Saturday afternoon I went to the Jays game and watched Brett Cecil do bad, bad things to the Baltimore Orioles. Brett Cecil is a bad man and I love him.
At one point during the game, I had the thought that I’ve had a number of times already this season: “How good would these Jays be if Roy Halladay was still here?”
I quickly squashed that thought because, damn it, Cecil was owning the LOLs and I should just enjoy the moment.
Flash forward to Saturday night. I’m at a party having no idea what happened in the world of baseball except that the Jays won and an Indians pitcher took a line drive off his temple. I’m a few drinks into the night and in walks Squizz, occasional poster to this very site.
Squizz: Chris, what did Roy Halladay do tonight?
Me: I have no idea.
Squizz: Really? Really?!
Me: Did he throw a no-hitter or something?
Squizz: He threw a PERFECT GAME.
At this point my face hit my palm and didn’t emerge for a few minutes.
Don’t get me wrong: I’m happy for Doc. But my initial reaction — and this hasn’t totally gone away yet — was a sense of loss combined with a burning why-are-the-baseball-gods-so-cruel feeling.
The word everybody is using is bittersweet, and it really does fit perfectly.