Could almost getting no-hit by Carlos Zambrano last night be the equivalent of the 2005 tombstone in the Houston Chronicle? Is this rock bottom? Or do the Houston Astros need to be officially declared Dead Team Walking before they come alive? Fine. I’ll do it. The season is over. Let’s have a rebuilding year. Break up the team, sell off the pieces. Last night was humilliating. As the administrator of my super-fantastic discussion board put it so eloquently during the game (and here I’m paraphrasing): It would have been more enjoyable to rub your skin with steel wool and then pour lemon juice all over yourself. We were reduced to wishing and hoping for a hit, just one, a bloop single, an infield hit, anything to break up the no hitter. And when it was broken up by Preston Wilson in the eighth inning, we felt like that was a victory in itself, never mind we were losing 8-0, that the opposing pitcher who was no-hitting us was responsible for half of the Cubs’ RBIs. It was humiliating. It was pathetic. After starting the season with the best record in Astros’ history (19-9), they have managed to tank in ways I never thought possible. They have raised tanking to an art form. And now our ace, our plug in the bottom of the leaking boat, is heading to the 15-day DL with a back strain. No way we can come back from this one. Not with the way our Kiddie Corps has been struggling (with the possible exception of Fernando Nieve). Not with the way Jason Lane and Adam Everett and Willy Taveras have been hitting (not hitting). Not with the streakiness of the amply talented but psychologically fragile Morgan Ensberg. Not with a struggling Dan Wheeler. It’ll be over before Roger Clemens joins the rotation June 22. His return will be reduced to nothing more than a fanfare-laden, tragically expensive joke. It’s over.
Is that what you guys need to light a fire under your a5ses? There. I’ve done it. Now go get ’em.