 Frontrunners? Really?
August 19, 2008 – Well, here we are, friends, with front-row seats to watch the Phillies flush another promising season straight down the shit-pipe. They're crawling back into town after getting cornholed by the Los Angeles .500s and barely scrabbling by the baby-feeble Padres. This late-summer fade has become a depressing regularity–thanks to the Phils' tee-ball offense, I can tell it's late August even without my homemade Juggs calendar. But even though they're fading fast, surrendering the NL East like Charles De Gaulle, I'll still be down at the park, downing $15 beers and screaming like a savant for the likes of Walrond and Bruntlett.
And maybe, just maybe, if Carlos Ruiz grounds weakly to the pitcher or Ryan Howard whiffs on a changeup–trust me, I've seen these things happen–I'll let fly a few choice words. After all, I'm the one who had to sell a goddamn kidney to watch these toddlers get kicked around like a shrunken head. But apparently, I'm not "supposed to" curse, or boo, or threaten to saw off my left arm in protest. Why? According to the alarmingly mediocre Jimmy Rollins, I'm creating "negative energy" that will hewwt dey feewings.
Awww.
In Rollins' Teshian view of things, we're "frontrunners" because we don't enjoy chronic, grinding ineptitude. We're "frontrunners" because we scream at the appendix-useless Tom Gordon. We're "frontrunners" because over the years, the team's GMs have generously given us Wayne Twitchell; Rob Ducey; Kevin Fucking Millwood.
This, as my beloved Gramma Jean used to say, is a steaming, maggot-filled pile of donkey-shit.
Here's the problem, J-Roll: it's kinda tough to stay as mindlessly positive as you'd like us to be when you guys are sucking butts. After going 1 for 125 in the annual happiness sweepstakes, you Jaguar-cruising, filet-chewing fuck-knobs are lucky we're even at the park. But we're there–and when you guys play like Stengel's Mets, you are absolutely going to hear it. We suffer? You suffer. It's the natural beauty of symbiosis, you see–but with eight Bud Lights and a hip flask of Everclear to move things along.
Now, Jimbo, since I'm in such a benevolent mood, I'll take you at your word: you didn't mean that we're "fair-weather fans"–you just wish we weren't so dang mean. But we both know that, whatever your crippled interpretation, calling a fan a "frontrunner" is like calling a fat lady a butterball. You can explain and explain, but that one word will stick in her mind like a duct-taped gecko–and in the end, you'll wind up alone, rubbing yourself with an oven mitt while weeping softly into a throw pillow. Believe me, I've been there, and it's not a pretty place. But neither is Philadelphia, pal. It's a town of broken glass and burnt-out shells. It's a town of big-haired women and guys named "Butch." But most importantly, it's a town filled with people desperate for some passing flicker of joy–especially when it comes to you guys. If you play like the fat kid in gym class, you get booed. Them's the breaks. It doesn't mean we're frontrunners. It means we're pissed off, frustrated, and drunk as a poet on payday.
Deal with it. |
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McNabb Hated Summer Camp
August 19, 2008 –
Donovan McNabb's mother yesterday revealed that her 31-year-old son was relieved to finally be home from his three-week stay at a Lehigh summer camp. "In his letters, he complained that it was too hot; that there were too many bugs," said Wilma McNabb, sitting at her kitchen table next to a contrite-looking Donovan. "And I could tell he was homesick. For Pete's sake, he sent me a letter a day–sometimes two."
Donovan McNabb defended his lack of enthusiasm for the 80-camper Camp Lehigh. "I thought I could maybe make some new friends, but it didn't really happen," he shrugged, toying nervously with the lanyard at his wrist. "I thought this one kid, Brian, was okay, but deep down, I could tell he didn't really like me." Head Counselor Andy Reid elaborated. "Donovan just didn't mesh with the other kids; he was very fragile emotionally," he said by telephone. "One of our activities was football, and whenever he played, you could just tell his heart wasn't in it. He seemed to prefer arts and crafts."
For his part, Donovan McNabb hoped that he would not return to Camp Lehigh in 2009. "Sometimes it was cool, like when my counselor, Pat [Shurmur], snuck in pizza after lights-out... but mostly I kind of hated it," he said sheepishly, tears welling in his eyes. "Why–why doesn't everybody just leave me alone?" After he had run to his room and slammed the door, Wilma McNabb conceded that she was saddened by Donovan's lack of independence. "Summer camp is usually when kids start to come into their own, but it just didn't happen with Donovan. And now school's starting in a couple of weeks... and that's always tough on him." |
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