Today, I rode my bike as fast as I could. I broke the law. At Yonge and Dundas, the most obvious and stupid of places to saunter past a red. The pedestrian lane was packed with jaywalkers, an inherently Canadian rite. Tag along, wheels for legs.
During this thrashing of lactic acid and expendable carbs, I listened to it. The 6th and 7th were workmanlike. Head down. Ignore peripherals. Just… go.
I’ve spent years following this man through and through. Another 1-0 loss. The middling Chone Figgins. An offense worthy of a bucket of gruel at 5 a.m. to atone for its inability to become offensive. The late nights of knee-bucking destruction. Alone. I’ve seen it dozens of times in low leverage situations. A terrible Monday night game with no relevance with the filthiest stuff you could ever dream of. Stay up too late to see something special. Today was different. Today, it wasn’t a fight against mere sleep. It was slicing through the downtown swarth of angry cabs and inconsiderate Chinatown bicycles. Near death was invited for a glimpse of what I’d visualized for years. Hope.
The 8th though.. that 8th. World class domination. After Longo was wrung up by a demonic gravity-embracing curveball, it was within grasp. Zobrist looked lost all day and Carlos Pena is no more than Pedro Cerrano in a future day, unbuttoned and terrible, clothed in Raays (sp) and a blushing .192/.322/.345 embarrassment to professional baseball. There was no hope. The Rays are a mirage of baseball, an indescribable machine of sveldt payroll and 2ish% of heart able to feign the impossible AL East.
No, this. This. A culmination of what is possible. Hearing about a royal 17-year old 10 years ago maturing to this next level of expectation. Ignoring messages to focus on this. Ignoring personal safety to be a part of something grand. This is the human condition we pine for. A moment of unadulterated joy. The acknowledgement of success.
Perfection.
