Buster Posey is broken. Don’t care about anything else.
There was a baseball game. Some guys pitched, some guys hit. And Buster Posey is broken.
One team had a lead, one team didn’t, then that team tied it before losing. And Buster Posey is broken.
The Giants have won some games at home. Some of them were one-run games. I don’t think they won this one tonight. I have one of those nagging feelings in the deep recesses of my brain that the Giants lost this. Don’t care. Buster Posey is broken.
It’s hard to say that losing Posey is as bad as it could get -- there are other players on the team who are just as beloved -- but it’s hard to imagine feeling worse right now. I’m not in the mood to debate Javier Lopez pitching against right-handed sluggers. Don’t care.
And I know that statistically, a player contributes to so many wins over the course of a season, and it’s really, really hard for one player’s absence to completely prevent a division title. Don’t care. We watched Buster Posey claw at dirt as if his legs were on fire. It was horrific beyond words.
And this isn’t gallows humor -- this isn’t me having a goof -- but there’s a catcher out there looking for work, and he already knows the pitching staff. That’s a completely serious thought -- a horrifying postscript to a horrifying night. It feels cheap to leave that awful, unwanted thought here, but it’s playing in a loop in my head. It has to go somewhere. If there's anything worse than what we watched, it's that it would lead to ... that. Unthinkable. Horrible. And, yet again, it’s hard to care. Buster Posey. Oh, man. This is awful.
This is awful.