NLDS Game 3: Badwin Jackson

I stopped off before the game at the Flags and Balloons Convention.

Did the Nats win: Nah.

Was it fun to watch: It was literally the least pleasant experience I’ve ever had watching a baseball game in person.

Visceral Emotion of the Game: A nagging doubt that baseball has ever actually been enjoyable for anyone.

It was a perfect day for baseball. To be sure, many days have been described as “the perfect day for baseball” over the years, and some have definitely been better than others, so I can understand your skepticism over that statement. But I would contend that this day, the first home playoff game of your Washington Nationals, was the one. The best weather that October has to offer, a crowd of Nationals fans abuzz with what I absolutely refuse to refer to as “October Natitude,” and this thing happening:

Ian Desmond’s postseason success has apparently made him much taller, much younger, and much more contemptuous of black people.

After Loss to Atlanta, Nats Need to Take Mylanta

Roger Bernadina takes a nap and tries to wrap his arm around his girlfriend next to him, only to realize that she left him months ago for Rick Ankiel. (AP Photo/John Bazemore)

Final Score: Braves 2, Nationals 1

Dame of the Game:

Ross Detwiler: 6 IP, 1 ER, 7 H, 1 BB, 5 K. New nickname to add to his pile of nicknames: the Rosselot (Sir Rosselot?). Is Ross more catlike or doglike? You decide.

Shame of the Game:

Ian Desmond: 0-4, 2 K, Walk-Off Error. For Desmond’s 15th error of the year, let’s throw him a quinceanera party where everything goes wrong. Poisoned food, balloons that pop as soon as you inflate them, guests that thought they were going to an actual quinceanera party for one of their friends’ daughters, a cake that says “Congratulations on your latest failure!”, Ian Desmond’s presence.

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This was a banner game for Nationals that I hate. Ian Desmond and Sean Burnett, two players who have on the whole redeemed themselves considerably in my usually-unforgiving eyes, combined to produce a bottom of the 9th that justified every negative thing I’ve ever said about them. First Sean fucked. Then Ian sucked. I shall henceforth refer to these two unsavory individuals as the Fuck-Suck Duo. Coming soon to an Independent League/brothel near you.

I can’t complain too much about them while the Nats are still 7.5 games up in the division and seemingly have their playoff spot locked up. Wait, they just lost again? WELL FUCK YOU SEAN AND IAN, FUCK YOU IN WHATEVER PLACE YOU LEAST WANT IT.

…ahem.

Let me take a moment to talk about Kris Medlen and his 13 strikeouts and continued sub-1 ERA as a starter.

Okay, the moment’s passed. Phew, that was an unpleasant conversation.

I have to say, as we head into the last half of September, I’m running out of jokes to make about this Nationals team. There’s only so many times I can make different versions of the same joke about–

Wait, I got one.

… : … (Part 2)

Instead of having CIA-head David Petraeus throw out a ceremonial first pitch, the Nats would have been better off having him call in a non-ceremonial drone strike on Giancarlo Stanton. (AP Photo/Alex Brandon)

Final Score: Marlins 8, Nationals 0.

Dame of the Game:

Sandy Leon: 0-0. Just kidding, it’s no one.

Shame of the Game:

Adam LaRoche: 0-3. The ohfer is less shameful than the fact that he, as a cleanup hitter, only got up three times. That’s not entirely his fault, but I’m in no mood to accurately assign blame for this game.

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There are a couple of things that make this game slightly less miserable than the near-identical game from about a week and a half ago. One, Stephen Strasburg wasn’t pitching this time, so we didn’t have to worry about the fact that his innings were being wasted on an overflowing toilet of a baseball game. Unfortunately, that thing is canceled out by the fact that we now know that Strasburg won’t pitch again this year at all, which casts a pall of misery over pretty much every Nats-related thing that happens. Two, the Nationals only got shut out 8-0 this time instead of 9-0. Unfortunately, that thing is canceled out by the fact that WHO CARES THEY STILL GOT SHUT OUT BY RICKY NOLASCO AGAIN.

Take Back the Park: A Manifesto

A specter is haunting Nationals Park. For many years, this specter has suffused the air over Navy Yard, seeping into every crack in the concrete, every blade of outfield grass, every droplet of already-filthy Potomac water, every pore of the skin of every resident of Southeast Washingon, DC. Nationals fans have suffered under this yoke, struggling to show the even faintest hint of Nationals pride in the face of the blackness. You know the specter of which I speak. It is Philadelphia Phillies and their fans.

The Nationals had barely settled into their new home of Washington, DC when the inphidels arrived. Imagine the scene: a wholesome, innocent family of Nats fans goes to Nationals Park, hoping to take in a Nats-Phillies game. But as they walk through the gates, they are greeted not with the smiling faces of fellow Nats fans but with the leering glares of something far more horrible. These monstrous creatures wear red–not the red of patriotic Nationalsism  but the scarlet red of a bloodthirsty horde. The young daughter of the family asks, terrified, “Daddy…who are they?” The bloods has drained from her father’s face. “They are…Phillies fans.” He gathers his family and escorts them swiftly out of the stadium. The Nationals are left to play in front of a mob of hateful foreigners in their own ballpark.

Nationals fans, this oppression has gone on for far too long. For too many summers, our city has been forced to endure the occpation of a foreign power. For too many seasons, we have suffered the indignity of being referred to by the denizens of Philadelphia as “Citizens Bank South.” For too many series, our boys have fallen in defeat, abandoned by their fans and left to the mercy of our merciless overlords. ENOUGH IS ENOUGH! The time has come to shatter the chains that bind us. To take the fight back to the City of Brotherly Hate and reclaim our homeland. To Take Back the Park.