We have been mathematically eliminated. We are playing out the string.
We will be let go. We will be exchanged for other nonentities, or for no one yet named, or left unprotected, or designated for assignment, or cut, or waived. It will happen sooner than we expect.
The seats behind us are empty. We take a swing through the empty air. We look to the empty sky.
Any records left behind will show us as unphenomenal, late to the game, rarely necessary, transient.
Maybe we will have had our day in the sun. We will have hit the first grand slam home run in the history of an expansion team. We will have tagged out a man at home to complete a rare 6-4-3-2 triple play.
But in the end we will be unable to hold back elimination. We will grow a mustache. It will do as much as anything else, which is nothing. We will finish 38 games behind the team that hit into the triple play. We will then be called into an office.
“It is over,” we will be told. “You’ve been released.”
We will wait for a phone call to refute this claim. The phone will not ring.
Cardboard Gods 