OK, I'm no longer so philosophical. In fact, I'm in the Valley of the
Shadow of Something Not Good. Like I'm imagining the proto-bloggers of
1988 Baltimore gathered around crabs and beer, grousing that their damn
team is 0-3 and wondering when it's going to end. Where does the AP get off invoking Jack Fisher and George Altman and the Class of '64? I thought that was our gig.
Losing streaks are like bad bouts of the flu: When you're in the middle
of one, you can't imagine you'll ever be well again. Clearly misery is
to be your lot in life, unless whatever you have is fatal, which seems
perfectly plausible. Then you get well and a couple of days later
you're vaguely embarrassed about all that drama.
Unless, of course, this is Baltimore and it's 1988….
Enough. No more. It's far too early to turn this blog into the Yusmeiro Petit Watch. Atlanta Braves, feh. Due for a fall, I say.
Just win, boys.
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