Working Drafts

Baseball radio has a way of wandering into great stories. During today’s Cubs spring training game out in Mesa, Arizona, Pat Hughes told Ron Coomer about the time he snuck into the Cubs clubhouse as a kid and met Billy Williams and Ernie Banks.

I included the full broadcast audio for the half inning as Hughes deftly moves between calling the game and moving his story along. He’s the best.

Transcript (edited slightly for readability):

Pat Hughes: Former Cub and All-Star Ron Coomer. It's Pat Hughes at Sloan Park in Mesa. We thank you for joining us. Lots of action today. 9-5 the Giants lead. Let's see if the Cubs can stage a late, dramatic rally and come back. as we go to the bottom of the eighth inning. Ryan Vanderhay is on the mound. Casey Opitz is batting for the first time, and he took outside for ball one. Vanderhay coming back, and Opitz fouls it away. Thinking about those days as a kid of watching big league games and just a thrill to be down low. Like you said, Ron, it's a whole new game once you get down to, say, box seat level. You see how big and strong and how fast the guy is pitching, how high the balls are hit. It's amazing. You're just in awe as a kid.

Ron Coomer: It really is. I remember being like a 10-year-old and watching guys pitch and just think how fast the game moves.

Pat Hughes: Swing and a foul off to the left out of play. I remember a foul ball home run that Billy Williams hit. Towering drive right down the right field line at Candlestick Park. I thought, that's as high as a human being can possibly hit a baseball. You cannot hit it any higher than that. And my brothers and I were laughing. We said, they ought to give him a home run just because it was so high. It was amazing.

Ron Coomer: There is a rumor that the Whistler, Billy Williams, is going to be in camp here in the next couple days.

Pat Hughes: Speaking of legends, here's a pitch inside for a ball to Casey Opitz. My brother and I, we snuck into the clubhouse all the time. And every time except once, we were chased away. Kids, beat it. You have no business in there. Get out of here. Okay. No harm, no foul. Yeah, right. We're not troublemakers. We know we don't belong here. Yeah. Not a big deal. So, ground ball to second, throw to first in time. Opitz is out number one. But this one time, we made it through the line of security. We followed. It was the Cubs, in fact. The Cubs, after their batting practice, we snuck down and followed the big athletes and hid behind them as we snuck right into the clubhouse. And here we are. We're in the Cubs clubhouse. We got no business being there. We're 10 and 13 years old, but I saw Billy Williams. We went over to talk to Billy. They had played the day before on television against the Dodgers. I think Drysdale had pitched, and we're peppering Billy with questions. Hey, what's it like facing Don Drysdale and Sandy Koufax and how about Juan Marichal? And he was very nice. He was very patient, and he was reading his newspaper, and he said, yeah, they're pretty tough. And he could have just said, hey, security, get these guys. But he didn't. And at any time, Billy could have called the security people to get us out of there. But he did not do it. And I've loved him ever since.

Ron Coomer: Have you ever told Billy that story?

Pat Hughes: Oh, many times. Yeah, he smiles. He does not remember the incident, which is very shocking. I know. 2-2 on Hayden Cantrell. Swing and a miss on a changeup. The ball in the dirt necessitating a throw to first in time, and that's going to be out number two. But we saw Ron Santo. Ron looked so big, he looked scary. Really? He wore his uniform real tight. I remember seeing him. Little did I know I'd spent 15 years as a broadcasting partner with him in the future. But I'll never forget he looks so big and tough, and I thought, man, I wouldn't want to tangle with that guy. Lookout, pitch inside almost hits Brian Calmer. And we saw, you know, all the Cub ball players there, just kind of relaxing, getting ready for a ball game. Might have been a doubleheader against the Giants at Candlestick. But Billy was the one guy we actually sat and talked to. Oh, yeah, Ernie Banks. Ernie Banks, too, he saw us. Hello, boys. How you doing? Couldn't have been nicer. Couldn't have been more friendly. And we knew he had those famous strong hands just from being baseball fans. Sure enough, he grabbed your hand. You felt it. You knew it. Yeah.

