Lou Merloni Reads The Most Depressingly Hilarious Postmortem Red Sox Poem Of All-Time
I’m not an immediate reaction guy. It drives Pres insane, but that’s just how I am. I need a moment to process the information, the situation, the moment, all of it. Then, after I’ve gathered my thoughts, I can put it all together and react. Extreme comparison, but I don’t even react to deaths until a day later, sometimes more. My brain’s like, wait, do we really, actually like this person? Next day: Yeah, we did. Sadness granted. It’s gotta be a defense mechanism in my brain, because I’ve yet to be overcome with sadness with the idea that David Ortiz is gone forever, and the Red Sox baseball season is over.
Maybe it’s because, somewhere in the back of my brain, I’m not ruling out the idea that Ortiz could come back next year? I don’t actually think that, but maybe my subconscious does. Maybe it’s because the postseason rolls on without the Red Sox, so there’s still baseball to keep me happy for now? But the fact of the matter is that offseason depression is real, and Lou Merloni just bitch slapped me in the face with that reality. Before the Red Sox play another meaningful game, there will be thousands of leaves to rake, two tons of snow to shovel, Thanksgiving Eve when I have to see everybody from my hometown that I can’t stand, nowhere to fucking park at the mall when you go Christmas shopping. Fuck. That. Shit.
And not only that, but just facing the reality of the state of this Red Sox team moving forward. Sure, the future is bright. You’ve got a great core of young, controllable players in Mookie Betts, Jackie Bradley Jr., Xander Bogaerts, Andrew Benintendi, Yoan Moncada, and I’ll even throw in the forgotten Sam Travis, because I think he’s overlooked. The Red Sox future is in good hands, but how good? How good can they actually be without David Ortiz? As Lou said, “Who the FUCK is gonna come up with a clutch hit” now that Ortiz is gone?
The Red Sox got swept by the Cleveland Indians. The Cleveland fuckin’ Indians. No Carrasco, No Salazar. A sweep. It’s okay, Lou. We’ve always got next year. Or, at least, that’s what I keep telling myself.