day thirty. I did not have all these children so I could spend time with them.

Day thirty-three. Twelve hundred dollars arrived today. I am officially part of the landed gentry.

Day thirty-three continued. I have spent the money.

Day thirty-three, post scriptum. It appears young Bertram’s fondness for my autograph is not filial devotion. No. Apparently it was to learn to forge my signature. I own a 32.5% share of the Providence Distilling Co., and they were eager to collect on my fresh influx of capital.

Day thirty-four. I am entirely ok with a few base ball players growing ill or dying if it means my boredom might be alleviated for a few moments. Play ball!

Day thirty-four, post scriptum. Having a Sazerac and playing a game or two of Old Hoss 1K884 base ball. Feel free to join in. Cheers.

hoss1k884.drewbenn.com/cgi-bin/hoss1k…

Hell yeah.

Day thirty-five. Dear god. It is Georgie’s birthday. I have purchased no presents. The stores are closed.

This is not good.

The boy likes eggs. I have eggs. And eggs look like that monster Caillou. They are basically toys. This will be great.

Day thirty-five continued. Brian Dennehy died. This sucks. He was great.

Day thirty-five, post scriptum. Enjoying a film.

Day thirty-six. Finally, some good parenting advice that will help me keep my horrid brood in check.

Day thirty-seven. Thirty-seven days at home. 3. 7. But at least I’m not dead. Well, actually I am dead, but you get the point.

Day thirty-seven continued. Someone has apparently been using the family water barrel as a latrine, despite the whimsical sign reading “this is the family hogshead. Note there is no p in it. Please keep it that way” I placed on it after the last incident.

Day thirty-nine. Supplies are running quite low. Fortunately, pre-quarantine I acquired several large containers of oil. I shall trade some of this liquid gold for valuable foodstuffs and other sundries.

Day thirty-nine continued. I have traded three of my barrels of oil for two barrels of oil. Truly, modern economics is a marvel.

Day forty. I see the scribes are spinning their false tales. As it ever was.

Day forty-one. And now to cancel this subscription to The Athletic.

Day forty-two. I’m trying, Doug. I’m trying.

Day forty-two continued. Just purchased a refrigerator full of tannerite. I plan on shooting it.

God dammit

Day forty-two continued. It is good to have foot ball back because I have not had enough things to hate of late.

Day forty-seven. Bartholomew, Amelia 2, and Cuthbert have asked to play a board game.

Day forty-seven continued. Norbert asked me to read him this book. I told him any bastard rich enough to afford more than one crayon could go right to hell. He is now in his room coloring a blue dog with a blue collar against a blue sky. It’s just a god damn blue sheet of paper.

You’ll color the sun and you will like it, you whiny yellow crayon.

Day forty-seven post scriptum. I want to debate the merits of bunting and the lack of merits of the designated hitter with you all and then buy you a giant damn beer.

Day forty-eight. The expensive car man says we need to work again, I tell the children as I bundle them up in their work rags and send them off to the factory.

Day forty-nine. It is haircut day. My brood’s coifs have grown unruly. Time to sharpen the blades.

Day fifty. Daddy, let’s watch the best Star Wars movie of the past ten years, the urchins ask. I acquiesce.

Day fifty-one. I fear the darkest hour has arrived. I have been debating instagramming photographs of the food I am cooking.

Alas. It appears spotted dick was a poor first choice. My account has been suspended.

Day fifty-three. Star Wars day. Time to make popcorn, sit the young ones down, and teach them that most important lesson: the basis for their adult happiness will depend on nostalgia for a toy franchise, and they better goddamn pass that love on to their kids.

Day fifty-three, update: THE METAL MOON JUST BLEW UP A GOD DAMN PLANET THIS IS SOME CRAZY SHIT

Day fifty-four. Early morning base ball with cheeky bat flips from another continent. Thank god.

Day fifty-five. Setting up my background for my zoom meeting.

