It would be easy to sit here and talk about the big win over the Angels. To talk about the gem Scill-dog dealt for 8 strong innings. Or talk about His-Papiness and the way he’s starting to get in the 50+ homerun groove. Or Lugo’s .395 OBP, or Hinske’s off-the-bench contributions or the team ERA of just a thread over 3. Or the way the girl at the Tasty-Freeze looked at me when I ordered the large Watermelon Brain Freezer with extra whipped cream. But I can’t. I’m troubled. And it’s all Coco’s fault.
Ya see, I’ve been that guy who keeps saying “Coco will be fine, Coco will bounce back, Coco was hurt last year.” But folks, he’s not fine. He’s not bouncing back. He’s batting a buck-freaking-eleven. He looks like he’d rather be getting a tooth drilled sans Novocaine than stepping into the batter’s box. And when he makes the out – which he does over 80% of the time – he looks like he’s walking the last mile back to the dugout. When he gets there, sure, the guys give him a pat on the ass and tell him good job, get ’em next time, but how long will they actually mean it?
Tomorrow, Coco will don the number 42 jersey – along with Papi and DeMarlo Hale – as a tribute to perhaps the bravest man in sports, Jackie Robinson. But if he puts up another goose egg, it might be time for the bench and a few swings for Wily Mo. Crisp’s 8 K’s in 33 at-bats and .171 OBP can’t keep him in the line-up much longer.
Come on, Coco, Cowboy Up, sacrifice a chicken Pedro Cerrano style, or steal Papi’s lucky bat. Just start hitting.
