It's August in Georgia, which means that mold grows in your aorta, you sweat a lot, and the only reason you're awake is the combination of sugar and caffeine in that sweet tea you're drinking, honey.
Face it, there would have been no renaissance in this old paper and textile rail crossroad of a town were it not for air conditioning, cheap land and labor, brown sugar water, and Delta Airlines. General Sherman tried his best, he really did. But here we are, and here you are, and you have been watching 1993 highlights yet again with periodic cut-ins to the wet infield tarp at Turner FIeld.
You await John Lannan. If you are anything like me, you hope he reverts to form. No, not as the ground ball machine the Philies thought they had, but as the angry-eyed, unibrow'd wrist breaker. I wish no one pain, I really don't. But wouldn't you say Chris Johnson is kind of having the MVP-caliber year Chase Utley was having in 2007? Because I was at that game, in good seats too, and I could hear how that ball hit bone.
And if justice should turn thusly poetic, then I would welcome the ensuing bench-clearing donnybrook and the booth bloviation that would ensue as ripping good television. And oh, yes, I would await you too Ricky Bottalico, for this is your hardest hard-on of a baseball fantasy.
None of those things happened. Brian McCann homered. The Braves and their sad, wet, empty seats rumble on toward the playoffs. And we will see John Lannan again in what feels like no time at all.