Don't Trust Anyone Over Thirty
Imagine the above said in the manner of William Shatner in Star Trek II: Wrath of Khan, and you have some idea of my state of mind last night.
After a pleasingly low-pressure ass-kicking of one of my adopted NL home teams by the other, the Maternal Unit and I noticed that the Schilling-Santana Match Up was still scoreless in the 7th. So we performed the sad and sacred rites of the Red Sox Fan, Sans Satellite in Exile: we Ticker-Watched.
Oh, did we. The Mets game ended; we watched. Schilling and Santana gave up mutual 8th inning homers; we rejoiced and groaned. And then....the extra innings. Oh, the extra innings. They lasted all the way through an hour and a half of Baseball Tonight, and ten minutes in to SportsCenter.
Relief was promised, in the top of the twelfth, when the ticker brought the joyous news of a run pushed across, and BBTN showed us the glorious results of Gonzo's hustle.
However, it was not to be. Because of that hobgoblin looking phone punching SOB.
A WALKOFF GRAND SLAM? WHAT! THE! FUCK!
I want the kids. I want them now. I don't care about money or contracts, but I don't want any member of our bullpen over 30, except Mike Timlin. You say they're not ready, or they're inconsistent? I say they can't be any worse than this. If our bullpen must suck, I want there to be a light at the end of the tunnel. Or it's gonna be a long, muggy summer with no relief in sight. And god help me, I'll become a full-time Mets fan.