Okay, listen up, douchebags: I don't like you and you don't like me. But thanks to some of the sloppiest play we've seen in World Series baseball since the Marlins beat the Indians we're stuck with each other for the next twelve posts. My name is Balk, and I'm an editor over there at Gawker, a site focused on New York media and gossip. Which is to say that our gayness is fully open and acknowledged, in contrast to the deep-seated homosexual desires you all so clearly exhibit here. My entire preparation for this job was essentially scouring the web for naked pictures of Brady Quinn, because that's what I've been told the readers frequently request. If you're riled up enough to read on (and that was totally not the intention), there's a full scouting report after the jump.
Okay, what can I say? My guys lost, and badly. At the start of the season I was telling friends that I'd be happy with 87 wins (which, as it turns out, is more than the Cardinals wound up registering); I don't think anyone expected a World Series appearance. And yet I'm still bitter, when, by all rights, I should be thrilled that they got that far. I'm also doing that thing you do when your team loses where you keep telling yourself, "It's only a game, there are more important things in life, etc.," except the fact that I'm here (and at my regular gig) all day is a constant reminder of the fact that, while I got to see the Tigers win a post-season series for the first time since I was eleven (although I sort of count those final three games against the Blue Jays in '87 as a playoff match), I got to see them fail in the clutch.
Speaking of the Tigers: There was a lot of chatter during the original announcement of this wager as to how I could be both a Tigers fan and a fan of the Saints. I'm also a fan of the Flyers and the Celtics, so between the W.S., the Ravens, Red passing away, and, you know, the hockey season thus far, it hasn't been the best week. In any event, why those teams? The short answer is that my dad is completely, actively disinterested in sports: as a kid I was forced to form my own allegiances, and rather than do the easy thing and pick my local teams, I looked around and carefully considered whom I'd be rooting for. My Tigers fandom came about because at the age of nine no one in the world seemed more to represent what baseball was than Sparky Anderson. The Celtics happened because Mom's family is from Boston and has had season tickets since there were still Jews on the team. The Saints are case of a late-developing interest in football and the ability to sit in a bar that seats 70,000. And the Flyers came about because, much like Peter Zezel, I hate the Rangers.
But enough about me: I'm going to throw this out there to those of you who somehow wound up fans of teams from different cities: How did it happen? Why? Do you feel like you're somehow more committed because it's harder to catch your team on TV? Are you intrinsically a better person because you've chosen to buck the convention that dictates you must like a team out of some accident of geography? Intersperse your answers in the comments with all the other readers who are busy telling me I suck. (Bring it on, bitches, I am NOT AFRAID. I deal with Leon Freilich every day, you lot are nothing. And if the commenters at Gawker are right, you're a bunch of easily-intimidated troglodytes who are completely lacking critical faculties. Yeah, they said that.)
Okay, one down. Got a couple of features planned today, and, if you're good, I'll put up some clips from Jaws II, the little-seen gay porn movie Ron Jaworski made after he retired from the Chiefs. I know that's what you want anyway.
Oh, right, before I forget: Congratulations to Will Leitch and the St. Louis Cardinals. I am totally sincere when I say that, if I had to lose to Will, I am thrilled he was able to watch his team clinch on the home field. And I'm glad he made it out of St. Louis without getting raped or murdered, which is apparently a common occurrence there. Thanks (I guess?) for trusting me with the keys, Will; I'll try not to fuck it up too much.