That game kind of stunk.
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Last night's game made me want to take a belt sander to my groin. So why do you think that I want to write about it today? What, do you want me to write 1,000 words that translate to "Grrrr, Justin Miller shouldn't have walked Adam Eaton?" Do you want me to describe the pain of waiting for Merkin Valdez for the past three decades, only to be rewarded with a string-straight-fastball-throwing goofball with nary a hint of command? Do you think that I really have it in me to write something poignant right now? I don't. I just don't.
When the Giants do win something, when the rapture arrives and takes us all to Championship Land in the clouds, we'll remember last night. We'll wear it like a scar, and we'll rub that scar when the Giants are spraying champagne all over the clubhouse in 2056, or whenever. The younger folks will just be excited that their team won, but they'll have no idea. No idea.
I've wasted hundreds and hundreds of hours on this team just this year. Thousands over my lifetime. That was the incorrect choice. I could have read books. I could have figured out how to change my own damned oil. I could have learned to cook. Instead, I'm sitting here thinking, gee, this team can't hit, when I already knew that. I knew that in March. I knew that in 2008.
Hey, the Giants could win the next four while the Rockies go on a four-game losing streak, and all of this apoplectic twitching will seem kind of silly. But I wouldn't know. Because I'm going to go home tonight and read a fucking book. And tomorrow night, I'll go home and learn how to change my fucking oil. Maybe I'll figure out what a fucking scallion is, and I'll cook the fucking shit out of it.
And I'll show up the next day and fulfill my contract by writing about a team I didn't watch. I'll play the part well -- I'll read the post-game AP story and figure out whom I should blame or praise, and I'll come up with weak comment starters revolving around September call-ups or arbitration-eligible players -- but my heart won't be in it.
October will roll around, and I'll check in with the World Series.
November will roll around, and I'll start to rosterbate furiously.
December will roll around, and I'll long for spring training.
March will roll around, and I'll be excited. Why?
Because I'm a fucking idiot.