While Cleveland was celebrating Howard the Duck Day (Cleveland celebrates Howard the Duck Day 365 days a year, except leap year, when it pays homage to R. Crumb) the Indians were smacking El Keed around for seven runs (six earned; the seventh was invested in a CD and doesn’t accrue interest until the orfseason) on twelve hits over five and a third, winning 8-3 and dumping the Feesh into the waiting maw of the strange attractor at 68-68 (the year I graduated from high school, prolly not coincidentally).
To the hapless Rainbow Warriors, who must feel like lookouts on the Titanic as their season slouches towards the orfseason to be forgotten, the Indians taking the field must have looked like a legion of horribles, hundreds in number, half naked or clad in costumes attic or biblical or wardrobed out of a fevered dream with the skins of animals and silk finery and pieces of uniform still tracked with the blood of prior owners, coats of slain dragoons, frogged and braided cavalry jackets, one in a stovepipe hat and one with an umbrella and one in white stockings and a bloodstained weddingveil and some in headgear of cranefeathers or rawhide helmets that bore the horns of bull or buffalo and one in a pigeontailed coat worn backwards and otherwise naked and one in the armor of a Spanish conquistador, the breastplate and pauldrons deeply dented with old blows of mace or sabre done in another country by men whose very bones were dust and many with their braids spliced up with the hair of other beasts until they trailed upon the ground and their horses’ ears and tails worked with bits of brightly colored cloth and one whose horse’s whole head was painted crimson red and all the horsemen’s faces gaudy and grotesque with daubings like a company of mounted clowns, death hilarious, all howling in a barbarous tongue and riding down upon them like a horde from a hell more horrible yet than the brim tone land of Christian reckoning, screeching and yammering and clothed in smoke like those vaporous beings in regions beyond right knowing where the eye wanders and the lip jerks and drools.
And the Feesh played like it, too.
The Feesh remain three back ‘o the Cardinals who got sheschmettered by Cincinnati, 9-1, and can only afford to be playing as badly as they are because the Rainbow Warriors have had their androgen cut orf by the losses of the Iron Giant and Justin Bour to the perpetual DL. Derek Dietrich has arisen from his slab after being reanimated yesterday, though – for what little it will accomplish. The Mutts won again, closing the gap with the Cardinals to one game. If that doesn’t awaken the Birds, nothing will.
The Real Baseball League second wild card is being pursued, if one may use da woid, as though nobody really even wants it. Bust your buns all season for a one-game playorff? One can discern the roots of this lack of enthusiasm. Meanwhile, the Feesh continue to drag the league for fewest runs scored and make noises about the Iron Giant returning for the last week of the season when, unless current trends double back on themselves, the Feesh will be counting down to their black magic elimination number. So why risk re-injuring him if the chances of making a difference in the three legged sack race are slim and none, inclining towards none? This would be especially true if Wei-Yin Chen comes orf the DL at the same time and any marginal gain by having the Iron Giant back in the lineup is offset by another one of Chen’s five earned run four inning stints anyway?
Anyway, the strange attractor is statistically satisfied this morning. Looks like it swallowed a bellyful, don’t it?
Ah, Howard. Ah, humanity.