I’ve stated repeatedly that when the game stops being fun to watch, one should stop watching the game.
I took my own advice Friday night through Sunday, and missed the Mets comeback against the Marlins, John Maine & Co.’s implosion, and Misch’s complete game. I don’t feel bad about that, considering I was ready to tear my house apart Friday night.
(And as to the questions regarding my last post: I was certainly not advocating any action be taken, least of all dismissing of management. In fact, I was merely making a reference to a humorous and fictional account of arson.
There; I’m glad that’s cleared up.)
I slept with my time off; tried out the new bed. I stared out the window and felt the sweet kiss of not watching a frustrating team. I had a dream about the Mets, sure–but who doesn’t dream about the Mets?–and when I awoke it was dark out. The series was over; the Marlins had been officially eliminated from NL East contention, and I felt a happy twinge of schadenfreude.
Better still, they’ve got six games left and are five off the pace for the wild card. Colorado, Atlanta, and San Francisco would each have to take a powder to let Florida in. The Marlins might take out one of those teams, but I don’t see them leapfrogging all three.
More joy at misfortune. Mind you–I spent some of my weekend reinforcing the leg of my desk chair, after slamming it into the floor a little bit.
There’s the right kind of passion and there’s the wrong kind of passion. Going C. Zambrano on the furniture is the wrong kind of passion, especially since I don’t make a dime off it. Evidence suggests the only thing that comes of getting so aggravated is the chance to miss complete game shut-outs by guys you definitely don’t want to see hanging around next year.
I would much rather be rooting for a fine finish than hoping against hope that Tim Redding doesn’t turn it on and thus pretend at being a viable option for 2010. It’s a crummy feeling. Didn’t think entertainment could do that to me. I hate this product like it’s my job.
Anyway, something to work on in the offseason.
Speaking of the end of the season, I’ll cement my Mets heresy by taking my hat off to the Yankees for clinching a division title. No crosstown hatred as a general rule here at Sec. 528–only irritation at individual acts of idiocy and/or Brian Bruney-ness. Someone this weekend asked via email where my rooting interests lay for the playoffs; I’ll dig my own grave a little more when all the spots are locked.
I hope all can tell that I’m a bit deflated here. I will try and perk up for the morning, and see what my psychosis can dig up in terms of fun topics.
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