Just in case you were starting to get over the bullshit witchcraft that was ninth-inning Washington Nationals baseball this weekend, don’t forget that Jimmy Rollins left with a groin injury in yesterday’s game, leaving the left side of our infield to look like some sort of early-2011 Philadelphia Phillies infield.
It can be tough to complain about two losses–especially two that weren’t even in a row, and actually separated by a startlingly dominant performance by the Forgotten Ace–to people who experience loss so very often. But bitching about them to an Orioles fan was not my most empathetic moment.
“I mean, we were ahead and then we lost,” I explained, as if my friend were completely illiterate to the rules of baseball, a game he’d followed passionately since being a five-year-old.
“Uh huh,” he replied, restraining the very strong desire to brain me with the nearest lamp.
“I hope this isn’t a sign of anything,” I continued, oblivious to anyone in the room wanting to break my head. “Boy, only 6.5 up on the Braves now? God damn. That really irritates me.”
His next response was merely a silent nod, as he watched video of a guy who pitched for the Lancaster Barnstormers last summer and hadn’t recorded a Major League win in six years shut out the Orioles.
Groin injuries are all the rage right now, and Jimmy Rollins, a frantic trendsetter, couldn’t help but be removed in the third inning yesterday thanks to a groin strain. Now he’s got to head on back to the MRI store, or wherever players go to get MRIs, and we all get to wait on bated breath for the beat writers to tell us what is going on at some point on Monday.
I was staring into space, thinking about this for a few minutes. When I snapped out of it, my friend was repeatedly smashing his laptop on the coffee table. I nodded at his frustration. Nobody likes playing the waiting game when it comes to key players’ injuries, and it was nice to have friends who cared as much about my pain as I did, even when those friends don’t even really like the Phillies.
“Man, I love J.J. Hardy,” I said. “I wish he played for the Phillies.”
“I feel for you,” my friend replied, sweeping up pieces of his keyboard into a dustpan.