Ron Coomer: That's for sure.

Pat Hughes: But Ernie was great. Here's a pitch bounce to short. And the throw to first is going to be low. Scooped out very skillfully by the first baseman, Parker. Nice play. Cubs go 1-2-3. It's on to the ninth inning. Giants 9, Cubs 5 on The Score and the Cubs Radio Network.

Last year, I had the pleasure of working with artist and curator Sarah Perkins, the Metal Museum, and The Enamelist Society to design a book featuring the work of the hugely influential enamelist Bill Helwig. It was my second time collaborating with Sarah and the Metal Museum. You can view our previous collaboration here.

Bill Helwig "Flipbook" Sketches

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1 / 17

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Helwig’s archives were a gift. Whimsical objects. Hand drawn sketches. Unpublished photographs. Small surprises tucked everywhere. We folded many of these into the book in playful ways, including adding a flipbook of the sketches created by Helwig and using vellum transparent paper to display multi-layered artwork.

I am really proud of how this one turned out.

The Art of Bill Helwig

Curated by Sarah Perkins

Purchase at Metal Museum ›

I'm kind of sorry I asked. Two balls and two strikes on Dansby Swanson.

Pat Hughes, May 31, 2025

And so it went with the odd, mildly hilarious, multi-year saga of the Chicago Cubs radio booth explaining the origin of Buckethead.

If you listen to Cubs games on the radio long enough, you start to recognize the rhythms. The way innings breathe. The silences. The hilarious commercials for adult diapers. Pat and Ron, and sometimes Zach. There’s room for digression too. The good kind. The kind that knows when to step aside for a line drive into the gap.

This is why Pat Hughes is so good. He can do several things at once. Call the game cleanly. Keep the tone light. Quietly rescue a bad story by turning it into something else entirely.

The Buckethead bit first surfaced, to my knowledge, in 2024. Nick Lodolo trivia. Same high school as Mark McGwire. Same high school as a guitarist named Buckethead. Pat says the name out loud. Pauses. Admits it feels strange and sort of nice to say “Buckethead” on Cubs radio. That alone gets the laugh. Not the story. The moment.

Ron Coomer plays his role perfectly. Dry. Patient. Curious in a way that never feels urgent. He doesn’t need the payoff. He’s happy to let the thing wobble.

Then Zach Zaidman jumps in.

Zach has facts. Zach has research. Zach has quotes from Guitar Player magazine. Zach has, unfortunately, a story that does not improve with repetition.

Buckethead wears a KFC bucket on his head. Halloween 4. A mirror. A revelation. That’s it. That’s the whole thing. It’s not a story so much as a Wikipedia paragraph that wandered into a live broadcast.

What makes the bit funny is not Buckethead. It’s the social geometry of the booth.

Pat humors it. He lets Zach run. He pretends, just barely, that this is all worth hearing. He asks gentle questions that sound polite but land sharp. “Don’t feel like you have to get through this story quickly.” “I will sleep better tonight knowing that.” Each line acts as a pressure-release valve.

Ron needles from the side. Colonel Sanders. Cassettes. Tidbits “really not worth much.” He knows exactly what’s happening and keeps nudging it along just enough to make it stranger.

Zach, meanwhile, seems convinced that if he just tells it one more time, it will finally land. Which is how the story comes back in 2025. Twice. Treated as if it’s new. Treated as if we all haven’t already been here.

By the third telling, Pat doesn’t even bother hiding it. “I’m kind of sorry I asked.” That line kills me every time. It’s honest. It’s earned. And it slides right back into a called third strike without missing a beat.

This is why I love Cubs radio. These voices are the sound of summer. They fill the empty space between pitches without stepping on the game. Even the bad bits become useful. They reveal who’s trying too hard. Who knows when to stop. Who can turn mild annoyance into comedy without ever raising their voice.

I’m looking forward to the new season, and to spending my days again with Pat and Ron on the radio.

This was the first book I read in 2026. I love a good road novel, and this one caught me off guard. Challenging but exacting—I couldn’t put it down. I’ve already ordered another book by the same author.

