Evening temperatures last night were around 61 F., and the daytime mercury barely topped 80. The Feesh were feeling April too, as for the second night in a row the boolpen gave up three runs to one of the worst hitting teams in beisbol and obviated a quality start from Justin Nicolino (6 IP, 2 ER) and, as they did yesserday, giftwrapped a Mofo’s Day present for the recuperating Feelies, 6-5. Karellan in Childhood’s End says that time is circular, so perhaps it’s just April again. The victims were Alexei Ogando and David Phelps, the latter taking the blown save and loss as his eighth inning magic of the past two weeks suddenly turned to goopher dust.
The Rainbow Warriors dropped to 14-12, a full game behind the horsemeat and Velveeta eaters, and are now back in fourth place, where they seem most comfortable. On the bright side, Chris Johnson smacked his first of a presumably few dingers today in his push to become useful again after last night’s ridiculous, game-costing error. J T Realmuto and Martin (.396) Prado continued their hot hitting.
Bud Light’s former franchise comes into town tomorrow, and El Keed, still seeking stability, takes the mound. I may well go if I can con my lawyer into coughing up another ticket from his firm’s box. Meanwhile, happy Mother’s Day – I got roses for my wife in a pre-emptive strike yesterday so I was able to relax today. However, I can’t shake this lingering fear that parthenogenesis will wipe out father’s day within a couple of generations, as it already has for the African clawed frog.
With no game to watch tonight I’ll be reading cyberpunk progenitor William Gibson’s collection of essays and reviews, Distrust that Particular Flavor. When I’m done with it, I’m going to put it on my bookshelf next to manualtypewriterpunk progenitor Jim Harrison’s The Raw and the Cooked.
The strange attractor waxes redundant: