Wrapped inside some restless times is a current wait-game that's hard to stomach. Tonight we can see if John Ely can wheel and deal again. But after seven straight victories, some room to breathe and a moment to feel good about the tattered pitching of April, it's not the performance of the rookie pitcher we're waiting to see about. We're waiting to know how bad some dude from Phoenix whom I've never met's finger is. Although The Dodgers are still only a returning Casey Blake beard hair above .500, this road sweep against division rivals should provide a mild form of angst suppression, one tiny shard of reason and rhythm, an evasion of certain death. And it certainly has.
But until tomorrow afternoon when we find out if Andre Ethier will be out, the all-encompassing echo is only that of, "What the motherfuck?!?"
It was like a jinx provided by the national media. Finally shown the love and appreciation of the Philly and New York jocking baseball world, Ethier is injured during batting practice. And not his nagging ankle injury or a hyper-extended knee. Fuck no. The first knuckle of a goddamn pinkie. All we can hope for is that it's not so bad or that he'll play with the injury and still be a triple crown threat. And with Furcal still gone and the rest of the offense showing up some of the time, we can only rely on our recent phenomenon of not pitching like assholes.
I'm very happy with the last week. Not the Ethier thing. When I yelled at the sky last weekend, "Give me a fucking break!" I hadn't meant Ethier's finger. Thanks again.
Go Ely, Go Dodgers, Go superhuman healing powers. Something exceptional must now arrive so we can keep up this winning thing. The deprivation of such things has been a real drag.