I am no stranger to off-season depression.
Aside from several months of contentment following the 2004 World Series victory of the Boston Red Sox, the off-season is an opportunity to sit around feeling miserable about myself, wishing there were some sport that could fill the void to the degree baseball does. And while I’m warming to the idea of a winter of watching hockey, it just is not the same.
The internet loses its magic this time of year.
The daily-coverage of baseball is minimal and uninspired. Sure, there might be an interesting study at Baseball Prospectus, the guys over at Over The Monster will make me laugh, but for the most part it is the same thing day after day—discussion of restructuring lineups based solely on speculation, the occasional free agent signing, and Justin Verlander running away with all of the accolades.
Sure, the stove will heat up eventually, but right now it’s lifeless with minimal coals burning. The Red Sox don’t have a manager. They don’t have enough starters. They may or may not have a closer. There are some real questions about whether David Ortiz will re-sign. But at this very moment, all of these prospects of what could be aren’t intriguing to me at all—I like to deal in facts, not the possibilities of what will happen to my beloved.
And perhaps the rumors of Bobby Valentine as manager are depressing me. But it really raises the question: Am I depressed about Bobby Valentine or am I depressed that there are no other candidates in the mix for Red Sox manager that are better than Bobby Valentine?
And every time I sit down to write this off-season, it comes out like a string of expletives that I cannot control. The White Sox are still saddled with Adam Dunn, Jonathan Papelbon now plays for a team whose fans throw batteries, and my local teams are now the Washington Nationals and the Baltimore Orioles.
There’s nothing bleaker than thinking about a baseball experience where everyone wears business suits with attendance spikes every five days to see Stephen Strasburg pitch. I am now five train stops away from 6 more years of Jayson Werth and his $126MM contract. I will be watching baseball in a ballpark where the away team—regardless of who they are—will draw a bigger crowd than the home team, as one would expect in a city of transplants.
Perhaps the ticket prices, the President’s Race, and those pretzels so artfully shaped like the Washington Curly ‘W’ will make me care about this baseball team—but it’s certainly going to take some heroics well beyond an overpriced outfield Messiah and Doug Slaten—even though he gets a bit of a free pass for his Jimi Hendrix entrance music.
But really, the prospect of unfettered access to a team seems cruel for a baseball fan that was happy spending weekends at US Cellular Field. Even on days when Adam Dunn and Alex Rios did their best Mendoza impressions, I was content to be in a vibrant ballpark of people who loved baseball (except for that one game where these drunk guys kept getting handsy with me and I had to speak with security).
This off-season just seems more depressing because of the other changes that have come along with it.
Am I upset about no longer seeing the White Sox on a weekly basis, or am I upset that I have moved half-way across the country to a land of people who dress as though they could go yachting at any moment?
Do I miss Paul Konerko, or am I missing taquerias on every corner?
I will feel better when the Red Sox have a complete rotation. I will feel better when I know the fate of David Ortiz. I will come to terms with Bobby Valentine as manager if it happens, and I will try and find contentment if the Red Sox overpay for Madson or Capps to step into the closer role.
And in February when pitchers and catchers report, I will do my best to get over all of this depression. Hopefully by that point I will stop comparing my new home with my old one. And perhaps as the winter weather turns to spring I’ll welcome the idea of wearing topsiders and sitting in a nearly empty ballpark in a concrete jungle near a highway overpass cheering for Ryan Zimmerman.
But for now, I get to be grouchy and unsettled and cantankerous…and for the next few months, I can blame it on the absence of baseball regardless of the real reason, and most of you will understand what it feels like.