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My son and I got into a food fight a coupla days ago. Watching John get irate is sort of what you'd imagine it being like if you saw Blake Beavan throw a fastball by Troy Tulowitzki.
He was disgusted with the M's, jumped all over me why do you watch these guys, this is ridiculous, yada yada yada. I go, if the Seahawks are going 6-10 but they got the rookie Tom Brady and stuff like that, do you watch? He re-raises, gloating that nobody but Seager's any good, you make a fool out of yourself by thinking they're anything but a mortal lock to lose 100 games....
He's bigger than me now, which instantly prevents me from offering him a graceful out ... what would you know about baseball, I sez, charmingly. You know too much about baseball, he sez, which is why you think these guys could ever win.
We hurl 12 kinds of invective back and forth, hurl cushions and chips and salsa, and by the time we're both seeing way too much red to think straight he goes LOOK DAD. THIS AT-BAT RIGHT HERE. CARP'S GOING TO STRIKE OUT. I'M TELLING YOU.
I go, yeah, one at-bat decides it all, sarcastically. He goes Yeah! 'cause it's the same thing every time. You think Carp's good. Everybody else in the world knows he's going to strike out right here.
As I recall, the count's three-and-one. I shift my grip from my dance partner to my temper and we both stop to watch the pitch.
Carp swings and BLASTS the pitch hard and far, over the center field fence. My wife and daughter, heretofore enjoying the carnage, collapse into banging piles of rubble.
The curtain comes down on the rest of it. If you haven't thrown hands with a younger, stronger and quicker version of yourself, you're definitely missing the finer things in life. We've both received sufficient first aid to be able to talk and type and stuff.