Today kicks off the nadir of the baseball season in Atlanta. Coming off of a give-away rubber-game of the three game set in Fenway (someone tear down that rat trap and build those kids a proper stadium, will ya?) the Braves come home for ten games. The team continues to tread water at mediocrity having not addressed the gaping wounds on either corner outfield slot, to the point where the Francoeur disease has infected Kelly Johnson. Someone needs to cut out the rot, soon. All of which is more or less par for the course these days, none of which really makes the next two weeks any more unbearable than the previous twelve. No, what makes the next two weeks hell on earth is the incoming teams.
Today we get a one-game make up for a rain out with the Cubs. While it might be endurable given the odd-ball nature of the schedule here, best advice is to avoid the park regardless. If there's any slug of baseball fandom that will appear for a Monday rain-out replay and make the park a miserable hell of drunken buffoonery, rest assured, it is Cubs fans.
We follow that septic sludge with Bud Selig's most joyous fuck you to Atlanta fans, our yearly parade of soul-grindingly annoying fans from the NEC. Three games of transplanted Yankee fans soiling the seats of our fair grounds, followed immediately by an equal dose of their paternal twins from Boston. Oh, joyous day. How can we, the unworthy denizens of Atlanta ever thank you Mr. Selig? If not for your ever-brilliant notion of making the World Series essentially meaningless by playing the leagues against one another in the middle of the summer we'd never have the chance to see all of the loud, obnoxious sprawl-eating invaders gathered together in one place like this! You're the best.
I hate interleague play. I hate people who think a baseball stadium full of families is the proper place to get drunk and moan "Yoooouuuuuuk" like a water buffalo in heat. I hate anyone who thinks Derek Jeter deserves anything more than a good garroting. All of which pales as shadow compared to the burning summer sun that is my hatred for the man who unleashed this unholy calvacade upon us.
At least we get a "break" with Philly in town before the Mets faithful storm in from the upper 'burbs and add a layer of self-loathing and little brother syndrone on top of the class and gentility we'd otherwise expect this week.