(Get) A Sporting Life

Either that or a cliff’s edge called September. It’s hard to get too excited about the Cardinals, even while it is fun to watch a title battle involving the Cubs. The Sisyphean task of getting back within striking distance of .500 has been gutting. The club is Swiss cheese everywhere but in the bullpen. There are holes in the lineup. Holes in the defense and holes in the starting staff. It could be written that the past two seasons have been the fun ones to watch with all the warts on full display and weekly setbacks that appeared to doom the season. Some silly wag will undoubtedly write it. But not me. I loved the 2004 and 2005 campaigns. Watching brilliantly executed baseball day in and day out was a joy. Decimating all of the sub-.500 clubs who dare set foot in Busch Stadium. Quaint concerns about Larry Walker's back. Having Ned Yost tell his young Brewer club to watch the Cardinals closely and learn from how they went about their business. Last year’s championship and this year...

...but after watching Pujols get called out on a pitch a foot inside (and I'm being charitable) I decided my blood pressure could be lowered by doing something else, like jumping out of an airplane without a parachute or doing meth. My God, like Zambrano needs the help.

Those were the sweet, loving (and wise) words of the lovely Mrs. Southlandish last night. We were floating the pool, enjoying a happy hour cocktail. I had just finished waxing poetic about the Cards sweep of the Brewers, the fact we were only one out in the loss column and how I now had a meaningful Cards/Cubs series to watch this weekend. I had assumed, as usual, she was only pretending to listen when she decided to break out the buzz kill. Is it any wonder I love her? Alas, echoing IM's prior post, I am still going to make myself miserable and follow every goddamned inning. Moths to the flame, you know....

"Fuck you, Ron Santo. And that goes double for you, Ronnie Woo-Woo." August 2, 2007. Southlandish opened the sports page to see the Cubs in first place by .001. The sprint to toilet seemed endless and Mrs. Southlandish was even less eager than usual for a goodbye kiss. In other news, it’s time to sharpen the skates as the temperature in hell is reportedly plummeting.