Jamey Newberg: Madness.

I’m mad that we’re at the one-third point of the season and don’t know what this team is.

I’m mad we’re already a third of the way through the schedule.

I’m mad we’re only a third of the way through the schedule.

I’m mad that I care so much, and that wins and losses have the reverberating impact that they do.

I’m mad that the axiom about coaches being hired to be fired applies to late relievers, too.

I’m mad that you can’t predict ball.

I’d be mad if you could predict ball.

I’m mad at West Coast baseball and the Dempster trade and Brady Aiken and traffic and The Palm for closing.

I’m mad at Nellie.

I’m mad at Endy for not Beltreing his way into the game, for defense, in the ninth.

I’m mad at Shane Larkin plus a meaningless $375k instead of the Greek Freak and at bad commercials and at Thomas Harris for stopping and at Jellyfish for stopping and at bro-country for not stopping and at Apple for not having a forward-delete key.

I’m mad at Ruben Mateo for getting hurt and at Joaquin Arias for getting hurt and at Jovanny Cedeno for getting hurt and at Jurickson Profar for getting hurt.

I’m mad at the WBC because this isn’t NASCAR.

I’m mad that Sam Dyson has given up more runs in 2017 than he did in 2016, in fewer than a fourth of the innings, and I’m mad that he was so brilliant in 2015 (1.15 ERA) and in 2016 (38 saves, fourth in AL in WPA) and, in 2017, in the WBC (six perfect innings) and in spring training (three scoreless innings, hitters 1-for-10) for a combined one single allowed in 30 pre-season batters faced and now this, and I’m mad that baseball did cruel things to his game that led, less than two months later, to a designation for assignment with three and two-thirds years of team control left.

Actually, I’m mostly sad about that.

I’m mad that Koji Uehara was so good here, save for one brief stretch that, unfortunately, we all remember, and moved on and was so good again, and I’m mad that Darren O’Day was so good here, save for one brief stretch that I’m not even sure we remember, and moved on and was so good again, and I’m mad at the thought that Sam Dyson, with a look as unique as Uehara’s or O’Day’s and equally solid stretches of past success will refind himself somewhere else, and that what we’ll remember about his time here will be the brief awfulness that will have unfortunately overshadowed what was a dominant, extended groundball-machine run as a Ranger.

Sports.

I’m mad at sports, sometimes.

I’m mad that after watching Brady Feigl’s insanely good Frisco debut last night, which I was eagerly anticipating (see your December 8, 2016 news flash), my first thought was that he’ll be in Arlington by season’s end and my second thought was that he’s a reliever and they’re hired to be fired.

I’m mad that there will be at least a few games each season that I’ll now be rooting against Sam Dyson.

I’m mad at weather and I’m mad that communication skills are skills, and not a given, and that not all things line up when they should and that I never learned to play the drums.

I’m mad at Jimmy Johnson and at True Detective season 2 and at politics for not being different and at Mike Tovar for not landing at Hillcrest two years earlier.

I’m mad that Tyson and Nellie and Napoli were allowed to leave.

I’m mad at Radiohead’s tour dates and at my right shoulder and at pizza for not being healthy.

I’m mad that Jerad Eickhoff and Alec Asher are the only two active big leaguers at the moment of the 11 who were involved in the tremendous Hamels/Diekman/Dyson trades.

I’m mad that there are only three Better Call Saul episodes left this season and that Froot Loops never did a “Precious and few are the moments we, Toucan, share” commercial and that Tim Bogar’s Rangers went 14-8, including a 13-3 finish. Even an 11-5 finish could have had a massively different impact on the club long-term. I’m mad about that.

I’m mad at Jackie Smith and Bobby Reed and the watering down and homogenization of the concept of leadership.

I’m not mad about Yu but Gregg Fleisher always looked like the lead guy in Mad About You.

I’m mad at the home plate umpire at the Hillcrest-Fort Worth Southwest game in the 1987 Waxahachie Tournament and would like to know his name.

I’m mad at impatience with and intolerance of flaw.

Oh, wait.

I’m mad that Roger retired and that Michael retired and that Dirk will retire and that time always wins.

I’m mad that sports did this to Sam Dyson and to the team with which he blossomed and that piano lessons didn’t steer grade-school me away from sports.

I’m mad at irrational anger because it’s irrational.

I’m mad that I care so much, and that wins and losses have the reverberating impact that they do, and that I think I already said that but don’t have the will to go back and delete.

I’m not really mad, I think. Sports, majestically mercurial, breeds impulsive.

Or is breed impulsive? I stubbornly think I can get away with impulsive in place of impulsiveness but I don’t think breeds vs. breed falls into poetic license territory and I’m mad that I don’t have the will to go back and delete because now it means this sentence will end up in the book.

I’m not mad. (Except at Jellyfish.) Win this series against the Astros and I’ll be happy as a whatever-the-expression-is.

C’mon, guys. Let’s go. Beat Houston.

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This contribution was provided by Jamey Newberg of The Newberg Report. You can follow Jamey on twitter @NewbergReport

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