The 35th Street Review

The sports media longs for the World Series of yore - but no one’s really sure why.

To enjoy this year’s World Series is really nothing more than to revel in the same loathing and contempt we always have. And that’s a good thing.

Cover your eyes, fans: the Boston Red Sox may be on the verge of murdering baseball itself.

In which we succinctly answer your questions on what failure, mediocrity, and Addison Street all have in common.

To reflect on the end of this year’s baseball is to find that all, somehow, is well.

They went 100 miles, 200 miles, 300 miles, and the train kept-a-rollin’.

We could be heroes, just for staving off total humiliation another day.

Q: How many White Sox batters does it take to get a runner on second?

A: Four. One to hit a double and three to leave him there.

Twelve runners left stranded. An opposing ace on the ropes in the first inning. A chance to strike a deathblow before the Rays even get to bat.

The result? You know the answer to that.

The reason? You know the reason for that as well. Even Harold Reynolds made cracks about how many base hits it takes to generate a White Sox run.

Harold Reynolds!

So now, here we sit staring at our favorite team and their newly-created, self-dug, gaping defict. The home runs still don’t come, and the wins don’t either. This is almost exactly as ugly as we said it would be.