Seriously, NESN? Seriously?
The only thing that saved me from putting my Irish fists through the TV last September was the knowledge that through every wretched Lackey start, every GIDP from Crawford and every bullpen meltdown, the Magic of Watney would be there to take away the pain. Somehow she made even the most turgid, balls-in-the-waffle-iron games enjoyable, whether she was flashing that fifty-dollar smile, hustling her aerobicized ass to the post-game scrum for interviews, or sampling the local sausage.
Was she the broadcast equivalent of a Fluffernutter sammich? Maybe. But she was our motherf#$king sammich. And she got under my alabaster skin like no Tina or Hazel before her.
It’ll take a while for this one to sink in, but right now, I’d just like to wish her well. And remind her that if she ever feels the need to drop the glamorous broadcast life for a cramped apartment, cheap beer and the pale but loving arms of an underemployed blogger, she’s got my number. Or at least it should be on the restraining order.