By Jeff Girod
And wear exactly the same shirt and underpants (forever if possible). Because otherwise someone somewhere might be jinxed!
JINXED I tells ya‘!
That’s the warped logic used last week by a delicate snowflake named Victor Rojas, who didn’t want to disturb a no-hitter by pitcher Jered Weaver of the Los Angeles Angels of Anaheim. As the Angels pitcher was racking up 9 strikeouts and holding the Minnesota Twins hitless for the first time in 14 years, Rojas never mentioned the words “no” or “hitter.” Heck, he barely moved—which wouldn’t be such a problem if Rojas weren’t allegedly the Angels’ TV play-by-play announcer.
Thanks to Rojas, TV viewers who tuned in to the historic game had no idea until after the final out some three hours later that Jered Weaver had just pitched the 10th no-hitter in Angels franchise history. Because Victor Rojas never made a single mention of the potential no-hitter until it was over, for fear of somehow ruining it.
What’s worse: This is the third time Rojas has called a no-hitter without saying the words.
“Some people say jinxes have no place in sports,” Rojas told the Los Angeles Times, “but that’s just how I am. I didn’t move from my position after the third inning, I didn’t move any paper. I put my pens back in the same spot. That’s just who I am.”
No, Victor Rojas, who you are is an incompetent, bumbling superstitious jackass. What you’re supposed to be is a responsible TV announcer capable of reporting on newsworthy events as they unfold.
There are 162 games in a baseball team’s regular season and usually they’re as interesting as watching a garden lizard molt. You’d have to be comatose, under house arrest or the hot dog vendor to watch nine innings of most baseball games.
So the one time when something halfway interesting actually happens—yes, Victor Rojas, we expect you to mention it to the rest of us who don’t have a half-day to kill watching guys in man-jamas scratch and spit because, unlike you, we’re not getting paid for it.
Baseball players get to be superstitious. Fans even get to be superstitious. But you, Victor Rojas, give up that right when you step into an announcer’s booth and someone somehow hires you to speak into a microphone.
And what kind of ego does it take for Victor Rojas to think that the position of his pen and paper decides the destiny of another man’s athletic performance? Never mind that Jered Weaver is a damn good pitcher and a two-time all-star who led the American League in strikeouts in 2010. None of it could have been possible without Victor Rojas and his ass in a swivel chair.
There were also 27,288 people in attendance and millions of other potential “jinxers” watching the no-hitter on TV. (Though for their sakes I’m hoping TV viewers were tuned to the more informative Minnesota Twins broadcast.)
And you can bet the Twins’ announcers had no hesitation about saying the words “no-hitter” or twirling their pens around. Heck, they were probably trying to hit Jered Weaver with several pens.
Don’t you think that if Victor Rojas really had the ability to impact the outcome of sporting events that he would be on every bench, in every dugout, on every sideline, invited to every stadium pretty much in the entire world? Victor Rojas wouldn’t have a hair in his pointy little head because every athlete, every gambler, every daredevil would repeatedly rip whole chunks out of his scalp to wear around their necks like Tiki dolls.
Do your job, Victor Rojas. The world is full of enough incompetent people. Don’t be another idiot. Or worse yet: Don’t try to justify your idiocy—televised no less—with some half-baked, nonsensical circular reasoning such as, “That’s just who I am.” The only thing worse than a worthless boob is a worthless boob who realizes it and doesn’t care.
You have the privilege of being a highly compensated professional sports announcer. Start acting like it or I guarantee someone else will giddily do your job for you.
And they won’t be worried about jinxing your pens and paper when they’re cleaning out your “superstitious” desk.
Contact Jeff Girod at firstname.lastname@example.org.