First of all, I want to return the conversation to Earth after an alternate reality somehow got established around 1 AM, a dystopia characterized not so much by the Cubs winning a World Series – that was already enshrined within the greater statistical matrix (though you would have needed a Super Cray to plot it).
No, I’m talking about the meme that the Indians, they of the racist logo with the whitely hegemonic rictus, they of the most boring supposedly “major” city (this is an apocryphal meme anyway), somehow made the game “tense” or even “interesting” on the strength of their scrappy spirits and the “shocking” eighth inning home run hit by Rajai Davis orf a seriously gassed Aroldis Chapman. The truth is that after Trumpsucker Joe Maddon prematurely relieved a dominating Kyle Hendricks with Jon Lester with two out in the fifth inning for the unpardonable sin of issuing a walk which should have been called a strikeout one pitch earlier when Hendricks’ bender curled neatly and plainly through the northwest corner of the strike zone, and then pulled Lester himself prematurely just as he was hitting his stride and replaced him with an Aroldis Chapman so gassed that any canary passing within ten feet of him dropped from its perch, Davis’ blast became as predictable as an eruption of Old Faithful (and because so predictable, the home run was not only not shocking but – let’s not all shout it out at once, now – boring, like everything else about Cleveland).
Which brings us to the subject of why the Indians lost. No, it wasn’t merely because two of their best starters were on the DL. It wasn’t because “the Cubs were the better team,” even if they were. And it certainly wasn’t because Bill Murray, Hillary Clinton or George Will were Cubs fans (and tomorrow’s polls will confirm that the viral photos of Hillary celebrating the Cubs win on her campaign plane have definitively cost her Ohio).
No, the Indians receded to cocktail party trivia question status because for weeks, Charlie “Wild Thing” Sheen had been lobbying them to throw out the first pitch of a Series game in his Ricky Vaughan dishabille:
Even someone from Cleveland could imagine the effect on the crowd – the announcer intones, “And now, to throw out the ceremonial first pitch…” as the boolpen gate swings open to the strains of “Wild Thing” and Sheen marches toward the hill. It would have been like Papa Manzano firing orf his cannon every day to awaken the soporified plebians of San Lorenzo in Cat’s Cradle. All hell breaks loose. Enthusiasm, at a level heretofore unknown to the community whose very likelihood of surviving the next major glaciation can’t be called into question, sweeps the crowd.
However the Indians front orifice – ever alert against anything smacking of interest or excitement (and we can expect heads to roll up there for having had the temerity to bring the team to the postseason at all) – turned a deaf ear to his plaints. Instead, they trundled out Jim Thome, about whom the only remarkable thing left is that his hulking frame doesn’t attract gulls – and so close to the lake shore, too. Beeeeeeeeeg Vahterrrrr! Thome enters to a smattering of polite applause and departs as beshrouded in ennui as a Clinton campaign commercial. The Cubs get on the board and the Mistake by the Lake goes as quiet as a tumulus. Unbuoyed by fan telekenesis, the Indians swirled down their karmic Coriolis and became the shadow homunculous of a miracle on the opposite side of the brane from their imploding dystopia.
Karmic Coriolis (bi-hemispheric disposition)
So, here’s to the Cubs and the long suffering fans of Chicago. Here’s to prof and her redemptive moment consecrating her new life on the east coast. And here’s to that loathsome Cleveland mascot. Goodbye until February, and good riddance.