Yesterday, Lee had an accidental collision with Diamondback catcher Chris Snyder while he was trying to back up a play at the plate. If you're a normal person, this is the kind of incident that's vaguely annoying until you realize there was nothing intentional happening, at which point you shrug it off. If you're a hot-head, you stew about it, convince yourself there was something purposeful at play, and hit the batter in the ass the next time he's at the plate (since, you know, it's only spring training and you can really hurt someone with a hurled baseball). But if you're Cliff Lee, apparently you throw at the guy's head.
In the World Series last year, the one chance Philly had was for Lee to pitch in games 1, 4, and 7. But despite Charlie Manuel's protective claims, it's obvious he was unwilling to shoulder that load. Personal considerations (and questionable ones, that that; it's not like pitching on 3-days rest two times is an enormous health risk) outweighed the team's prospects. Yesterday, his own misplaced bitterness and anger outweighed baseball etiquette and the safety of another player.
Me: Yo, readers, Cliff Lee is like the weekly schedule of a Cincinnati Bearcats basketball player during the Bob Huggins era.
Readers: How's that?
Me: No class.
Today will be a series of shorter posts, since I have a boss on the warpath saddling me with the most menial tasks you can find. If there's a nickel-sized stain on a carpet somewhere on the floor, I'll be asked to start an investigation into its origins. Count on that. Mostly basketball later on.
No comments:
Post a Comment