So, it is with a heavy heart that I utter these words...
Fuck you, Doctor.
Jesus Christ, dude. Couldn't you of gotten me to dive head first into...I dunno, ANYTHING BUT THE NATS!? Yesterday's game was just one of many gut punches this year. I don't know if my boys can put up with being kicked that much more.
I admit, though, that this one may have been my fault. I watched Shawn Hill cruise through 7 innings, and up 4-2. I had to run to the store super quick, and figured that was as good a time as ever. I ran to Safeway, came back, and clicked the game back on. I'm pretty sure something to the effect of "Shit, fuck, God damn, motherfuckers," came out of my mouth. I jumped in during the top of the 9th. I had missed the very crucial 8th. I jumped on the laptop to see whose fault it was. "God damn hammer hands", I was thinking to myself. "No, he threw yesterday, I bet it was Colome."
Who? Really? Seriously? No! NO! NO! Not mi hermano! Not my buddy, Luis. He wouldn't do that to me! He was just blowing kisses and miming the meaning of Saul's nickname to me on Saturday night. (It means "little.... something". I say "something" because my charade skills suck, so I'm not sure what he was trying to act out with his second gesture.) I still love you though, Luis. You gave me something to smile about today while reading the WAPO's gameday recap.
Before departing, Ayala stood in a quiet clubhouse, an ice block mummy-wrapped atop his right shoulder. He refused to comment about his latest performance, saying, in English, "I don't speak English."
Fucking guy is funny, I'll give him that. Unless there's a rain out, it looks like Rental Perez up against that big eyebrowed Figueroa dude. I hate that guy, so it'll be good to see him give up 7 runs in the first two innings. Right?