Two stray observations:

1. The cover art is lovely. It looks like a picture postcard you’d buy on your way to Yellowstone in 1963.

2. As someone who enjoys both fiction and watching sports, I really appreciated the way Markovits weaves basketball into his work. He apparently played pro ball in Germany for a time, and it shows.

Fresh Air has a nice review up

The Rest of Our Lives

Ben Markovits

Goodreads ›

A work of fiction. Working draft.

The room is dark. An air conditioner hum. You don’t wonder where you are. This is not your home—but that is ok.

Footsteps creak in the hallway. A door opens and shuts. The spell breaks. This is a hotel room. The alarm clock beside the bed burns red.

3:54am

I’m awake. My sinuses are worse.

My phone lights up. A new text—photos of my two cats back home. I reply, so cute! I miss them! and set the phone back on the nightstand. J— sleeps with her back to me. The pressure in my face is dull and constant now.

I’m not getting back to sleep.

4:06am

I decide to go for a walk. I need air. I need water.

I move slowly, careful not to wake her. Not ready to face her yet. My phone’s flashlight finds my Nikes and a hoodie. AirPods. Room key. I slip out.

The narrow hallway to the elevator. Third floor. Fullerton Hotel. Da’an District. Taipei. Taiwan.

In the lobby, the dining area is closed. I take a water bottle from the minibar and step outside.

She chose the hotel because it sits near a station where the red and brown lines intersect. From here, the city opens up. J— is good at this—researching, weighing tradeoffs, finding places that make movement feel easy. She moves through cities with confidence. I don’t.

We arrived in Taiwan five days ago. She’d been invited to give a workshop at a rural art school down south. I tagged along, working on my laptop outside the campus 7-Eleven, which doubled as a commons. A resident cat kept me company.

I walked the campus. Student housing. An outdoor track and basketball courts. Rows of parked scooters, helmets resting on the seats.

Beyond campus, in the nearby villages, farmers planted rice in flooded fields—by hand and by tractor.

Yesterday we left in the morning. A two-hour bullet train ride to Taipei. We spent the day exploring, eating dumplings, visiting an art museum, and then—inevitably—arguing. It escalated until we were both sulking.

By the time we were back at the hotel, we weren’t talking. I put in earplugs and went to bed. Morning would come either way.

4:13am

Outside the hotel, the relief is immediate. The air is cool, low 60s. Dark. Quiet.

An elevated track runs above the street in front of the hotel. Wide city lanes. Tree-lined medians.

Yesterday this was gridlocked—cars, scooters, bodies everywhere. Now empty. Taipei feels otherworldly at this hour.

I turn right.

My plan is to walk toward the dark skyscraper in the distance. Taipei 101.

We ate dumplings there yesterday and rode the elevator to the top to look out over the city. In the dark sky, the building feels unreal, all edges and shadow.

There and back in an hour or two.

I put in my AirPods and find a playlist I made for walking. Songs meant to stay with a place.

I loop the same track on repeat. Just one thing to hold onto.

Just Like Honey.
The Jesus and Mary Chain.
Noise cancellation on.
Play.

It starts with a simple drum beat.

thoom … thoom-thoom — tschhh
thoom … thoom-thoom — tschhh

Then the wall of sound arrives. A staticky, dirty riff. A tingle runs down the back of my neck.

Listen to the girl
As she takes on half the world

A calm, steady heartbeat. Patient.

I pass a brightly lit 7-Eleven. An employee stands behind the counter, expressionless. I imagine myself working there. It looks calm.

To the left, a long row of bright yellow YouBikes, the color of number 2 pencils. A park bench beneath a tree. Across the wide street, residential buildings. No lights on.

I keep walking toward the 101.

4:23am

I regret the way we ended last night.

The bullet train ride to the city had been breathtaking. She napped with her head on my shoulder. I watched the landscape slide past—small towns, hazy green mountains. A clear blue sky. Illustrations of penguins and rabbits in conductor uniforms lined the walls and seat-back brochures. A family ate breakfast from bento boxes, their young daughter standing between them.

At Taipei Main Station, we ate a snack and bought metro cards. We considered buying a souvenir train but didn’t want to carry it. Maybe later. Then it was off again—MRT, hotel check-in, dumplings, an art museum, photos together. Night market. Buzz in the air. Alleys lined with parked scooters. The hum of a city built for walking.

I was tired. I hadn’t felt quite right since arriving. First jet lag, then something else. She has more stamina than I do.

So we got a massage. They’re open late here. Families with children sat together in the waiting area. J— checked us in. We changed into brown striped shorts and were led to separate rooms.

A few years ago, I hurt my back. I wanted my massage to focus on my lower back and right leg. At one point, the masseuse found the exact spot.

Bingo. Right there.

I reached back to show her and accidentally bumped her leg. She jumped, startled.

No, no—sorry. Sorry. No. Just here. This spot. I pointed. Hurts.

I tried again, slower this time. She softened. The massage continued.

5:13am

I’m feeling better. My sinuses still ache and my movement is sluggish, but there’s a breeze and moving helps.

Street signs in Mandarin. Crosswalks painted with iconography that makes sense once you look closely. Traffic lights. Subway entrances. All of it recognizable, just different enough to hold my attention.

The 101 looms ahead, towering over everything. I move toward it slowly.

The beat keeps time for me.

thoom … thoom-thoom — tschhh
thoom … thoom-thoom — tschhh
It's good, so good, it's so good
So good

Maybe I should have woken J— up. She’s never liked mornings.

I’m up early and in bed early. She stays up late and sleeps in. Our days overlap in the middle.

There’s a gap.

5:26am

I reach the 101. A few lights glow in windows above, but the building is mostly dark. A couple of cars wait at the intersection. A cab idles. I take a few pictures and keep moving.

A few blocks away, I circle toward an area we were in yesterday. Shops. An outdoor Apple Store. I turn left, then right, into a wide plaza.

A young couple sits on a bench. She notices me. Hoodie, shorts over black thermal leggings, Nikes—I stand out.

She’s drunk. No translation needed.

She steps beside me, then suddenly bolts down the plaza, untied Doc Martens slapping the pavement, white dress and denim jacket flapping behind her. I laugh. Her boyfriend laughs, too. Twenty yards away, she stops and throws her hands up in mock victory.

I won!

thoom … thoom-thoom — tschhh
thoom … thoom-thoom — tschhh
For you—for you

5:34am

She was just the welcoming party. Dozens of college-aged kids cluster outside a row of bars and clubs. The night is ending. Everyone’s waiting for a ride. Cabs line the curb. I walk straight through the loose knots of people.

I’m aware that I’m older. A tired fondness settles in. They look exhausted, leaning into one another, killing time. Making mistakes. This is your window.

Who parties next to an Apple Store?

On the way back, I take a different route. Quieter. Residential. No neon. No medians. I reach a wide intersection where several roads converge. One disappears into an underground tunnel. Directional signs point everywhere and nowhere. I cross slowly.

Moving up and so alive
In her honey dripping beehive
Beehive

6:15am

I’m back at the 7-Eleven. She’s probably still asleep, but I text anyway—coffee? anything?

Three dots appear. Then vanish. Then nothing.

I exhale. Okay. This, I can do.

I pull out my AirPods and the static of the city rushes back. Inside, I buy two waters. Two bananas. Two bottled coffees.

I sit on the bench beneath the tree. More cars now. A few bikes. People walking with purpose. The sun isn’t up yet, but the sky has shifted to pale blue. I take a sip of water. Condensation drips from the cold bottle onto my hand.

thoom … thoom-thoom — tschhh
thoom … thoom-thoom — tschhh

Walking back to you
Is the hardest thing that
I can do
That I can do for you
For you

Psychocandy

The Jesus and Mary Chain

Apple Music ›

I love apps like this. It does one thing well and imaginatively, and taps directly into a core human need for routine and forward progress. It uses my daily step count to simulate hiking the Pacific Crest Trail. By combining the morning exercise walks I take most days with the general steps I rack up throughout the day, the virtual character advances along the trail map.

