I'm so sorry if we didn't get to chat during today's Sports-Friendly Slog Happy . . . or whatever I decided to call it earlier today. Hooverville was jammed, and it was tough enough trying to get a Lagunitas IPA from the overwhelmed bartenders in a timely way without actually conversing with Slog readers. . . if any Slog readers were there. . .hello? (Cue last track of Middle Cyclone). I thought my Northwestern T-shirt and Cubs Season Ticket Holder hat (admittedly, the last three words are printed on the back) would've served to identify me to whoever might've been there (nice timing on the strep throat, wisepunk). But no. . . . I mostly chatted with the regulars (dockworkers all, I suspect based on their unironic overalls, facial sunburns, mangled hands, and forearms the size of . . . huge fucking forearms) who were sitting at the corner of the bar away from the door. When I finagled one of the attached-to-the-floor barstools among these large and not-nearly-as-drunk-as-they-wanted-to-be gentlemen, the opening line that kept all of my teeth in my head was : "I bet you guys hate game days . . . "

It was an oddly apt ending to a day with a 4 hour, 5-run ballgame. Felix Hernandez was fucking excellent for 9 innings, but the Cubs pitching managed to hold the Mariners to just two runs as well—then began the grind of not so much good pitching as just weak fucking lackluster hitting by both teams. I can only say one thing: thank god that Milton Bradley, who was on second after drawing a walk as a pinch-hitter in the 9th, didn't beat the Cubs. That would have blown.