It's official. I'm done. The naysayers have said nay so loudly and so frequently, I've lost the urge to fight them. I'm not alone in my battle fatigue; the Drunks are Robert Graysmith-ing their way around the Rogers Centre, chasing whispers and innuendo at a breakneck pace. It's the Lord's work they're doing, but the payoff will only equal the journey's worth of tears. The charmingly opaque way Rogers runs the Jays has run right the fuck out of charm, like a post-Anchorman Will Farrell. No matter how blissfully unaware I try to remain, horseshit politics creeps in.
I'm seeing negativity where it doesn't really exist now, like the recent Batter's Box post arguing the merits of various GMs. A good and honest attempt to evaluate general managers instantly had me thinking all the wrong things. I wasn't satisfied with the realization that J.P. is a pretty middle of the road GM. I got hung up on the immensity of the task at hand, displayed in the most innocuous/devastating way possible. Average number of wins required to win the AL East over the last five years - 94.6. 4 wins more than the closest competitor. Average number of wins required to win the AL Wildcard over the last 5 years - 95.4. That is a lot to ask at the best of times, when the ownership starts playing stink pinky with their advertising revenues and equalization payments, I get sad.
Those of us that occupy the upper middle class of Blue Jays fandom are getting it from both sides. We die hard, quasi-informed fans suffer Rogers-flavored shit sandwiches gladly each year, only now we have the huddled masses to worry about. A Yahoo fantasy post (yes I'm desperately filling the void with fantasy advice columns) brought out the best criminally insane commenters to make consistent winning club sound like the 1969 Mets. I made my way through 125+ comments like the true masochist that I am, trying to take the LOLs and the calls for a salary cap in stride.
But I stand before you a broken man, hoping desperately that Spring Training will bring me back. Green grass, wind sprints, and oddly numbered jerseys can hopefully talk me off the edge.