Holding On By My Toes

Ok. I'm finally ready. I never put this season to bed. I tried a couple of times. I attempted to muster up enough mental fortitude, but wound up a coward every time. In fact, last night, because it was the last day of November, and in light of the fact that it would be absolutely BEYOND to hang on any longer, I removed the miniscule remnants of my navy blue playoff toenail polish and put on a "normal" hue. It was a painful experience. I had to own up to all that had happened. I had to let this season be pried from my death grip, and then let it go.

I had to remember Nelson Cruz blasting 20,000 playoff home runs against us, notably off a 100 MPH Justin Verlander fastball, and one off Jose Valverde's "best pitch." I had to relive getting eliminated in a rout so ugly, Jim Leyland said what everyone was thinking--that it's a crying shame this team will be remembered by this game. /gnash-sob-hurl things against wall

I know. I know. We had a good run. That's all you can ask for. It's really difficult just to make the playoffs in baseball. We ousted the Gotham Yanks. We saw Austin Jackson start an outfield assist double play at the plate that elicited a throaty "OH JACKSON" from Rod Allen the likes of which we'll never forget, and which aptly captured the emotion of the play. We saw Ryan Raburn and Miguel Cabrera hit back-to-back jacks to drive a stake through the hearts of the White Sox. I KNOW these things. Really I do. I'm not generally an ingrate, either. But when it came right down to it, I was still devastated. I apologize for being a horrible, terrible, no-good person.

A friend and I mulled over off-season acquisitions and reminisced about Tiger Fest 2011 today, so that helped. We laughed over arctic temperatures and red noses, the salvation of hand and foot warmers, hugs from Casper Wells and gasps at an unexpected brush by from Max Scherzer. The countdown to Tiger Fest 2012 has begun.

Ok. I promise to leave 2011 in the past where it belongs. I'm not going to harp on the things that went wrong. I won't keep rehashing the seamy side of yesterday's news. Eyes front. Hot stove. Winter meetings. Yes sir.

THE PLAYOFFS ARE HERE

My hands are a bit shaky as I type this. I am awash with nervous anticipation. I'm not nervous because I'm worried about our boys playing the Yankees. I'm just overamped, something I hope Justin Verlander is NOT.

Bring on the stupid Yankees of New York City. Bring on Nick Swisher and his extra large mouth that said that the Yankees would beat the Tigers "hands down." I hope we can stuff those words down his throat along with some sod and dirt and stuff. Bring on Lord Jeter and his overhyped, overrated, overworshipped self. Bring on Alex Rodriguez and his mirror kissing, centaur painting, image obsessed, fake personality. Bring on the whole stinking Yankee roster, and match them up with Justin Verlander. I want to see it.

I don't know how much longer I can wait for this game to start. The past two days have crawled by at a pace so glacial, it appeared that 8:37 might never arrive.

I really hope tonight's game isn't a nail biter, because I'm not sure my constitution can stand it. I mean, I guess a nail biter would be better than a Yankee blowout, but....please....have pity on me......

OK. I am ready. I want this thing underway already. I want to stop hearing about the Yankee mystique and the Yankee dominance, and the Yankee tradition, and the Yankee post-season magic, and....sigh. All that's left to say is:

We're all behind our baseball team, go get 'em Tigers!

and:

PLAY BALL!

Things That Cannot Be Explained

I mentioned in a previous post that I have hardened my heart against the Tigers for the remainder of this season. It was a purely preservationist measure, as I could not endure any further breakage of that organ.

When we were down 6-3 last night, I decided to bail on the game and just pack it in for the night. It marked the first game this year that I just stopped watching. However, circumstances conspired to pull me back in. First, my husband called up the stairs to me that the game had been tied up. I groggily answered, "yeah, yeah." I did NOT plan to get out of bed to resume watching this thing. Then, a spider bit me. I am not joking! I had a red welt on my back that was smarting like nobody's business. Once I was out of bed to tend to this wound (the audacity of that spider!), I had to start watching again. Have I mentioned that I am very stupid?

Well, you know the crazed adventure I was in for. Countless botched double play balls on both sides, two starting pitchers burned by the Twinks in extras (hoooooooray!), and a home run by GERALD LAIRD capped a Tigers victory. Papa Grande went three innings, blew the save (not really his fault), but got the win. Stranger things have happened, I suppose.

Very, very odd. I could not celebrate this "too little, too late" win, but I managed a half-smile over the fact that the Twins rotation had suffered quite a blow. That's the impact we can look to have on the playoffs at this point--spoilers. Ah well.

See how I am all resigned now? I have finally given up, given in, given out for the 2010 season. It was freeing. If, by some amazing chance, you have not yet done so, I advise that you undertake letting go immediately. You'll thank me.

Is This What Gall Tastes Like?

TBS has released its MLB playoffs commercial. It features our own Kid Rock singing "Born Free."

Watch it here.

