Last week, I received a series of text messages from a good friend:
7:21 PM: I don’t know
7:22 PM: If there’s room in your heart
7:22 PM: For another non-Cubs pitcher
7:22 PM: But let me plead my case for liking Miles Mikolas
7:23 PM: 1) he famously ate a lizard for fun
7:23 PM: 2) after he came one strike (and inches in the field) away from a no hitter, he told reporters that it “kinda stinks”
It’s a compelling case, to be sure.
Miles Mikolas is a unique man. Has a Tom Selleck mustache. Went to Japan. Resurrected his career in Japan. Wears high socks. He’s certainly goofy, and at least from a distance, it doesn’t feel performative. With the Cubs currently being rather rude to their fans (my stance on this is that they have the money to sign free agents to short-term deals and see if they can field a competitive team, something that wouldn’t dramatically mess up their developmental plans), and with St. Louis often unfairly scorned (St. Louis’s lows are very low, but it’s highs are higher than those of a lot of other cities its size), I’m not in a position to reject a Cardinal outright.
Still, Mikolas is not in my heart. I respect the guy—he’s clearly cool, or so it seems—but I don’t love him. Love is something that, with pitchers, kind of just happens, and for me it hasn’t happened yet. Mikolas is more like Brett Phillips or Andrew McCutchen: I like him, and I understand why others would count him as a favorite, but I don’t have any emotional bond.
Am I open to this changing? Of course. But I’m not there at the moment. Thanks for writing in, Tom Hanks.
