Congratulations to the Wrong Sox– you killed a bloody lot of kittens this season, I hope you’re proud of yourselves. As one of my friends, with whom I went to one of the last home games o the season, said, “Hey, at least you can say you saw the World Champions beat the Tigers in person this year.” Twice, my friend. Twice. We played a big part in this World Series, Detroit did… without our gracious laying down of bats and arms whenever we ran into the noble Magglio-hating crew, the Wrong Sox may not have had enough of a pad to outlast the surging Racist Logos at the end of the season.
And so the long, cold, football-laden offseason begins, filled with intrigue (who will Ugie go postal on next? how much weight is Dmitri Young gaining RIGHT AT THIS VERY MOMENT? how many more times am I going to have to violently argue against moving Brandon Inge back to catcher this winter?), hope (goodbye Higgy, goodbye JJ… hello potentially healthy Maggs!), and big fat honking questions:
WHO will we pick up in free agency and will they actually help?
WHAT will be the status of Carlos Guillen’s Surgically Repaired Knee (a proper noun in its own right, if you recall)?
WHEN will minor league pitchers Zumaya and/or Verlander come up?
WHERE is Kyle Farnsworth now, and can we get him back pleeeeeease?
WHY did Bonderman’s ERA fall down a flight of stairs at the end of the season?
HOW did Chris Shelton manage to get himself a fiancée? I kid, I kid, we love Chris Shelton here at RotT, and we freely acknowledge his studliness.
It’s just a studliness that’s a sort of… an acquired taste, is all.
If you’ll excuse me, I need to go wallow in the pain of the baseball season being over for a little bit now. I am sure that many of you feel much the same.