I am losing the words as I type. It is hard to fashion the things that should be said in such times when trying is so important and the fashions are out of date. And I do not mean just myself, but for that buzzing hive revolving around myself and the dead meat that this division has become.

Perhaps some writer with the lack of guile and hair and volume control of a Bill Plaschke has made a pun to describe the state of this race of plagued rats. Maybe we Dodgers are one of five that play for the NL Messed, or the NL Bested. Maybe we Dodgers are dodging our chance to play in October. Maybe the Padres are without a God. Perhaps the Rockies are talc, and the Giants are just bobblehead dolls in funhouse mirrors. And, of course, comments about a toothless garter snake are sure to abound in Bank One’s fervent jacuzzi.

Yesterday evening, the front-running-in-reverse Padres reached the break point by beating up on the flat Rockies. Meanwhile, the Dodgers defeated the Bondless Giants by one run, pulling us within six and a half games of first place. With a record burned by thirteen more losses than wins. If the NL West divisional crown is a hot potato, then each team is a quadrapelegic on strict starch-free diets.

For the Dodgers, that metaphor rings a truthful tone. For our hitters, only two players qualify (via a number of plate appearances) for any consideration in the race for best batting average. There is Jeff Kent – a great a hitter as he is an instigator – and there is Cesar Izturis – as great a walk-taker as he is an extra-base hitter. That I am tied for third in home runs on the team, and fourth in walks, in only 286 at-bats says as much about the injuries to star players as it does to Mr. Jim Tracy’s managerial proclivities. (I am honored that the man that gave up my bench seat for me, Olmedo Saenz, is tied with me, and shall soon surpass me. )

Even with JD Drew and Milton Bradley missing time for bangs and bruises – either their own, or those they inflicted – we were still in play for a berth in the playoff hunt. That we would be more ensconced in this hunt with a more favorable line-up configuration – one that didn’t involve multiple doses of Jasons Phillips and Repko and Grabowski – is a topic best left to those whose careers aren’t determined by myopic managerial geniuses.

While I do not want to focus on my own tribulations too much during this discussion, I feel it is necessary to ask why a participant in the All-Star game finds himself relegated to supporting the bat rack while punchless Judys take the field and take runs away from our side of the score. Struggles are struggles, but I see a team not far from my own that stuck by players of similar skill sets through thin and thinner, and they are now within reach of first place, and in the midst of a remarkable reversal of misfortune.

That finally being said, I do not know that even the heartiest of bashing could content with the flapping of gums our bullpen has caused us to endure, though. Not to say the starting is faultless. Indeed, seeing Jeff Weaver or Derek Lowe purse their faces like wrinkled lemons does not inspire confidence. Still, they have done as well as can be expected. Indeed, on a mediocre team, they would be fine as inning sponges and run beneficiaries. But where there is a starter, there is a finisher, and when starers are forced to leave, we are finished. Four of the five most frequently used bullpen pitchers possess ERAs above 4.50, and all five have WHIPs above 1.37. And these five pitchers have a combined 20 losses. If you are Pete Rose and want to bet against your team, then this is a bullpen that will make you proud and, for the moment, wealthy.

I do not know what else to say. This is not our year. This year is a confluence of both bad luck and bad management (and I cast my eyes with shame on the leaders on the baseball field, not above it). That we can still see the postseason through our windshield does not change the fact that we are driving a gas-drunk bucket of rust and fuzzy dice. Nor does it make our chances of seeing more of the postseason any less dim. The light at the end of this tunnel is a dim bulb, and there is no doubt in my mind that the first to approach that beacon will have it turned off before they know where they are. These dark days cannot set soon enough.