I'm in a fantasy baseball league this year for the first time--and just barely. That's my team, the Seattle Quitters, all the way down in last place. The cellar. The outhouse. Lynn Cheney's boudoir.
It's painful, but the ordeal is teaching me important lessons about baseball, and about life, that I only thought I knew:
• If I do well, everyone notices and they worship me as a genius.Take Clint Barmes, a rookie shortstop for the Rockies and one of the few Quitter hitters who is not strictly a bum. He injured his collarbone Sunday night carrying a bag of fucking groceries up a flight of fucking stairs. But young bones heal, and he'll be back... in three fucking months!
• If I do poorly, everyone notices and they revile me as a moron.
• Ballplayers exist only to disappoint me.
• When they get hurt, they do it on purpose, because they hate me.
Barmes was a front-runner for the NL Rookie of the Year award. No more. So much potential glory, wasted in some random mishap... seems senseless, doesn't it? Not at all. Tragedy struck Clint Barmes for a logical, discernible, demonstrable reason.
It's because I suck!