(Reuters photo)With a whole week of absolute slackerdom behind me, and a heavy hangover in tow from the previous night, I've managed to claw my way back to the keyboard. Apparently timeliness in blogging is something this jackass doesn't get.
Anyhow, though there are a multitude of topics swirling in my cranium -- at least in between the rivers of vodka -- there is also a grand American tradition looming known as Opening Day. And from the part of town where I'm from, Baltimore, the thought of baseball season is just downright apocalyptic.
It's the pitching, stupid. That's all I can possibly say to any delusional O's fan who doesn't think we're due to endure another brutal stretch run after our bullpen's tires have fallen off from chronic abuse in the first half of the year.
When your No. 3 is some castaway from the Mexican League, and NBA reject Mark Hendrickson and Adam "Where the Fuck Did He Come From" Eaton round out your starting five, I'd say it's time to start selling more liquor at the stadium -- and harder liquor at that.
I also would like to suggest a raffle in dog days of August and September that allows one lucky spectator to play an inning in any infield or outfield position he or she chooses. So when we're calling up guys from Bluefield to fill the roster, and it's a swampy 99 degrees at Camden Yards, maybe a few people might give two shits about coming out to the park.
Either way, my masochistic self will be watching the O's, just as I have since I was driving my 1976 Chevy Malibu to Memorial to watch diamond legends such as Sam Horn, Randy "Moose" Milligan and the greatest fielding left fielder in my own delusional mind, Slak, aka Joe Orsulak.
Here's a little reason for hope concerning our pitching rotation: I hear Jose Mercedes has been spotted throwing Natty Bo cans with velocity and movement in an alley off of Guilford Avenue.
Another note of optimism, I believe we'll finish paying the contracts of Jay Gibbons, Albert Belle and Glenn Davis after this season.
Play ball!!
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