Anderson, Granderson, Schmanderson

I was seriously thinking about pretending this past weekend did not occur, and declining to post anything about it. However, it'll be good therapy for me to work through the anger (disgust, torment, embarrassment....) and come out better on the other side.

So for starters, my son heard me shrieking and hollering from the other room at Josh Anderson when he lost a fly ball in the sun and let it drop for a double (no error, are you sure official score-keeper?). He came running in and asked me why I was yelling at Curtis Granderson. I clarified that it was Josh Anderson, and he asked to see the replay. He couldn't believe Anderson failed to catch that ball (although in the interest of full disclosure, my son dropped an easy pop up to second base in his final game of the season). Anyway, I was raving about Anderson and his propensity for errors, bad baserunning judgment, and whatnot. I'm sorry, but at least guys like Thames and Ordóñez don't muff the easy fly balls. Yes, I know that a bunch of players had to fight off the sun on various plays, but I was still fuming. So, I've sort of had it with young Mr. Anderson, and The Detroit Tigers Weblog agrees.

So, by now, the pitching staff has completed its open letter to Dave Dombrowski begging that a bat be obtained before the trade deadline. I mean, Edwin Jackson was visibly upset after the game, with a clenched jaw and pursed lips as the camera zoomed in with its unshrinking "agony of defeat" angle. Holy cow, these guys are going to plead with Jim Leyland to ditch the Designated Hitter and let them pick up a bat to help themselves, since noone else will.

Joel Zumaya. Words fail to capture the desolation he and we all feel on so many levels.

Ok. So, can we move on now? Not so far on that we look past the Mariners to the four-game fest with the White Sox, however. I'll be at tomorrow's game, and it will be my first live look at our young Porcello, unless the rain decides that it's my very best friend and follows me to every game without fail, and drenches me with postponements enough that the blank score-cards begin to pile up.