(The picture above is Big Foot meets Lock Ness Monster: it appears the Orioles have actually WON a game, and in the air hangs a question: who knows why we love who we love when we love?

I am happy for my friend and Designated Writers co-founder JJ Marshall, who enjoyed a magical run by his Atlanta Braves this year. He expected nothing, the team gave him everything. He watched them grow up. Watched them battle for a wild card berth, which they earned. Watched them lose to the LA Dodgers in the playoffs. JJ tipped his cap. His Braves gave them more than he could have ever dreamed of this summer.

I love the Braves. Love them. Back in the 70s, the Braves on TBS and the Cubs on WGN were the only weeknight TV games in town. Another story for another time.

But the Baltimore Orioles, that is My Team, unfortunately my drug of choice. When I was growing up in South Carolina, the Orioles were the closest big-league team to me. So I latched on, mainly because of third sacker Brooks Robinson from Arkansas, and manager Earl Weaver. The Braves came to Atlanta in 1966; I was already, at age 6, an Oriole.

Oh, the folly and ignorance of youth. What a great time to be an Oriole it was. From 1968-1985, this was the winningest team in baseball. Correct, young folk: no one during that time won more games than Baltimore.

We thought it would always be that way, beating the Red Sox and the Yankees and showing up in a World Series regularly to either sweep the Dodgers or Reds or lose to the Pirates after leading 3-1 in 1979 or to the the Miracle Mets in 1969 — “They don’t call it a miracle for nothin’! — or to beat the Phillies for the Series title in 1983, which was a long, long, long time ago.

Bu we aren’t young anymore. We have an owner who won’t let us win. We are the shark leavings of baseball.

This year we won 47 games, which is awesome if you play 67. Unfortunately, major league baseball makes you play 162.

Baltimore, the storied franchise of my youth, had a 47-115 record. That is 61 games out of first place. We weren’t worth dedicating to the homeless. And I knew this going into the spring. JJ had hope; I had … squat.

Baseball giveth, baseball taketh away…

My precious son wanted to be an Orioles fan. “They used to be good,” I tell him. “They’ll be good again.” He wants to believe. But he can’t. Until we get a new owner, neither can I.

-30-