Cal already weighed in on the MLB playoffs, but this October evokes a generally feeling that I often get from any playoffs where my favorite team has been eliminated.
My beloved Dodgers' fall from first place in the NL to fourth place in the NL West was not only disgusting, it was heartbreaking. Every day, Dodger fans saw their team slowly crumble as a result of failures to accomplish even the most minor of tasks, like not shitting themselves in the outfield. Based on the age of some of the guys on our roster, I wouldn't be surprised if Luis Gonzales waltzes onto the field next year in some depends.) Towards the last few agonizing days of the season, the once happy rapport that the youth on the roster
had with the grizzled vets turned sour, and they began to argue about petty things, like whether or not Billingsly left the toilet seat up. It all feels a lot like a breakup that you could see coming for miles. You're not even pissed off at the end, you're just depressed. (On the bright side, I don't have to watch some snaggle-toothed alien try to heave a ball at the fragile window that is our glorious past-time for at least six months.)And then October comes.
The once fond dream you had of your boys in blue (or green or turd brown or hot pink or whatever stupid color your team wears) raising a championship trophy for the first time in what feels like ages is gone, and instead anywhere between 8 [MLB, WNBA (Side note, why does the WNBA have playoffs? They should just have a coin flip for the championship and save me the horror of a WNBA playoff game taking up valuable airtime that could be devoted to a replay of the 1973 Stanley Cup finals or bass fishing or anything that's not the WNBA.)] to 64 teams [any ridiculous championship tournament run by the NCAA] battling to take home a trophy that should have been yours.
In fact, you know what the clusterfuck to the championship, regardless of sport, reminds me of? It's like watching that now ex-girlfriend that just broke up with you get hit on at a frat
party by anywhere between 8 and 64 assholes that want to take her home. (FYI, if your ex is getting hit on by 64 guys at a party, you fucked up bad by letting her go.) Of the guys hitting on her, there are guys you sort of like and guys you absolutely detest, and while you might pull for one over another as a lesser of two evils sort of thing, neither of those guys are you, and at the end of the night, no matter what happens, you can't help but feel a little jealous watching those cheerful asshole douse each other in champagne (feel free to extend sexual metaphor as you deem necessary). I just rooted for the Tribe to beat the Yankees and was slightly happy when they eliminated the Yankees, but ultimately, I returned to being depressed about baseball as the cameras cut to the Indians pouring Budweiser all over each in the locker room celebrating the win.
(Additionally, Budweiser? You guys are advancing to the ALCS and you're celebrating the same way a member of Sig Ep does when it finds an extra $20 in his back pocket? The guys with the lowest salaries on the roster make like $400K, the least you could do is chip in for something of a little better quality. I think C.C. Sabathia gets paid more per pitch than a fucking 30 pack of Bud costs.)
Speaking of Budweiser, I think I'll wash away the pain of the thought of either Colorado or Arizona winning the NL pennant with a beer myself because if I'm going to watch my ex get boned by some jackass in a Avenged Sevenfold shirt and "I Like Pussy" trucker hat combo, then I might as well get drunk and hit on some double-paper bagger myself. So hello men's water polo season, you'll do for tonight.
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