I like to think of myself as a good fan. I slap on the Schilling jersey and lucky Dennis Eckersley hairpiece when it’s rally time. I kneel at the altar of Steve Dillard, Mike Lansing, Jody Reed and LaSchelle Tarver. I break out the celebratory Greg Harris totem when the team does well, and I try not to kick ’em when they’re down. At least not too hard.
But, honestly, the last two losses to the Royals could not have sucked worse if they had rubber lips.
This was a team with the second-to-worst record in the AL, with a rookie pitcher on the hill Tuesday night and Odalis freakin’ Perez working tonight. And we couldn’t close the deal.
This is the sort of situation we should be taking advantage of. We should be marking these games as Ws before anyone even steps on the field; hell, they’re the sort of games the players should just agree to not actually play, and instead go hang down at Daisy Buchanans. This is the team we should be beating soundly, followed-up by Lowell and Youk photocopying each other’s asses and mailing ’em to the players’ homes.
I figured this would be the homestand that saw the Sox born again hard. The BJs, the Royals, the White Sox — come on, it’s like sending Andre the Giant to beat up on John Oates. But seven games in and we’re 3-and-4; not exactly the barnstorming I’d been dreaming of.
I’m tired of getting shut down by the likes of Leo Nunez. We’re floundering. We’re playing lousy baseball. We’re not looking like a team that could make it through a first-round playoff. And we need… something to get us rolling again. A spark. A breath of life. Maybe it’s Mark Teixeira. It’s definitely someone with a bat.
I still won’t panic. I keep the faith, despite the Yankees’ slow and steady crawl up behind us. But if we can’t clean up against the wretched White Sox, then next week’s 4-game set in Cleveland may be a truly painful experience. Like The Phantom Menace painful.