A night of continual frustration

I watched last night’s travesty, I mean last night’s game while writing an overnight piece for the SweetSpot. It’s always a kick to do one of the overnight pieces, and the stars somehow aligned properly so that I was assigned on a night when the big story had to do with the Indians.  The game started with a 3-run first inning by the Indians, I happily started writing away, and all was well with the world.

Then the Rangers started chipping away at the Indians’ lead. Then the power went out. The whole street was dark. No Internet access to email my story, no way of even finding out what was happening in the game. (My cell phone is about as smart as pitching to Jacoby Ellsbury two nights in a row.) One flashlight, one phone book, and one phone call later, I was on my way to the Winking Lizard,which has wi-fi access and, I was told, was open until 1:00 a.m. I listened to the game on the radio as I was driving . When Josh Hamilton got on base, my dread level started to rise. Somehow, when Michael Young came to bat, I just knew he was going to hit a home run. I launched a string of expletives and turned off the radio so I wouldn’t have to hear the cheers of the Texas crowd.

I got to the Winking Lizard, set up shop in a corner of the bar, and went back to work. I couldn’t really finish the article until the game was over. The Internet access kept going in and out, which made emailing drafts and suggestions back and forth difficult. As I watched the Indians do nothing offensively in the 10th and 11th innings, I knew we were going to lose. It was just a matter of time. I don’t understand how a team can score seven runs in the first three innings and then do nothing but watch as the as the other team slowly comes back. It’s not just Rafael Perez’s wild pitch or Carlos Santana seemingly doing nothing to block it. It’s going 2-8 with runners in scoring position and leaving six men on base.

About the only nice part of the night was chatting with the nice bartender/server (whose name I didn’t get) and an employee named Phil, who is a big baseball fan. He suggested I write something about how Pronk has come back. I told him I have been thinking about doing that. And that I want to write more about Jason Kipnis, who’s turned into a little hitting machine. Like true fans, we found our bright spots in what was otherwise another frustrating night of Indians baseball.