After Stephen Strasburg stymied Toronto's offense yesterday to cap off a forgettable series with the Nationals, the Jays have, for the first time this season, sojourned to the realm of the damned that is the sub-.500 club.
Well, maybe that metaphor is a little dramatic. The sub-.500 club is more like a party hosted by (and for) the socially inept kids, but the Jays were forced to attend because their mom insisted.
Painful memories aside, this increasingly beleaguered ballclub has encountered a number of difficulties in recent days. Over the past week, we've had two pitchers -- including burgeoning ace Brandon Morrow -- sustain injuries on the mound that precipitated early departures from their respective outings.
We've also seen a widely anticipated regression from nearly everyone in the lineup that isn't named Jose Bautista. Kelly Johnson has recorded just one extra-base hit since May 28. Yunel Escobar's efforts to raise his OPS above .700 remain unsuccessful. David Cooper doesn't have a hit in five games.
And Vlad abandoned us. You see where I'm going with this.
But in these trying times, we always have Brett Lawrie. Over just 102 career games, Lawrie has managed to attain a persona that transcends performance, an image that can be largely attributed to the indefatigable tire-pumping efforts of the Canadian sports media. His successes are lauded without restraint, while his shortcomings are tolerated with a kind of obligatory acquiescence.
So to get you through this rough patch, I've recorded a humorous little ditty about #13 that may contain just trace amounts of satire. Enjoy.