Aaaaaaaaand...We're Back!

 Kids!  Faceless entities!  And, also enemies!

We're back!

As much fun as I was having enjoying retirement there was just this constant nagging to return to shoveling pound after pound of unicorn shit.  They were right, work is never work if you love what you do.

I'm just kidding.  The powers that be called up and said I had to come back.  They said something along the lines of, "If they brought back MacGyver, Full House, 90210, Heroes, Dynasty, Hawaii Five-O, Roseanne, Magnum P.I., Who Wants To Be A Millionaire, Supermarket Sweep, and now Dexter...then we're gonna roll the dice on you too."

And I really get it, because, coming up with an original thought these days is super hard.  We're better off taking someone else's idea and running with that because it is waaaaay, way easier.  But we can't just say we took that person's thing and are now making it our thing, that will never float with the general public.  They're still pretty staunch on their stance on stealing, even after all these years. (Alliteration bonus points?)  But if we give it a fancy title...hmmm...now we might be onto something.  I've got it!  We'll call it a reboot!  We can do it to movies too!  It'll be great, we'll make the same thing twice at two different intervals in time, and these idiots will eat it up because it's nostalgic and new at the same time!  Even though they can just go back and watch the thing they fell in love with in the first place, they won't!  This is new!  This has Will Smith in it!

Well.  Sorry to disappoint.  This is not a reboot.

It's the same.  It's always the same.  If someone else came up with a sports blog centered around a unicorn stud farm then that is just a really gigantic coincidence.

And I know what you're thinking.  "Wait a minute, he's been gone for longer amounts of time BEFORE he actually announced a retirement than he has AFTER he announced a retirement.  What a jerk."

What can I say?  I'm precocious?  

Ah, to Hell with it.  I don't know where the train is headed either, just sit back and enjoy the ride.  Come on, join the joyride.  Be a joyrider.

So let's begin our grand return with the grand return of something I love very deeply that hasn't happened since 2008.  Kids, the Tampa Bay Rays are back, where they belong, in the World Series.

Shall we?

Back in 2008, I was simply blindsided.  You see, and I've mentioned several times in the ten damn years we've been doing this shit, that before 2008 the Rays were absolute dog shit.  Then Maddon came, and Longoria, and Price, and then we crawled out of the darkness and got ourselves a nice tan on our pasty whites.  But we crawled too far and found ourselves out on the big stage against the Phucking Phillies.  We were young, naive, and dare I say...precocious?  We didn't realize at the time that some scum bag that probably hates Betty White, a one Cole Hamels, sold his soul to the Devil in exchange for a title.

By the way, kids, before I continue, quick update on Cole.  He's doing great, actually.  He's really coming into his own as one of those human advertisements on the side of the road.  His sign flipping is something to see!  Supercuts has never been busier, so congrats, Cole.  You've made it.

Bitch.

Anyhoo, since 2008, all three of my aforementioned favorite Rays have since dearly departed.  Don't misunderstand me, they're still alive, they're just dead to me.  Yet somehow, the Rays have dabbled, dipped their toes in, and sampled...success.  They've been in the conversation for the majority of the last twelve years buuuuuut we have yet to close the deal even though we've been really charming and doing everything right and not rushing right to the bedroom.  It's really quite a shame.

Then 2020 came around and literally everything became a waking nightmare.  I wasn't even sure we would have baseball in the first place.  But then we did...and we ended up in first place.

Then we beat the Canadians.  Then we beat the Yankees.  Then we beat the Asstros.  Still not a typo.

Now, here come the artful Dodgers, and everything is going according to plan.  You see, I wanted all of these teams.  All of them.  I mean, Canada just kinda tagged along, but I wanted New York, I wanted Houston, and I want Los Angeles.

Why?  Trust me, I didn't develop a death complex in the last three months, I just knew we could beat them.  And we did.  This is it.  This is what I prophesized when we were having that whole discussion about splitting custody between St. Pete and Montreal.  I said go for broke, win the whole damn thing, give them all the finger, and then blow it all up.

Do you know who the Rays are right now?  They're playing with house money.  We're not the same virgin nerds from 2008 that you remember.  We're now chain-smoking, leather jacket wearing badasses, that come with complete reckless abandon!  Sure, we're still virgins, but we've seen some tits and even felt a few, goddammit!  Still counts!

I can't imagine how much pressure the Dodgers are feeling today.  If Kershaw stays true to form and comes out and absolutely shits the postseason bed, then holy shit, things are gonna get weird.

I'm not going to give a prediction on who I think will win.  I will simply hope for the best.

But I will say, I feel a lot different today, than I did in 2008.

Get back to floating, graceful swans, and let's go Rays!

Put The Devil Back In It

I want to wallow in pity.

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.