Depending on how you look at it, this day was either supposed to belong to the Seahawks or the internet. It was Monday. Cyber Monday, the day the masses descend upon the world wide web for bargains. But Cyber Monday mattered little to those of us in the Emerald City. The Seahawks had a football game on this particular evening. That meant they were playing on Monday Night Football, arguably the biggest regular season stage in all of professional sports. They were already relegated to sharing a pseudo-holiday with online retailers. And yet their civic brethren across the sports landscape were not content to let them have even half the spotlight.
It started with the Mariners, those assholes, constantly fighting to stay relevant in a town where their irrelevance reigns supreme. They woke up on this chilly, sun-soaked morning and decided to sign Willie Bloomquist. Yes, the Willie Bloomquist. To a two-year, $5.8 million contract. It’s been five years since Willie last played for his hometown Mariners and he’s 36 years of age now, so why not sign him, right? Makes perfect sense. Anyway, they did it, they really did it. Ordinarily, this wouldn’t register on our radar – we’re talking about an aging utility player, after all – but this was no ordinary situation.
As of January 31, 2014, Chuck Armstrong will no longer serve as team president of your Seattle Mariners. That fateful date is just 66 calendar days away and frankly we could not be happier.
The end of Armstrong’s 28-year reign of terror is nigh and it’s time to celebrate. Rather than give you hundreds, if not thousands, of words on why this news is so glorious, we’ve put together the following presentation for you below.
Before you scroll through our celebratory visual aids, however, please turn up the volume on your speakers and press “Play” on one of the two videos below, Vengabus or Zombie Nation, whichever you feel best captures the essence of your Mariner fanaticism. Then, without further ado, enjoy.
Imagine you’re a parent and you’re in a bind. You have a kid that you need to get rid of for an hour and there is nobody who can watch him for you. You don’t have a choice, either. You have to go do this thing without your kid, no matter what. You’re stuck, and now you’re sitting here hyperventilating with a child screaming in the backseat of your car, wishing you’d never procreated in the first place.
And then, all of a sudden, you get a call back from a trusted friend who’s willing and able to spend an hour with your kid. Saved! You rejoice. Everything has worked out for the time being. You leave the little one with your friend, go live up to your obligations for sixty minutes, and then return…to find…disaster.
A few weeks back, I casually mentioned to a Twitter follower that he should buy a Chone Figgins jersey shirt and set it ablaze. This came shortly after a photo of a pair of misguided individuals wearing Figgins jersey shirts (later dubbed “Figgins Couple”) was released unto the interwebs.
The Twitterer, one @WilliamKHolland, decided to take my offhand comment at face value. Thanks to deep discounts on such Figgins-related items at just about every local fan apparel shop, Will went out and bought a jersey shirt of his own. He then subsequently recorded himself lighting that jersey shirt on fire.
Here’s the result of Will’s pyromania, complete with a wonderful soundtrack.
Twitter, I love you.
Blue Jays fans. What the hell, man. I don’t get you. You make very little sense to me. First of all, your team is in Toronto. And yet you all show up in droves every time this team of yours plays in Seattle. Seattle! Do you know how far it is between Seattle and Toronto?! I do. It’s 2,068 miles, according to the internet. That’s roughly the same distance between Seattle and New Orleans. New Orleans! LOUISIANA!!
Look, I get it. Many of you make the trip south from Vancouver, B.C. to cheer on your favorite team. But shit, Vancouver is no closer to Toronto than Seattle. In fact, it’s farther. As the crow flies, 2,089 miles separate the two cities. Yes, that’s even greater than the distance between Seattle and Toronto. It makes no sense. It’s like if Seattleites became unabashed supporters of the New Orleans Saints, the Pelicans, or…what other teams do they have…the Zephyrs! We would never do that. Because it’s crazy. And not fun crazy, either. Alex Rodriguez crazy.
Every year, clothing companies mass-produce replica jerseys of some of the biggest names in sports. Every year, sports fans the world around purchase these jerseys. And every year, without fail, a handful of the men who inspire these jerseys fall farther and farther out of relevance, spiraling downward into a pit of despair filled with bitterness and loathing.
We buy the jerseys of players that have been great leading up to this moment or may be great later on. We buy knowing that we’re making an investment in the future that may not pay off. We buy because our fanaticism overtakes our ability to make rational decisions.
Replica jerseys have really only been relevant for about two decades. Prior to the early-’90s, the jersey fad had yet to catch on. But with the advent of cheap polyester and screen printing, lifelike uniforms could be had by the vast majority of us. And thus a movement was born.
This past weekend, I went on a road trip to Eastern Washington with my buddy, Matt, and my girlfriend, Andrea. We kept ourselves entertained by assigning non-sensical nicknames to all the current Mariners.
Most of these nicknames are completely ridiculous and have absolutely no significance. If you can find meaning in the aliases, more power to you. But in general, these are simply the products of boredom and dry heat. If any of these nicknames stick, it may signal the downfall of society. God help us all.
