It was twenty eight fiery degrees in my car and I was sitting in the grocery store parking lot. I’d hung up the phone just in time to hear the pop of Matt Carpenter’s bat as it sent a JP Howell offering over the wall and into the seats to walk off the Jays in grand fashion. This is the most recent explosive development in a season we’d all love to abort. And, frankly, I’d consider the option if not for the abortion laws of the state of Missouri. What right they have over my baseball team is an entirely different discussion, and one I won’t get into at the moment lest I find myself on the wrong end of a tired debate with some whip-smart opponent who could make my head spin on my shoulders. Motivated activists can be dangerous on either side, and this recent bit of upsetting news has me in dim spirits.
The church of baseball is shaking from its foundation and the Toronto faithful – what remains of them now – are in mass hysteria over the ordeal. At this rate, it’ll be passing the Catholic church by the end of July, if not sooner. Serves us right. And good riddance to the rest of them. These are the dog days, and it’s where I’m most comfortable. The last thing I need is to have holdovers from the fair weather gang telling me how it’s going to be okay. I’d sooner buy them their favourite hockey jersey and send them blindly into Leaf fandom after spinning them around seven times. They’ll be happier there anyway… baseball is no place for the impatient.
Game 2 of the double header is tonight, and there’s a ball machine on the mound. What we have is a team hell-bent on breaking out of this thing, but doomed to fall short of expectations after setting too high a standard for our lizard brains to handle from one year to the next. If you’ve stuck around, and see yourself clawing with tooth and nail past the finish line in September with the rest of the disoriented maniacs still keeping tabs on Edwin Encarnacion, then I point you to that Wilner guy. He’ll make you think you’re winning even after you’ve watched your family desert you in the shithole you bought for them, with dishes in the sink.