This intrepid reporter was walking in the Warehouse District a few days after the Indians’ collapse, scanning the ground for half-smoked cigarettes, when I noticed this piece of paper on the street:
At first, my heart soared. Had I suddenly entered a dimension in which C.C. Sabathia and Fausto Carmona hadn’t, in fact, flopped when it mattered most? And in which Josh Beckett hadn’t dominated, and Manny hadn’t been Manny all over Cleveland’s face?
One glance at the nearest homeless man—yep, crying into his Indians hat—and I knew I was still in this shitty, Theo Epstein-ruled dimension. And that this crappy advertisement was actually just evidence of a budding entrepreneur trying to beat more official clothes-makers out of the gate, and most likely paying the ultimate price: losing a shit-ton of money.
To which I say: if you know who created this advertisement, let C-Notes know. We have our pitchforks and torches ready. Not literally, but we are going to try to buy a gun. Because there’s no doubt about it—that wannabe sweatshirt mogul jinxed the Tribe.
This has been the first installment of “Garbage we Found on the Street”. Tune in tomorrow, when we’ll be discussing a McDonald’s cup with a caterpillar living in it. -- Gus Garcia-Roberts