Coming October 2022: "The Last Folk Hero: The Life and Myth of Bo Jackson"

Two. Oh. One. (Part II)


Had a pretty good day yesterday, eating very little. Nothing for breakfast, salad with chicken (minimal dressing) for lunch, full dinner of chicken quesadillas (made by the wife, healthily) with a small side of macaroni salad. Worked late into the night, munched on some dry Corn Flakes and a bag of baby carrots. Man, do I hate carrots.

Today, opened with single bowl of Kashi cereal (which I like); had a salad (lite dressing) for lunch and am drinking iced coffee, with one sugar. This isn’t especially fun. I’m sitting here in Starbucks, being taunted by the pastries in the display case. They call me, “Jeff—haaaavvvveee a cooookiiiieee … haaaaaavvvvveeee a cookooookieeee.” But I won’t. Am dedicated to this. Uhg.

Wanna get back to 190.

Anyhow, nobody cares about this, so I apologize. Instead, let’s talk Oliver Perez, and the doom of the Mets rotation.

As I’ve said before here, I always liked Omar Minaya when I covered the game for SI. Nice guy, usually available. But if he’s fired come season’s end (and he likely will be), it’ll be because he handed Perez a three-year deal paying $9 million per. In other words, he is completely untradable. Baseball history tells us that, when the phrase “mentally fragile” is used regularly to describe a ballplayer, it’s best to walk away. Perez is, factually, mentally fragile. One good pitch … three bad pitches … one good inning … two terrible ones. Sure, he has the standard “great stuff.” But if a dude can’t toss the ball over the plate with any sense of normalcy, what’s the point? Minaya had to have known this was a distinct possibility. Perez has been a project forever. It never changes.

OK, back to writing.