Football season is just hours away, have you heard?
This weekend the dome plays host to a meaningful football game for the first time since nearly the Athens Olympics as Mizzou and the Illini face off in the Arch Rivalry. Unfortunately, ESPN’s College Gameday opted against kicking off the season in this football hot bed and decided to broadcast live from the always mild in August setting of Atlanta.
Okay, lets be serious, the ATL is clearly starved for some sort of national sports attention at this point. After all, the city’s lone bright spot since Dogfight Gate was the Hawks winning three playoff games.
Elsewhere, a full slate of games this weekend will feature a litany of four touchdown spreads as national championship contenders start their season against multi directional schools and players in charge of washing their own uniforms.
In a matter of mere weeks, a ton of questions will be answered as the national championship picture will begin to come into focus and Beano Cooke’s preseason sleeper proves laughably inept.
In contrast, a mere 130 games have been played by National League teams now and nothing other than the Pirates and Reds seasons of inevitable failure has been determined.
Let it be known, however, that the pennant race clock has begun ticking, quite loud in fact. The Cards steady play over the past month has been encouraging, but the team’s upward movement in the NL Central standings has been nullified by an equally impressive stretch from both Milwaukee and Chicago.
Wainwright has returned true to form, Carpenter’s stint on the disabled list looks to be ending soon and El Hombre recent hot streak has him positioned to be a potential Triple Crown threat.
Make no mistake; there is no better time than right now for the Cards to make their move.
I just wish I could be in the Cardinal clubhouse this week to offer a pre game address akin to that of any football head coach minutes before the season’s kick off.
After downing four Red Bulls and watching three hours of World War II documentaries, I’d storm through the clubhouse door, inexplicably wearing a cape. Deferring to frat-tastic tendencies, I’d find something that would easily break to get the attention of even the team’s veterans. If I couldn’t find anything, I would just blow up a brown paper bag and pop it.
After tossing over tables that held the pre game spread and throwing cleats at every television in sight, I’d let a utility player hit me in the head with a chair, just to insure that I was not there for my own amusement. 
I'd inevitably start foaming at the mouth while dropping several Mike Tysonisms, push Randy Flores to the ground and then destroy a stereo or a few pieces of art with some sort of sword that I had conveniently tucked in a holster adorning my bright red leotard.
Sure, the team would likely be horrified as I then mysteriously evaporated behind a cloud of vomit-inducing smoke, but you bet your ass they’d be inspired to advance some runners that night!
If you think about it, why does this never happen? Is it the mental and emotional grind of a 162 game season that would make such effort grow stale? Is it because firing up a team to the point where they are more likely to skin a cat than make an open field tackle is counterproductive for athletes that have to get in a batters box and focus on hitting 90 mph sliders? Is it because we have a number of player’s that would be more confused than anything else when a complete stranger lacking obvious baseball ability showed up in their office and unexpectedly kidnapped Adam Kennedy?
Of course not. So why isn’t LaRussa on Craig’s List right now hunting down an inspirational speaker that will get this team more fired up than Richard Simmons at an exercise convention?
Spare me the excuse that our leader’s cool, never wavering composure keeps this team relaxed and confident. Give me some hack impersonating Bill Pullman’s ‘Today We Fight for Our Independence’ speech to the troops in Independence Day. Give me Johnny Moxon’s ‘Lets Be Heroes!’ plead to his West Canaan High brethren. Hell, give me Sean Astin’s ‘Down Here It’s Our Time’ quiver-lipped address to his fellow Goonies for god sakes!
The alternative, I suppose, is hitting coach Hal McRae standing beside an overhead projector offering a pitch-by-pitch breakdown of what to expect from tonight’s starter.
Tony, you know how to find me.
JCarnage offers these services for first communions, blind dates and bachelor parties. Reserve a spot on his quickly-filling calendar at JCarnage24@yahoo.com