photo by Samara Pearlstein
Driving home from work tonight, listening to a bit of the Red Sox game. The radio guys are talking about what a nice night it is at Fenway, good offensive production, beautiful weather, just a ‘perfect’ night.
“Except for that Yankee score!” one of them adds.
OH NO, thinks I. WHAT HORRORS AWAIT ME WHEN I FINALLY DRAG MY EXHAUSTED CARCASS HOME AND TAKE A LOOK AT THE DETROIT BOX SCORE?
What do I find when I get home? Only my multi-season nemesis, MILLION-PITCH VERLANDER, rendered even more acutely awful because Curtis Granderson hit a home run off of him (probably breaking poor Justin’s heart into a thousand pieces) (not that I’m projecting or anything) (nope, not a bit), and Jorge freaking Posada stole second base, and all this was happening in front of Yankees fans.
I also found the saddest of sad Verlanders:
“This,” Verlander said, “is the worst I’ve ever felt on the mound as a professional baseball player, bar none. I feel like I was so far from where I needed to be.”