The third paragraph is a scathing indictment of Marty's game-calling from a high-profile Braves-fan blogger.

And That Happened

Braves 14, Reds 7: Mrs. Shyster came into the living room yesterday afternoon and told me that I had to fix the shelves in the garage. Her view: the screws holding the standards in the wall are hanging by a thread, and sooner or later 75 pounds of garage crap is going to fall onto her station wagon. My view: I'm the one who did the substandard job of putting those shelves up in the first place, so I'm in the unique position to know that if they haven't fallen down by now, they're probably not going to fall any time soon. Maybe. Besides: the wagon is a Volvo, and the Swedish build those things tough. Now will you please let me watch the ballgame?

Five minutes later I was in the garage with a drill in my hand listening to the Braves and Reds on the radio. This was actually OK, because my first exposure to baseball was over the radio, and I often forget how enjoyable it is to listen to a game on a sunny Sunday afternoon.

Unfortunately, I was listening to Marty Brennaman, and that poor bastard has simply lost it. Look, we all hate to listen to homer announcers, and we all find it refreshing when the guys in the booth tell the tough truths. Brennaman, however, is long past that stage and is deep into angry and bitter disgust with the Redlegs. Sure, the seven-run second inning would be tough on anyone, but Brennaman made it sound like he was being forced to watch the commission of war crimes. He sounds like a man who truly hates his job, and truly hates the Reds. As a Braves fan enjoying the pasting I should have been reveling in just how bent out of shape he was, but I was mostly just embarrassed for him. Perhaps the most telling thing was the fact that I was actually happy when Jeff Brantley took over next inning. It was so discombobulating that I plan to blame Brennaman when the new shelves come crashing down on the Volvo next winter.