I don’t know if I should be writing this right now. I have a hair trigger temper when it comes to baseball, and an uncensored tongue when it comes to lashing out at, well, anyone who crosses my path after a loss.
It may well be the most telling litmus test of my friends. The ones who try to contact me after a loss are dropped to waivers. The ones who mercifully give me my space are worth their weight in gold. And as for the asinine Yankee-haters who celebrate when their inferior teams have long exited the season? I could end them and not skip a beat.
“How long are you gonna be like this?”
In the first inning of my softball game, the 1B looked over to me playing second, mere minutes after the Yankee game had concluded.
It was a good thing I was in the field and not near the bats.
My head feels like someone drilled me with a 97 mph fastball. My shoulders are so sore from the muscles in them being tensed for 5 hours. My teeth hurt from grinding them. And my legs are useless lead-filled silos, but that’s because I slipped running to third base.
I don’t know what I hate the most right now:
So, yeah. Trying to determine which of those options most deserves my severe wrath is like trying to determine which broadcast team makes my ears bleed the least.
“Is it safe to text yet?” Someone actually just sent me that. Words fail me, really.
Bordering on apoplectic, I almost threw the phone across the room. My mind is so malfunctional right now that my initial solution to this egregious text “problem” was not to turn it on silent, or turn it off altogether, or just ignore it. But to place it outside of my apartment door in the building’s hallway.
See, this is EXACTLY why there needs to be some kind of Autumn Wellness Program at work. I would gladly sacrifice summer Fridays in exchange for a handful of days in the fall.
Sigh. Well, for those interested in what happened during the game, here it is:
The Yankees went up 3-0 on solo shots from Derek Jeter, Alex Rodriguez, and Johnny Damon.
After Howie Kendrick went yard to put the Halos on the board, Vladimir Guerrero followed suit with a 2-run bomb, marking his first hit in roughly 8,012 at-bats.
The Angels took the lead in the bottom of the 7th, but Jorge Posada took Kevin Jepsen deep to tie the game, and of course, since the Yanks are hellbent on giving every last one of their fans chronic cardiovascular problems, the game goes into extras.
Just to make things more exciting, we load the bases with no outs in the bottom of the 10th, but Mariano Rivera is Mariano Rivera, and we escape unscathed.
Despite the collective sigh of relief from Yankee Universe, there was still this unsettling feeling that stemmed from our complete inability to score with RISP (0-8 on the day). That, and the fact, we JUST had an overtime, pitcher-eating marathon on Saturday. Who was left to throw as the game went on?
This is where our fearless manager came in to make the tough decisions. And when I say “tough,” I mean a freebasing sea monkey could have orchestrated the pitching changes better than Girardi did. He acts like he’s an NFL Offensive Coordinator. Does he realize this isn’t like a “Special Teams” situation? That we don’t have to keep changing up the players on the field, and that the pitchers don’t need to call a huddle before every *&(*@ play??
Seriously, Girardi is little more than a needy girlfriend who asks her significant other every 10 minutes if he’s mad at her. And when she doesn’t immediately get the answer she wants, she makes some rash decision.
David Robertson came in after Mo, and pitched the same flawless game he’s been pitching the whole postseason. But why leave the guy known as “Houdini” in, when you have another hurler dragging his 8.57 ERA across the country, like That Guy who’s convinced his refrigerator-sized “carry-on” will fit in the overhead compartment.
Robertson had just recorded 2 outs. No one was on base. And that apparently screams “CALL TO THE
MICROMANAGEMENT COALITION BULLPEN.”
Kendrick singles off Alfredo Aceves. Jeff Mathis doubles him home. Game over. 5-4.
October 19 and October 20 are not days that particularly sit well with me, and I’ll be elated to see them pass. Once again, both bullpens bore the brunt of this game, and once again, there’s still more baseball to be played. CC Sabathia is going to be have to pitch the game of his life tomorrow, and he’s going to have to do it for at least 8 innings.
But of course, that’s if I manage to keep myself tethered to some degree of decorum long enough to see this happen.
Of everything that’s happened in the hours since The Loss That I’m Starting To Realize I May Be Blowing Out of Proportion A Little Bit, I did find one thing somewhat comforting:
(I’ll even overlook the fact her status wasn’t a complete sentence. My road to salvation begins with baby steps.)
I may be irrational right now, but I’m clear-headed about this team, which still has a stranglehold on my unwavering faith in them.
It’s the Yankees. They will land on their feet, and turn it around tomorrow. It will all be OK in the end. If it’s not OK, it’s not the end.