soft hands.

I'm sick of envisioning new ways for Curt Schilling to die; the latest has me dreaming of watching him choke to death on the bloody sock while Alex Rodriguez bashes his skull into a gooey muck with his man-purse.

futility infielder has a wonderfully frustrated post up regarding the pent-up pissed-offness some of us yankee fans have about this offseason, echoing a lot of sentiments i've expressed (albeit not as well) slightly here, mostly elsewhere: "I'm especially sick of the lack of vision and imagination being shown by the front office." in. fucking. deed.

I'm sick of pondering in which backwater they're going to bury Kevin Brown's body, and what percentage of his $15 million salary the Yanks will be paying. I'm sick of the inevitable articles that some hacks will write every time the Yankees hit town: "How rich are these Yankees compared to our beloved Midwestern City Scrappers? Why, they're paying more for Kevin Brown to pitch for the North Ogdenville Greasetrappers than the Scrappers are paying for three-fifths of their rotation, and that writeoff could cover the first two years of the well-deserved long-term deal our ace..."

but yes, most of all:

I'm sick of temperatures in the single digits and low teens, and the increasingly graying snow still piled on New York City's curbs. I want to see players bathed in sunlight as they run around on green grass wearing their batting-practice jerseys and tossing the ball lackadaisically. I want the next three weeks before Pitchers and Catchers to pass overnight so we can get on with a baseball season that will inevitably take more twists and turns than we can possibly predict. Bring it on.


6:03 PM :: ::
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