There will be times in your life when you cross a rubicon--one of those points where you recognize that life will never be the same afterwards. For me, last night was one of those nights.
Allow me to set the scene a little bit. One of my first posts on Fegonomics detailed my experience with my company's Red Sox season tickets last year--an experience that pretty much bored to tears. Fast forward 365 days: we got a black man doing his thing in the White House, Big Papi has lost at least 25 pounds of muscle, It Was All a Dream exhibits significantly more alcoholic tendencies, and I still hate baseball...well kinda.
I got tickets for the Red Sox/White Sox clash thinking that the White Sox fans were going to look like
this. At the very least, I was excited by the prospect of double fisting $8 bood lights and alienating all the old-timers sitting around me and Dream. After a few assaults on the beer stand, and some freebie soft serve, I was starting to really get into the game. Something about the way Tim Wakefield was pulling some okey-doke shit with his knuckleballs really resonated with me. Around the sixth inning, the the score knotted at 1's, I started proclaiming that
Wally Ortiz was going to hit a walkoff.
Anyone (read: the one person) who reads this blog realizes that my beisbol knowledge is limited.
Patricia Heaton limited. Limited to the point that I think
Henry Rowengartner is still the Cubs' middle reliever. So while I recognized that chaman Ortiz had definitely dropped a lot of bulk after getting off the 'roids, I failed to take into account the deletorious effects getting weaned off the cream and the clear would have on his performance. I mean, the fact that I can bench his batting average is not a very good sign. But
statistics? Where we're going, we don't need no stinking statistics.
