Let's admit it, last night made us very uncomfortable. The White Sox worked counts, came up with clutch two-out hits, and did a lot of things that probably made lifelong Sox fans; people who have followed the team and its habits, pretty darn uncomfortable. I mean, why wasn't Gordon Beckham striking out? How was Freddy Garcia pitching out of jams, and HOLY CAP'N CRUNCHKNUCKLES!!!! DID JUAN PIERRE JUST HIT THE BALL OUT OF THE INFIELD!??!?!?
Thank goodness, thank goodness
, that the White Sox are at least able to refrain from scaring the bejeesus out of us two games in a row. Two games would be too much. Waaay too much. It can't be withstood. It makes us think things...dangerous
things. Things like.....hope
Goodness...I sure am glad for tonight! It's good to feel safe!
And who can't feel safe after tonight's 3-hit effort versus Dana Eveland and the mighty, mighty third place Blue Jays? When the Sox are like this, I am free of worry. I do not have to worry about players getting hurt trying to round third too fast (stretch out those hammies between innings guys! Just in case), I don't have to worry about anyone catching a cold playing in chilly weather in October, and I can even start writing my game wrapup article three innings before the game ends because I know the Sox won't score anymore runs for the rest of the night...just like I did...tonight.....for this very game. Better yet, I was right, because absolutely nothing happened, and the Sox lost with an offensive effort that would embarrass an Orioles fan (That's for you Josh Talley, I know you didn't watch the game because it was local broadcast, but go on espn.com, or what am I saying? Chicagotribune.com, and look at the box score. I'll give you a moment........see it? You're embarrassed for me, aren't you?).
When I was in 2nd grade in touchy-feely montessori school, all the kids had to fill out a sheet detailing their activities in the classroom for the day. There were certain assignments everyone had to do, but there was also a considerable amount of time allotted where students were expected to have finished their assignments, but still venture out to do activities that required some level of conscious thought, rather than say, licking the radiator. At the end of the day, the kiddies were called to assess their performance. One would have to answer if their day was 'poor', 'ok', or the best grade, 'brain-stretching'.
Being a do-gooding smart-ass who never received the ritualistic beatings that would be a daily part of life in a public school in Chicago, I always had brain-stretching days. Always.
One fateful day, an even more fateful combination of a thunderstorm, one kid bringing in a whole box of pixie sticks, and the prevalence of gallstones in women over 50's with high-sodium diets led Mrs. Teacher Lady to stand on a very small chair, shake her fist and declare that "No one has had a brain-stretching day!!!!" For me, it was galling, as I had turned in my usual sterling performance, to find that I had been dragged down by the worthless performances of my counterparts.
Well, John Danks, you had a brain-stretching day. But no one is ever going to talk about it, acknowledge it, or ever remembered it happened because you're surrounded by incapable dregs who will suck down pixie sticks till their tongues turn blue, their eyes turn black, and every change-up thrown at them looks like it's thrown at 734 mph. Run, run, to free agency, John. Flee, hop, skip! Saunter away! Backflip out the door! Do anything! What's keeping you here? What possible reason do you have to stay at a second class team, in a hitter's park, WHERE THE HITTERS CAN'T HIT??!?!
Oh right, because we're so bad that your little brother will probably be brought up and playing everyday for us in a few weeks. You gotta stay for that.