Posh and I went to the Brewers game yesterday, seeing first hand the loss that brought them back down to .500, and officially doubled up their daytime losses over wins (11-22). And Tom Hardricourt has the chance to make tired jokes about how they’re vampires.
There’s no explanation for this. It’s not just the shadows at Miller Park, which certain anonymous veterans have said “quit complaining” about, because they can’t win during the day on the road either, or at home when the roof is closed.
I balked at the possibility of the Brewers outlawing beer in the clubhouse, and they didn’t have a curfew on the road, at least under Ned Yost, but I would prefer players to stay singularly focused on turning their current .333 month of July around. Get into the clubhouse, get a meal, maybe have one bottle of High Life, and go back to the hotel to have air-conditioned dreams of going 4-for-4 with a walk and a homer.
But you know, it just doesn’t taste as good. It’s not the golden brew of gods when you’re batting .231, J.J. Hardy. It tastes like malted corn syrup. It doesn’t taste like the champagne of beers when you’re complaining about being benched for hitting .203 with the seventh-worst strikeout rate, Bill Hall. It tastes like warm J. Roget.
Many of the games I attend are the Sunday matinées, and the lackluster performances in the sunshine have definitely dampened my baseball delirium. Some of the best times at the Convertible Confines were day games, from the time Gabe Kapler went 0-6 before hitting a walk-off, to some nice lopsided wins, to C.C.’s single handed win on the eve of the All-Star break, to the Wild Card clincher.
I’m not done, and they’re not out of it. But I’d like to see some better drama in the afternoon shows.