The Rant: Celebrating 19 years, being bullish on Lance Lynn, and finding solitude in French fries

The weekly let-it-rip section is open, and here's what I have to say.

Sports fans are a wild bunch. They ride the extremes of their team, for better or worse, into the ground. Anyone who tries to get in their path is erased with a nasty vile remark, with claims ranging from “you’re not a real fan” to “you’re stupid.”

Here’s the thing about stupid. You can spot it easily on Facebook on Cardinals fan groups, from the very same people who comment on your article that you’re stupid. Watching them try to put a fucking sentence together is akin to watching a snail in a sprint. It’s pathetic, and further proof that a glimpse of the human species can be found in two surefire places: Walmarts and Cards fan pages.

Important note: That’s not a shot at EVERY member of those groups. I get the feeling many take the posts I make that way, as if I’m stepping on their drive home or quiet lunch break. Like a person barreling through someone else’s scroll, barking at them. Changing their mind isn’t on my agenda; easing my own is the goal. Thanks, Todd Snider.

Maybe they need some McDonald’s French fries. More powerful than the bite of a snickers bar yet potentially more hazardous due to the salt, it’s a great way to slip right back into the days of being a child and carrying no worries outside of “what are we eating tonight?” Those were the days, and cramming down fries all the way down Kingshighway boulevard towards our house off Tholozan was a tradition.

This afternoon with my kid, the two of us basically engaged in a competition between Webster Groves and South City, we brought the thunder to a pair of large fries. By the time we hit Jamieson, our hearts were winded and our arteries clogged. It was as if time stood still, only allowing for potato therapy and the quiet hums of the car to push us home.

What we hope to avoid are the street dwellers. Drivers who move down a road like a lover moping after a breakup. The cars that go slower than slow, way below the speed limit. In your mind, Michael Jordan type inner battles commence.

“Are they doing this shit on purpose?”

“Are they impaired?”

None of the above. They’re scrolling TikTok. Or Instagram. Facebook has a fresh “you can only choose one of the four items” post. Something to take their attention away.

The slowbies are about as dangerous as the Shelbys, runaway racer wannabes who watched Vin Diesel dispense wordy wisdom shots like “I don’t have friends; I got family” way too often to remember that texting and speeding are about as good of a match as water and oil.

You can’t avoid these people. The difference is that I get multiple views of these unwanted but somehow ejaculated human samples on the road. In my box truck on the day job, I peer down at their inept lane changing and overall lack of knowledge on how to properly merge. They look more like a toddler barreling through a stack of pillows than a vehicle exchanging lanes.

The next time you see a car in front of you with enough bumper stickers to fill a Netflix special who is going ten under, reroute yourself immediately. That's what Lance Lynn did this winter.

Lynn looks like Jeremiah Johnson crawled out of the woods of Los Angeles and found his way back to the Midwest, a beautiful sight for this beard lover who is extremely bullish on a bounce back season for the veteran pitcher.

He doesn’t have to come in and be what he was to Tony La Russa and Mike Matheny’s teams many years ago. He doesn’t have to be the very sharp fireball tosser who found a new edge in Texas and Chicago. Lynn can be a pretty decent starter from 2022.

While I hope he makes more than 21 starts, I’ll take the 121 innings in those outings to go with a 3.99/3.82 ERA/FIP split. A WHIP under 1.2 and a strikeout per nine rate of 9.2 will do just fine. Pointing your finger at one bad year of home runs allowed (he allowed 44 last year between CHW and LAD) shouldn’t make a viewer blind to the rest of his resume. I’ll take the 0.9-1.3 HR per nine innings range with the strikeout total.

Lynn doesn’t miss as many bats as he used to, but he can still put a fastball by a hitter. He can still collect innings. A solid 5-7 each time out is all the team needs from a lower end rotation arm anyway. Do your job and make it stand enough to get that second year option picked up. There’s probably two good years left in that arm.

Let’s see if Oliver Marmol and Dusty Blake can find the right touch with an older lion. The dude looked like a lion entering Jupiter last week.

The soon to be 37-year-old has something left to prove, and I think he came to the right spot to finish things. Busch Stadium is pitcher friendly, and also a Lynn-friendly environment. His lineup should supply him with runs, and a sharp defense will make sure his cheddar finds the right home after leaving his right hand. I don’t need to worry about Lynn like I would Jack Flaherty or Carlos Martinez. He is what he is, and the decent version will do.

I am who I am, so it’s a good thing my wife hasn’t gotten tired of me yet. Tomorrow, we celebrate 19 years of marriage. Back in 2005, I had a lot of hair and an ironclad will to make this lady my own. In a place formerly known as Orlando Gardens only a rock throw from Watson Road, we both said “I do” and danced like we knew something others didn’t, or hadn’t begun to discover yet.

What happens to love over time, if it’s preserved and looked after well, is a slow batch forming of cement around a covenant. A promise or bond made in front of family and friends to battle life head on, taking whatever comes our way and finding a way out of it. The promise lies in the way we treat each other during that journey. Like a couple less stars working on a show that has infinite seasons, you can’t make anything work if you don’t like each other.

I have a terrible feeling that more people than one would like to imagine take that altar walk without loving each other. They get into a place without knowing each other in and out. Rachel and I aren’t perfect and we’ve raged against each other at times, but nearly 20 years after that fateful Saturday night of tuxedos, cake, and bland chicken, I still look forward to the makeup kisses and conversations the next day.

Whatever kicks my day in the balls, I can remind myself that there’s a well paying job at my feet and a family at home that loves me. The day job keeps me in shape and my brain sharp, which helps the writing become more authentic and less harbored by an allegiance to a company that doesn’t hold your values (ahem, certain STL news network). That’s worth fighting.

What’s not worth fighting for are crowded gyms. I get the new year plunge of new members, but there are so many people at the gym that think it’s chatty hour at the bar or that there’s a barista nearby mixing foam and espresso. It should be a stinky sweatshop of productivity, not a mini mall with weights.

It’s becoming nearly impossible to go to a Club Fitness and not feel like you’re always in someone’s way or view. It’s not claustrophobia; more like a Herculean effort to claim space. I turned in each direction near the cable machines today, and met a close face. They were shocked and appalled, and who can blame them?

I’m the guy who looks like Vin Diesel and Jason Statham got together and had a love child, and sometimes that's not an appetizing sight to behold inside a sweaty flesh pit. 

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