positive drinking

I haven't been a seen presence in the community, so it's presumptuous to create a fanpost, particularly when it's devoid of insight, statistics or poetry.  Alas, I've had a few beers (not a connoisseur, but I'm enjoying a Hoegaarden at the moment) and after a night full of that beautiful brand of anxiety that postseason-baseball-when-you-care-about-the-team offers, I want to say something (and my cats won't pay attention right now.)  So come along on a journey:  I'll type some words and even try to make sense (no promises).

Oh for that moment of magic that could have happened:  Rick Ankiel toes into the batters box.  Cardinal nation collectively prays for a performance that will be a remote dot on this gifted but struggling (and perhaps Harrison Bergeron-style hindered) athlete's clutchiness scatter-graph.  GOBs hear these prayers and decide that sportswriter's/commentator's haven't paid enough attention to Ankiel's story.  They stroke their mustaches and twirl their half-eaten hotdogs:  Rick Ankiel steps out of the batters box.  He asks the catcher if someone with a syringe just snuck up on him.  The expression on the catcher's face makes clear just how absurd Ankiel's query was.  "My shoulder," Ankiel purrs. 

The umpire is startled.  He decides to make the strike zone a little bigger, unless, he reconsideres, the amount of lightbulbs displaying the current time on the scoreboard amount to a prime number.  He looks up to count the lightbulbs and Broxton throws one 99mph fastball down the middle of the plate, a pitch he expects to be taken for a strike.  He plans to throw the 2nd pitch low to the right handed batters box.  Then for strike 3 he plans to send it  eye-level over the middle of the plate.  Then he will celebrate a game 1 victory with his teammates and insist that they go, once more, "big boy buffet style".  He's thought too far ahead though.  The umpire was on lightbulf 38 and has no clue where the ball crossed the plate.  "It's a whole hell of a lot of fun to make that strike motion with my hands," he thinks.  But in times of need any good umpire consults only one source.  And with the color of his moodring a definite green, he whispers, "ball one."  J. Martin says, "LOL, wtf.  Broxton chews some meat in anger and J. Martin calls out from behind the plate.  "It's all right Broxy baby baby baby, pitch two ten feet outside, pitch two higher than Geovany Soto, and strike three, oh, how about same spot as pitch two.  Then we get your buffet baby baby what do ya say."

Broxton settles himself.  Ankiel smirks having cunningly deduced that they're going to work him way outside on the next pitch.  (Beyond that he's not sure, he plans on guessing changeup down the middle for pitch 3.)  His mind begins to chant, "Don't swing, Dick, Don't swing, Dick"...the ball is a split-split-second from leaving Broxton's hand.  Even though he knows he's not going to swing he thinks it would be iffy to alter his pitch recognition method, so he closes his eyes and inhales deeply through his nose.  Only one thought (DON"T SWING) flashing in red on his eyelids, and then the crack of the bat.  J. Martin jumps to his feet astonished at how badly Broxton missed location.  Ankiel starts jogging toward first base instinctively, a classy homerun trot for sure:  it's all gifted ballplayer instinct at this point.  But his mind races, he turns to the dugout, "What's happening, foul ball right?"  But Boog is storming the field on Tony LaRussa's shoulders.  Teammates follow, and as the ball smashes Pat Sajack's stretch Hummer's front winshield well beyond the stadium's fair territory Ankiel realizes his success.  "You're starting forever Ank!" Tony screams.  Eventually the umps are able to file the Cardinals back into the dugout, reminding them that the game is not over.  But then Joe Thurston hits an inside the park homer on a blooper that Matt Kemp let up on only for Manny, dutifully backing up the play, to pick the ball up and draw a funny face on it.  The Dodgers contend that Thurston missed 1st, 2nd, and home on his trip around the bases.  But the umpires respond by wondering aloud if certain numbers are prime.  Franklin pitches the bottom of the 9th, three pitches three groundballs handled by Brendan Ryan.

"Got some pork roast on the ball Coach," Broxton says as he files into the dugout, heartbroken for letting down his team and the fans.  

So I'm nearly certain none of this actually happened, but if it had we'd be feeling pretty good about the series what with this year's Cy Young winner going tomorrow.  Instead, one crucial game down the drain, a lot of us feel pretty terrible about it.  A Carpenter start has been wasted, and by Carpenter himself no less (though obviously the offense joined in the losing effort tonight.  So it's a lot harder to think positive right now.  But there is plenty to pin some optimism too. ( Here's to 9 total bases tomorrow El Hombre!)  Perhaps I should offer some cause for optimism, so I'll start with the aforementioned Wainwright. 

To wrap this up with the obvious, It all rests on Wainwright now (all of it also resting on the offense too of course). 

Here's to several more night of Cardinals' playoff baseball.

PS Screw you Dennis Eckersley!