Emma's mother put it best, I think: "It's really just more tragic than anything else, how far and how fast he's falling."
I've never seen anyone look more miserable on the field of sport than Keith Foulke has looked lately. Saturday night it looked as though he was watching the fly-outs to right with a gun to his head. You can feel his cotton-mouth just watching. It's awful.
In the dugout, he slumped in his pullover, totally alone on the bench. It's hard to know if he was alone because he doesn't want company, or because his team is disgusted with him, or a little of both.
That look in the dugout...Sam's approximation of his inner thoughts can't be too far off the mark:
I hate my job, I hate my sport, I hate my life, I hate the fans, but most of all I hate girls. I hate girls, and I want to make them cry.
And he did, last night. I spent most of last night, exhausted after a weekend of partying, at my parents' house watching the Pops (I know, completely lame, but I was tired on a mitochondrial level) and fireworks, and so missed all but snippets of the game. I finally passed out around 10:30, just before the game ended, as my cell phone beeped at me with text messages to deliver. I ignored it, but this morning, I looked at the most recent: MLB FINAL BOS 5 TEX 6.
And I knew, instantaneously, exactly what had happened. Even my denial can't hold up anymore.
Now I'm filled with morbid curiosity instead. What is it? What has happened? I want to know precisely what triggered this meltdown, what set of risk factors let him spin out of control. We've all heard the rumors: the divorce theory, the alcoholic theory, the alcoholic-and-divorce theory, the knee theory, the shoulder theory, the he's-just-a-bastard theory...I want fact. I want the truth. I want to know what happened here. Even if it's tragic. I want to see an autopsy of Keith Foulke's season.
Then I can let him go.