They spent the first half with the best record in baseball. And now they are playing like the freakin’ Rockies.
I love them and they’re still my team — speak not to me of the Giants — but after such exhilaration, this is pretty damned depressing. And I know it’s depressing for them too.
I’ve always used baseball as a substitute for therapy. I love the rhythm of the game, of the announcers (though please God stop letting Shooty Babbitt fill in for Ray Fosse); watching the managers strategize and the tension of men on base. And I love a good blowout — provided it isn’t at my team’s expense, of course. But lately I can’t even watch. Work anxiety and depression has made me too close to the edge and another damned game where we issue walks or load the bases only to get NO ONE HOME is enough to boot me right over it.
As I used to tell my ex-husband, when he would have a conniption over his football team losing: You still have to go to work tomorrow, and they’re still rich for playing a game. I know that my life, personally, doesn’t change if the A’s bomb out or win the World Series, except in a little interior way (and some exterior whooping it up). But it’s still causing a whole lot of headdesking round here.