Clay, if you screw this up, I swear I will make an effigy of you out of cardboard and flick it multiple times.
7:49: So, at work. A late deadline once again…
but I did happen to catch that run in the second.
And I did happen to notice that the Orioles have had 4 hits.
You know, and how we haven’t any…
So… um… Clay… dear…
I swear on the grittiness of baseball dirt, on the existence of preservatives in yellow hotdog mustard that I will throw a grade A, circa 1986 temper tantrum if you mess up our winning streak.
Do you hear me Clay Buchholz? I have had a long fricking day and we are not going to lose to the fricking Orioles! Who, in my opinion, are going to show themselves as the worst team in baseball (after Tampa. Give it time).
Now, I know we’re not super-losing yet. I know that we’re only in the second inning. I just thought that I should communicate my feelings to you, Clay Buchholz. You know, before you pitch in the third inning.
Oh. My. God.
12 hits? to 5 hits? Really? TWELVE HITS, CLAY?!
Mark Reynolds is batting. Bases are loaded. FRICKING loaded.
You know, kiddies. Like that time that we had the bases loaded and YOU, Gonz, decided to strand them on little itty bitty base islands.
Because I caught that millisecond.
And… Another score.
See? That’s what is supposed to happen when you LOAD THE BASES, Gonz.
And that is why we don’t let them LOAD THE BASES, Clay.
I am walking my dog. If I come back and it’s WORSE than 4-1? Well… let’s just say I’ve got plans for your cardboard effigy, Clay.
Okay. Let’s just breathe for a second. Okay? Okay. Just breathing. Breathing. Not thinking about icky-horrible-no-good-day worthy of a comic strip. Not thinking about Clay Buchholz cashing in that compounded interest on the bad day and losing to the fricking ORIOLES.
Nope. Not thinking about that. Just breathing.
Gonz starts the 8th. Okay. 9:31 p.m. Feeling good. Feeling fine.
A double. Okay. Thanks, Gonz. Okay. Annnnddddd a pop out for Youk. But that’s just one out, right? It will be just dandy… 9:34. Papi in the 8th. Papi, Papi, Papi. Strike out. Crappola.
It’s okay. It’s 9:37. We’re a “two out team,” Matt said earlier today. We live for two out moments, he said. Okay, Matt. Okay.
Jed Lowrie. Strike out. 9:39.
Matt Albers. I have lots of cardboard, Matt Albers. Lots of cardboard for effigy makin’.
Good. One on base and only one out. Nope that’s a strike. No outs. NO OUTS. Good.
SARCASM, MATT ALBERS.
An out. That’s something. I. Guess. 9:46 p.m. You know what, Boston? You make me sorry my work day ended. At least I’m writing magazine stuff on the river tomorrow. I won’t have to think of you people for several hours. I’ll work out my aggression on the whitewater.
Another out. Long inning. This is like the inning that time forgot. 9:50.
Three outs. Okay. Neat.
Time for a rally. What can I do to motivate you boys? See, it’s difficult when you live in a computer screen. I can’t even flash you.
9:53. RALLY. Now. Do it. JD DREW.
Out. Damn. 9:56.
Carl Crawford. Fah-fricking-tastic. And two strikes. Good. And a strike out. Of fricking course.
I’m thinking an exacto knife would work better for this cardboard. 9:57.
And SCUT pops out.