From the beginning of the season I had planned to choke back my pride and ackcherley spend money on tickets to see the Feesh at Scrooge McLoria’s architectural teratogen, Macondo Banana Massacre Field, in order to be there when Ichiro got his three thousandth hit. Instead, I’m sitting by my hotel window in South Kensington, watching the traffic go by on Sloane Avenue on a lazy Sunday morning, as I contemplate instead watching on my laptop as the Feesh play the Rocky Mountain Oysters half a world away.
Ichiro needs only one more hit – hell, even a Trump supporter can count that high, assuming he hasn’t blown orf both hands lighting cherry bombs too close to the bottoms of the fuses while beered up – to reach the magic 3000 (and PS, I have searched the mythological and anthropological annals for any evidence of a ‘magic 3000’ in any culture, ancient or modern, besides baseball, with no success). He’s starting today at Coors Field. I can only wish him the best.
Go git it, Weezard.