Cheddar in the Land of Canaan, or, How the Sports World Got Its Groove Back

Am I a bad luck charm? Does the Cheddar give the sports scene indigestion?

It's a fair question. Last week, the kid was zoned into a crucial week in the baseball calendar: Mets-Phils, Yanks-Sox, Angels-M's. Locked in. Following all the games, obviously, but also with an ass grooved into the seat of the couch. I caught as much baseball as humanly possible during a week where one also lands a job. The new HD set was part of the attraction, true, but to quote Curtis, I was focused, man.

And what was the result of all this high-intensity attention? Well, if you're reading this blog, you're probably aware of what happened. The whole fucking world melted down. The Metsies blew the game of the year, Billy the Kid turned bitch, the Yanks cruised through the heart of the Boston rotation, Vlad put a massive stake through the AL Wild Card race ... I mean, come on. It couldn't have gone worse with Werner Herzog directing.

So, Friday after getting out of the office, Cheddar unplugged himself from the Apple. Severed the cord to civilization. "Escuchela ... la ciudad repirando" ... knocked off all that good shit for a moment, and caught the after-work express out of Grand Central as the sun began to set. Along for the ride was Kid Slick's new squeeze, the Gourmet Gal, a bottle of fine scotch and a backpack full of hope. Our goal? To commune with nature, or at least peace and quiet, over a boozy Labor Day weekend.

Did we succeed? Yes, we did. And then some.

Kid Slick picked me and the lady up at the Tenmile River MetroNorth station (a little slice of nowhere, in the very likely case you've never been), and the three of us headed out to Canaan, Conn., where we were joined for a couple of nights by a rotating murderer's row of cool cats. We're talking some seriously fine folks here -- hard-drinking, harder-smoking, Pictionary-playing people.

Wiffleball was played, and after our lungs were spent, we Home Run Derbied crabapples. Hills were hiked. Tag sales were frequented. Barbs were cued. Labor Day was spent the way it was meant to be spent.

And perhaps as interestingly, while Cheddar Ben was away from his usual perch (at a computer, reading about and/or watching sports), the sports world righted itself. And then some. The Mets came through like champs and swept the Braves while Philly was busy being Philly down in South Beach. Pedro's smile came 'round the bend, just like I knew it would. The Yanks happily dropped a series to the D-Rays.

But, unbeknownst to me at the time, the sports world reasoned that more was called for. And so there was the unseen sight of Clay Buchholz becoming the third pitcher in baseball history to throw a no-hitter in one of his first two starts. At the same time, the Fat Hick Overpaid Texan went hard down with a richly-deserved injury. How much per start again? And the Williams of Division 1-AA went into the Big House and knocked off No. 5 Michigan in its home opener in front of 100,000 of college football's Yankee fans.

Appy State, Y2K salutes your moxy and spirit. You're what this site's all about.

It was a Good News weekend for the ages, one of the best of all time, and it came while I was intentionally not paying attention to anything in the sporting world. Now, the question is to process what it all means. I mean, I'm with Morpheus on this one. When it comes to reversals of fate like this, I do not believe in coincidences.

But what could the sports world be trying to tell me? What, damn you, what? What should I do? What's the meaning of it all?

Is this a retort? Is the sports world simply trying to back me up off of her a little bit? Wouldn't be the first time it's happened, of course, and if couched in the proper terms, the sports world might even seem more attractive to me afterwards. But that seems so excessive.

Could this be a teachable moment? Is the sports world trying to deliver a valuable lesson about how to most effectively be a fan to one's teams? The meaning here would be clear enough -- that sometimes, less is more; that sometimes, you can only glimpse the truth out of the corner of your eye. Like Arthur learning how to fly in "The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy," I suppose.

It might even be an out-and-out rejection; the worst-case scenario. The sports world, fickle mistress that she is, might be telling me, "Yeah, watch if you want, but you're not going to be happy if you do." I'll be the alternate universe Cassandra of the athletic realm -- condemned to stay away from my favorites, lest I sent them to perdition by my very presence. The only solution? Total withdrawal. The cost?

A man's soul.

Clearly, more study is required here. I don't yet have the tools to decipher the events of this past weekend, nor do I necessarily know where they might be found. But pursue them I will. Something happened in Canaan. Something strange, and I'm not going to rest until I find out what.

P.S. Angels play-by-play man Steve Physioc just bit the dust HARD during the fourth inning of Tuesday's L.A./Oakland game, absolutely sliming a discussion of Bobby Crosby's injury woes. It eventually came to light that Crosby had been seeing a hand specialist named Dr. Shin. You see where this is going. Even Rex Hudler, who's never been accused of making sense, was horrified ...

Physioc: Seems like a doctor named Shin should be more of a foot specialist.
Hudler: [after a pause] Yeah, I guess so.
Physioc: You know what the definitition of a shin is?
Hudler: What's that?
Physioc: The part of the body used to find furniture in the dark
Hudler: [absolute silence]
Physioc: You know, when you're in a hotel room in another country, and you can't find the lights ... [trailing off]
Hudler: [nervously hops in] Oh, yeah. Oh, I see where you were going now.

Just brutal.