No, it's not some imaginary nightmare you wake from panting in a cold sweat. It's the stark reality of the past three days. It's the unabated misery of a sweltering hovel in an relentless hot spell without so much as a fan. It's Holly Go-Lightly's pressure cooker gone ka-blow-ey all over her apartment just when she's trying to impress her attempt at domesticity upon Paul Varjack. It's the worst horror movie you've ever seen, one that seems so real you can't sleep at night for weeks afterward. It's...it's..it's the second half Detroit Tigers team of the past four seasons, playing out in HD before your bloodshot, shell-shocked eyeballs. I wish someone would sear my eyeballs with a chemical so caustic I never have to see the likes of this weekend again. I'd be better off.
I sincerely hope that someone in the Tigers clubhouse lost it after today's 7-2 finale. I don't care who it was. It could have been Scott Pickens for all I care. Someone better have been blowing steam out his ears in a fury so violent, the rest of the team was afraid to look him in the eye. I swear, if someone didn't scream themselves hoarse in a fit of rage, I will storm into Comerica Park tomorrow and do it myself.
To say our franchise was embarrassed this weekend would be an understatement I don't care to quantify. Stranding baserunners at a rate that would cause sandlot kids to crawl under the nearest rock has become an art form. Running the bases has apparently become a lost art, and throwing the ball is a skill too difficult to master for our crew. To quote manager Joe Riggins from Bull Durham "This... is a simple game. You throw the ball. You hit the ball. You catch the ball." We couldn't manage to perform those simple elements very well this past weekend, and it hurts. So badly. I want to cry, but I'm too stubborn, so I'm just going to go punch a hole in some drywall and call it good.