Wednesday, July 06, 2005

Lowe And Behold

Dear Stupid Diary,

Why did I leave those guys? Huh, can you give me a friggin explanation of how money and stupidity overrode friendships and fun. I’ll face it, I sucked last year. My ERA was imploding, the fans were extremely impatient with me, and those trips to the clubhouse bar in between innings didn’t help one bit. But hey, who can pass up a good shot of gin just before Dave Wallace lectures me about arm angles and how to perfect my slide step. Like I need his bull. I’m making more money than he ever will.

But couldn’t Theo have at least given me another chance with a solid offer? Why wasn’t I more aggressive and why did I think that another city would be better? The entire Dodger team is going down the toilet. First Milton Bradley, whose great, great uncle invented Monopoly. Then Gagne, the Canadian idiot, now J.D. Drew. That’s a massive chunk of the club right there, folks. Check, please.

My ERA is lower than last year (if it wasn’t, I’d probably find myself waiting tables at Brandy Liverpool’s Bar and Grill), but I’m 5-9, getting minimal run support and the Dodgers are losing. Dodger Stadium is kinda crappy too, I’m not gonna hide that from anyone. But, damnit, I miss the hugs and Papi and the pressure and Fenway and the city and the billboards and believing and the playoffs and really good seafood. Hell, L.A. is a great place to live, but I want to see the guys. Badly.

Even some of these precious Dodger fans booed me after I got roughed up recently, while one of the reasons I left Boston was because of the non-stop pressure of performing on a high level. But now I find myself needing that push, needing that extra hop in my step, needing Gabe Kapler to take his shirt off and his custom-made spotlight to shine on his right nipple.

Nine losses before the All-Star break means that I’ll probably…um…well, half of….plus nine…I’m on pace for seventeen, no, eighteen losses. EIGHTEEN! Star Jones hasn’t been able to drop eighteen pounds without at least one Mars bar. Billy Joel hasn’t even gotten into eighteen car crashes yet. And there’s not even eighteen Starbucks on my block. But yet, I may have eighteen losses.

That would be absolutely demoralizing to me. I haven’t been this anxious since before Game 4 of the World Series. Man, that was a time. When the fans greeted me during that wicked awesome ring ceremony back in April, well, I felt a special bond between me and the Boston fans that can only be divided by John Kruk. Sorry if I sound like my usual crybaby ways, but this sucks.

With a frown,
$7 Million Dollar Man Derek Lowe


At 8:39 AM, Anonymous Anonymous said...

God, I do miss D-Lowe! Great post!

At 1:51 PM, Blogger Zach said...

Thanks for the comment. Actually, I do wish D-Lowe all the best. Sort of.

At 2:02 AM, Anonymous Mac Daddy said...

Love the title... its so catchy. Zach D. Lowe is trash... go Irish... peace


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