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 was recently in Mexico and happened upon a sports bar with the all-inclusive DirecTV package. They said they could play any sporting event on their flat-screen and since no one else was present in said establishment, I asked if they’d put on the Seattle Mariners game. The bartender responded with a very serious, “What is that?”
I explained that the Seattle Mariners were a Major League Baseball team — he was watching the Dodgers, so this shouldn’t have been too foreign — and the bartender half-heartedly tried to find our game before giving up and wandering away.
Of course, the real kicker is the fact that I wasn’t even that upset over this proprietor’s uninspired effort to put the M’s on the tube. Maybe that says it all right there.
9. You still believe in Franklin Gutierrez.
Yes, he’s been on the disabled list for a combined 3,565,278 days (or thereabouts) during his Mariners career. And yes, he’s currently on the disabled list as I write this. And yes, his most recent return to action lasted less than one (1) weekend series before he found himself back on the disabled list. And yes, in all likelihood, should he ever find himself roaming the Safeco Field outfield again he’ll probably end up working his way onto the DL once or twice more.
But come on. There’s still a chance!
8. Your life peaked in 1995.
The best year of my life came when I was 10, going on 11. Ten years old. I was in fourth grade, then fifth. My favorite TV shows were Family Matters, Full House, Mighty Morphin Power Rangers, and…well, those are still some of my favorite shows, but whatever.
Anyway, point is, it’s been all downhill since that one fateful season when the M’s actually did it, they actually made the playoffs. And yes, even though they’ve finagled their way to the postseason thrice in the 18 years since (three times in 18 years!!!), we all know that ’95 is the only playoff campaign that everyone truly remembers to care about.
Go back and watch footage of any of those ’95 playoff games. We were all dressed so awfully, with such disgusting haircuts, and yet that was us — all of us — at our peak. Christ.
7. You really enjoy digitized hydro races.
If the sixth inning of so many already-destroyed contests wasn’t pockmarked by the devastatingly enjoyable presence of a green-yellow-red battle between the spawn of some binary code displayed for your amusement on a JumboTron, you probably wouldn’t stick around to see your way to the end of last call at the Safeco Field concession stands. But son of a bitch, wouldn’t you know it, the sixth inning does have those hydro races and you love the shit out of them for reasons no one really understands. Life is good sometimes.
6. You don’t have any friends named Chuck or Howard.
Seriously. Fuck those guys.
5. You get an unsightly amount of twisted pleasure from watching others fail in spectacular fashion.
You’ve seen it happen too many times with the Mariners to not be used to it by now. And in acquiring a certain taste for bombastic displays of ineptitude, you’ve found that this tragic love affair with witnessing the misfortunes of other people brings you a distinct joy, you sick bastard.
Kid on a skateboard lands a handful of gnarly tricks, only to bite it hard a minute later? You giggle.
A gentlemen helps an old lady across the street, only to trip and fall before reaching the curb? You Instagram that shit.
An inspirational last-place finisher in a Special Olympics race gets a standing ovation from everyone in the crowd…everyone but you, that is.
Forgive us, for we know not what we do. Blame the Mariners. It’s their fault we’ve become monsters.
4. You’ve found support groups via social media to help you cope with the pain of being a lifelong fan of this godforsaken ballclub.
You can follow me on Twitter and find me on Facebook. We’re all in this together.
3. You want to punch anyone you see wearing a jersey that has FIGGINS on the back.
First of all, those people deserve to get their asses kicked for not understanding the absolute shit that goofy-looking Donkey from Shrek clone put us through for three years. They obviously didn’t live our pain or they wouldn’t be wearing that goddamn jersey.
Second, there’s a really good chance that no Seattle police officer would even so much as handcuff you for your attack on an otherwise-innocent bystander. Those guys like sports, too, and odds are most of them share your disdain for Chone Figgins just the same.
So screw it. You’ve been warned, Figgins-jersey-wearers.
2. You will fight anyone who says Edgar Martinez doesn’t belong in the Hall of Fame.
He was a designated hitter. We all get that. Designated hitters “don’t belong in the Hall of Fame,” people say, simply because they only play part-time. What, like pitchers appear in every inning of every game or something? And to my knowledge, we do have some pitchers — pitchers who either didn’t hit or couldn’t hit, and who never made 162 appearances in a season, as far as I know — in the Hall.
So why can’t Edgar get in? He was the best DH of all freakin’ time! The award given to the best DH each year from now until forever is named after him! Ask any pitcher from the same era which right-handed bat they feared the most and many will tell you it was that very bat that Edgar Martinez, he of the oddly-coiled stance, twirled so menacingly high above his shoulders. He is the best player at his position in the history of the game. Without question. He deserves to be a Hall of Famer. We can throw down in fisticuffs if we must.
1. The image of Ken Griffey Jr. at the bottom of that pigpile makes you beam from ear-to-ear, tear up, or some combination of both those things.
It’s an ugly cry mixed with an ugly laugh. It’s that kind of giggle-sob that Rachel McAdams’ character perfects in The Notebook. It’s, like, so hideous.
But it’s so beautiful. It is so beautiful. I love it so much. You just don’t understand, man. Stop looking at me. Just stop it. And stop being so nice, like you understand what this means to me right now. You’re just gonna make me bawl more…