Help me out here, sports fans. It’s the middle of March, which, as everyone knows, is synonymous with Spring Training. (I know you thought I was gonna say basketball, but I think basketball is the fourth most boring sport ever, right behind football, hockey and soccer.) And, as everyone who knows me knows, this when I usually start to come out of hibernation with visions of hits and runs dancing in my head. This year? Not so much.
It’s more than just the whole Johnny Damon thing. I mean, don’t get me wrong: he’s still a treasonous prick and I’m sure hell yawns before him for his recent defection to the-team-that-shall-not-be-named. I hate him with the smoldering fire of a thousand suns and dream of the day when slimy, dripping, month old eggs (hurled expertly by yours truly) will drip from his un-bearded face and freshly dry cleaned, loathsome pinstripes. This satisfying image is all well and good, and gets me through the long winter days, but is it enough to really get me psyched up for the coming season? I’ve examined the depths of my soul and have discovered, sadly, that it isn’t.
I’m still mourning the loss of Doug Mirabelli. A minor thing, his trip to the Padres? Perhaps. But I still miss him. He had a great attitude, always stepped up with that extra dinger when we needed it, and reminded me so much of former Dodger’s catcher Mike Scioscia that I almost felt like a kid again whenever I watched him up there with Wakefield. (What can I say? I have a thing for chubby Italian catchers.)
Our new guy, Edgar Renteria, that Virtuous Son of the Midwest, didn’t stay long enough to show us what a great player he really was. This is a huge bummer for me for two reasons: 1) I had great fun taunting my Illinoisy-an lawyer buddy, Yankswon, a rabid Cardinals fan, about how we snatched up his guy in order to corrupt him with our wild New England ways and 2) if you have, or can fake, a Maine accent then say his name. Edgah Renter-ree-er. My friends, does it get any better than that? I put it to you that it does not.
I suppose I should be happy that Manny is back. You know–the whole homerun hitting thing he’s got going. Rah rah. Whatever. At least he’s got those cool citrusy dreadlocks and has figured out how to grow a real beard, which, although diverting, is hardly the thing to print up on a t-shirt and inspire me to whoops and cheers. Let me try: “Manny, Manny! He’s got Dreads!” Nope.
I could go on and on and on (really, I could) but I’ll spare you, and myself, from any further depression. I do beseech you, one and all (I’ve noticed that I’m up to a whopping five readers now! Whoo-hoo!) to comment freely here and boost me up to that usual pre season vim and vigor to which we’ve all grown so accustomed.
P.S. 26716 words. No character has been given a stutter in the writing of this novel. Yet.
UPDATE: According to this article, the Sox may be trying to reaquire Doug Mirabelli.
Oh please, oh please, oh please…