The Race to the Bottom

Picture it: A blistering hot day, the kind of day that makes the average Chicago resident wake up and ask, "Why the hell do I live here?" Forget frying eggs on the sidewalk; you could probably bake a quiche in about ten minutes on your porch. The sun is brutal and unforgiving, and you're Dusty Baker, and your team is playing the much-hated New York Mets on national television.

You have to put on a baseball uniform, made of long pants and a heavy shirt, you have to go outside for hours, literally hours, and just sit there, taking in the heat. And you watch your pitcher hit a home run and traipse around the bases, and you can't blame him, because it's really fucking hot. And you're just sitting there thinking, "Why did I leave San Francisco with its year-round temperate climate? What was I thinking," and then your second baseman starts missing basic ground balls, and then your pitcher throws a grand slam, and well, this isn't going anywhere good, so you pull him after he walks a guy. And then your second pitcher of the inning, aided by your crack infield, throws another fucking grand slam.

Eleven runs are scored before the innings over, and you think, "Well, what's done is done, and Christ in a Camry is it hot out here, at least this will be over soon."

And then you realize that you still have THREE INNINGS TO GO.