Happy Birthday to me. Let's get that out of the way first. At this stage of life, birthdays aren't as much a celebration as they are a relief. Whew. Made it another one. Now let's start the clock and see if I can steal one more.
It's supposed to be No. 54 but, after sitting through the eighth inning last night, I awoke to find out I was really 64. I can't imagine how Jim Riggleman feels.
My family tried hard to calm me down, reminding me that it was May 11 and it was the first major implosion of the season. The Nats were in double figures at this point last season. They've won six series already, something they didn't do until early July last year (against the Braves no less, with me in the house for all three).
I get that. I get that this is not last year, that this is a seemingly better team and crap-o-la nights are the exception now (we hope) and not the rule.
It's just, well, it's just so hard to relive a nightmare. Make it stop! Make it stop! I don't ever want to go back there.
It happens to the best now and then, we all know that. My bigger worry? Is it one of those nights or the start of a regression (doesn't take me long, does it)? Between my screams of agony last night, I did hear Mr. Dibble give a telling stat - more than half of Tyler Clippard's inherited runners have scored. That's not good, he said. No it isn't. And I admit to being ignorant of that fact, though I'm sure the numbers were skewed with his recent performances.
The Nats managed to ruin about six months last season. Well, four and a half or so. The last six weeks were kind of fun. The first six weeks this year have been a lot of fun, too. So for now I'm going to steal a line from the Atlanta Rhythm Section and I'm not going to let it bother me tonight. Tomorrow? Maybe a different story.
I do very much appreciate the Mets scheduling a day game in honor of my birthday - the Nats can do their part by easing my mind and winning the daggone thing.