If seeing that doesn't shatter your little Tigers-loving heart into a million pieces, I'm not sure what will. Is it wrong that Kid Rock is singing a song about the MLB playoffs and the Tigers won't be in it? Yes. It is. So very wrong.

I don't know about you, but watching that promo made me feel as if a giant, muscled fist was squeezing the crap out of my heart and wringing it dry. We won't be partaking in the joy of the playoff chase. No.

We won't taste the fruits of the post-season. No.

We won't have any heady, spine-tingling performances from the likes of Kenny Rogers this year. No.

We won't watch Magglio Ordóñez swat any game-winning, series-winning, World Series-sending, majestic home runs this year. No.

Not us. We'll be the ones Tommy Lasorda is trying to coax from our pouty hiding spots in the cupboards to come and watch the playoffs. Good luck dragging me out.

Let's Make a Deal

I have to tell you something. The past couple days, after the Tigers suffered successive walkoff defeats at the hands of the Red Sox, I have been afraid to let myself read any articles, or listen to radio, or...anything. I've been petrified, quite literally, into total inaction. I can't figure out what to do with all this. The Tigers are seven games back. We are about to play the White Sox four times in three days. We could either climb back into this thing (however temporarily, setting us up for more heartbreak), or we could get buried.

Best I figure it, Monty Hall has set up:

Door Number One: I can give up the season for lost, sit back and watch the kids, try to figure out whether any of them are future Major Leaguers, start dreaming up a free-agent wish list, watch Miguel Cabrera get walked twenty zillion times, and find some way to go to an Arizona Fall League game. If I do this, and the Tigers end up making the playoffs, I will be Benedict Arnold in my own heart.

Door Number Two: I can keep the faith. I can get my heart stomped every night. I can find some way to deal with the pain (some way that doesn't involve substance abuse or binge eating). I can keep telling myself that we can win this division. Shut up. Stop laughing. Seriously.

Actually, my problem is that I cannot commit to either of these oh-so-attractive scenarios.

I'm looking for door number three.

Anyone....anyone????

Pulse Check

Soooooooooooooooo, mournful Tiger fans, how are you feeling three days removed from crushing disappointment? To be honest, I’m a little slow to shake this one off. Rogo of DesigNate Robertson was laughing at my pain yesterday. One good turn deserves another, so here are some funnies about his beloved Fighting Irish.

Sunday is the day I should have been attending a playoff game at Comerica Park. Hmmm. THAT’s gonna be a good day--more depression, another round of anger management classes, numerous tears to be shed. Sigh.

Arizona Fall League, I hope you’re full of interesting story lines this year. We’re going to need a distraction.

Shaking in My Boots

Um, I'm what you might mildly term a nervous wreck for tonight's opener against the Twins at the Metrodump. We play like garbage there most nights, and it's no wonder, what with the giant garbage bag of an outfield wall they have. That place is a nightmare. Our record against the Twins this year at the dome is a terrifying 1-5. Let's all give thanks the place is being shuttered after this season.

Another reason for my trepidation is Minnesota's manager Ron Gardenhire. I respect him highly as a manger, and he squeezes more victories out of a smaller payroll than anyone I know. He also seems to be a genius in the motivational department, as the Twins are always making a late run at the playoffs.

Why is the fact that Justin Morneau and Joe Crede (wretched Tiger killer) are both out for the season not making me feel any better? Sigh.

I feel a great need for moral support for tonight's game. Shall we designate a sports bar to meet up, hold each other's hands and make it through this game together? Just name the place, I will be there.

17, A Number I Loathe

I'm brimming with disgust right now that our magic number stands at 17, after four straight losses. I know that the Twinks and Sox continue to help us out by losing when we lose, but I'd like to put a dent in this number already. We have to play the Twins and White Sox seven and six more times respectively. That scares me more than the fact that my house is now worth less than a big bag of cat litter.

We need to win tonight. I'm sorry, but that's just how I feel. I'm not in panic mode, but I don't want to see us take this thing to the last game of the season. That was exciting in 1987. This year, it would cost me several thousand neurons.

OK. Our pitching is scuffling big time right now. Our bats are trying to enter early hibernation. Well, let's break out of this funk now, seal the division and focus on the playoffs. Please? I'm not too proud to beg.

I will say one thing about Fernando Rodney's suspension. I didn't see it happen, but watched the replay. His weak attempt to say he was tossing the ball to fans has no credence whatsoever. The penalty was excessive, but why appeal? Serve it right away and get it over with. We will need him down the stretch. I really find that whole move totally bewildering. Don't take a stand on principal when you're in a pennant race. If it had been like 10 games, fine, but three? More disgust.

I would like Sean of Trumbull and Michigan to break out his preseason blogger predictions and see how many of us thought the Tigers would make the playoffs. I believe that I responded yes to that question. Let's hope that holds up so I can brag about my foresight, defying baseball analysts and whatnot.