The baseball gods are for real.
Proving that good almost always prevails over evil, the Angels
came out of nowhere to save our national pastime. All things
considered, it wasn’t really fair. I mean, if you were a
baseball god, would you be cheering for the Giants, overgrown
beings who grind up bones to make their bread, or the Angels, your
very own messengers? That’s what I thought.
Not that it wasn’t close. So close, in fact, that the
baseball world held its collective breath over a grueling season
that saw our national pastime overcome obstacles such as deaths,
attacks on coaches, Barry Bonds’ ego, a near strike, a tie in
the All-Star game and Bud Selig.
That’s right sports fans; after struggling all year long
with a variety of setbacks, baseball almost died this past
weekend.
First the Giants tried strong-arming the Angels with a 16-4
spanking of the Rally Monkey in Game 5. It turns out that the
Angels, though their monkeys were a little sore, would not give up
that easily.
The Giants also turned to the psychological. In the seventh
inning of that same game, the Giants tried playing on the home
crowd’s emotions. And it worked.
With J.T. Snow rounding third and heading for home, Dusty
Baker’s 3-year-old son Darren was seen rushing out to
retrieve a bat prematurely. Snow scooped him up and saved him from
potential disaster. He did not know any better, you say? Yeah, and
Francisco Rodriguez really is 20 years old.
To use the innocence of a child to inspire a crowd is purely
sadistic. I am both saddened and embarrassed by the Giants’
lack of sportsmanship.
Speaking of lack of sportsmanship, why can’t Barry Bonds
just run around the bases like everyone else when he hits a home
run? He is a good player with a bad attitude; Bonds has to stand
and watch his moon shots, making them the most excruciating in
history. End of story, right?
Wrong.
After Kenny Lofton’s lazy fly ball settled in Darin
Erstad’s glove for the final out of the Series on Sunday
night, the camera panned to Darren Baker, the 3-year-old puppet of
San Francisco, with tears streaming down his face. How are you
supposed to celebrate a World Series Championship with a toddler
crying his eyes out in the opposing dugout? That is just wrong.
These factors were the final battle of the long and painful war
the baseball gods fought this season, largely against commissioner
Bud Selig. If ever there was a village idiot, it is Selig.
The conflicts started early in the year, with the commissioner
talking of contracting the Twins and the Expos. The dumbfounded
expression on his face when those two teams started winning ball
games was priceless. OK, so it is the same expression he always
has, but you get the point.
Jack Buck, longtime announcer for the St. Louis Cardinals,
passed away. Not a laughing matter and a huge blow to the morale of
the St. Louis Cardinals. To add to their grieving, starting pitcher
and team leader Darryl Kile died just weeks later as a result of
clogged arteries, further shaking the game of baseball.
Then the All-Star game, a weekend-long affair filled with joyous
festivities, ended in a tie. A tie! Who is responsible for such a
travesty? Look no further than the village idiot. Sir, are you
tying? There’s no tying in baseball! A tie is like kissing
your sister at the drive-in movie.
I am Fehr-ful of getting into economics, but the near strike
almost prevented the Angels from winning their first title in
franchise history.
Baseball has long been called a thinking man’s game, which
should have been a dead giveaway for young Bud that he has no place
in Major League Baseball.
Sunday night cleared up a lot of stuff for baseball fans and
players worldwide. David Eckstein will have to learn not to jump
into doggy piles of abnormally large men. Baseball will have to get
a new commissioner.
And the baseball gods live on.