Adam Conley’s Really Bad Night: Your Feesh Postmortem for 5/10/16

It be dangerous, mon, to be too successful within too short a time. Expectations metastasize. This has been as true for the Feesh in general as it has for any particular member of the squad. Hystorically speaking, this is a streak-prone team given to following up brilliant stretches when all its gears sync, like the 11-1 run that concluded with a couple of consecutive boolpen meltdowns over the weekend, with stretches of ineptitude like the one presaged by the debacle of last evening – which, in turn, was presaged by the TOOTBLAN on the basepaths between Marcell the Damned and J T Realmuto the night before. Now, I watch the Rainbow Warriors the way dweebs watch boids – doity filty stinkin boids – and I can tell you that these patterns of hot and coagulant are da troof. They are woven through the fabric of the team’s gillnet of destiny. Even Jar Jar Baseball is subject to them.

No doubt the Brooze had thought long and hard about being no-hit for 7-2/3 innings by Adam Conley last week. You could smell the resentment festering in their souls in the blank expressions, the aroma of singed polyester and the beercans crushed Captain Quint style spilling out of the circular files in the locker room.  And last night, these guys with no sense of humor vented their antipathies on the would-be young gun, driving him from the mound with four runs in his first four innings and then massacring his ersatz stemtidemen from the Feesh boolpen the way the Comanches wiped the floor with Captain White’s fillibusters in Blood Meridian. You saw relievers scalped, flayed, buggered and left in the dust of the mound. It was a monstrous and terrifying sight. Taking the worst penpounding was Jose Urena, who gave up four more runs in his two belabored innings. The Feesh, for their part, gave up after the second inning. Final score: Brooze 10, Rainbow Warriors 2. What do the specifics matter? It was messier than the bottom of a Shake-N-Bake bag.

So, the Rainbow Warriors now find themselves at 17-15, wedged ever more firmly into fourth place by the Feelies’ win last night, and tonight they send – happy happy joy joy – Wei-Yin Chen to the mound against the Brooze’z Paul Thomas Anderson, or whatever his name is. The strange attractor, of course, is beyond gibbous and starkly staring up from its pit in Ry’leh cyberspace. That hair standing up on your arm? Right. The effect of its tentaculous gossamer reality waves:






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