Awwww SNAP! The Phillies went postal on Sunday night and in their brutal wake left the Rays looking as stunned as they are youthful.
By the time Game Four was over, I personally felt as abused as the Rays pitching staff — embarrassed, downtrodden and mentally defeated. To see me, you would’ve thought that I was the one who gave up a homerun to Phat Joe.
Yet my troubles on this October afternoon have less to do with who wins the World Series and more to do with simply being wrong in my prediction of a Rays victory. Admittedly, I’ve been wrong once or thrice in my lifetime. And that’s okay, folks. I am perfectly comfortable with my fallibility (as minuscule as it may be); however, nothing is more aggravating, more disturbing, more gut-wrenchingly abominable than being wrong while my colleague, the infamously reprehensible Mr. Krause, is proven correct.
And if the Rays don’t win three in a row, that’s exactly how it’ll be.
Because Mr. Krause picked the Phillies to win at the beginning of post-season play and I laughed in his German engineered face, I foresee my impending doom: public defamation and blogospheric torture by way of one misanthropic pedant: Mr. Allen Krause himself.
It ain’t over yet, and until it is, I’m standing my ground.
In fact, I have much bigger things to be upset about right now, like Winter invading the Second City on this wind-ridden drib-drab blah of a day:
Make me look good so I can lambaste: “Don’t hate me ‘cuz I’m right.”