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After the wretched performance over the weekend, Yusmeiro Petit vs. Tim Lincecum is the mismatch we are looking at tonight. And while we face the man who is perhaps the Cy Young front-runner, the Dodgers get to take on the Padres - in a series where they manage to dodge both Peavy and Young. Yes, it is time to invoke supernatural powers and pray to the blessed spirit of St. Penelope of the Cross, as we certainly need something to help the Diamondbacks rescue the season. The past week has seen a mix of poor starting pitching, questionable managerial tactics, impotent clutch offense, unreliable bullpen work and inept defense: basically a perfect storm of incompetence. Are we really that bad?
Well, since the start of April, yes: 51-63. Basically, Arizona have been a ninety-loss team outside of that opening month, coasting through the season like a scholar who guessed right on all the questions of the semester's opening multiple-choice quiz, and decided they were naturally brilliant, so that was all the work they needed to do. Now, it's the finals, and we just spent the weekend before them, down at Rocky Point, discovering the joys of tequila. Now, we have a monstrous hangover and are gazing at a paper covered in incomprehensible squiggles. Yep: divine intervention is probably our best hope right now. Sure, the season isn't over, but our fate is out of our hands: we needs the Dodgers to stop winning as well as for our own players to pull out of this massive collective funk.
in the past thirteen games, we have scored a total of 41 runs and are batting .222 with an OPS of .660. In eight of those contests, we have been held to two runs or fewer. On the other hand, we have conceded 76 runs, with opponents enjoying a line of .302/.374/.500, for an OPS of .874 - that's two hundred and fourteen points better than the Diamondbacks. We haven't just lost these games, we have been comprehensively thrashed. And it shows: you just needed to look in the dugout over the Los Angeles series - I haven't seen such a collection of depressed body-language since the last Joy Division convention. There's no fight, no spark, no life: we might as well be rolling out nine zombies.
So, I am not optimistic. But, hey, it's baseball and if the team is going to go down, I intend to stay the course and send them off with a rousing rendition of Nearer My God to Thee, as the lifeboats sail away. Anyone got an ice-bucket?