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Until, he came to bat.
Albert Pujols. A name that no one in Houston will ever remember without a certain sick feeling accompanying. Just mention his name in public and you might as well have passed gas, burrito-supreme-with-extra-guacamole-style. When Pujols hit the grand slam that prolonged our World Series journey for another game he did more than prolong our journey. We never quite recovered. We limped to the series and couldn't catch our breath. He robbed us of our home game victory and eventually the world title even though we beat the little girly birds the next game at their hometown. The home of the largest half-finished McDonald's sign.
And he couldn't just hit any old run of the mill home run. Noooooo. He had to hit a homerun that smacked the upper back wall of the stadium. I half-expected it to hit the lights and cause an explosion with all the other lights in the stadium.
So do I rejoice with the Cardinals? Nay. I do not. When I see a picture of Pujols leaping for joy, I can only share the association with a certain Lennie in that Steinbeck novel when he was joyful over the dead bunny in his pocket that he insisted on keeping and petting.
I will never forgive the Cardinals for that night. I will now and forever be, an enemy of the Cardinals franchise. Some day you'll get yours Al. It's a' comin'. ha....ha ha. HA HA HA MUHAHHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!!!!!! (evil diminished chords play and laugh fades into echoes)
2 comments:
I'm with you there Kat. I'm with you. Pummel. Bigtime Pummel. Down into the dust from whence they came.
Next year... next year.
THEY ARE GOING DOWN.
Huh. Huh-huh, huh.
You said "poo-holes".
Huh-huh, huh.
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