The DEFEND Cleveland Show

Mr. Selig, Are You There? It’s Me, Jon Conley

File photo of MLB Commissioner Bud Selig during a news conference in New York

 

I enjoy the storied tradition, though it is often more harrowed than anything. It really is wonderful trivia. Which two (really three, really four this year—four? what the hell?) days a year have no formal American sport? What a beauty to have such consistent phenomena and flair that you can form trivia around it and what are we versed in, in America? The trivial.

I can self-diagnose anything from the common cold to borderline-personality disorder to cause of death-asphyxiation. I know, for instance, which choirs are singing at both the beginning of the Rolling Stones’ You Can’t Always Get What You Want and the end of Marvin Gaye’s What’s Going On (follow up: I also know what a tabernacle is). I can tell you how to jailbreak an iPhone or what the point of a dog’s dew claws are. I can also tell you which two surgeries are commonly used to remove those dew claws. I can get you from Audrey Hepburn to Korean director Kim Jee-Woon and back to Shirley Temple in five easy IMDB moves and similarly I can get you, with Pandora logic, from any song to Smashmouth in four. Did you know that the Shang Dynasty used spoons made of bone? Of course you did.

But let’s get serious. Aside from Kipnis having his moment in the sun (which was great but really I only read of it) what is the point of All-Star bullshit? If there is an injury, guess what? It’s to an All-Star. Anyone getting hit by a pitch is an All-Star. If someone injures themselves throwing? guess who? A fucking All-Star pitcher, that’s who, for some hopeful and now devastated team.

Worst of all I have four fucking days without baseball in an Indians’ season that is so reminiscent of the chemistry-laden mid-to-late 90s. This group still needs something be it a hitter, starting pitcher, closer. There is room for a few one-offs. But their success right now seems so contingent on momentum. The possibility to win any series with any team is there and within that statement lies dormant to issuance of a title possibility. If you can run 5 miles, you can run 10.

So why interrupt it? Fucking why?? The past four days have become pointless as the days drift to no certainty and the dark nights hopelessly wander. Last evening I caught up on whatever hardly mediocre fare the television offered up for adults in the summertime, sapping drama, and I, unabashedly, was thinking of balls. I didn’t tell my wife.

Then I awoke this morning—grief and embarrassment had passed, the evening to night, the night to dawn—to lament on the three passing days where there was no sport and solemnity took hold. I had already several well-developed thoughts to use which involved—an Em dash—and I come to find that the Indians do not kick off until the Friday after the goddamn All Star break. If there is one sport that needs no break it’s baseball. You could potentially play all of 9 innings and never break a sweat. And often the best games are when the players don’t break a sweat, it’s the ones where I do…and I have to wait another dumb day to watch.

 

-Jon Conley

 For more great offerings from Jon, follow him on Twitter and Tumblr.

 

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Posted by on Jul 18 2013. Filed under Featured, Show Reports. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0. You can leave a response or trackback to this entry

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