BALTIMORE, MD - AUGUST 26: The Baltimore Orioles honor former player, coach, and executive Mike Flanagan with his number on the right field scoreboard before a baseball game between the New York Yankees and the Baltimore Orioles at Oriole Park at Camden Yards on August 26, 2011 in Baltimore, Maryland. (Photo by Mitchell Layton/Getty Images)
Like rats fleeing a sinking ship, the greasy non-human horde descends upon Baltimore tonight. Hurricane Irene is bearing down on the soulless, twisted metallic warren they call home. Thus Oriole Park at Camden Yards seems a better place to be, where, we hope, the worst we will get is wind and rain tomorrow night and Sunday.
In a grand bit of cosmic irony, their parking will not be validated. They will pay full price. Unless they bought their tickets on StubHub, I guess.
Not long ago in this space, especially in the aftermath of the brawl and assorted sham suspensions issued to the Orioles and Boston by MLB, I opined that I hated the Red Sox more than the Yankees right then. That's what I said, and I meant it at the time, except now I sit here and I think about the track suit-wearing Sopranos wannabes who are going to infest the stadium this weekend, no matter how sodden they may get. I think about their sell-out first baseman and their ultimate narcissist douchebag third baseman with his tender buttocks from being injected with so many steroid needles by his cousin, their overrated failure of a shortstop who will collect Gold Gloves beyond when he shuffles off the mortal coil. I think about the satanic pact that allows them to exhume the corpses of Bartolo Colon and Freddy Garcia and give them minor league deals and get two guys with sub-4.00 ERAs.
And above all else I remember that cheating piece of trash who is out in the world somewhere with a home run ball that never should have been, the blind umpire who had the evidence right there in front of him and made the wrong call. I remember the ALCS that was stolen from us that year, the World Series trophy that should be replicated on the club level of OPACY, the rings that should be on the fingers of Cal and Brady and Eddie and Mike instead of whatever assholes were on that other team that year. I think about all the scumbag, low-life Yankee fans who have feasted on those ill-gotten gains for the last fifteen years, the same jerks who have spent the last decade kicking us while we were down, or dismissing us as even beneath their notice, and then I remember that I hate the Yankees the most and I always will.
At least until the next time Boston is in town. F*** those guys too.