It’s a good thing I didn’t make the cut

Chris Crowell

The Indians are lucky I’m not on the team. For starters, I never made it past teeball; I’m small enough to fit in one of C.C. Sabathia’s pant legs; and I haven’t done a sit-up in eight years. But even more important than all of those things, I can’t handle the postseason.

The Indians were up 2-0, and I was designing an Indians World Series tattoo to put on my face. They lost Game three in New York, and I practically laid down on Route 261. I clearly would have destroyed team morale and sunk the entire game plan.

After Game three ended, I would have been sobbing on the dugout steps. I would have walked up to everyone and said, “Holy crap, Paul Byrd is pitching tomorrow. He’s going to get shelled. That’s it. We’re toast.” My only friend would probably be Aaron Fultz. And that wouldn’t be any fun because I hate Aaron Fultz.

I thought the momentum was gone. Byrd had stunk against the Yankees all year. Even if we got a lead, Joe Borowski would blow it. Dane Cook kept telling me that this was the postseason, and that I lived for this, but for some reason I just couldn’t believe him. Then when Kelly Shoppach mercifully squeezed that final Borowski pitch and all the downer thoughts left my mind. The Tribe won 6-4. They beat the New York Yankees in the ALDS.

Unlike me, the Indians don’t get down, they don’t give up, and they play the game the same way every day. I’m much better suited mentally and physically to watch the games from my couch. To my credit though, I did wash all 10 of my dirty Indians cups before the game, and drank out of the “It’s Tribe Time Now!” cup during the game. So, I wasn’t totally useless.

If only the Indians could instill their level-headedness into the fan base. Maybe then I wouldn’t shout unpleasantries to the point of dizziness after the opposing team scores.

On a side note, I apologize to Jake Westbrook, Paul Byrd, and Borowski for anything I may have said that went beyond the boundaries of good taste. I regret nothing that was said about Aaron Fultz, then or in this column.

Seriously, has Fultz ever pitched a meaningful inning for this team? How did he pitch in Game three? That was Wedge’s worst decision since he grew that mustache a few years ago. Fultz should be permanently duct taped to the team plane. And then the plane should be flown into the Bermuda Triangle and set on fire.

Anyway, I’m thrilled that we crushed the Yankees in their stadium and possibly sparked the beginning of a complete New York meltdown. I’m also happy that Major League Baseball is giving all of us until Friday to catch up on school work. With all that being said, here are some final thoughts on the ALDS:

• Bob Brenly looks like Bill Cowher.

• Relievers aren’t special unless they weigh 300 pounds and are named Joba. If your team’s relievers haven’t given up a run in the postseason, sported sub 2.00 ERA in the regular season, and basically carried the team through the entire year, it doesn’t matter. Get ’em fat, and name ’em Joba. Oh, and it also helps if they blow a game because they don’t like bugs.

• You might not have heard about this because it didn’t get much publicity, but Game four may have been the last game as a Yankee for both Joe Torre and Alex Rodriguez. I’ll let you know if anything develops.

• The sports karma gods read the Stater and find me compelling and witty. If you guys are reading this now, please, let us beat the Red Sox. Need a quick reason to sway you? Dane Cook likes them. Enough said. Go Tribe!

Contact sports columnist Chris Crowell at [email protected]