I CAN’T HEAR YOU, I said, WHAT’S COOLER THAN … oh, never mind.

It’s a pretty helpless feeling, sitting at home, watching this team flail away at hittable pitches, booting balls, misreading easy plays, crushing the ball directly at the defense, making Ruben Rivera-style base running mistakes, wasting quality starts, and generally playing less like a championship team and more like the Twins.

Not the Minnesota Twins, mind you; the Little League team I played on when I was nine, when I got a total of three hits the whole year, won the “Coach’s Choice” trophy (everybody had to win a trophy), and my crowning achievement was striking out my friend (looking), the friend whose house I visited for several hours a day to play Curse of Monkey Island.

Sure, feeling like I’m single-handedly responsible for breaking my team’s slump may be putting a bit too much on myself, and may indicate just a weeee bit of pyschosis, but as you can see, we’re way past that. My hair is turning more dark-brown than black, my sentences are becoming more run-on, and my metaphors are making even less sense. WE NEED SOME WINS.

But let’s take a deeeeep breath, and examine what’s going on here.

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