Two and a half years ago, Josh Hamilton left. He said at his glitzy Disney presser in Anaheim, which starred the slugger and his wife, that the Rangers’ decision not to lock him up before he shopped around as a free agent was a “blessing in disguise” that led him to the Angels, and he added: “I’m so excited to hear an organization say we’re happy we got you, no matter what the risk is.”
No matter the risk.
Last night’s loss wasn’t the worst of the young Rangers season, under any objective measure, but it still bothers me a lot this morning, and not just because it busted up the L-W-L-W-L-W-L sequence that teed the game up or because Ross Detwiler couldn’t make his team’s early offensive explosion stand up. There’s schadenfreude, and then there’s schadenfreude, and I wish a whole lot of failure on the Los Angeles organization now…
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Glancing out the dining room window this morning, I realized there was something my wife should see. So it was something like, “Hey, Honey, you need to take a look.”
There was no snow in our yard. None. Nada. The last of it had melted overnight.
Even by New England standards, this has been an exhausting winter. Usually, it’s either below-normal cold or above-average snowy. Not both, not like this one. I don’t remember this many single-digit and subzero nights, and here on the seacoast, our year’s total snowfall came to more than nine feet. Boston, as you may know, had the most in its weather history, beginning somewhere in the 1880s, I think.
And then there were all the Sundays when church services were cancelled — it was just too dangerous to get out on the slick roads. Well, I’m told we did have a few people show up…
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