On the night of Monday, December 31, 2018, I scheduled a piece I had lovingly crafted due to reader interest about the Kansas City Royals potentially signing Troy Tulowitzki for publish the morning of Thursday, January 3, 2019. It was scheduled for a time when the new year had just begun, and was so new that many Americans hadn’t yet received even a chance to blow through their resolution by consuming that delicious chocolate cake, smoking that cigar, or thinking a bad thought about that stupid coworker who cooked fish in the microwave yet again, causing the office to marinade in the musk of death.
All was well in the world. The piece was scheduled for Royals Review dot com, and would have been read by thousands or at the very least hundreds of like-minded Royals fans interested in reading about if Tulowitzki could fit into the Kansas City Royals’ 2019 season.
Unfortunately, that was taken away from me, like a lollipop taken from that weird man with a chainsaw by the police who also absconded with the chainsaw for “public health reasons.” The New York Yankees did that to me by signing Tulo to a one-year deal on January 2, 2019, thus rendering my 900-word article moot.
Moot, Yankees. You have rendered it moot. It is no longer relevant. It is no longer worthy of publish. It is dirt wrapped in a pile of more dirt, itself enveloped in a frozen cocoon of New York Mets fans’ tears. It is mere Pong to the Fortnight of reality, nay, less than that: it is the Half-Life 3 to the Fortnight of reality, both Half-Life 3 and my Tulo article in nonexistence that will never convert to existence.
It was so beautiful. In it, I referenced Miguel Tejada—as a Royal. Remember those yonder years, whence a 40-something-year-old former roider was a big deal? When ‘Moose’ was a thing Alaskans ran into? When pictures could only be snapped in a cold sepia, devoid of color? In it, I also referenced Felipe Paulino, whose healthy arm’s ghostly aura can sometimes be glimpsed flying through the night towards Kyle Zimmer’s most recent place of residence.
Alas, you will never read it. It is locked away because the despicable Yankees stole it from me by signing a broken heap of a player to a league minimum salary. Are you happy, Brian? Does the brutal effect of your cash, man, even matter to you anymore? Do you care if you slash the dreams of a writer in his computer chair, orange cat happily curled up on his folded legs, in the state of Kansas? Do you even know where Kansas is?
What the Yankees did was unforgivable. I can never forgive them. Thus, I swear they will be my personal enemies, with nary a thing they can do about it. The Yankees scuttled my piece on Tulowitzki. But they can never scuttle my spirit. I will endure until Tulo passes into the West and my soul can be at peace.