Swept Away

Warning: The image below is not suitable for any living human.

Remember that day in high school when you underwent an overnight transition that took sixteen years? Your oily and pimply face began to clear up, your long arms and legs were suddenly not so gangly and you were finally bigger, stronger and more popular than that fucking asshole Jimmy O’Connor who had tormented you for most of your academic career.

There was a moment there, right after he stopped bullying you and pathetically tried to gain your friendship, that you actually felt sorry for the guy. I mean yeah you still rejected his attempt at a peace offering (who needs his fucking Passion Fruit Flakie anyway?), but something about the reversal of fortunes played on your conscience. You had risen above your tormentor, someone you feared was now below you, and you weren’t quite comfortable with that new status.

At times this weekend, I actually found myself feeling sorry for the masses of Massfaced Masswads who came here from their sheltered bubble on the Eastern Seaboard. This type of pity was something I never imagined feeling. Perhaps it’s that polite Canadian stereotype, but I actually found myself making excuses for my favourite team’s bitterest of enemies.

“They were tired. They were travelling.” I explained to others, trying desperately to cling to the Jays comfortable third place status.

I know that an early April series sweep does not make a World Series champion, but this weekend’s resounding victory, following so closely on the heels of another hard fought series in New York equals evidence, no matter how early it may be to proclaim, that maybe this 2008 Toronto Blue Jays team is ready to make that next step.

Could this be the squad that legitimately competes? Will there be playoff baseball in Toronto this year?

I know it’s ridiculous to jump to conclusions after only six games. I know that assumptions make an ass out of you and umption out of me. But I also know that the baseball season is long and that the best part of early season baseball is that your team’s potential is limitless, and we may not get another opportunity all year to bask in the hopefulness of a successful season.

So call it homerism, or call it plain old stupidity, but I’m on board and drinking the Kool-Aid and believing that this won’t be the last time I feel genuine pity for the Massdischarges.

The Good

There was the small matter of a grand slam in yesterday afternoon’s ballgame, but, as a precursor to Sunday’s heroics, Frank Thomas also hit a home run to centre field during Saturday’s matinee.

After seeing the ball go over the fence, Thomas gave the ol’ fist pump and then did a little Leprechaun skip, jump and jig as he left the batter’s box. Now, I’m fully aware of how much black athletes love being referred to as homosexuals, so let’s just say it wasn’t the most manly of celebrations that I’ve seen.

The Bad

Where is my buddy Brandon League? On top of not writing a “Surf’s Up” segment for the blog in a while, the mensa level Hawaiian is the only member of the Blue Jays bullpen not to see action yet this season. We heard so much about him getting his velocity back, and the nasty movement on his sinking fastball, that he was on of the Jays I was most looking forward to seeing. And yet, in the pen he remains.

Obviously, it’s another case of John Gibbons mismanagement.

The Ugly

After reminding us how absolutely boner inducing his defensive play can be, John McDonald collided with Vernon Wells chasing a chili dipper in right centre field. As soon as it happened, I knew exactly what the PMoD was going through. That sort of desperation for oxygen could only be the result of one of two things: getting the wind knocked out of you or a Dennis Hopperesque drug addiction.

Seeing as though the behaviour began immediately following a collision, I guessed it was his wind getting knocked out.

Crowd Surfing

Most of the people in my section on Saturday afternoon who were sober enough to slur agreed that kid announcer Jacob could use an enthusiasm boost.

For those unaware, on Saturday and Sunday afternoon games at the Rogers Centre, children can pretty much do whatever they want, whenever they want. Sometimes, the diminutive creatures that aren’t David Eckstein, sneak into the PA announcer’s both and hold him hostage while announcing the the hitters coming into the plate.

Well, on Saturday, seven year old Jacob used the microphone to express all the enthusiasm of an old man who chastises you for not being prepared for when life attacks.

Speaking of which, I was fairly close to attacking the lives of the Northern Ontario inbreds who sat four rows in front of us and stood up through most of the game on Saturday spilling beer and spitting pieces of peanuts when they shouted such Stephen Fry worthy comments as “Hey Boston! Hey . . . leave!”

And women say it’s hard to meet a good man in Toronto.