The Astros and the Padres have the structural integrity of a North Korean skyscraper.
Both are kept upright by decaying southern support beams — Jake Peavy and Roy Oswalt — which provide just enough backbone to avoid a lifetime of scoliosis checks.
But can these teams really afford to backtrack any longer? Is the nostalgic buzz really in the best interest of the entire system?
There’s only one way these two teams will ever truly re-build: plant the explosives at the crossroads of Peavy and Oswalt and press the detonator.
Both pitchers will strike again, don’t worry.
Peavy is the poster-child for Boston’s “Final Solution,” which is based around building the “purest roster” in history. And there’s a spot for Oswalt in Flushing. He could warble in a honky tonk drawl, spit tobbacco and morph into a Billy Wagner hologram. The NY writers would love that, Roy. I can actually hear Joel Sherman right now, screaming on the phone to a defenseless child-bearing woman from El Paso.
“NO! I DON’T NEED THE FUCKING ROSETTA STONE! I WANT TO R-E-T-U-R-N I-T!”
But let’s not get too carried away. I’m just here to diagram our reality and offer up the fantastical options that exist out there.
Now let me get to the real “point” behind this meandering slop of a post. Here’s a short clip of the celebration following Uncle Sam’s 6-5 win over “The Rum Diary.”
As the footage clearly shows, Peavy and Oswalt had a little too much pent-up celebration rage. Not only did Oswalt send David Wright into the Church-osphere with a leg drop, but he also went after Shane Victorino’s pancreas.
Peavy, meanwhile, decided to have a one-man tug-of-war game with Youk’s jersey, resulting in a torn labrum and scarred soul — you saw that curiously fitting cutoff undershirt, right?
I’m onto the “Final Solution,” Peavy!
Now, how many games into the regular season before Oswalt channels Kali Ma on a bladderless JR Towles?
