F**k You, Waiting. It’s Baseball Season
It is summertime and in the summer I enjoy drinking beer and skipping the daily shave. I like my weed addiction slightly less (well man I guess it like depends on the strain) but yes there are tendencies that the winter holds in her palms that must be melted for summer. The winter sees me with my windows up, face clean shaven every day and more whiskey in my belly than cascading hops. Elemental changes; ice to water, whiskey to beer.
I get up earlier in the morning and I think of running more. I stretch more. In the winter I think of lifting weights. Do I do either in either season? They have been done but do or to do are debatable verbs. My exercise is less transitive than subjunctive. In either case I would rather consult books on verb tense instead.
Obviously and not through choice does this hold true in the sport world. Changes are expected. I am no longer watching basketball nor football games (games the operative word). Baseball, with its grand indictment of the universe, is the new drug. She pairs with the length of the summer sun to suspend space and time. I could watch post-season hockey—but I could also go larping. And if I were looking for progressive action in something that no one cares about I would play Blades of Steel or Magic the Gathering. I am great at both.
Baseball comes in with sex appeal. She saunters (…and what writing she provides me with! what a beautiful woman to allow herself to be completely grasped by a fundamentally sound two word sentence! She saunters! Ah, she melts me.) The grass is always green, never greener, and if I don’t feel like losing four hours glued to a television following something which might ultimately disappoint, I can put her on the radio and continue my other summer activities of loafing and dazing. No other sport has the translation to radio that baseball does and with a game virtually everyday, a storied home team and the weather, what’s not to like? wherein lies the problem??
Not to repeat insipid adages, but it is the old habits which with difficulty decease (see what I did there?). I updated my ESPN app countless times yesterday to catch NBA free agency news and see how the body count is stacking up in football. I am pondering what the Cavs will do for their starting lineup, where the 4s fit in, who will finally learn defense now that Mike Brown and his Mothra-sized tongue are back in town, how the Browns’ switch back to the 3-4 will work, what they’re going to do with all of these backup quarterbacks. But isn’t that someone else’s job not mine? Someone on salary with executive power? I shouldn’t give two shits about which free agents Chris Grant is courting or how Chud’s depth chart is “shaking up”, to use the colloquial. I’ll be watching when the season starts any way.
But I guess this is part of the condition of being a Clevelander, waiting for next year and all that expectant but dishonest thinking, that we are never enough as is. So, fuck you, waiting. Fuck you, basketball and football (and hockey because why not, you hulking iced-over brute, where are your manners?). Fuck you, refresh buttons and fuck you, fall and winter sport. I’m taking my eyes off NBA free agency and NFL serial killers and OTAs. I’m going to give all of my shits to the team currently ruling from atop the AL Central tower.
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