I have avoided reading the Houston Chronicle for the better part of the last week or so. There are far better ways to spend my time. Especially after a loss. Especially after the game 5 loss. Especially after the way the Astros lost game 5.
But today, in anticipation of the game, I took the Playoff section of that same Chronicle into the rest room, because a) I was hoping beyond hope that there was anything remotely interesting in there I hadn’t already squeezed out of pravata’s Google…(there wasn’t), b) a stall in a public restroom seems a pretty appropriate place to read Justice, Ortiz and Lopez and c) say what you want, but the Chronicle loosens stool, time after time. In fact, that may be its most redeeming quality.
And then I got to the back page, and just the fact that it existed confirmed something for me. Something that is true as the sun rising in the East, real as gravity and relativity, and sure as Lee Marvin could kick all of your asses without breaking a sweat…90% of baseball fans are idiots.
There is a special place in Hell for people who write letters to the editor. Where the toilets from that special place drain reside the 2 or 3 morons (Will Walk, come on down.) who write their letters religiously to the Chronicle Sports Desk. This isn’t a holier-than-thou kind of thing, or even a top-three-percentile kind of thing. I don’t think the collection of morons, invalids and village idiots who post on internet bulletin boards are, by in large more articulate, better educated or even more smarter than the letter writers. But at least they have the good sense to write something somewhere that will get responses and reactions. Which I assume is the only goal of sharing your thoughts on cutting Tony LaRussa’s hair prior to Game 6 of the NLCS. (For the record, I look at the Talk Zone more like the most twisted, anti-social bunch of psychopathic deformities I have ever run into! You’ve got one religious maniac, one malignant dwarf, two near-idiots… and the rest I don’t even wanna think about!) More likely, the assumption is that their opinions are so unique and insightful that they are above reproach, and should just be universially agreed with…kind of like the in-duh-viduals who came up with intelligent design and think that Jesus secretly buried dinosaur bones. Yeah, I have Carl Everett on the brain.
Obviously when you collect more than say, one of these missives, especially in a time when the citizens are feeling distressed, you’re going to get some great thoughts in print. For instance:
“Even if the Astros manage to win in St. Louis…a part of me will never forgive the Astros.”
“Once again, the hometown boys manager to mess up another opportunity…”
“I am done with being a fan.”
“…Destiny hates the Houston…”
“Another year and another crushing defeat plucked from the jaws of victory. It’s so hard to be a Hosuton fan…”
“Houston baseball is cursed…”
There was also some rambling bullshit about how expensive the the food at MMPUS is, how overpaid baseball players are, how players should only get paid if they win, and that the roof should have been open…I guess so Albert Pujols’ bomb in the 9th could have left the park.
Just so it’s clear…There is no curse, there is no jinx, there is no Pox on Houston sports and despite the fact that I made my very pregnant wife get off the couch and leave the room when David Eckstein hit that seeing-eye grounder, there is no association between what the fans believe and want and reality. None. Nada. Zip. Zero. Nunca. I also ran out of beer right about the time Hollywood Jimmy Edmonds took ball four. Did that cause Brad Lidge to spin a hanging slider? I haven’t shaved (my face) since the beginning of the NLCS. Is that why the Astros are up 3-2?
It’s a fun game to play, especially when the emotional investment is low. Evidently, like a lot of people that seem to have vented since game 5, it’s easy to quit watching. When the emotional investment is low, it’s easy to imagine a curse or a hex or a bonfire making the difference in a game. It’s psychological voodoo at its finest, and to borrow a term, it means fuck all in regards to the results of a game.
You want to get invested in the Astros? Watch the game. Watch every game. Don’t turn it off when they get behind, don’t shy away from the pain that another loss might (will) bring. Try to imagine how ridiculous the players think you are for being such a goddamn yo-yo. Better yet, go to a bar, grab a good piece of real estate and watch the game with some strangers and avoid at all costs the “here we go again” bullshit. Watch the game, root for your team, accept victory or defeat with grace. That’s your contribution.
Because tonight, Roy Oswalt is going to pitch until his dick falls off on the mound. He is going to carve up what’s left of the Cardinals line up like a goddamn Thanksgiving turkey. And then for good measure, he might even fling some shit towards Tony LaRussa, Joe Buck and the BFiB. Lance Berkman, Jason Lane, Morgan Ensberg, Craig Biggio, Adam Everett and all the rest of Houston’s team is going to kick the shit out of St. Louis. They’re going to tear down that piece-of-shit multi-purpose monstrosity living under the arches, and they’re going to stomp these motherfuckers into the ground.
Quit now, because there won’t be room on the bandwagon come Saturday. To parapharase the immortal Victor Franko…Hey! What’s the matter with you? You think I’m going to die? Ha! If you think that then you don’t know the Houston Astros.