Thursday, October 9, 2008
Regarding October 4, 2008.
Fuck introductions. Let's do this thing, diary-style.
The Eve of Game Three: I'm told constantly that I get too emotional about my favorite sports teams. Putting aside whether it's a bad thing to be emotionally invested in a sports team (I say 'no,' though the hole in my wall may have a different take), the 2008 Milwaukee Brewers have turned me into a basket case. Here's how I spent the majority of my afternoon on October 2: thinking up synonyms for "fuck nugget" so I could write a semi-coherent and incredibly vicious attack on a player who, at multiple points during the season, I proclaimed to be my favorite Brewer. Then, in the course of emailing SB's Tony Gwynn to make plans for tailgating, I ask him to pat me down before the game to make sure I don't sneak any D batteries into the game, lest I be tempted to peg Corey Hart with a Duracell. SadIy, pathetically, I am only half-kidding.
The Morn of Game Three: You know how you know it's going to be a good day? Let's say you make a trip to Target for puppy chow and other assorted household-type shit, and, when you walk in the store, you spot a big display of "Iron Man" DVDs on sale for $14.99. Now, let's say that money's been a little tight for you and the missus lately, on account of a trip to Minneapolis and your car's battery randomly crapping out and getting playoff tickets and other shit like that. And as you eye up the "Iron Man" DVD like Prince Fielder gazing at a kiddie pool full of Skittles, your wife says: "I know how much you like that movie. It's OK. You should get it." Fuck and yes. You're with me, Tony Stark. That's a sign of a good day, my friends.
(You know what's not a sign of a good day? Having to clean a fish tank. Fish are the most fucking disgusting creatures this side of Doris Burke. Fuck, fish are gross.)
The Tailgate: So, everybody knows the story by now, I'm sure, and most everybody has seen the pictures, and I know everyone's heard my joke, but I still think it's a pretty good one: since we haven't had playoff baseball in Milwaukee in so long, Reid and Keith got confused and thought that there was going to be a Homecoming-style parade down Wisconsin Avenue. To that end, they bought a Corolla (or Camry?) off a meth-head in Lake Geneva for $400, painted it royal blue and yellow*, and slapped a few Brewer decals on for good measure.
(* The color scheme for the car raises a whole 'nother issue: Reid, more than anyone I know, hates the fact that this town still celebrates the '82 Brewers. He can't stand it when people wear the MB mitt hat or have throw-back jerseys or any of that stuff. He can't stand Retro Fridays. He once punched Don Money in the mouth, just because he was on the '82 Brewers. And yet … he painted that Corolla in throwback colors. The lesson (I guess): strange things happen when the Crew makes the playoffs. Lions laying down with the lambs and shit.)
This car was a fucking riot. Plus, the more you looked at it, the more shit you discovered, like the soup can holding together the exhaust pipe, or the half-a-baseball glued to the gas cap (the other half was imbedded in the windshield), or the trunk o' beer straight out of "Dazed and Confused." Simply astounding.
Pre-Game, Inside Miller Park: There were times this season when you had to ask yourself: "Is going to the playoffs really worth x?" Like when we traded for CC, or when Attanasio ordered the 11th hour execution of King Ned**, or when Sveum ran CC ragged over the last two weeks of the season, or when we brought Yo and his shredded ACL back four short months after his knee asploded at Wrigley.
(** Please, PLEASE do not take this statement to mean that I think King Ned still should have been managing this team. I do not. I most assuredly do not. He should have been fired in May. My point is that, by firing the manager of a team that was tied for the lead in the Wild Card with 12 games to go, Attanasio showed that he's kind of a loose cannon, which might give pause to some would-be managers in the future. As in: "You want me to work for a guy who canned his manager days before the playoffs started?" That's all I'm saying.)
Anyway, in short, the answer to the "is it worth it?" question became clear as soon as you entered Miller Park: Yes. Yes. A thousand times yes.
Top of the 1st: During my email exchange with SB's Tony Gwynn the day before the game, I mentioned that I was so emotionally drained that it was entirely possible that I would cry if Dave Bush managed to throw the ball well in Game 3. Well, it started getting dusty there in the top of the first. Down goes Rollins. Down goes Werth on an absolutely filthy 69-mph bender. And then Utley smashes one back up the middle, only to see Bushy spring off the mound like a hungry jaguar and snare that sum'bitch one handed. And the crowd goes ape-shit. Wow. WOW.
Bottom of the 1st: I don't like to pat myself on the back, but I like to think I had something to do with the success the Brewers found against The Rime of the Ancient Moyer (that one even made Chris Berman cringe) in the bottom of the first. From my perch in section 431, I threw everything I had at that bastard. "Moyer's wearing his age out there." (He wears No. 50.) "This inning is taking too long, Moyer promised he'd be home by 9 to watch his grandkids." "That pickoff move hasn't worked since 1984!" Yeah, I was killing him.
Alright, none of those things are remotely funny. But I was pretty drunk. And the mouthbreathers sitting in front of us (who turned around to high five SB's Tony Gwynn on damn near every pitch) had a good chuckle.
Alright, we're over 1000 words now. That's long enough, so let's call this part I. Part II may be coming later. If it doesn't, blame the Republicans.
YES WE CAN! YES WE CAN! YES WE CAN!