Oh, goddamnit. Glavine...
Erg. And I saw John Maine pitch the best game I've ever seen in person yesterday. And...
And Philadelphia is a city in need of a championship, but that lack of success has made for some sour souls...
And...
Fuck.
I'm looking at this picture and it looks sad to me, when I should actually be infuriated. See, I have a traumatic memory with a Mr. Met. It was a Binghamton Mets game. I was ten. Some kid was having fun with Mr. Met shooting a Super Soaker at him, which I did not understand was clearly something prearranged. So innocent Joshua Lee Drimmer, not yet jaded, sarcastic, cynical, or ever confused for anything resembling cool, thought, "Ooh, cool. And I've got this cup of water..." And yeah, so I kinda splashed him. And a voice came from Mr. Met like that ol' voice of death and ice cream, a scary fuckin' thing to hear coming from such a friendly, jovial, baseball-headed...well, not man...suit. You know, like Tom Carvel's voice...but angry...
And this voice was not offering me the crappy ice cream Patton Oswalt waxed not-so-nostalgically on a couple years back on Feelin' Kinda Patton. It wasn't friendly if creepy. No, it was saying, in a gravely, cigarette-destroyed yet LOUD voice,
"GET THIS KID OUTTA HERE!"
And I was taken out of the game, to great embarrassment since the summer camp kids I'd come with watched me leave, crying. They let me back in, but there's still a man somewhere in Upstate New York who I hope is suffering a very random stabbing pain right this moment, preferably in the taint. (Just one quick jab. I'm a kind soul:)
So you can see how sad I truly am for New York's "other" team. You know, the one that actually does deserve better.
And this is all I have to say about John Maine. I have seen the future. Maine's the name. Effective wildness (for now) is the game. Hey, it's worked before. And it can be solved.
But the present is nothing but pain. We Sox fans know this pain from a long history of collapse and near-misses. I'm so, so sorry.
No comments:
Post a Comment