As if it wasn’t bad enough that Fav-ruh had tricked a nation into mispronouncing his last name, now he’s got everyone in New York donning green-tinged slices of cheese on their heads. You know, I didn’t love that he turned us into a country of idiots, but I am personally affronted by what he’s done to my city. If there’s a green cheesehead-wearing Jets fan amongst my readers, just remember, he joined YOUR team. You didn’t become a Packers fans. Have some dignity.
However, there may be a silver lining to the ongoing sense of disgust and futility I’ve experienced since the discovery that the Jets was a team without a soul. (Imagine—a sports franchise without a soul. The disillusionment stings. Or as Yallof would say, it not just hurts, it stings.) Farvil thinks he’s soooooo clever. He thinks that by playing for the Jets he can turn things around, help them to finally recognize their full potential. What he doesn’t realize is that, by agreeing to become a Jet, he didn’t change the team’s fate—he signed up to share it. It doesn’t matter what he contributes or how well he plays, as evidenced by his performance in yesterday’s loser against the Redskins. The Jets are simply doomed to fail. It’s their destiny. So, in a sense, by playing for the Jets, Farvie is exacting upon himself a better revenge than I could ever have dreamed up myself.
You see, in exchange for ruining my football season and severing my allegiance to my old team, Fav-ruh is going to be forced to endure the same kind of suffering and confusion that I have had to endure for years. That would be the suffering and confusion that automatically accompanies an affiliation with the Jets. It’s the suffering and confusion that has you walking away a loser, time and time again, despite the fact that all the elements for victory appeared to have been in place. It’s the suffering and confusion of going 5-6 for 48 yards and being still unable to secure the win. Might I add that MY new team—the Dolphins—actually did win theirs yesterday with Chad Pennington going 5-6 for 53 yards. Seems sort of unfair, doesn’t it? Well, get used to it, Farvil. Get prepared to have a taste of your own medicine. You’ve made a fool of the nation, my city, and my former franchise, but the Jets, my friend, are gonna make a fool out of you. They’ve done it to betta’ men. I guarantee it. In the meantime, I guess my cross to bear for the season is that I will have to continue to eat, sleep and breathe the latest on how you just flew in from wherever and, boy, is your arm tired. To quote Josh Zerkle from deadspin.com, “Just the thought of it has me pining for another Peyton Manning commercial.”
As an aside, Redskins, I’m gonna give it to you straight. Change your friggin’ name. I hate to have to be the one to point out the elephant in the room—yet again—but it’s 2008. Seriously. I don’t even know what to say about it that isn’t totally obvious to anyone who isn’t racist. While we’re on the subject, Indians, why is your logo so crazy? I mean, it's crazy, right? I can't possibly be the only one who thinks it's crazy. Isn't everything that I'm saying here normal and obvious? Or am I just living in the lake house with Ian Kennedy?
Speaking of the lake house, don’t look now, but the Yanks finally decided to win one. It’s like 1998 all over again. I don’t want to take away any of rookie Brett Gardner's well-earned credit, but I think I might have figured out the key to yesterday’s success, and it’s me. Normally, when the Yanks are tied and it’s late innings, I do what any hot-blooded Bomber’s fan would do, and I watch. Hell, I do that if we’re down by ten and it’s late innings. Well, yesterday, I decided to do something radical. With the score tied at three going into the tenth, I left the house. I took my dogs for a long walk determined not to return home until the outcome had been settled. Apparently, it was the right move. Apparently, all the sleep I’ve been losing to watch the conclusion to some recent nail-biters has been in vain. Apparently, when it’s close, the best thing that I can do for the Yanks, if I truly care, is what I would do if I didn’t care at all. Yesterday was a fluke. I did it not so much because I thought it might help but because I couldn’t bear to see my Bombers bomb again. However, now that I know it to be my obligation, it’s going to require some serious discipline. Let’s see if I have what it takes. Someone’s got to pull her weight around here.
Gardner does deserve some props, however, for his thirteenth inning walk-off single. It’s good to know we’ve got someone out there swinging the bat when it counts. The ever-streaky Robbie C. also helped out by knocking in an RBI triple in the seventh, without which we wouldn’t have even seen the light of extra innings. Let it be noted that Robinson Cano has “Low” by Flo Rida as an at-bat song, and this accounts for 20% of why I love him. It’s a song that tells the confusing tale of a man and a stripper, whose relationship may or may not be confined to the strip club. It's unclear. The reason I suspect that the man may spend time with the stripper socially is that the outfits he describes her as wearing sound oddly not like outfits a stripper would wear on the job—baggy sweatpants and Reeboks with the straps? It ultimately doesn’t really matter because, as Flo Rida puts it, “I’ma say that I prefer them no clothes. I’m into that, I love women exposed.” Who doesn’t? In any event, I just want to give Robbie his due because, unlike Betemit and A-Rod, he picked himself a solid song.
Our pitching staff also deserves its due for yesterday, with our favorite Arubian Knight going 6 and 1/3 innings allowing just two earned runs. Even our bullpen managed to hold it together, with an impressive 6 and 2/3 scoreless innings. Not to mention the fact that, as I write, we’re killing it. Moose took a pounding in the first, but our offense saw that pounding and they raised it—by a lot. Not to mention the fact that Upper-deki might be joining the team as soon as Tuesday. So, things are looking up. Question mark.
I’m just going to go ahead and let everyone know now, while it’s tied, that the White Sox are my official pick for the ALCD. What can I say? I’ve just got the love for Nick Swisher, former Yankee Jose Contreras (injured or not), and Griffey Jr. The Twins have a young, energetic team, and they know how to play solid ball together. It’s a well-oiled machine. The Sox are going to have to rely on their power, the know-how of their veterans, and the Twins' really unfortunate late-season schedule. Worst case scenario? The ChiSox can always sick Ozzie G. on anyone who’s posing a threat. Mauer? Morneau? Please. Ozzie G. eats guys like them for breakfast. I just can’t get enough of him. Badder than old King Kong. Meaner than Barry Bonds.