O, no...

Orioles fans have known this day was coming.  The signs, some as big as the Warehouse, have been evident for a long time.  I wrote, following the magical 2014 playoff run, that the Birds would be kicking themselves for losing to Kansas City because teams never know when that next chance will come.  Yes, there were signs. Yet, I didn't think the trade deadline bloodletting would be this severe. 

The first sign came that fall of 2014 when Dan Duquette decided not to re-sign Nelson Cruz. Cruz was a bargain basement lineup anchor in 2014, pounding 40 homers and 108 RBI on an $8 million dollar contract.  Cruz left for Seattle when Baltimore wouldn't offer a fourth year on their contract extension. Cruz's bat and clubhouse presence have been missed since.

The next sign was the albatross contract extension for Chris Davis after the 2015 season. Peter Angelos had been rightly criticized for being stingy with his cash.  Cruz couldn't get a fourth year. Nik Markakis, about the closest thing to being Mr. Oriole the Birds had at the time, was unceremoniously allowed to walk to Atlanta. And the front office acted as if paying a quality starting pitcher a decent wage was like contracting gonorrhea. But when the Adderall Kid needed a new deal, Angelos finally opened his wallet.  Some fans saw Davis's contract as the first sign of  ownership willing to commit to keeping the team together and a championship window open. Others knew exactly what it meant: Davis would never earn the money and committing such resources would mean the end of the Manny Machado Era was nigh.

The next signal was actually a bit of a surprise. In 2016, the O's scrapped their way to a wild card berth.  On that fateful night in Toronto, Buck Showalter left Zach Britton, who had just completed one of the greatest regular seasons ever by a relief pitcher, in the bullpen while Ubaldo Jimenez (nice guy/terrible Oriole) served up a season-ending gopher ball to Edward Encarnacion.  It was surprising because it was the first time I remember Buck screwing up in a big moment. Sure, you could argue it was the right move, tie game, saving Britton, blah, blah, blah.  Sorry, foresight was 20/20 on that one. After five years of watching Buck make chicken salad out chicken manure, after saluting him for restoring an organizational culture and attitude, and after cheering his seer-like manipulation of the bullpen for years, the bloom was off the rose. Yes, it was just one bad decision, one wrong call.  But this felt different. Confidence in Buck was no longer unwavering. 

Finally, the writing was on the wall.  2017 saw Baltimore somehow hover near .500 through August despite their starting pitchers posting an ERA over 5 runs a game.  But an epic September swoon was just preamble to the disastrous 2018 season. I laughed at Sports Illustrated's pre-2018 prediction of 70 wins for my beloved Birds. Surely with so  much offensive firepower, adding a couple reasonably professional starting pitchers, and the still formidable,  if not invincible, Buck, Baltimore could maybe, somehow, kinda, sorta fight for a wild card spot.  Well, they proved SI wrong, alright.  Sports Illustrated looks downright silly predicting 70 wins. Just not silly in a good way. The O's need to win 38 of their final 55 games (a .690 winning percentage) to reach 70 wins. Considering they are currently winning at a .299 clip, I'd say the odds of me skipping desert are better than Baltimore reaching 70 wins.

So, we knew this day was coming. We prepared in different ways. My nine-year-old daughter bought a Manny Machado poster in the offseason so she could remember him when he is gone.  Friends crossed fingers that their son's favorite player, Adam Jones, would remain wearing orange and black.  I've scaled back my viewing habits, maybe subconsciously distancing myself from the carnage.  Even these preparations were not enough.  The last two weeks have been a bloodbath.  An Orange Wedding for you Game of Thrones fans out there.  Machado, Britton, Jonathan Schoop, Kevin Gausman, Brad Brach,  and Darren O'day all gone in a cloud of prospects and international signing money. (Oh, so NOW the front office thinks scouting other countries for young talent might actually be a wise decision. Welcome to 2018, dummies.  May I also interest you in this new-fangled area of science called analytics?)  The  roster is gutted, removing almost all links to the 2014 A.L. East champions.  Gone is the hope of a future fun-loving double play combo of Schoop and Machado.  Gone, too, are the formerly lockdown bullpen stalwarts Brach, O'day, and Britton.  Once upon a time, if the starter could get through six innings (a dicey proposition most nights), victory was almost assured.  Who is left?  Adam Jones remains.  So too, does  Chris Davis.  I love Adam and hope he re-signs in the offseason. Though his skills have diminished he is a helluva representative for the organization.  He has picked up the mantle of Mr. Oriole and worn it well.  But he is not a piece to build around. Nor is Davis.  The man cannot even hit his weight, but has FOUR YEARS left on his contract.  My goodness, someone please get him some Adderall.  I'm actually okay with the fire sale.  The signs told us it would happen, even if I didn't think it would be this drastic.  I'm surprised they stopped where they did.  Why not trade Dylan Bundy for some used fungo bats? What, did the fax machine run out of paper at the league office? But such a wholesale roster reduction leaves questions.

