79 Years of Solitude
– by Mario Crescibene
Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4
Part 5
Part 6
Resting in the hammock of my rooftop apartment in Medellín, I can’t think of anything to write about. As the hammock sways back and forth and the sun sets on the Aburrá Valley, I think back on a season that had held so much potential… and not just for the Guardians.
It really started during the 2025 playoffs, when I created King Vogt and the Guardians of the Round Table as a creative way to do game summaries. Then came Opening Day 2026,
and there were the Guardians, celebrating every home run by putting on a knight’s helmet. You can imagine my shock.
The TV broadcast said the inspiration came from a team trip to Medieval Times, but it was quite the coincidence. Had my articles somehow inspired a trip to Medieval Times? Or maybe I had just tapped into the magic of the moment, and serendipitously started an Arthurian legend just in time for the fabled season the Guardians were destined to win the World Series.
So I decided to continue writing the series during the season, hoping my articles would capture our moment of glory. I mean, who wouldn’t want to read an Arthurian legend — featuring King Vogt and the Guardians of the Round Table — when the actual team is using a knight theme, with a real helmet and sword to match?
And maybe, just maybe, people would finally know the name Mario Crescibene! As Steven Kwan said later in the season, “You just have to be delusional and let it ride.”
“Let it ride”… that sounds exactly like the old man at the roulette table from Part 5!
Anyways, emboldened by the parallels, I kept writing new chapters of King Vogt as the season went on. And as we made a push for the playoffs, readers began to comment about how amazing it would be if this was the year we broke the curse and my King Vogt series was there to document the run.
As the Guardians chased down the White Sox to win the division — and then we came back after being down 0-2 to win the Division Series — I started to believe it was really going to happen: the first championship in 78 years and King Vogt and the Guardians of the Round Table all converging on the same moment of glory. It felt like destiny.
But it wasn’t meant to be. We lost to Tampa Bay — and no one knows the name Mario Crescibene. And so, I find myself lying hopelessly in my hammock, thinking about missed opportunities of seasons gone by, and not a single thing to write about. Then a voice calls from the street below.
“¡Mario! ¿Quieres jugar bate?”
It’s Emmanuel, one of the neighborhood kids. The streetlights have finally come on, and that means it’s time to play ball!
A few weeks ago, I found a whiffleball set at a local shop, and ever since, the local kids and I have been playing long base in the alley outside my apartment building. Every evening we blast reggaeton from my speaker, and play long into the night… or at least until we’ve lost all the balls.
There is a manhole cover in the middle of the street outside my front door that we use as home plate, and a telephone pole further down the alley is second base. It’s a narrow alley. The walls rise up four floors on either side, making for an interesting wrinkle when the ball comes careening off them at odd angles. Here, the kids have to have quick reflexes, and quicker hands.
It’s been fun to coach them up, and watch them improve. Most had never played baseball, let alone swung a bat. But now they’ve fallen in love with the Great Game: the tense battles between pitcher and batter, the way the bat sounds different when you barrel one up, and that triumphant feeling when you cross home.
Tonight, Emmanuel is up first. He and I have a long history with each other. He’s fourteen now, built like Parker Messick, and likes to get into trouble. But I’ve been working with him, and what better way to teach him the lessons he needs to learn than through baseball?
Emmanuel readies himself at the plate, swinging the bat over the manhole cover before resting it on his shoulder. I lean in, shaking off the pitches my catcher signs to me. After finally selecting a fastball — as always — I ready myself… and then send the ball spinning through the air.
Emmanuel takes a mighty swing that sends his whole body spinning like a top, but he comes up empty. I normally give the other kids easy pitches to hit, but when it’s me and Emmanuel, as Tom Hamilton would say, “It’s mano a mano.”
Which isn’t actually correct. It doesn’t mean “man to man” like everyone thinks. “Una mano” is a hand. So “mano a mano” is “hand-to-hand.” Like hand-to-hand combat. Not that I’m correcting a Hall of Fame announcer. Like I said, no one knows the name Mario Crescibene.
Regardless, when it’s me and Emmanuel, it’s mano a mano, and I’m bringing the heat. Of course I coach him up first, and tell him to keep his back foot planted. “No muevas el pie derecho,” I tell him as I ready for another fastball. This time he keeps his back foot planted, but it’s all arms when he swings, and he misses badly. He isn’t going to get better if I go easy on him… but I first tell him to twist his hips so he uses his whole body instead of just his arms.
Down 0-2 in the count — it’s on now — as I stare in to get the sign from the catcher. As Emmanuel stands over the manhole cover, I let ’er rip. The ball tears through the air, but this time — Emmanuel puts it all together — and crushes a ball that flies high above the power lines.
The moment the ball rockets off the bat, Emmanuel takes off for the telephone pole. He taps it with his hand just as one of the kids playing defense grabs the ball. But Emmanuel is already digging for home, and triumphantly plants his foot on the steel plate before the relay throw arrives. There just might be hope for him yet.
And I’d say there’s plenty of hope for the Guardians too — who are still a bunch of kids themselves — not yet in their prime.
Now whether there’s any hope for Mario Crescibene? That’s another story.
