Apologies for my negligence. I’ve been down in Boston the past week-and-a-half looking for a “real job”.
The job hunt is frustrating and I’m afraid it’s sullied my mood a bit this rainy, Wednesday evening. Nonetheless, I’ll plug away for you, my faithful readers (if I’m not mistaken, there are between two and five of you—ahoy there Jaíme!).
Ehh.. baseball… trades…injuries.. We’re in the belly of the doldrums, my friends. Mid-July rolls by like the grandmother at Christmas dinner who takes three hours to finish her appetizer, unaware that the rest of the family just wants to open some damn presents. Oooo, Joe Blanton went to the Phils! Mark Teixeira might just go about anywhere west of the Mississippi! Stars above, Tony Clark went back to the D-Backs! Really, its tough for me to get all worked up about baseball this time of year-- and no, it has nothing to do with me being a jobless bum at the moment (well, it might actually have something to do with that).
Take the past week, for example. The Sox were shellacked by The Los Angeles Halos of Southern California, Residing near Anaheim, Or At Least Playing In the General Vicinity (this never gets old). Then the Sox headed up north and promptly spanked the pants off the Double-A squad posing as the Seattle Mariners. It’s all so ho-hum, right? In the end, everything comes out in the wash. The Mariners will finish somewhere below the cellar, between the sewage canal and the compost heap, the Sox and Angels will probably face each other in the playoffs, and, if history is any indication, the Sox will probably win.
Mid-July is the giraffe’s neck of an interminably long baseball season. Every team takes a few shots to the chin, then administers a few in turn, but in the end the baseball universe tends to keep turning, as it should.