Day fifty-six. A charming family of mottled green turtles has made a home near the lee strut of the front porch.

Day fifty-seven. Apparently it is Enoch’s birthday. I asked him what he would like for a present. “I want my birthday tweet to get 50,000 likes, Papa.” This is a stupid idea. This child has no concept of value. He will get nothing.

Day fifty-seven continued. Supplies are low. Ate a strange mushroom out by the creek.

https://twitter.com/OldHossHerzog/status/1258895159909122048

Day fifty-seven continued. Showing the urchins the film “Tombstone.” This is not a great fill but Val Kilmer is so damn good.

Fill, film, whatever.

Day fifty-nine. Mother’s Day. Not a great holiday in the Radbourn household.

Pro: I did not need to buy some two-score-plus bouquets of flowers and pretend the children had acquired them.

Con: I am outnumbered and alone while yet another Mrs Radbourn has fled to greener pastures.

Reading this god damn book again on this cursed day.

Day sixty-two. A tragic day. Reports indicate my beloved National League will adopt the DH. Atque ubi solitudinem faciunt pacem appellant.

Day sixty-four. Turtle soup was well received.

Day sixty-four continued. Was preparing a family scrap-book and came across this image of a Radbourn baby gender reveal party. We lost some good people that day.

Day sixty-five. There is a Teutonic horde running amok over a grassy field and for some reason people are pleased about it. No, sir. Never again.

Putting a ball in a net doesn’t make up for what you did to the Schmalkaldic League you bastards.

What the hell kind of name is this anyway

Day sixty-eight. Why does this cursed app not know anything of good food

Day seventy-three. A number I know well.

Day seventy-three, post-scriptum. What a wonderful day. My child [any name] and I had a terrific playdate. She said [something profound] and I learned to [powerful moral leason]. First I was [modern verb for awed] then I [pick a social media]ed it. Pandemics. Wisdom from babes.

What the fuck is a leason, Hoss

Day seventy-seven. Thinking of swallowing my pride and trying out for the minor leagues. I’m sure the $400 per week is but a drop in the bucket to the grandees of base ball, but it would go quite far here at home. It’s a step down, sure, but in tough times one does what one must.

Oh. Well, shit. Bad timing again.

There will be maybe 1,000 released minor leaguers and are but 30 or so MLB team owners and, I’m just saying, 500 bats brandished and 500 fast balls thrown can win a lot of concessions.

Day eighty-six. Berthold handed me a book about some wizard child. Read this to me, papa. If I wanted him to learn about a drab, joyless world where whining rich boys rise to the top while attending elite boarding schools I’d simply let him roam New England.

Chapter seventeen: We Use Wizard Magic to Do Our Paperwork. Get this crap out of here.

In my day literary wizards made swords appear in rocks or lots of fishes to feed people.

Day ninety-five. Well well well. In the absence of base ball this year my decision to spawn a score of urchins looks, for the first time, like a good one. Time to rouse them from their cots for some midnight calisthenics. The Radbourn League starts soon.

Day ninety-six. Am attempting to trade five children to the neighbors for a child to be named later and cash considerations. Gave Bertram a handshake, our first. “It’s just business, son.”

Day ninety-six continued. Now that I have a team of my own I find that refusing to allow them to play is far more satisfying than letting them take the field.

Daddy, I just want to play base ball said young Timothy. Times are tough, son, I said, as I ate my dinner and then his dinner. We have to cut back.

Day one hundred and one. My children have dozens of tickets to some event in Oklahoma. Have they cleaned their rooms, gathered the eggs, churned butter, and drawn water from the well? No. They are such a disappointment.

Day one hundred and thirty-seven. Sat the children down to enjoy a major league base ball game and, for a moment, take our mind off the great plague. This really backfired.

Day three hundred sixty-five. I have been overrun. The children have taken the house. I am holed up in the attic with one last can of food. I smell fire.