The clock had just struck midnight in West Michigan. September had arrived – as did my younger brother, whose car door could be heard at 11:59. It was supposed to be lucky: since we were kids and Nickelodeon told us to begin each month by saying, “rabbit, rabbit,” we strove for it, even getting it in for the next 1,000 years at the new millennium. I never thought an hour into our fresh month Ethan would deliver me news like someone had died: Justin Verlander, our Detroit Tiger since we drafted him over a decade ago, was traded to save money on a squandered season.
If I ever meet manager Brad Ausmus, I’d give him a punch right in the fucking face. I KNEW that incompetent slack jaw would do almost as bad a job leading our team as the current President is our country (speaking of people I’d like to punch in the face). Ausmus: you inept buffoon. THIS IS ALL ON YOU. Not only did you fail to take a 4-time division title team past the 1st round once, you managed to suck so badly we traded away half the veterans on a sinking ship. FUCK YOU. My Whitecaps are now all I have left, for the thought of JV in another uniform is like watching your girl bang someone else. NOT GOING TO HAPPEN, HOUSTON! Goodbye, Verlander. Goodbye…
I heard it on the radio, driving back to Grand Rapids, from Detroit. I said words to myself that I’m not proud of. If Verlander is gone, which he is, I want a new Mother’s Day tradition. I pick the White Caps. Now that’s a team we can talk about with pride.