We were sitting at lunch on a glorious, late summer afternoon. How could anyone be in a bad mood today?
“Is the fat lady singing the national anthem in Cleveland tonight?” asked J.
We all went, “Hmmph.”
In the Tigers/Indians game last night, a three run eighth for Cleveland tied the score and the Indians won it in the eleventh inning with a walk-off home run. I didn’t cry. I just took the dog for a walk and pounded my head on the pavement until I felt better.
“The only thing we can hope for is that the fat lady chokes on a bratwurst,” said J. “I’d love to see the fat lady show up by mistake at Camden Yards and sing a song about the brave exploits of the Baltimore Orioles.” (The New York Yankees, the team the Tigers are chasing for an American League wild card playoff spot, play their last games of the regular season at Camden Yards in Baltimore.)
“It’s going to take more than Baltimore,” said Paul. “It’s going to have to be a combined effort of the Orioles and the Devil Rays.”
J. pretended he was holding his breath, then loudly exhaled. Both teams might have struggled this year even if they were in the minor leagues, let alone playing the Yankees.
“I don’t know,” I said. “That relief pitcher for the Indians, Betancourt?”
Others at the lunch table grunted their disapproval.
“I mean, if I weren’t a Tigers fan, I’d say that, last night, when Betancourt struck out Sheffield, now that was a work of art.”
“I’d have to give that one, Ray,” said J. “He made Sheff look like a rookie. Just before Betancourt threw him the third strike, Sheff’s bat stopped wiggling!”
“He had him,” I said. “Right then and there.”
“Hey,” J said. “If Betancourt throws tonight, count how many times he touches his hat before he sets on the slab.”
I laughed. “Is that all that’s left of the season?”
“It’s a nice day, though.”
“That it is.”
The Feeder Project 