Galvanizing my manic posts and ramblings

It's been a psychotic last week, so I decided to "wordsmith" my previous nonsensical posts into an actual story:
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My boss is in the process of buying a new apartment, so he says to me, "A study once reported, the 3 most stressful things to do in life are switch jobs, move, or get a divorce." (Yeah, I think this is just how people in the pharmaceutical business talk. No claim can be made without a clinical trial to support it, I guess.) Then he goes on, "But I'm thinking for you the most stressful things involve a player getting traded, away games, and the playoffs."

He's not too far from the truth. As if the trials and tribulations of post-college life weren't taxing enough, baseball is officially making my head spin.

On Monday, I spend 12 hours in a conference room only to re-emerge to voicemails like, "Are you watching this game?? 9 to nothi--agghhh, make that 13! GRAND SLAM! I gotta go!" I can't keep up with this sport any better than my manic buddy could keep up with score of the Yankee's 19-run freak show.

Maybe "stressful" isn't the right word for it. It's more like the type of anxiety you get when you go to Vegas, and upon walking into the casino, you're instantly cocooned in a surround-sound system of ringing slot machines, billowing cigarette smoke, and a sea of eyes all darting around furiously. And somewhere at the core of all this, is the reason you're there: for the delirious rush of gambling, for the thrill of getting emotionally involved in something that may or may not pay off.

It's gotten to the point where I want to pull a Zach Morris move, like when he'd be on the throes of adolescent disaster, and he'd say, "Time out!"--hand gesture and all--and a convenient freeze frame would ensue. See, I have a vague feeling that some altercation occurred, involving a "steroid-ish" right fielder, beer, and an edgier version of Steve Barton. But I don't know all the details since I was still reeling from some story I heard about A-rod saving an 8-year-old's life.

What the hell was A-rod's PR rep thinking? I've heard of people like Tori Spelling popping out of the woodwork to donate their fingers to special ed children without hands or something. But I always thought that type of stuff was reserved as a last-ditch effort to jump back into the charitable limelight. Christ, A-rod's in the middle of a 3-game series in Boston. He needs publicity about as much as Britney's matrimonial life does.

Let the record show that I love A-rod. But more specifically, I love A-rod when he's screaming at other teams, when he's in the thick of verbal assaults, and when he's got that competitive yet unnerving Mike Tyson look in his eyes. I love him because he's not Jeter or Mussina or Hideki, and not trying to be. Because I can I picture him throwing his glove against his locker with enough force to wear down the leather. He's intense, and I much prefer this perception of him to the one where he saves little boys from incoming trucks.

Of course, I know this story isn't fabrication or anything, but I also know it's a completely fruitless, unnecessary, and--quite possibly--damaging human interest piece. It's like in My Cousin Vinny: right after the hearing, Ralph Macchio's friend asks Vinny why he didn't call any witnesses, and Vinny responds, "Stan, you're in a Ala-f*ng-bama. You come from New York. You killed a good ol' boy. There is NO WAY this case isn't going to trial." We're all elated some kid's life was saved, but this story would probably hold a lot more clout on Madison Avenue. A-rod, you're in Red Sox f*ng Nation. You come from New York. You didn't play for Boston. There is NO WAY you'll ever been respected there.

So after I finally get my head around this out-of-the-blue slice-of-life news byte, I realize it's the tail end of the Sox-Yanks series and we've come back to tie the score 5-5. And I begin to feel like the underdog lightweight boxer in the corner whose coach is icing my black eyes and pouring water down my throat, and then two seconds later I'm shoved back into the ring for another round of psychological brutality. Huh? We didn't win? Alas, there's no time to dwell on this, courtesy an incident in the outfield that spurred on enough conflicting stories to rival those of Kobe and his Denver girl.

But a day later, I finally get around to watching the dramatic right field cinematography, only to discover it's old news because the Boss has "issued a statement."

I know there are newsreels to feed and all, but come on, cut me a little slack here. I already live on the 5th floor of a walkup. I can't take this out-of-breath exhaustion from my favorite sport acting like it just swallowed a bottle of Stacker II's.

I should be grateful I don't have to see a "Winners Never Quit and Quitters Never Win" marquee on Yankee Stadium, which was the Boss's cunning resolution to a historic 22-0 loss last year. But "issuing a statement"? Is he the head of Homeland Security? I scanned his sputtering barrage of growls and couldn't help but see why other fans hate him so much. I always saw the Boss as this caricature, not a real person, kind of like Mr. Rooney in Ferris Bueller's Day Off. Always shaking his fist at someone, but pretty much a joke that no one pays attention to.

Maybe I'm just overly defensive when it comes to the Bombers, but I felt like his criticism of the Yanks' losing streak was overtly disloyal. It'd be like a boyfriend getting sloppily drunk in a bar and yelling at some guy for hitting on his girlfriend. So right before the couple leaves the bar, the girlfriend goes back to the guy and apologizes for her boyfriend's behavior. Not cool. You're a team; right or wrong, you don't divorce yourself from your boyfriend/the Yankees because of how others perceive them.

But before I can properly mull over this new gem from the Bronx's New Motivational Speaker, it's 10PM on Monday night, and the Yankees just tied the record for the most runs scored in a second inning. Most days, I get into work at 10, check box scores for 3 hours, and then when an account executive rolls up and tells me my taglines have a tight deadline of one hour, I decide to open up Word and bang them out. The Yankees acted like someone reminded them to stop messing around on the Internet when they need to get work done. They didn't just break a losing streak with a 5-1 win. They scored 19 runs. This is absurd, that's all there is to it. Whether you're a Yankee fan or not, please admit this whole scenario is just laughable.

It's almost 2AM now, and I'm hoping for a bye day before someone tosses down the next baseball trump card. Maybe I can squeeze in a few hours of sleep before I wake up to breaking news that Steinbrenner used cattle prods to drive his team into getting their asses in gear.

I don't ask for much. Just to be able to watch a few games where the outcome of the game isn't eclipsed by another outrageous B-side story. It's a long marathon of a season, and I've already stopped about 6 times along the road to have Gatorade splashed in my mouth. Maybe this week will dial it down a notch, because while I love the dense dynamic of baseball, I don't think my heart or my sanity can sustain this pace all season.