When Abraham Lincoln invented the wild card, it was a proud moment for America. Up until that point, we had war, famine, threat of alien invasion and powdered wigs. After the Wild Card Act was passed through congress, however, these problems disappeared (although the Greg Luzinski Doctrine served as reminder that the dark days weren’t totally behind us).
Based on this rich tradition, and after watching our boys drop their second straight game to the Royals, I am proud to say that I f#$king love the wild card, and I wholeheartedly embrace it. Hey, we won it in 2004, and that season turned out to be a bit of alright.
After the way we flattened the O’s as we tore through Baltimore, I had high hopes that the Big Red Sox Machine would keep on steamrollin’ through Kansas City. These are inferior teams, I figured. The kind of teams that we want to be playing when we need to chew up some Ws. But even though Greinke was all business, the damage was done during Monday night’s game. That was the boot to the nuts, the claw to the onions, the rusty key dragged down the side of your recently-restored ’67 Mustang. It was precisely the type of spirit-crushing loss that you don’t want to experience the night before you’re facing a Cy Young candidate. And I wondered aloud if it would prove to be the start of an ugly skid.
Creeping up on the Yanks? Keeping the heat on our most bitter rivals? Watching Brian Cashman’s nuts twist in the wind? All good things, and worthwhile. But let’s just get to the playoffs. That way, I can save my first heart attack for the ALDS.
