Idiots Write About Sports

So Jason and I are sitting in the right-field bleachers of last night’s Giants-A’s game, having navigated our way through the phalanx of barricades set up to prevent interlopers from trying to sneak their way in for a shot at home run ball #714. It’s the seventh inning, Mark Kotsay is standing on third, and there are two outs as Eric Chavez strides to the plate. Normally, as part of Felipe Alou’s Parade of Inadequate Relief Pitchers, this is the time to replace right-hander Jeremy Arcado with whatever left-handed stiff is in the Giants’ employ. But on this particular evening, Alou opts to walk Chavez to face Frank Thomas and his sub-.200 batting average. The Oakland crowd registered its displeasure at this cunning strategic manuever.

“Let me just grab my rubber chicken that I bought at the souvenir stand and wave it over my head,” I said to Jason. “Oh, that’s right — we don’t do that here because we’re not a bush-league operation.”

Jason paused for a few seconds. “Yes,” he said. “I could tell by all those tarps you have in the third deck.”

Well-played, old man. Well-played.

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