Such is the life of a Cleveland Indians fan.
Was home during the day yesterday; flipped the tube on for a moment; saw that baseball was being played in the afternoon sunshine. I assumed it was opening day (that's how out of touch I am right now).
But nope, it was already the second week of the season, and the Tribe was already in last place and looking like they wanted to inherit the Earth. They aren't hitting, and they aren't pitching, and they probably aren't even fielding (although I won't actually be watching enough
While not caring a whit about them anymore
Once again operating on the If You Come, We Will Build It philosophy of business management, McDolan and McSons have put together yet another team that is wasting the fine core of talent that their equally fine (and, girlfriend, I do mean fine) general manager, Mark Shapiro, keeps assembling. Never in my life have I seen so many opportunities wasted as I have during the past ten years of Indians baseball. Throwing nickels around like they were manhole covers, the Dolans have squandered more potential playoff bids than the Indians could have even hoped for during the entire previous three decades of my life. Somehow the talent put together on the Dolan's shoestring keeps managing to surprise and make runs at least every other year, but it is never a surprise when they end up falling a handful of games short during those healthy seasons when they do make run. Because that is what happens when you try and contend on the If We Get Lucky Principal.
Yes, being an Indians fan is like rooting for the Mega Millions to come in. If all the random numbers fall your way, then something great will happen. And you are guaranteed a 1 in 1,303,509,833 shot each and every season.
You would not know it to read this, but I was once a season ticket holder. And even before that, when the Tribe was in their 40-year free fall of ineptitude back during my youth, I still managed to drag myself to a handful of games each season. It was baseball, and no one associated with the Tribe ever seriously made any noise about contending or being good, so I had the right attitude for living in misery.
I was like Robin Williams in Moscow on the Hudson: I loved my misery. You know why? Because it was mine. I could take it out and hold it. I could caress it. Then I could put it back in my pocket and wait for next season.
But now, with the Indians pretending they are trying to contend, rather than just admitting that they are merely fielding a team, I just feel like the saddest thing in the world is life, man. I have not attended a game in years, because when you pee on my leg and tell me it's raining, it really brings out the worst in me.
Hey, a whole post not about Lost or any television at all.
Bet that don't last long.