It wasn't long ago that I seemed to have an impressive ability to walk my way into near-no hitters. I'd wander around Deadtown Nowhere for a while, come home, and find some guy making the minimum facing the minimum through 5 or 6 innings. Of course there's no connection and jinxes and stuff aren't real, but then again....
Yesterday afternoon I'm mere steps from returning to Canada after a weekend in Pittsburgh doing all manner of #Heist-ey activities (more on that
With a spouse suffering from inevitable baseball fatigue, the game went off for a while until she dozed off. Back to Jerry and Alan, I am shocked by what I hear. "Did he just say Brandon Morrow has 13 strikeouts???" Not only that but he hasn't allowed a hit? Zounds!
Morrow keeps rolling but so does my fine German automobile. Overmanagin' Joe Maddon drags his feet and screws around, trying to disrupt the Morrow express. Right about this time I realize I'm going to reach my destination before Morrow reaches destiny. I feel sick. I slow down as subtly as possible. Making the turn onto rural sideroad X as the top of 9 starts, I think I might be okay. Zobrist walks. Sickness once again.
We pull into the baby sitting in-laws place and there, after her first weekend at somebody else's place, is my kid. All cute and little and fun sponging. Oh shit, this is really going to happen. The kid's mom dives from the moving vehicle, desperate to smush the punim of her spawn. I dawdle in the driver's seat, opening the windows while leaving the radio up loud. The child chases into the house, Crawford lines out.
I'm defeated. I'm getting justified death eyes from a patient wife. The Kid cries out for me to come in, the very understanding grandparents —who disrupted their very busy lives for a weekend so I could drink Yuengling and shout my phone number at Troy Tulowitzki— eye me warily - this is it. I turn off the car, head inside to grab my offspring; confident in the knowledge that my actions have no impact on Brandon Morrow's slider.
Ten seconds later, my pocket vibrates. I grab the phone, hoping for the best. I don't finish reading the text before my daughter grabs the phone from my hands. The best is a relative thing.
AP Photo via Daylife.