8/05/2004 10:42:00 AM by Rob

Oh, my, God!

I am sure glad we did not pick up Shawn Chacon before the deadline, and I sure hope once he gets cut by the Rocks, that we don't even consider calling him. My God, it looked like he was shot-putting the ball up there. Guys were stacking themselves up like Iraqi prisoners, trying to get to the bat rack.

Oh, how the obscenities did flow last night, as we entered the seventh inning with our fearsome lineup having scored exactly ONE run, and that on a passed ball. (Hey, didncha usta be Charles Johnson, the All-Star catcher?) Last night was the "wet dream" lineup, where everyone in it has hit double-digit home runs. Against Jamey frickin' Wright, in that bandbox, we should have set aim on our Denver record of 26. Some of our guys even ran the count up! His pitch count was spinning faster than our electric meter in July. How in God's name did he escape?

That's the question that's bothering me today. That, and I hear talk that Reg'lar Sweaty Joe is ALIVE!, and pitching. No surgery was done, just rest, I guess. He is going to start a re-hab assignment soon, to get his confidence back as he mows down Beloit Snappers and Kane County Cougars in the Midwest League.

I just have this mental picture in my head: Joe got his $4M last year, 2 milldo per year. He and his wife just went hog wild, then, ala Rocky 2, and they went out and bought the townhouse of their dreams, along with some furs, leather strap accessories, and everything else they had out at the Chess King and Pier One. So while living in the lap of New Jersey Luxury, in their mauve-n-teal pool room, Joe forgot what it took to get him there.

Now, on the DL, he stumbles over drunkenly to a Newark Bears game, and being the local god that he is, permits himself into the bullpen area, where he runs into RICKEY!, running in from the outfield. He and Rickey decide to get the Eye of the Tiger, working out diligently in the bowels of Newark stadium, doing curls right underneath the steam pipes, and then they strip down to their tight shorts and run wind-sprints on the polluted, syringe-laden Jersey shores. Sweat glistening, muscles thrusting, feet bleeding on the broken glass, the heavy, winded 80's hair band Survivor following behind them awkwardly like they do on that Starbucks commercial.

The moment of truth arrives, and JoeBo leans over the filthy sink in his townhouse of love as he peers at his visage in the mirror. There, he sees it: is it the Eye of the Tiger? Or is it that itchy mole that has been nagging the fuck out of him for months, that he just now sees since he has lost ten pounds of face fat?

Now you know, the rest....of the story. We did not get a closer this July, because...they knew...Joe was on the mend. And under the radar, I must hasten to add. I honestly figured they shipped him off to Siberia, to find the supposed nude photos of Maria Sharapova. But he is still in the plans, kids. So we were able to focus all of our resources and attention to Nomar, and the rest....is history.

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