Tomorrow morning my British wife is going to drag me kicking and screaming out of London, pretty much the way she’s had to drag me out of here on a regular basis for the past 35 years or so. We spent our last night dining on the traditional English tandoori mixed grill, bindi bhajis, mango lassi and split a celebratory bottle of Kingfisher. It’s dark now. I dread the sunrise with its black evil anthropophagous taxi to the airport.
At least I did get to watch on MLB.com as Ichiro the sinuous ageless wonder crushed that triple orf the rightfield scoreboard at Coors Field and then flew the bases like some Mercury with singed nates. I grant you that the Weezard is still only a kid by my standards (and certainly an anorexic by my standards). Nonetheless his inspiring season has got to feel like a pat on the back to duffers everywhere, to any of us who are still keeping up a schedule and workload for which we’re supposed to be too old.
No cricket this time of year but there has been a median skein of interest in the Olympidemics, nothing to rival the rapt hoards agglutinating in the pubs for text matches or backandforthandbackandforthandbackandforthball championships with not much more than dried beer barf gluing them all together.
I see that the Feesh are still clinging to their wildcard berth like remoras, even while losing two and a half games on the Gnats since I left. I assume it has more to do with the execrable play of the Mutts and, remarkably, the Cardinals than it has with the Rainbow Warriors’ mediocre pitching and sputterprone offense.
I also see that Chump has fallen ten points behind Hillarious along the CNN Pole of Poles. Oh brave new world that has such a fiasco in it.