You Are Appreciated

Mission: Doc, to watch every start Harry Leroy Halladay III makes at the Rogers Centre this season, continued last night. I'm three for three, my friends.

After giving up an un-Halladay like six hits and two earned runs over his first four innings, Harry settled down. Like I knew he would.

With the 8-4 win, the Toronto Blue Jays are back in first place, where they belong, and Halladay improved his record to 5-1. With an offence that continues to pound the baseball (I know, not so difficult against the mighty Baltimore Orioles pitching staff), Doc's piling up the wins. So far this young season, the bats are making up for all the times Halladay pitched well in years prior, and didn't get any run support. It's a beautiful thing.

You know, I hate talking and writing about Halladay's future. Will he be traded? Will he leave in search of a ring, or even just a playoff appearance? Who knows. I don't have the answers, that's for sure. But I'm taking nothing for granted. No matter what happens, Mission: Doc means I'll have no regrets; it means I'll never wish I had made more of an effort to head down to the Rogers Centre and watch Doc do his thing.

Roy Halladay, you are appreciated.

The Cito Effect

In the 8th inning, with Scott Downs warm in the bullpen, and men on first and third with two down in a 6-4 ball game, out stepped Cito Gaston from the Blue Jays dugout. 

We, Jays fans, rose to our feet as well. It was the end of the line for Roy Halladay and, as always, he was deserving of a farewell worthy of his effort.

Only Doc didn't get the hook.

The Gastonian one reached the mound and instead of taking the ball from Halladay, who'd thrown more than 110 pitches, told him he'd see Doc in the dugout after he retired Ty Wigginton.

Doc, never one to let his manager down, did just that.

Amazing. Ladies and gentlemen, The Cito Effect.

Fret not, The Blue Jay Hunter and I are working on the t-shirts.

Foul Ball Fail

Sitting about 20 odd rows up on the first base side in shallow right field, an Oriole hit one right at me. I was ready. I'd been waiting for this moment my entire life. Only the ball smashed off the ring finger of my right hand, leaving it swollen, bruised, and my nail half black.

Fail. Shame. Bewilderment.

All those years of playing cricket, for what? The ball landed a row in front of me, and into the hands of another. I still can't believe I didn't come up with it.

And, for the record, had I made the catch, I would have given the ball to the young boy behind me.

Blue Jays Fever

On the way home from the game, an old man on the subway tapped me on the shoulder, wanting to know if the Jays were victorious. I was in my powder blue jersey, and more than happy to oblige.

Indeed they did, Grandpa.

He smiled, and then asked if Halladay went the distance. A wise old man, clearly.

I told him Doc went eight, and that Scott Downs finished off Baltimore.

He smiled, again, and thanked me.

I told him it was my pleasure, and that the Jays were winning the pennant.