Cards Blog: Death to Dinger
Remember yesterday, when I said we may have seen the best play of our lifetimes? Well, it turns out I was wrong, and it only took one night for me to be proven so. Last night we saw not just one of the greatest throws I've ever witnessed, but two of them, both made by the same man.
But more on that later. I come to you today with a much more pressing issue, one that I believe will prove to be the defining moment of our time. And how we deal with it will, in large part, determine how future generations view us and our legacy.
Oh, what ill-formed notion first spawned such an abomination? What impulse gave rise to this hideous affront to nature and man? The name itself calls forth images of crying children, dead batteries, war orphans and losing lottery tickets.
Who, you ask, is Dinger? Only the most foul, loathsome creation of the mascot world. Only the harbinger of black days for us all, a purple Star Wormwood hanging in the sky above Coors Field.
Dinger, you see, is the Colorado Rockies' mascot.
If you watched last night's game, you were unable to miss the antics of this creature, as he capered and pranced, shimmied, shook and shamed his city, all directly behind home plate, all while the Cardinal pitchers attempted to ply their trade.
Seriously, what the hell kind of crap is that? How does a major-league ballclub allow its mascot to be such an eyesore? Even looking away from the fact that Dinger essentially taunted, mocked and attempted to distract opposing players, what does a triceratops have to do with the Rockies (oh, right)? That tree they have at Stanford makes more sense than this purple foam abortion.
Even the people in Colorado hate him. Don't believe me? You say no city can possibly hate its own mascot? Then feast your eyes on this piece, from RFT's sister paper the Denver Westword, posted during last year's postseason.
The citizens of Denver fear the national exposure of this nightmare. For too long they have lived under the tyranny of this children's television castoff.
The time has come for someone to put his food down.
I, ladies and gentlemen, am that foot.
I am putting out a contract on Dinger the Dinosaur.
That's right, I'm putting a hit out on the Colorado Rockies' mascot. Children of the future, rejoice! Our long national nightmare is over!
People of Denver, don't worry about thanking me. I saw what needed to be done and I did it. I don't like to use the word ''hero,'' even if I am one. I don't need a parade or beautiful, virginal women to throw themselves naked at me feet. The smiles on the faces of your children, free at last from dino-tyranny, are thanks enough for me. Although I totally wouldn't turn down like, one or two virgins, you know? I'm not made of stone.
Rick Ankiel needs a new nickname. I've always been partial to ''Hammerin' Ank,'' but I don't know if that's quite grand enough. We need something to communicate to the world the full glory of this guy. Seriously, the best part of the replays of those throws from last night wasn't the throws themselves, or the tags or even watching the ump punch the runners out. It was the expression on the runners' faces -- a look of complete and utter bewilderment, of, ''What the hell just happened?''