Where do we go from here?  Of course, that is an umbrella question covering many others.  Are the prospects garnered in these trades any  good?  Who will be running the front office next season, guiding the rebuild? Does the miserly owner actually want to rebuild?  Will Buck return? Why would he want to come back?  Will the (N)O's play in front of Marlin-like crowds in Camden Yards next season? Can I think of one more question to write here? So. Many. Questions.

If I were running the team, I would do two things: bring up the prospects right now, and clean house in the offseason.  Gone are the days of grooming stars in the minors.  The Braves are ahead of schedule because they have brought their kids up for on-the-job training.  If the kids can play they will benefit from live-fire exercises.  There is only one way to find out if the trades were any good.  Get the prospects in the big leagues tomorrow.

As for the manager and general manager, it is time for fresh air.  Buck has been awesome, but it is time for a new era, a new voice.  Dan Duquette has found some gems from the trash heap while constrained by the owner's budget clamps, but for too long has acted like he wants to be elsewhere.  These guys have performed admirably, giving me this gift along the way. However, the dream topped out at reaching and being swept in one ALCS. Thank you and goodbye. 

But I am not the owner, I am a fan.  What should we fans do?  I don't know about you, but I'll cheer.  I'll beg the baseball gods to sprinkle some star power on the prospects.  I root for the uniform. I still love Camden Yards. I'll cheer. I always do.  In fact, I've been here before. Baltimore was awful in 1988.  Lost 21 straight games to start the season.  Traded away my favorite Oriole, Eddie Murray.  Things were as low as they could go. Do you remember what happened in 1989? The Birds almost went from worst to first.  Only Pete Harnisch stepping on a nail and a bad final weekend in Toronto  kept the "Why Not?" season from being even more special.  Yeah, I'll cheer next season; it's what I do.  Maybe a little Orioles Magic will find its way to Birdland.  I know it is far more likely we are headed for another decade of losing seasons, but a boy can dream, right? 

Behold My "Don't Crap Your Pants" Dance.

Last Saturday, The Wife and I took The Girl to Ocean City for an evening beach jaunt.  We enjoyed a little time splashing in the surf, dining on a seaside picnic, and watching a spectacular bayside sunset.  It was delightful.  Delightful until the bubble hit, that is.   You know "the bubble."  The body's first attempt to alert you of looming trouble below the belt.  You know "the bubble."  That stop-you-in-your-tracks, wince-inducing warning.  The cause of the trouble is nearly irrelevant.  Maybe dinner was too greasy.  Maybe the recently guzzled ice water shook things up down below.  Maybe it is karma for the shitty way I spoke to someone.  Whatever the reason, the bubble is the lower intestine raising a brown flag signaling impending basement troubles ahead.  Perhaps the cause is better considered and analyzed later.  For now is the time to plan.  Urgently. 


My brain began a series of simultaneous calculations.  The car is six blocks away.  The  public   restroom two blocks beyond that.  The public restroom I am thinking of is a drug store.  Do they even have public restrooms?   Is it time to run? Will running make the situation worse?  


As I have mentioned before, I believe public bathrooms should be visited less often than the moon.  They are vile, evil places to be used only in emergencies.  When I have the opportunity to avoid a public restroom I take it.  So when the initial bubble passed, my mind turned off the submarine dive horn blaring in my head.  That was my first mistake.  I broke the cardinal rule of gastrointestinal distress: ALWAYS TRUST THE BUBBLE.


Man, was that dumb. Lulled into a false sense of security, I got cocky, even dreaming of making it home to my own bathroom thirty miles away.  We hopped into the car heading for West Ocean City to find The Girl some dessert.   When the pain returned we were in bumper to bumper Saturday night beach traffic with about eight blocks and drawbridge between me and an easily accessible public toilet.  What have I done?  If the drawbridge goes up it is game over.  Sweating despite the AC, I turned up the radio to drown out the abdominal gurgling. 


Mercifully, we made it across the bridge and whipped into the Chick-fil-a just on the other side.  I rushed through the door trying to disguise the crazed look  on my face.  Imagine my disappointment when I can barely open the bathroom door because it is so crowded inside.  It wasn't so much a restroom as it was a clown car.  I had no choice but wedge my way in to assess the situation.  Fortunately, most of the crowd  was a man herding his boys through some hand washing.  Maybe I've caught a break.  The single stall is occupied, but the pain has abated for a moment. With a little patience this would soon be okay.    Except that a lot of patience was required and that was not okay. 


The tiny bathroom contained the stall on one side and the urinal and sink on the opposite wall.  I awkwardly hugged a third wall to hopefully signify I am waiting for the stall and  the urinal is open.  I'm too distracted by the returning Triple P's (Powerful Poop Pains) to even be grossed out that I am leaning against a wall in a public bathroom.  This devil's den will be my refuge if this guy will JUST GET OUT OF THE STALL.  Minutes began to pass as I did my best to avert my eyes from the steady stream of dudes using the urinal.  I've been in this smelly wasteland long enough that I should be offering towels and a mint.  Much longer and I'll find out if the perpetually cheery Chick-fil-a employees will still say, "My pleasure" when I tell them there is a clean up on Aisle Six.  As time dragged on, I had a choice to make- wait and hope for the best, or ditch and find another bathroom.  I always make the wrong call when deciding whether or not to switch grocery lines.  The stakes were higher here.  I glanced up and realized I can see the stall user's feet in the mirror.  I looked for any indication he was wrapping up.  Nope.  Those Crocs (of course they were Crocs) were planted firm and pointed dead ahead.  Then confirmation came that it was time to bolt.  Stall Guy started groaning.  A deep, guttural, Frankenstein's monster groan.  Unnnggghhh.  Then another, as if he is trying to push a boulder through his butthole.  I grabbed a handful of paper towels (you never know!) and walked to the car.  The Wife, incredulous the shituation has still not been resolved, suggested the Chipotle a hundred yards down the road.  The Girl, still without dessert,  openly wondered if I'm going to make it.  She wasn't the only one.


As expected, Chipotle was packed.  If things went way south, I'd have quite the audience.  If you're unfamiliar, many Chipotles have long, hidden hallways leading to the restroom.  Not this one.  This one has a short little hall open to the view of many diners.  And this short little hall was packed.  Two pairs of fathers and sons ahead of me waiting for the SINGLE bathroom.  What is with these resort town restaurants, busy as hell for six months a year, only having single restrooms?  A tiny part of me wanted to go full internet viral by doing my business right there as a misguided protest against single restrooms.  After a couple minutes, Dad Number One tells his kid, "I think somebody is dying in there", and drags his kid out of line.  Perfect. Yes, get the hell out of here, I have to go.  Finally, some dude emerges and Dad Number Two sends his kid in.  Alertly, and I will be forever grateful for this, before going all the way in the kid realizes there is no TP.  A couple extra minutes to restock, but that's a good thing.  It meant if I got in there I wouldn't have to use my Chick-fil-a paper towels. 


The key phrase was "if I got in there" because this kid was in the bathroom for TEN minutes. I didn't know the E. Coli you picked up at Chipotle affected you instantly!  Ten minutes?  Ten minutes I spent doing my "C'mon Bryan, Don't Crap Your Pants" Dance.  Rocking from foot to foot.  Deep breaths.  Closing my eyes, holding on, hoping each painful bubble was not the one to break the dam.  Pacing in a tiny circle.  The guy in line  behind me probably thought I was a tweaker.  No Sir, I'm not a methhead, just a guy considering using the ladies' room or a dark corner of the parking lot to relieve myself.  Dad Number Two, which, incidentally, would have been a better nickname for me, finally wandered back over, and probably upon seeing my wide-eyed, Yes-he-is-still-in-there look,  rapped on the door imploring his kid to come out.  I have never been so relieved to enter a dirty, disgusting public restroom.  The nightmare, exacerbated by ignoring the bubble, was over.  Order would soon be restored.   I have no idea what that boy was doing in there, but I bet he was wearing Crocs.