What Does It Benefit A Man?

Badger Creek Wilderness Area

Last week I took a far too brief sojourn into the Oregon wilderness. The calm quiet of 24,000 pristine acres effectively eradicated my overheated anxiety about the irredeemable shittiness of mankind. Then along came Jermaine Dye in Game 2 of the World Series, and I was right back where I began.

I carry with me through this life a cavalier disregard for all manner of sportball activities. And yet, there are times when one is just close enough to the drama, when the stakes are such that they cannot be ignored, wherein a stone-cold team bursting its cerements cannot but captivate an indifferent soul. And so I found myself riveted to the television last night, sipping a cold glass of Sprite and diddling the ass-end of my ex-girlfriend's cat. Thus it transpired that, when Paul Knoerko hit his grand slam, my knee-jerk reaction sent that poor goddamn cat sailing from the couch like a shot off a shovel (her trip though the heavens terminating in a plangent crash in the nest of wires behind the television). Podsednik's game-winner was no less disruptive.

And yet, the horrible stench of Jermaine Dye befouled, soiled, and generally lessened the achievements of his teammates.

Jermaine Dye was batting with two outs against Astros reliever Dan Wheeler when plate umpire Jeff Nelson ruled a 3-2 pitch hit Dye. The Astros argued that the pitch hit the barrel of Dye's bat and should've been ruled a foul ball.

''I'm not going to tell him I fouled it off,'' Dye said. ''Just go to first, and hopefully we get a big hit, and we did.''

That rotten bastard knew he fouled off. How could he not? Did he do the honorable, the sportsmanlike, thing? No. He lied. He lied with his actions and with his silence. He cheated. He is a piece of useless human garbage who has permanently degraded his own life's work.

The greater shame? That nobody expected him to do otherwise.