Wednesday, May 03, 2017

It’s the end of the world as we know it, and the SFNABA seems fine

As you read these words, the 2017 blog season is officially upon us, which means we completely skipped 2016? That’s gutwrenching.

Well here’s some walk-up music for you. Enjoy it.

Yeah, kinda nuts, depending on how high you are. Tsunamis do start with earthquakes. And yeah, “team by team reporters baffled, Trumped, tethered” is weirdly accurate for a tune that old. But oh well. What we have here is a group of men with tunnel vision, who realize how important it is to trust the process and continually refine their holistic approach to hitting. Dirtbags with an utter disregard for their 5-1 record, 3 bombs on Sunday, and continuous flirtations with team no-hitters. A team who smells blood in the water with the San Francisco Fog rolling onto Alameda Island this weekend, committed to driving Skullcap Lawyer’s head into the sand and beating him senseless with a pro cut braciole fresh off the train from Baton Rouge, Louisiana.

Yes, Jon Danger Hirsch is still on the other side of the world, still failing to give a fuck, still feeling fine, with no real signs of cuming home to the Trump Zoo and taking a job in Marketing. But even in his absence, Danger has still managed to pull on the same proverbial rope, religiously making sure to corral a Southern Pacific rally hog prior to Tide first pitch each Sunday morning. The third world slump buster routine has apparently paid dividends, judging by the Tide’s gaudy run differential here in 2017. His ‘86 Mets diet crossed with Eastern yoga meditation leads us to believe he won’t soon slow down and climb off his motor bike. If an when he does, an August at-bat at SLBP in crunch time inevitably awaits him, with Jake Taylor pacing the concrete dugout, Old Crowe methodically going through the signs, and Omaha half playing catch with his son down the left field line.

The “One More Year” moniker is two years old now. “Why Not Us?” has also come and gone. So we have that working against us. But fuck…

Planning a wedding, raising a kid, blowing up a knee, unrealistic sales projections in the FiDi, none of it has slowed down Wrong Way Sal, thanks to a foam roller and a beef-friendly CrossFit membership.

Gigante, tethered to the DL thus far, has failed to hit anything lower .500 and play flawless D at first base despite not climbing the hill just yet.

Aussie Luke, when not hobnobbing with the Black Mambas of the world, has delivered an ungodly Wins Above Replacement score. 

Nuke, and his brother from The Program are quietly starting to shove and mash, respectively.

Tahoe Pete hasn’t gone to Tahoe yet, or rampaged a wedding, but the night of the season is still young…Hyphen is swagged out as usual, Yellowish Livestrong M-Frames driving results…Bumstead bought a Honda van, forfeiting traditional Marina Beef and zeroing in on divorced techies in Noe Valley with bitchy attitudes and bigger checkbooks.

Rizzo’s WPW empire continues to grow. Stockholders rejoiced to see him buy a new pair of pants. Tom D’s swaggy Kris Bryant kicks really got the boy’s on Wall Street rock hard.

Toddamus seems relatively unconcerned with the whole enterprise, even in the midst of making web-gem-of-the-decade type plays on the hallowed ground of Rickey Henderson Field…Godfather continues to grind from afar, his Doyers recently going back-to-back-back jacks at Chavez Ravine, anchored by Dirtbag Bro King Red Turner.

So there you have it. At least for now. As always, tune in and stay tuned. You never know when Jake Taylor is gonna call your name, or pencil himself in to hit, but that’s a longer story, in need of a booth at the 500 Club, with warm Racer 5. We’ll get to that later. More stuff will happen in-between. For now, Roll Tide…

Posted by section925 on 05/03 at 03:05 PM
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