Written by Will McDonald of Royals Review:
Are you ready for a universe in which the Royals are good?All apologies for the cheesy rhetorical question opening aside - I'm sure someone learned like Bob Costas would have started with a quotation from Thucydides or an anecdote shared by Paul McCartney on Later - its better that you prepare yourself emotionally for a more or less OK Royals team now, than suffer the cognitive dissonance later.
Its/it's confusion aside, that's a pretty good way to start. Of course, this being Deadspin, where the reactions to the story are usually more amusing than the story itself, McDonald's basically a cat's paw here for Will Leitch and the Gawker network's prolongation of The Big Joke, which is not one joke, of course, but a constant, unrelenting series of small jokes strung together to help office workers like myself pass the day. McDonald may as well have taken the voice of a dog speaking in onomatopoeias, cause the response would have more or less been the same (jokes about the Royals, "the American League Pirates," etc.). McDonald probably didn't help himself by using a number of dependent clauses incommensurate with the normal tone of the site. To wit:
Fitting hand in glove with all of Moore's lovable old-schoolness is Trey Hillman's fondness for small ball, which is how he made his name in Japan, the land of the first inning bunt, an achievement rather on the order of gaining renown in West Virginia for one's methamphetamine making skills.
And if you write this -- "If we consider the dictum that the horizons of our realities are defined by the limits of our dreams, then it's telling to note that this is a fanbase that's been dreaming about middling Mark Teahen's breakout for years now" -- what can you expect but this reaction?
Well... I suppose it was a losing proposition from the start. Our fearless blogger takes the national stage, and after the smattering of polite applause upon his exit, no one can quite figure whether the random, harsh-sounding spates of laughter are directed at him or the neighboring drunk, no doubt telling jokes about Eliot Spitzer or those whose misfortunes cast them in the harsh, unkind light of smart-aleck, soulless observers with nary a care but sustaining their warm buzz with another derisive laugh.