"I Can Get a Pujols Chant Going Right Now"

I'm not sure if it's the fish smell from the disposal in my new place, or the fact that the burglar alarm keeps beeping every few hours just to let me know it's there. But sometimes I get the feeling that my new roommate, Eugene (aka Fudge), and I are teetering on the edge of insanity.

Take our philosophical musings on sport lately. The roller-coaster ride that was the Cardinal clinching felt more like a ride through a Wal-Mart parking lot late at night. You know, people acting as if their survival depended on saving a dollar for the 30 pack of double roll Charmin.



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Cardinal fans are like Shakespearean mobs, fickle as hell. On Monday they can be seen in pairs around town, resembling sheep parading up to Noah's ark. The problem is, the animals don't boo the ark out of the water on Friday if there aren't enough squeeze plays by little white middle infielders. Hitting up the CWE the other night, we felt underdressed in a classy bar until two gents in Edmonds and Carpenter replica tees walked in.

"Two Budweisers gentlemen?"
"Why However did you know, sir?"
"Why, your frosted tips gave me away..."

So it's a knee jerk reaction for a sensible person to just step back and wonder where this mess got started. When did Cardinal fans have their clothing choices, beverage choices, and even Cable TV packages determined by a simple backyard game?

Ah, I blame you, Michael Jordan. You and that damn, catchy advertising campaign. We've reached a point where every sport is a commentary on mankind. Every muscle reaction is captured by ESPN and analyzed. When a ball goes into a hoop, a guy is flying. When a ball goes far, it's a shot to the heart of dictators and hatemongers worldwide. And now, today, when I go kick a soccer ball in the park, I'll wonder why I don't hear orchestral music (with a hip hop beat). I guess the profit margin was just a little too slim.

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