After Andy Pollin blatantly stole my Jimmy Carter malaise bit on the radio yesterday evening, ruining what was sure to be one of the top 480 G:TB posts of all-time, I sunk into a state of melancholy. Fatigued to the breaking point by the massed forces of an epic, three-day hangover, Mike Vick's vile hobby, Barry Bonds' enormous melon, and Tim Donaghy's affinity for the over, I was thisclose to going cold turkey, quitting sports entirely. At least for the next few days.
As I pondered weak and weary, eyelids at half-mast, on the verge of sweet, sweet sleep, Lou Piniella appeared to me as if in a dream. Or like Princess Leia in the hologram projected from R2D2, only without the Cinnabons on her head. (And you're crazy if you think I wasn't going with that picture instead of the fully robed one.) Man, are there any straight guys my age who didn't have a thing for Princess Leia? And Mary Lou Retton. Wait. What the fuck was I talking about?
Right. Lou Piniella. It took the edge of exhaustion to make it all clear to me. Lou Piniella is Neo, or possibly the Keymaster - I told you I was tired. The Sports Gods have a way of making it up to us, and those grumpy bastards owe us large right now. They've given us a number of scintillating Super Bowls after years of yawners. They gave us the 2004 Boston Red Sox. They gave us that save Stallone made in Victory. And in October 2007, they'll give us the World Series Champion Chicago Cubs. The Billy Goat Curse will end, and with it will go the worst off-field year in my memory. Hell, the Goat may even take Stuart Scott, Skip Bayless, Joe Morgan, and Chris Berman with him as he clipclops into history. Just remember where you read it first, and speak well of us at cocktail parties.