The Feesh is Dead. Let’s See the Fingerlings.

A J Ramos melted down in the bottom of the eighth, giving up three quick (and perhaps merciful) runs to gut the Feesh, 5-2 for their fifth straight loss. In the process the already febrile Feesh lost centerfielder Marcell the Damned to a sprained wrist, meaning that now virtually the entire heart of the order – Ozuna, Bour, and the Iron Giant – are toast for the foreseeable future. To make matters worse, converted starter David Phelps, who has been pitching well, strained his left oblique and is likely done for several weeks if not for the season as well. At 67-66, the Rainbow Warriors washed up on the shores of September  a full eleven games back of the division leading Gnats, in third place two back of the Mutts who have passed them like a drag racer in the standings, 3.5 games out of the wildcard race behind the Giants, Mutts, Pittsburgh and St. Louis, dead last in the league in run production and falling out of relevance faster than Jill Stein.

Jar Jar Baseball  will continue to sound as delusionally optimistic as he always does, but let’s face it: the chances of seeing this beaten up team in the postseason are about as good as my chances for hooking a hitherto unknown third subspecies of coelocanth in the Gulf Stream. The Feesh’s so-called “playorf push” now looks more like this:

…but I guess since they’re at least playing real baseball for a living, we can take Camus at his word when he says he can imagine Sisyphus happy.

So, while the strange attractor continues to gyre and gimble in the wabe, we merrily throw open the gates and let the ephebes storm forth from their minor league holding pens and repopulate the forty man roster for our delectation and future enjoyment. We did at least get a peek at the future (such as it ever is while Scrooge McLoria holds the purse strings, wherever he’s disappeared to)  when Jake Esch took the field tonight as the injured David Phelps’ plug-in and threw 4-1/3 decent innings marred only by a hanging curve Wilmer Flores deposited in the seats. Esch didn’t figure in the decision and Ramos’ catastrophic eighth meant he wouldn’t have anyway.

If I knew how to calculate the elimination number  I’d start running a formal deathwatch here, so instead, here’s a bigger, badder, hungrier strange attractor that’s just pulsing with anticipation as the Rainbow Warriors sink meekly towards its equilibration zone:

Next in the ongoing Feesh seasonal postmortem (pardon me, <i>pre</i>mortem) series: did shaving do these guys any good?

 

 

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