Despite my proclamations to the contrary, baseball is most assuredly not a thing of beauty. To be sure, the game can be charming in its simplicity, its dedication to its fans, its sounds, and its cherished place in the American experience.
Truly, baseball is but a structured mélange of talent and the grotesque.*
Perhaps an "action shot" would better serve Mr. Mossi.So it was with great folly that I spent the eve of Major League Baseball's Opening Day in the the friendly confines of Washington Square Park, preparing in earnest for the most money-intensive of my fantasy baseball league drafts, the La Rocca's Home Run Pool.
When it is 77 degrees in the city, the grass is green, and the more emotionally-needy ladies of North Beach are wearing their bathing suit bottoms in their traditional fashion (internally), it is easy for a wide-eyed innocent such as myself to succumb to the cruelest of life's pitfalls: hope.
It's the same old story. "When all is clearly right with the world," one thinks, "surely I could not possibly fuck up the next 5 months of my life by drafting Adam LaRoche."
Not to put too fine a point on it, the brand of hope in question is not the pedestrian "I wish for a safe and prosperous future for my loved ones." Nay, the brand of hope in question is more the "For the love of all that is Holy, let us hope that Alexei Ramirez figures out what to do with that big piece of wood they keep sending up with him to home plate."
These are the glorious possibilities, these dreams of my drafting a rag-tag bunch of youngsters that will exceed their modest preseason expectations and slug their way to a triumphant championship for my proud "No Glove No Love" franchise.
And so it was that, surrounded by the dazzling sights, sounds, and less-than-dazzling smells of Washington Square, I finalized my draft game plan, opting to draft batsmen with high upsides rather than those so-called-established players I dismissed as last season's news. Carlos Lee? Not interested... it'll be Jay Bruce and his .176 BA for me please. I spit upon Lance Berkman's guaranteed 30+ dingers. I'll take the prolific Chris Davis, who is now hitting at a scorching .179 clip, which I believe gets you summarily executed in Latin American countries.
No Glove No Love skipper Nate Gallant expectsbig things from Ian Stewart this season.
Finally, I awoke yesterday morning [technically, as it was before noon] to the news that my veteran catcher, Brian McCann, can no longer see out of one of his eyes, which I can only assume will prove a problem when facing, you know, moving baseballs.
*Yet another surefire BumperSmash (!) contribution
to Bartlett's Book of Familiar Quotations
to Bartlett's Book of Familiar Quotations
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