Finding out what you thought was a tumor is only a gallstone, waiting to tear your innards apart: Endy Chavez (.157 WPA)
The Book of Job, Hebrew Bible: Kendrys Morales (-.288 WPA)
It's not time to panic yet. No. But that doesn't change the fact that there is a sharp glare staring back from up ahead like the face of a watch reflecting the sun. Oh wait, no, that's football.
You're throwing one back at Henry's after the game, wallowing in despair over a brutal loss to end the series with the A's. You're staring at the bubbles in your glass as they slowly rise to meet the frothy head, a futile voyage that will inevitably lead to only your consumption, digestion, and then the next part that always comes after--you know, much like how it feels watching The Mariners play baseball. Next to you, you hear two folks talking about what they are going to do next weekend, resigned to the absurdity of the season and realizing that it's all over for the Mariners.
You shake your head at this, initially because you kind of want to agree with them, but they interpret your reaction as rebuttal and you are soon challenged to convince them they should keep watching the remaining fourteen games at the expense of a free drink. You can't just say that they are only back a game. You can't say a lot can happen in fourteen games. You do say something, because there is a chance you will get free alcohol out of the whole thing. What you say is: