REFLECTIONS AND REVELATIONS
Recently, I waxed pompously about the difference between practical and fair-weathered fans. I was, on reflection, disingenuous. More recently, I compounded that pomposity by trying to cast a net of omniwisdom around the second half of the 2005 season.
Whatever. Recent, if subtle, chinks in the Nationals' armor and the shocking turnaround of the Oakland As prove one thing. I don't know jack. Hell, even the Giants, mortally wounded in Barry Bonds' absence, could demonstrate some late-season greatness if he returns in August.
The New York Yankees could take the AL East, although you'd have laughed if I'd suggested that in May.
The White Sox feel like an immovable rock, but does that matter if they're eliminated by Boston or the Angels?
The Nationals enjoy the good life in their new lives as a really good team, but what happens when those above whom they live channel the might of sheer competitive desperation—a might Washington may not be—and probably isn't—equipped to deflect?
The Cubbies just fell out of their division's wildcard slot, a slot they owned for roughly 40 days—until Mark Prior and Kerry Wood returned from the DL. Huh? As with the rather unimpressive NL West, only one team in that entire division is above .500. Say what?
San Diego, which has ruled in the NL West for what seems like forever—um—just isn't that great. Which speaks volumes about the entire division.
So, to feel like your thumb is on the pulse of the season, you trot out whatever you have handy: opinion, random observation, occasional bile.
But you forget why you love baseball in the first place. Let me demonstrate...
I'm listening to game 3 of the Giants/Reds contest in Cincinnati. All I've done this season is bitch about how much the Giants suck.
In the first 2 Cincinnati games, the Giants were summarily humiliated by a .398 team. They weren't clobbered. In a good clobbering, you can at least claim High Loser Status. No, they were shamed—outed to the world as dismal in nearly every way.
But J.T. Snow is hitting just shy of .300 and making no mistakes at 1st. Moises Alou is well over .300 and contributing—quantitatively and qualitatively—to the RBI column. All these rookies plucked from their nests in Fresno in a paroxysm of desperate body replacements? They're doing OK. Some of them—like Lance Niekro—are playing like pro ball players. They're just not—yet—good enough to gel and carry an entire team's entire season. It's dysfunctional and chaotic, like a din in the ear, or polyester paisley on a fat woman. Too much, and not nearly enough.
But I love it. When San Francisco, who is bound to lose this game, rallies from a 2-0 deficit to take a 4-2 lead, what's not to love? They're trying! They're really trying to win some games. How—when they're so terrible—can they continue to trot out onto that field and give their "best," even if it's probably not their best?
It's perplexing, and it confuses me, and that's why I'm a fan and not a professional athlete.
Whatever. Recent, if subtle, chinks in the Nationals' armor and the shocking turnaround of the Oakland As prove one thing. I don't know jack. Hell, even the Giants, mortally wounded in Barry Bonds' absence, could demonstrate some late-season greatness if he returns in August.
The New York Yankees could take the AL East, although you'd have laughed if I'd suggested that in May.
The White Sox feel like an immovable rock, but does that matter if they're eliminated by Boston or the Angels?
The Nationals enjoy the good life in their new lives as a really good team, but what happens when those above whom they live channel the might of sheer competitive desperation—a might Washington may not be—and probably isn't—equipped to deflect?
The Cubbies just fell out of their division's wildcard slot, a slot they owned for roughly 40 days—until Mark Prior and Kerry Wood returned from the DL. Huh? As with the rather unimpressive NL West, only one team in that entire division is above .500. Say what?
San Diego, which has ruled in the NL West for what seems like forever—um—just isn't that great. Which speaks volumes about the entire division.
So, to feel like your thumb is on the pulse of the season, you trot out whatever you have handy: opinion, random observation, occasional bile.
But you forget why you love baseball in the first place. Let me demonstrate...
I'm listening to game 3 of the Giants/Reds contest in Cincinnati. All I've done this season is bitch about how much the Giants suck.
In the first 2 Cincinnati games, the Giants were summarily humiliated by a .398 team. They weren't clobbered. In a good clobbering, you can at least claim High Loser Status. No, they were shamed—outed to the world as dismal in nearly every way.
But J.T. Snow is hitting just shy of .300 and making no mistakes at 1st. Moises Alou is well over .300 and contributing—quantitatively and qualitatively—to the RBI column. All these rookies plucked from their nests in Fresno in a paroxysm of desperate body replacements? They're doing OK. Some of them—like Lance Niekro—are playing like pro ball players. They're just not—yet—good enough to gel and carry an entire team's entire season. It's dysfunctional and chaotic, like a din in the ear, or polyester paisley on a fat woman. Too much, and not nearly enough.
But I love it. When San Francisco, who is bound to lose this game, rallies from a 2-0 deficit to take a 4-2 lead, what's not to love? They're trying! They're really trying to win some games. How—when they're so terrible—can they continue to trot out onto that field and give their "best," even if it's probably not their best?
It's perplexing, and it confuses me, and that's why I'm a fan and not a professional athlete.
posted by Andrew at
10:06 PM
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