While some are worried about Zack Greinke and Joshy Hamilton’s free agencies, I’m stuck on the suspense of which Republicrat will crush the liberty-lovin’ man into nothing. In fact, the suspense is literally killing me.
Okay, maybe not literally killing me, but it is literally making me cry. Bronco Bamma girl, I feel your pain.
Whether we’re talking about getting drunk and hitting the Taco Bell drive-thru at 4 a.m. or the state of my phone after a fast-movin’ night at the Roxbury, this much is known: things blow up.
This much is ALSO known: nothing blows up quite like the internet. I had a front row seat to the Twittersphere when Michael Jackson died (for real that time) and was amazed at how far-reaching this convoluted series of tubes really is.
And, as my melancholy and oft addled colleague Mr. Krause recently pointed out: proper internet explosions get a lot of fuel from fumbling politicians intent on keeping their multiple wives inside the three-ring trappings of a Trapper Keeper.
But the REAL explosion has yet to come. Hopefully, it will come tonight — Friday night. Hopefully the Cardinals will wrap up the San Francisco Giants’ futile efforts, kick back and wait for those cute little kitties to come to town.
That’s right, my fellow US Americans. An RSBS World Series is on the horizon…
That was the sound of the Washington Nationals faithful… before the NLDS Game 3 even started.
That’s right, while the Cardinals personnel was being announced prior to the game, Nationals fans invoked their inner “Philly-ness” and slaughtered the birds on the bat with their vocal angst (the birds on the bat slaughtered the Nats on the field).
The booing only increased towards raucous levels through the first and second innings as the Cardinals piled up runs. By the 7th inning, most of the fans were already gone, giving up on their team before the game was over.
Classy, D.C. Very classy.
I’m still scratching my head on this one. When did D.C. fans become so entitled? They haven’t won anything yet!
Nationals Park is one of my favorite baseball havens of all time. I have been there several times now, most of those games against the Cardinals, and I have never seen nor heard the fans act like such a-holes.
I guess the transient Beltway fans have taken over for the real deal — if the real deal actually exists.
Meanwhile, the Cardinals (and their fans) remain awesome. I’m proof. Seriously.
Don’t hate me ‘cuz I’m right.
What’s your biggest fear?
St. Charles, IL
Right now? Oh, that’s easy…
Don’t hate me ‘cuz I’m right.
To say that this season was disappointing for the Philadelphia Phillies would be an understatement, and many Phillies’ fans put the blame for this season directly on the shoulders of Charlie Manuel. That’s not really too surprising considering the notoriously horrible Philadelphia fanbase and their willingness to scapegoat anyone for the slightest straying from what they consider to be the true path. They’re a horrible cult gone even more horribly wrong. It’s like a bunch of David Koresh’s all got together and made Philadephia their own personal Waco. At this point, we’re just waiting for the FBI to torch the place.
But I don’t think we should feel sorry for Charlie Manuel. Why? Here’s one reason:
Thanks to Young Charlie Manuel’s soothing presence and weather-predictive hinge joints, he remains to this day the world’s only certified Tornado Whisperer.
Yeah, and that’s just the beginning.
Personally, I think the only way this gets better is if Charlie climbs up to the announcer’s booth and sings “Don’t Cry for me, Philadelphia.” I’m pretty sure young Charlie Manuel would do it. Maybe even in Japanese.
As we enter the beginning of the most exciting time of year (baseball playoffs and football season and an election, oh my!), I think it’s important that we keep in perspective that which brings us the most joy. Sure, hosting a Guinness keg party while dressed in my Yadier Molina jersey flanked by the Shannon twins is pretty much the happiest day of my life (that hasn’t happened yet but might), I still know that even if all that other stuff falls through, I will always have baseball.
And sometimes, within the game of baseball, we can find something much simpler that pushes the happy button. I know a lot of folks have been wrapped up in the admirable and impressive play of Mike Trout. People are just as infatuated with his grace and dominance as I
was am infatuated with Stephen Strasburg and all things Strasmas. It’s the little injections of youthful awesomesauce that often remind us why we love baseball so much. It is a kid’s game after all.
But sometimes waiting for the next big thing isn’t necessary. I have found that out this year by following Coco Crisp very closely. My history with Crisp has been one of hilarity, peppered with some dazzle. And while his offensive numbers may not hypnotize scouts, enough can never be said about how he plays the game.
He plays hard. He plays to win. He’s in on every pitch and he goes balls-to-the-wall. In fact, I have gotten to the point where I’m watching replays of his relay throws and conducting frame-by-frame analysis on his routes to fly balls.
If I could get to Oakland, I’d rather watch Crisp long-toss than Cesepedes take BP.
Okay, so maybe I’m lyin’ a little bit in that last sentence, but one thing is for certain: Coco Crisp’s defensive play is worth focusing on and if you focus long enough, you’re probably going to see something that puts a smile on your face. Maybe even an afro.