box score.

[hethoughtofcars]

open up the morning papers and there it is, another tick in the loss column that brings us ever closer to the brink. you bleed dodger blue long enough, and wait 'til next year! becomes a kind of hare krishna drone, long evolved from its birth in the taverns and groceries of a brooklyn forgotten. perhaps, then, it's time for a change in strategy? here in enemy territory there's a giant among men, a player so fearsome that even in the twilight of his career, they'd rather give him first base than watch the ball sail out into the bay. yet to live and die by the home run just isn't our way; the all-or-nothing gamble out of tune with our perennial hymn of patience. runs are engineered and manufactured, workmanlike: bunt your way on and steal second in flurries of dust; rush home on the unassuming sacrifice fly or the antiquated thrill of a suicide squeeze. ours is a game of inches, then, right or--more often than not, it seems--wrong. so i rustle the sports page once again, stare into my cold coffee, and ponder how tragically admirable it really is to go down one-nil in the modern era...

nevertheless, i still want to correct your grammar every damn night. curiouser and curiouser.