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Jaime Garcia and The Curse of the Hot Lefty

Like a Hardy Boys adventure, only dumber.

Jared Wickerham

Is it bad that I have, at this point, essentially written off Jaime Garcia for the rest of, well, ever? Not in a huffy, angry, my gay friends all think I'm being overly dramatic, he's dead to me now sort of way, mind you; rather, I have just given up any hope of ever seeing him take the mound in an effective, useful way again.

With the news Jaime is officially entering the Land of Shoulder Surgery, his career is, to my mind, officially over. Sure, he's still only 27 years old, in what should be the halcyon days of his prime, but nope. He's done. My brain insists it, my heart agrees, and it's really rather sad. A shame, really; even with the pyrotechnic brilliance of a Shelby Miller or Carlos Martinez on this team, Jaime Garcia remains my absolute favourite Cardinal pitcher to watch ply his trade. It's just more fun to watch him than anyone else. When he throws a changeup that seemingly changes direction in midair, veering off in a way that doesn't seem physically possible, leaving Ryan Braun to helplessly corkscrew himself into the ground , it is just perfect. Sigh. Goodbye, Jaime. Forever, says my heart and mind.

I'm fairly certain it's because Jaime is just too handsome. After all, the last time we saw all this happen it was Mark Mulder on the literal and metaphorical chopping block (surgeons use blocks, right?), and he was also rather easy on the eyes, if I do say so myself. He was wholesome and tall and fair and American, where Jaime is all laser-cut beard and slightly mysterious Latin charm, but the end result is the same. I'm fairly certain there is a curse at work here, and I don't think it's very fair. It's why my onetime infatuation with bringing Jeremy Sowers into the organisation was almost certainly doomed to fail from the very start, come to think of it.

Ergo, I would like to propose that, from this point on, the St. Louis Cardinals are to steer clear of handsome lefties. Swear off them entirely, like a girl promising herself she won't fall for another guy in a leather jacket . She's nearly a grown woman now, after all; 22 years old is old enough to know better on His Kind. I leave it to others, bitchier, cattier others, to decide if, say, John Gast sneaks in under the handsome bar or not (I would say yes, but that's just me), or if Tyler Lyons is doomed to the knife before his time in the big leagues gets properly underway, but that's all just details. What matters is the idea; we have to steer clear of sinister, handsome men. Period.

What we really need is like the lefty equivalent of Aaron Harang, you know? Sure, he may look...unfortunate, but he sure can pitch. Never been an injury just waiting to happen, either, coincidentally or not. Maybe our friends will look at him when we bring him to parties, our new lefty starter, and think to themselves, "Huh. Well that's weird. They can certainly do better. Usually, anyway." They'll make eye contact with the other teams and share a short, amused look that communicates quite clearly that yes, both are thinking the same thing about our new starter. At the cocktail table later perhaps the Dodgers and Rangers will chuckle together, saying, "Well, you know, maybe he's got a really big fastball," as the Twins tell them both they're just the absolute worst.

Just uggos from now on, Cardinals. At least if they're left-handed. These handsome guys with the all-American looks and laser-precision cut beards just aren't working for us anymore. Deal?