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Right then. I've had some coffee, and read my sports blog round, and checked out the latest Bill Simmons, and caught up on my friendslist. And the pessimism and doomsaying I have found has really depressed the shit out of me. So this is me cheering myself up.
I feel physically ill. I do. I'd like to throw up on Pujols, if I could, and then have a second go on Brad Lidge. Wanna know the last time I felt this hopeless and despairing about baseball?
A year ago yesterday.
A year ago yesterday, I was on the phone with my dad, both of us reeling from a 19-8 loss, and I said to him, "They better either lose tonight or win tonight and the next three nights, because we can't take this prolonged agony."
Obviously, the team I am talking about is the Red Sox, and the series in question last year's ALCS. And we all know which of those two options they chose. And I'll be honest: I didn't think they would. There was one tiny part of me that still hoped, that still insisted it wasn't over yet, but I'm not going to pretend I embraced it. I tried hard as I could all day long to kill that little voice. Couldn't do it.
Well, that voice is louder this year. Even though I feel sick, even though I'd rather go back to bed than face work today, even though my brain is constantly trying to create images of Pujols's homer because I haven't seen it for myself, I can hear that voice loud and clear.
And this is not over.
We're still up 3-2.
We have two chances to get one win.
We have Roy Oswalt going tomorrow. We have Roger Clemens scheduled for Thursday.
We have a tremendous bullpen, and okay, our closer is sort of a question mark lately, but maybe this is just what he needed to get shocked back into being the best fucking closer in the National League.
Yesterday sucked, and we all feel sick, and I for one may end up arrested for assault if I see one asshole in a Cards cap who decides to pick on me in my Astros cap, but let's not start playing "Taps" just yet. Ignore your stomach and look at the numbers. We still have the upper hand. Do not forget that.
I feel physically ill. I do. I'd like to throw up on Pujols, if I could, and then have a second go on Brad Lidge. Wanna know the last time I felt this hopeless and despairing about baseball?
A year ago yesterday.
A year ago yesterday, I was on the phone with my dad, both of us reeling from a 19-8 loss, and I said to him, "They better either lose tonight or win tonight and the next three nights, because we can't take this prolonged agony."
Obviously, the team I am talking about is the Red Sox, and the series in question last year's ALCS. And we all know which of those two options they chose. And I'll be honest: I didn't think they would. There was one tiny part of me that still hoped, that still insisted it wasn't over yet, but I'm not going to pretend I embraced it. I tried hard as I could all day long to kill that little voice. Couldn't do it.
Well, that voice is louder this year. Even though I feel sick, even though I'd rather go back to bed than face work today, even though my brain is constantly trying to create images of Pujols's homer because I haven't seen it for myself, I can hear that voice loud and clear.
And this is not over.
We're still up 3-2.
We have two chances to get one win.
We have Roy Oswalt going tomorrow. We have Roger Clemens scheduled for Thursday.
We have a tremendous bullpen, and okay, our closer is sort of a question mark lately, but maybe this is just what he needed to get shocked back into being the best fucking closer in the National League.
Yesterday sucked, and we all feel sick, and I for one may end up arrested for assault if I see one asshole in a Cards cap who decides to pick on me in my Astros cap, but let's not start playing "Taps" just yet. Ignore your stomach and look at the numbers. We still have the upper hand. Do not forget that.
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Sorry. I am, honest. Although I have to say that the Farns is vindictively pleased.
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I do enjoy your icon, though. =D
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GO ASTROS!