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Post-Game Thread:

It's after games like this that I feel the most pressure. Walk-off wins, dominant pitching performances, 10-1 losses … it's not like those games are old hat, but there isn't a lot of pressure. Slap together some knock-knock jokes, make some wishy-washy observations, and throw in a David Foster Wallace reference so the undergrads think I'm cool. Whatever.

A game like this is different. This is the Spilborghs game. This is the Whiteside-pinch-running-on-July-4 game. It's a game that makes you wonder why you like baseball. So many games. At least three hours every night. And they can make you feel like this. I want to put it into words so badly. I want to distill the temporary pain of being a fan into something poignant so that it helps me enjoy the great games even more.

But I can't. Not tonight. Read the ass-snake post again if you want creativity on a similarly themed game. It's been a 17-hour day, and the next one starts in just a few hours. Denard Span might get traded, people. I have to be ready.

There are real-world problems out there, so I don't want to get too cute with the similes. This game wasn't like walking in on Scott Hairston actively cuckolding you. This wasn't like Scott Hairston punching you in the face. Those would be real problems. This is a baseball game. One of 162. It was more like Scott Hairston wiping a booger on a sandwich you were really looking forward to eating. You're disappointed. You'll get over it. You're upset. You'll get over it. There will be more sandwiches. There will be more boogers. But the sandwich-to-booger ratio is still in your favor. It just isn't that way tonight. Oh, god, how it isn't that way tonight.

I didn't know what was worse than a late-inning Scott Hairston home run to snatch defeat from the jaws of victory. I do now. Two late-inning Scott Hairston home runs to snatch defeat from the jaws of victory. In the middle of a losing streak. Right before the day when an owner, VP, or GM can do irreparable harm if they they panic. That's the worst. Yep. We're eating Good and Plentys we're finding in an ashtray now. It's almost art.

Angel Pagan punched a wall out of frustration, and he had to leave Monday night's game. If I knew that's all you had to do to avoid this shitstorm, I would have put a hole through the drywall with my face six hours ago and taken the rest of the week off. See you after the deadline, losers. Don't trade anything I wouldn't trade lol!

I should sleep. You should sleep.