Though I aspire to greatness, it seems Valentine’s Day has me in love with thoughts of mediocrity. The Phillies’ pitchers and catchers reported to spring training yesterday, and how I wish I were in line for the fifth starter position! Imagine the lack of pressure the holder of this title, likely Joe Blanton, will hold this season.
Nobody will expect the hurler to reach double figures in wins. In fact, who will notice if he even hits triple digits in innings? With Halladay, Lee, Oswalt and Hamels in front of him, the fifth starter will have fewer expectations than Cleveland Cavaliers’ fans.
Send me out every fifth day to earn the bare minimum salary. I might even forsake payment just to fraternize with the four aces. My position would certainly be among the least troubling. It would certainly be less stressing than what Jerry Sloan went through in Utah. That poor guy had me thinking the Jazz would make the NBA Finals this year. I thought I had given up on fairy tales. Maybe I will coax him down to Florida to enjoy his retirment.
Throwing my off-speed junk would not tax me as much as the Miami Heat’s futile attempts to beat the Boston Celtics do the Sunshine State’s faithful. I would need nobody to root for me, setting me far above Tiger Woods, who is sliding down the golf rankings with as much rapidity as he took down his pants in his many affairs.
Even the Sixers would have more eyes watching. I would only stimulate remote controls and runs to concession stands. I could be for the economy what President Obama’s stimulus plan has not. My fastballs would have children giving up on Santa Claus, as I would be the chief gift giver in their lives.
I want that spot! Surely I would slightly tarnish the amazing season fans are expecting, but I am sure they could cope with 120 wins. Gladys Knight talked about a lover’s catching the midnight train to Georgia. I want a midnight flight to Florida. Wish me luck, or, should I say, wish me mediocrity.