The beginning of August.
The unbearably hot days here in the Tri-Cities, slightly bearable nights, family trips to Oregon, Warped Tour at the Gorge, Seahawks camp, one more month before school, and at least two more months of Mariners baseball. The start of August was something I marked on the calendar and waited for, year after year. Coming and going like a flash in the 106 degree pan that is my car at 8 AM, this month was kicked off every year by one pinnacle event: Shark Week.
Shark Week had become a beacon on the horizon, a glimmer of hope that the best of summer was yet to come. The best week of the year was a hell of a way to kick off the best month of the year. Sitting my ass on the couch, grabbing a drink, and watching a 17 foot Great White toss a seal out of the water like it was a beach ball at a graduation ceremony. Yes Shark Week was a symbol of everything good in life, everything great ahead, and nothing I thought nothing could take that away.
I was wrong.
What had once been something anticipated and sought after became a harbinger of anguish and despair. The meaning of Shark Week had turned on me like a pissed off Tiger Shark on an old truck tire, and there was nothing I could do about it. Even if I turned off Discovery and ignored the promos for the greatest programming week known to man, I still couldn't escape what it foretold: the inevitable letdown that is my beloved Seattle Mariners.
You see up to a point, the Mariners were a bright spot of my childhood. I was lucky enough to see Junior, the Big Unit, Edgar, A-Rod and many other Mariner greats in their heyday. I got my head buzzed on Buhner buzz cut night on multiple occasions. I was at the opening home stand at Safeco the inaugural season. I remember the 2001 season, the anticipation and anxiety leading up to win 116, and the letdown in the post season. All of these things were signaled by the start of my favorite week on cable TV.
The meaning of that week began to change for me. Junior, Lou, Buhner, Edgar, Johnson, and many others all left. Ichiro carried the flag, but reluctantly, never truly comfortable being a leader on teams that desperately needed one. The rotating door at manager kept spinning faster and faster, veterans band aids were signed, and Niehaus went to the big broadcast booth in the sky. Prospects that were supposed to pan out for us were traded away, and became stalwarts on other teams. Prospects we dealt for did the opposite. August turned from a month of promise to a month of disdain.
The weight Shark Week carried continued to grow. It took away post season aspirations and replaced them with hopes for next year, then turning those hopes for next year into doubts. With Shark Week came more questions than answers. Who would lead the team? Who would manage it? Does anybody know how to hit? Does anybody know how to scout? What is Jack Z smoking? What the #@&* is this plan?!
It became hard to love the Mariners, they wouldn't let me. I instead focused on the NFL off season, college recruiting, and counting down the days until training camp. I went from hearing Rick Rizz daily on my commute to turning the dial. The Seahawks became all I cared about, and the Mariners were an ex-girlfriend I hoped I didn't run into.
As much as Shark Week is now the bell that tolls when the Mariners season becomes worthless, this year seemed different. Right from the get go, it seemed harder to ignore the siren call off Rick Rizz when I hit 1340AM on the scanner. I had a harder time ignoring when I would hear the play backs of Dave yelling his signature phrases. Hell, I even started to warm up to Aaron Goldsmith. There was something about the beginning of this year that I just couldn't ignore, and I couldn't put my finger on it.
Maybe it was the early homers of Mike Morse, the 1st half age-defiance of Raul, or the jolt of youth with Miller, Franklin and Zunino. Maybe it was the continued growth of Seager, the addition of a veteran in Morales actually working out, or Smoak showing signs of life. Maybe it was Felix actually getting some damn run support. For some reason I hung on for a lot longer than usual. I was waiting for a let down all along, but began to ignore the possibility as the 8 game win streak commenced. Right as I was ready to float off the ground, the bottom fell out.
Zunino got hurt, Raul realized he's closer in age to Henry Blanco than he would like to be, the Bartender got bounced, and Franklin forgot how to hit. On top of all of that, Wedge is missing significant time with recovering from a stroke. Everything that could go wrong has, right as the grim reaper of weeks approached. Shark Week held true to form, clamping its jaws down on whatever hope I had left for the post season. It squeezed the life out of this year with a suspect performance from the King and no run support yet again. The season is bleeding out, and Shark Week is circling in for the kill.
This Shark week is different from the others. While this one killed its prey as efficiently as a Mako, it left something behind, genuine hope. There is hope for next year. The youth movement shows that the cupboard is not bare, and there is more to come in the likes of Tai Walker and Danny Hultzen. Veterans like Morse and Morales want to stay, and the front office wants to make it happen. The Mariners even seem to have found their own Russel Wilson in Mike Zunino. Yes this year maybe dead in the water, but next year is just starting to kick.
The promos are going, Mike Rowe is narrating, and the sharks are circling in. The 2013 Mariners are done for. The ship is sinking, and not much can be saved in the ways of competitiveness this season. It seems like all the other Shark Weeks, but it isn't. This year I'll still probably be watching way too many slo-mo's of a Shark treating a seagull like a McNugget, but only after I watch the M's let another one slip through there fingers. Maybe I've become used to it, a glutton for punishment, or maybe, just maybe, there is something building in Seattle. Something that will make August meaningful, make it worth watching, and a little less depressing.
So here's to hope, youth, the Plan, and that Wedge gets well. To Zunino's wrist, Raul's age, Franklin's swing, and Miller's fielding. To the past 11 years of playoff drought, the prayers for some rain, and taking Shark Week back for good!
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