Both teams look like garbage, Dad. All's I know is Da Bears could be kicking some major butt right now.
I never realized how boring this game is.
I'd hide under the sink except Tommy Lasorda beat me to it.
Endy Chavez himself could not save this matchup from sailing out of Consciousness Park.
Where's that 1988 division-clincher when we need it?
It's not who's not playing in this World Series. It's who is. The Cardinals I completely begrudge and the Tigers, scattered familiar personages notwithstanding, I simply do not know.
No doubt Detroit is populated by deserving fans pulling for swell fellows, but given my weekend-long dwelling upon of the events of last Thursday night (Bunt? Nah. Maybe. Nah. I dunno.), I am not in the mood for introductions at this late date. That's Pudge, and there's Casey, and I think that guy helped lose 119 games, and Leyland as ever appears three Marlboros from a lung transplant…yeah, that's about it.
Good luck Tigers, whoever you are.
Surprisingly, La Russa's only the second-smarmiest bastard I've encountered thus far. Even he takes a back seat to that smug, self-congratulatory SOB CEO who bought his employees ergonomic chairs and a puppy with Mastercard. I hope he and Tony the Genius go into business together and are charged with sexual harassment by Yadier Molina.
And that Molina falls down a hole.
I'm doing my duty, Judy. I'm watching. I'm not saying I'm not dozing off here and there, but I've got it on. Maybe something interesting — like Kenny Rogers washing his mysteriously filthy left hand again — will occur and I'll be compelled to revise my initial impressions. But compelling is the last thing I'd expect from these teams.
(And to think somebody told me he was impressed by my complete lack of bitterness the other day.)