Or Mars. Or some small town outside Dubuque. Or that underground society where the mutants worshipped an atomic bomb in Beneath the Planet of the Apes. Or the bullpen. Some place where he can do no harm, keep his game by tossing mop-up duty, and save whatever awesome might be left in his arm for October, when his experience could serve us best. Look, I was always a fan, even when he stumped us during interleague play. But having that automatic shitshow in the rotation–in combination with the many automatic outs in our line-up–is going to send me to an early grave.
Not that there’s a lot of feel-goodery about this team right now. I secretly hoped we’d be welcoming Roy Halladay to the team, but instead we got Paul Byrd. Ortiz is literally a shadow of his 2007-ish self. Green and Lowrie actually have me getting sentimental for Lugo. My gut ties into knots whenever Penny or Papelbon or Buchholz takes the hill. And that little voice in my head–the one I try to block out with smoked meats and cheap beer–keeps telling me that this is just one big, expensive and ultimately mediocre team, with two legitimate starters and just two or three bats that you can truly depend on.
But I keep the faith. Because for all of the recent f@#kery, we still have the third best record in the AL. Because I know that at some point, the hits will come. And, most importantly, because Commander Kick Ass gets the ball tonight. And if anyone can slice up the Yanks, erase a losing streak, and get a whole team back on track, it’s the Commander.
