I want to embrace despair.
Dark clouds have formed over St. Petersburg and Rays manager Joe Maddon has bolted for sunnier skies--wherever they may be--but it's not in Tampa.
Joe's gone, kids, and with his departure comes the arrival of days that old school Rays fans like me are still all too familiar with even despite the team's recent successes. Those of you outside of my little bubble might find it a little difficult to understand why a manager leaving a team would be so devastating and heartbreaking to the fans when just a few months ago the same franchise lost their ace and didn't react as bad.
David was a gut-punch. It knocked us to our knees, doubled us over in pain, but gradually it subsided and a lot of it had to do with the blind trust we had in our genius leaders. They know what they're doing. They'll get us through this. It was that mantra that helped me keep my lunch down every time I saw David in a Tiger's uniform.
Then we lost Andrew Friedman to the Los Angeles Dodgers. To the Dodgers! They literally have enough money to buy and sell the Tampa Bay Rays about a dozen times over and still have enough left over to do it another dozen times or so and they poached the head of our baseball operations. I get it, trust me I really do. Big Money talks and everybody else shuts the hell up. Friedman is the next big thing and he deserves to get whatever they are willing to throw at him. I'm not mad at anybody directly I'm just pissed off at the whole goddamn situation. I'm not even sure at this point at whether or not it's irony or coincidence that one of the poorest people in Oliver Twist is named Dodger. I'll just take solace in knowing that he was of the Dickensian era and he probably died of typhoid.
Friedman leaving sucked but we still have his protege, Matt Silverman, and he's been with us for a decade so that cushioned the blow just a little bit. Instead of getting into a car accident where you fly through the windshield and then your own car rolls over you we just got into a car accident where we flew through the windshield and landed harshly on cement. Still alive!
Then today happened. David was a gut-punch. I can live with Friedman leaving. Maddon going is the death knell. We've just reached the end of the Mortal Kombat fight and those red, bloodied letters just appeared on screen, "FINISH HIM!" There's a very iconic part in the Lord of the Rings movie trilogy where Sam asks Frodo if he remembers certain parts about their home during that particular time of year. Because of all their trials and tribulations, going through Hell and back, Frodo tells Sam that he can't even remember the taste of strawberries. Strawberries! The very name elicits a cognitive motor response where you can't even define the taste of what a strawberry is other than saying it tastes like a damn strawberry! But I get it. Right now I can't remember what a strawberry tastes like either.
Why so glum? It's hard to imagine that success is on the horizon, say, without the only man we've ever had success with. Before we even delve into the four playoff appearances, the World Series appearance, and the multiple 90 win seasons, when I talk about success with the Tampa Bay Rays I am referring to simply winning and they couldn't do it before Joe Maddon. We didn't win. Ever. And sure, we've had some great seasons and some really memorable experiences but what's going to happen next? The future of the Tampa Bay Rays is like an alternative ending to Pretty Woman. Julia Roberts lives a life of poverty and prostitution, spends a glamorous pampered week with Richard Gere, and then goes back to poverty and prostitution. Roll credits.
Whoever said, "It's better to have loved and lost than to ever have loved at all" sounds like a pretentious dick that's dating the hottest chick in school. It's probably why I hate vacations. I don't want to spend three days at a Sandals resort and then go back to this hellish facade writing about why I care a 60 year-old man is making a career change. Damn this Twilight Zone, damn it all!
Whew.
Okay. I'm cool. I just had to get that out.
It's just so disheartening to constantly have expectations of what you presume to be the "right way" and only have it dashed to pieces. It's like if at the end of A New Hope Obi-Wan turns to Luke and says, "You know, I reeeeeaaally have this thing I gotta do so I'm going to peace out. Good luck with Darth Vader!"
I need a tub of chocolate ice cream, a Blu-Ray copy of The Notebook, and a solid forty minute cry session and after that I'll either be fine or ruined completely.
Don't float on, graceful swans, all is lost.
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