How’s the contract year going for D-Lowe? Let’s put it this way: pretty soon, Scott Boras will be negotiating for a coupla cups of coffee and some dry socks. Last night, we needed Lowe to kick it Clemens style and rise like a Phoenix to subjugate the lowly D-Rays. Instead, he left the game just two and one-third innings deep after giving up seven runs, looking very much the smacked ass.
Christ, what a horrible game, sick on every level. It was the kind of game that, about halfway through, the mind starts to wander. And mine did. I got to thinking that this team just doesn’t look like a team that’s gonna go all the way. There are simply too many question marks and not enough of the pleasant surprises that seemed to define last season.
But then I realized that I’m hitting the Panic Button, and I told myself I wouldn’t hit the Panic Button, at least not this early in the season. And there’s no reason to, really, because D-Lowe is gonna settle into a groove and Nomar will be up and running soon and, hell, Trot might be in Pawtucket by next week, so there’s no reason to panic. Not now anyway. But the Button tells me it IS time to panic and it calls to me with all its candy-colored goodness and begs for me to hit it, because the Crankees are on a roll and those Angels out West are a force to reckon and the Orioles aren’t going down without a fight this year and Nomar and Trot are very likely on the shelf for the rest of the year but I won’t listen to the button, cause I know it’s talking smack and it just likes to see me sweat and take the name of Bombo Rivera in vain and I’m just not gonna do that this time because there’s no need to panic and no matter how much I want to or need to I’m NOT GONNA PRESS THE PANIC BUTTON.
Or, I dunno. Should I?