Dead End Street

I put mad pressure, on phony wack rhymes that get hurt
Shit's played, like zodiac signs on sweatshirt...

Sometimes you'd rather just get your ass whooped.

After an all-too exciting bottom of the eighth inning by the Rockies, an improbable victory seemed imminent. It had everything, both of the strange variety and conventional missionary style 150 years of baseball fare.

Dexter Fowler doing his best Edwin Moses impersonation. Jason Giambi inching closer to cult hero status with a clutch pinch hit. And the late-season MVP Yorvit Torrealba (or as a guy in my office calls him "Vit Tornado") gashing a double to center and doing his best Josh McDaniels impersonation on 2nd base.

Then the ninth. An epic collapse. All the near-glory and talk of the town for all day Wednesday was gone with two Huston Street pitches. Yes, lots of chances throughout the game. Lots of chances in the prior game. No shame in losing to the World Champions. Clint Barmes gave you nothing. The postponement hurt the Rockies. Aaron Cook was waiting back in PA. The umpires didn't help very much. Tulo not coming through for two nights. On and on and on. The result is a collective hangover looming over the Rocky Mountain region. Damn.

Sometimes you'd rather just get your tail whooped.

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