If last year is any indication, I don’t think I’ll quite make the full 2,650-mile trek, but I can’t wait to see where I end up.

Download for iOS

Visit Aaron La Lau's Website

Until high school, my family lived in a small rural town in central Illinois. About two and a half hours south of Chicago and forty-five minutes west of Champaign-Urbana—the home of the University of Illinois. In 1993, Chambana was also the birthplace of one of the first web browsers: NCSA Mosaic. Mosaic would go on to become Netscape and then, eventually, Firefox. This was all long before Marc Andreessen became a Bond villain.

I was in middle school during that first electric stretch of the internet. We always had Macs in the house. Movies like Hackers and The Net ran constantly on cable. I was ready—emotionally, spiritually, hormonally—to put on rollerblades and start hacking the planet.

But I couldn’t. Not yet.

Internet access in Mt. Pulaski didn’t really exist unless you were willing to pay long-distance charges and dial into AOL, Prodigy, or CompuServe. Occasionally my parents allowed it, but those sessions were short and unsatisfying. It didn’t feel like the real internet. It felt like peeking through a locked door.

What we did have were magazines. Lots of them. MacUser and Macworld, especially. Those covers are burned into my brain. Without access to the actual web, those magazines became my portal to it.

Sometime between 1994 and 1996, I was flipping through MacUser when I noticed a small ad in the back, tucked into the “Adult” classifieds. In a plain black box it read: FREE Internet. Beneath it was a phone number: 1-217-792-2PPP.

That number stopped me cold.

217-792 was my town. Population 2,000. Middle of nowhere.

If you grew up then, you memorized phone numbers. That prefix is still burned into my brain. And here it was, printed in a national magazine, quietly offering the thing I wanted most in the world. It felt like finding a golden ticket in a candy bar.

The ad said, “All you pay for is the call.” Which, for me, meant I paid nothing at all.

I clipped it out—carefully removing any evidence that it came from the “Adult” section, which would have ended the experiment immediately as far as my parents were concerned. I plugged in our sluggish fax modem, fumbled through MacPPP or ConfigPPP or FreePPP (the utilities you used to dial and connect) and eventually heard the sweet, grinding handshake of connection. I created my first email address. I loaded my first web page. Slowly. Painfully. Wonderfully.

I was on the real internet.

The company behind it was called Slip Net. There’s almost no trace of it now. It seems to have made its money through those same classified ads, alongside things like “Sexy Modem: The Ultimate BBS.” One of the few remaining breadcrumbs is a mention in TidBITS. They note in the, "Free Service Providers" section, "SLIPNET (shell,slip,ppp) modem -> 217 792 2777 info@slip.net".

TidBITS also played a pretty huge role in getting me online. I bought the famous big yellow book, "Internet Starter Kit" that came with a floppy disc. It taught me how to use the included utilities like FreePPP or ConfigPPP to connect.

From there I wandered. Gopher servers. FTP archives. Tiny text files pulled from distant universities. Later, Hotline servers, trading low-resolution videos that took hours to download. It all felt vast and secret and impossibly alive.

A few years later, my family moved to a bigger city. DSL arrived. Then broadband. The web exploded. Being online stopped feeling like a privilege and started feeling like oxygen. And eventually, like something closer to being in a stranglehold.

Sometimes I think about how strange it is that there was ever a moment when you had to earn access to the internet. When it felt like discovering a hidden room in the world. When it promised possibility more than surveillance or exhaustion.

And no, I never did end up rollerblading through New York City while hacking the planet. But for a brief moment in the mid-90s, it felt like I might.

If anyone reading this knows why a San Francisco–based ISP had servers sitting in Mt. Pulaski, Illinois, I’d love to hear it. It still makes no sense to me thirty years later.

A few years ago, I tracked down old copies of those magazines on eBay and framed the ad as a reminder of when the internet felt young and strange and full of promise.

If you’re curious, Archive.org has scans of some magazines that feature the ads:

MacUser, September 1994

MacUser, January 1996