Dustin “Potato Chip” Ackley
Jason “Stovetop” Bay
Blake “Windmill” Beavan
Henry “Taco Bell” Blanco
Carter “Catnip” Capps
Back in July of 2003 I was a lazy 18-year-old just a few weeks removed from my high school graduation. I was working a part-time job at Champs Sports and sitting around my parents’ house in my spare time. It was the last summer before college and I wasn’t doing much of anything at all. So naturally on the 15th day of the month, I found myself watching the 74th annual Major League Baseball All-Star Game.
The two rosters that day featured such greats as Montreal Expos second baseman Jose Vidro (the National League’s starting second baseman), New York Mets closer Armando Benitez, Milwaukee Brewers first baseman Richie Sexson, Chicago White Sox designated hitter Carl Everett, token Kansas City Royal Mike Sweeney, and Minnesota Twins relief pitcher Eddie Guardado. If you don’t know the bond that those six seemingly random former All-Stars share, then you obviously aren’t a Mariners fan.
When I was a kid, I used to think I was the weird one. I imagine there’s a point in time when everyone sees themselves in that light. You figure that your peers are normal, adults are normal, everyone is normal but you. And when you grow up, you’re gonna be the one that stands out like a sore thumb because you’re so awkwardly different. Then one day you find yourself in your late-twenties and a lady in Zubaz and a head wrap doing lunges across the entire length of a gym floor runs smack dab into the weight you’re lifting in a tiny corner of the room that just happens to be along her path to health and wellness. Never mind the fact that there is a vast amount of floor space to utilize, or that lunges can be done in isolation without the need to traverse along a straight line forward. Never mind that you’ve quarantined yourself to an area no bigger than three-feet-by-three-feet or that this woman could have very easily stopped short of running into you. No, for some people weirdness is damn near inexplicable. I can’t explain why a run-down Erykah Badu lookalike collided with my personal space (as well as a barbell) when there was so much freakin’ space to be had, but it did occur and it was weird.
It’s been dubbed “Part I” because there are likely more than 11 signs of your compounded misery. I know for me there are at least 13.5 signs, maybe even 14.
11. You look forward to game days because it means you get to drink excessively.
Sure, lots of people drink. But drinking at Mariners games is more than just a casual affair. You’ll need a few Bud Lights, a couple microbrews, a round of Fireball shots with the gang, and maybe even something a bit fruitier (Mai Tai, margarita) just to get through nine innings.
Instead of wasting their money on paltry-hitting designated hitters, the M’s should really consider an investment in designated drivers. Spare the roadways the hazards of a fan base in complete disrepair.
10. When you travel, you have to explain to people in other parts of the world that yes, we do have a baseball team here.
I love baseball. I always have. I’m a fan of many sports, but baseball has always been my favorite. For as long as I can remember, I’ve been enraptured by the game. Baseball, to me, is just the greatest.
When people tell me they can’t stand baseball, you have to figure I’d be appalled, but I’m not. I get it. Baseball is long, often tedious, and rather slow. Games last three hours on average and rely on no clock to keep things moving. Not only that, but your best players will elude success seventy-percent of the time, and really, who wants to witness that much failure? Learning the nuances of baseball — the obscure rules, the unwritten points of etiquette, not to mention the lingo — is on par with learning Mandarin. And let’s be honest, going to a game isn’t necessarily cheap. All those things add up to a level of discontent that I can empathize with. Because frankly, I feel the exact same way about soccer.
It was bound to happen sooner or later: Mike Zunino had to be called up to the big leagues. The end result was imminent, yet the timing of that end result was a point of contention for pundits and fans alike. It was never about if, but always about when. That “when” hit today, as news broke this morning that the No. 3 overall pick in the 2012 Draft would be making his way to Seattle to take over as the team’s starting catcher (or at least part-time starting catcher, with a nod to Kelly Shoppach).
Almost immediately, opinions on the move flooded the internet. The prevailing sentiment, naturally, is that this promotion was more of a job-saving maneuver than anything else, a way for those on the hot seat — namely, general manager Jack Zduriencik and manager Eric Wedge — to try and salvage employment at season’s end.
The truth is, I don’t hate the Mariners. I never have, never will. You don’t hate the Mariners, either, I imagine. You might say you do, but you don’t. No one hates the Mariners. The Mariners don’t invoke hatred. Outside of the bubble that is Mariners fandom, the world could care less about this team. They are a punch line, if that. Rival fans — and I use the word “rival” very loosely — don’t give a damn about Seattle. For those of us who do give a damn, the passions evoked by our favorite baseball team are far more painstaking than detachment. What the Mariners inspire is a feeling that borders on apathy, yet results in frustration. It is that emotion, a reluctant resignation to a fate with a tragic ending, that makes this situation unique in a very sad, special way.