A long time ago*, on a blog far far away**, I ruined Rickie Weeks’ 2009 season by prematurely dubbing it The Summer of Rickie Weeks. Rickie was rakin’ in the early days of the ’09 campaign (.272/.340/.517 through 37 games), but his wrist was unable to bear the brunt of his awesomeness and snapped like a rubber band trying to restrain Superman’s bicep.
In the interest of not tempting fate, I’ve backed off the Summer of Rickie talk during the last two seasons. But with Rickie scuffling to start the year in 2012, and on the heels of (1) Rickie getting drilled on the hand by a pitch and somehow not suffering a season-ending fracture; and (2) Rickie jacking one to the Bronx in last night’s game against the Mets (the Bronx is north of Queens, right? Stupid New York with its stupid boroughs), I ain’t much concerned about tempting fate right now.
Come getcha some, Fate.
** This was back when I had my fastball, before two infants turned me into a Jamie Moyer-level junkballer.