I’m going to be honest: I really don’t have anything in the tank right now. I just got back from Coachella this morning and I’m running on empty. It was awesome, and if you didn’t go, you should be jealous that you didn’t get to see that crazy hologram of Tupac. But I’m exhausted. Because of that, if you find this week’s column to be more to the point than usual or less creative or funny, I don’t want to hear about it. I’m going back to bed after I finish this.
Also, because I’m tired and a bit irritable, I’m not giving out any advice this week. I’m just going to complain, and you’re going to take it. Besides, I really have no place giving out advice, not after Coachella.
Injuries suck. They are impossible to predict and can really ruin your fantasy season, a fact which I was recently reminded of. For the first week of the season, I was in first. My team was hitting well and pitching well. Normally I only get one or the other. Now that I think about it, I should have known that it was too good to last. In case that last sentence wasn’t enough of a hint, it was too good to last. One moment I’m in first, and then the next thing I know I blink and I’m in sixth.
Sometimes I think injuries are contagious too, but only for the players I need most. First, Andrew Bailey, my best closer, goes on the 60-day disabled list with a thumb injury. Why did it have to be the thumb? I know thumb injuries are serious for pitchers, but couldn’t he have gotten an injury that also sounded serious? Then maybe the fact that he’ll be out for a good portion of the season wouldn’t piss me off so much. Stupid fucking thumb. Then, Doug Fister, who pitches for the Tigers and has a funny last name, goes down in his first start. Great. Fister is a very good pitcher who was wasting his time with the laughable Mariners for too long, and when he was finally traded to the Tigers, he excelled. Now I have a rookie starting in his place. Not a bad rookie, but he still brings along the inconsistencies of a rookie.
Then the injuries moved to my hitters, which
I really didn’t need. Chase Utley went down first. That one I really can’t be mad about, but it’s still frustrating as hell. I drafted him thinking maybe he’d decide to not get injured for once. Then, as soon as the season started, he gave me a giant middle finger and laughed as he added his name to the DL yet again. At least, that’s how it played out in my head. Daniel Murphy, his replacement in my lineup, is a decent hitter but is no Utley.
Most recently, Jacoby Ellsbury, essentially my only source of steals, decided he wanted to join the fucking-me-over party too, which really was a great thing to discover after getting home from Coachella. It was like Coachella was this really awesome ice cream sundae; it had hot fudge and caramel sauce and whipped cream and a cherry on top. Add in any other toppings you want — the visual is really important. Then I got home, took a nap and checked my fantasy team. What follows is how I remember what happened next: as soon as I loaded the page, a hobbled and rabid Ellsbury burst into my room, red-eyed and limping, with foam and spittle forming around his lips. He scanned the room with a crazed look in his eye and spotted me, sitting in my bed with the first spoonful of sundae about to reach my mouth. He ran up to me with speed that an injured man shouldn’t have and grabbed my sundae from me.
What happened next is the real tragedy. He didn’t eat it. If he had, that would have been fine. At least someone would have gotten to enjoy it. Instead, in a fit of madness and rage that can only come from a stint on the disabled list, he cackled and threw it on the floor, which ruined both the sundae and the floor. Then he vanished in a cloud of red smoke, leaving behind only the faint sound of a child’s wails and the tears that stained my face. Note: the tale which you just read was a fabrication produced by the mad ravings of a severely sleep-deprived author. When the author actually saw that Ellsbury was hurt, he thought to himself, “Well, shit.” He then proceeded to check Facebook for no real reason. Sadly, there was no sundae.
In next week’s edition, I regain my sanity and talk about sports for a change.
Daily Nexus columnist Joshua Greenberg swears he saw Tupac bike past him yesterday.