Rain falls softly on the East Coast on this Saturday morning, bringing with it not only a respite from the oppressive heat we have been suffering over the last week, but also bringing a heavy humidity that leaves everything damp and uncomfortable. The whole world seems gray and ugly. I woke up early this morning and smiled when I saw the time on the clock - I could go back to sleep and not feel guilty for sleeping the day away.
But this is a day to sleep away.
Still shellshocked from last night's whatever the heck that was, I feel the grayness envelope my spirit. I struggle to breathe the clammy air. It wasn't a nightmare, was it? It was losing a game after being up by six runs with one out in the bottom of the ninth. Suddenly, all of the confidence we had built up, all of the progress we had made in opening our hearts to this team after refusing to believe it was legit because we didn't want to be let down again, it was all blasted away by a few bats.
His name is Caca Cordero, and he smells really bad.
The league leader in saves, the league leader in blown saves, this piece of Caca of a pitcher reeks of processed meatballs and homeplates of wildness. He has always been an artery clogging type of pitcher who has induced his share of heart attacks, but recently he has been especially atrocious. Caca stinks, and his owner the Reds just leave him lying on the mound instead of putting him in the rubbish bin.
Are we overreacting? Perhaps. But for the past decade, there's always been that one turning point where seemingly decent seasons get pooped on by one or two games. This just feels like one of those times, and yes, do we know the feeling well.
But this team is different, isn't it? Isn't that what we've been saying all along? Well, flinging Caca at opposing hitters just makes them mad. It isn't working, and someone better cleanup this mess before it sets into the rug of victory and makes a stain on 2010.