In D.C. we don’t have a lot to be grateful for, sports-wise. The Wizards are anything but magical, the Redskins are downright depressing and the Capitols aren’t even playing this year. However, there is a glimmer of hope. The Washington Nationals, the local reincarnation of the Expos, are surprisingly perched atop the National League East along with Florida.
Now, naturally this matters about as much as Pauly Shore’s career. With the season barely 10 percent complete, the only ones who really care about the standings at this point are hardcore schlubs who have nothing better to do than watching baseball and masturbate cough Brandon Sloane cough. But then again, there’s really no reason to be pessimistic either; for all we know, we could be looking at a playoff team here. It’s a distinct possibility that the people of Washington will finally get the winning team they deserve, a bastion of athletics that they can be proud of.
Sure, they’ll miss the millions in public funds that went into the construction of the ballpark, particularly those with children who have to attend schools that are literally falling apart. But hey, maybe, just maybe, if those kids manage to survive the pieces of ceiling falling on their little heads, the rabid rats and the creepy custodian with one hand and a mop named Sally (to say nothing of the threat posed by their own classmates), they’ll get to see the fruits of their parents’ sacrifices- a damn fine game of baseball played by a home team at a local ballpark. Hell, if they’re really lucky, they might even be able to afford a hotdog and a Coke. A bit hopeful, yes, but I’m a dreamer, damnit.
There is one thing about this team, however, that turns my stomach to a certain extent. A few days ago, the Nationals literally hatched their new mascot from a giant egg. Straight from Bayside High, Screech a.k.a. Dustin Diamond, thought to have been killed in the great teen actor purge of ‘97, was announced as Washington’s new mascot. All confusion was cleared aside, however, when what emerged from the colossal egg was not an awkward, geeky, prepubescent thirty-year old man, but a giant bird-like creature that could only be described as a giant chicken. Nice one, design department. Apparently, Screech is supposed to be a baby bald eagle.
Look, I’m all for the kids, but a mascot should inspire fear and terror in the hearts of the opposing side. Coming from a high school with a bell as a mascot, I know something about this. A baby anything isn’t going to get this done. Especially when that baby is a baby chicken. The words “baby” and “chicken” are not words one wants associated with the iconic representation of a bat-swinging, ball-pitching machine of death. Having a chicken cheer for the home team is just plain ridiculous. After all, everyone knows that chickens don’t clap.
