I ask myself why I put myself through the morning pain of deciphering
box scores. What possesses a sane person to anticipate something as trivial and
useless as savoring a batting average, ERA, or the night’s run production? You
would expect a person sporting eight-inch thick lens – living in an isolated basement
room shuttered from the outside world eating canned beans prime candidate. Not
the case! I am that guy - sound of mind and curious with life options.
Baseball has been in my blood since I began watching my
boyhood idol Mickey Mantle whack them out of Yankee Stadium. The box score confirmed
my hero did everything witnessed the day before. In fact, with newspaper in
hand I could compare Mantle’s stats with the Giants Willie Mays or even upstart
Roger Maris.
I’ve been reading morning newspapers a good fifty-five years
saving the sports section until I feel earth is properly aligned with baseball
heaven. Some folks are bred on the business section of which I remove along
with the classifieds and whatever sales items fail to interest. That leaves me
section a, b, c, and sports.
If my Blue Jays
lose the night before I will wait until sections a, b, and c have been milked
of every retainable sentence minus the gruesome details of an on-going homicide
investigation.
This season has been particularly hard on me and my reliable
box scores.
What began as a season of promise has tanked in a manner
that would drive a less that sane game addict take a few bat slaps to the head.
Spring training is probably the least effective gauge of
things to come. My beloved Blue Jays
looked like the Cincinnati Reds of Joe
Morgan – Johnny Bench days with Pete Rose running wild going 24-7. I
bought into this like the sucker who buys a Rolex watch in a Holiday Inn
parking lot. Winter drives mind and body to places where only imagination truly
satisfies - usually a ride on the fairyland express. Yes, there is a baseball
fairy. Look under your pillow and discover an X-ray and a note detailing nine
months rehab.
The 2012 season started with a huge burst of dream steam
with the Jays winning 24 of 43. Then the world collapsed as one by one player’s
began to drop like frozen turkeys from that WKRP promotional episode. Goodbye
Kyle Drabek, so long Casey Jannsen, Drew Hutchison, Brandon Morrow, Sergio
Santos to injury. Then of course ace starter Ricky Romero began pitching like
it was batting practice.
Through all of the mound mishaps I still had my power
line-up – a place to bum a thrill.
Edwin Encarnacion, Jose Bautista, Brett Lawrie, J.P.
Arencibia, Colby Rasmus, in-coming Adam Lind, Travis Snyder – oh my – the 1927
Yankees. That beautiful box score was giving and giving. Encarnacion and
Bautista – whack a whack – home runs – RBIs - Rasmus sneaking up the power alley.
Adam Lind finds his power swing – Travis Snyder flirting with a .300 batting
average -then the apocalypse – Bautista, Lawrie, Lind, Arencibia - injuries.
Travis Snyder traded for pitching. Rasmus lingering groin pull.
Today it is August 20, 2012. I open the paper and another
severe beating occurred. My Jays
have been thrashed; bashed and stuffed like zoo pigeons. My delicious box score
is nothing more than a grave yard collecting zeros. I’m in serious pain here.
Pro football season is weeks away and basketball will be another eighty-plus
games of teeth extraction. Damn, spring training is eight months away. I sense
a pennant!
