by Jerod Morris

As Lynyrd Skynyrd once sang, “Oooh, that smell. Can you smell that smell?” I know what I can smell, and for once it isn’t the stench of Grady Sizemore’s female parts since the Cleveland Indians are so waaaaaay far behind the White Sox in the AL Central Standings.

No, that smell is the first wiff of Fall. And Fall means one thing, and one thing only: Football. I could write an entire post about all of the many images, memories, feelings, and pangs of sublime anticipation that rush through every fiber of my being when this glorious time of year rolls around. However, I might crash the server due to the length of the post.

So instead, I will go a different route and highlight one of the few things about football season that I absolutely abhor. There aren’t many, and most of them are so meaningless that they are essentially infinitesimal. But there is one steaming pile of arrogant and monotone nepotism that hangs over the Fall like an unexpected early morning dingleberry carwash. And unfortunately, it hangs over October baseball as well. You all know who I’m talking about:

Joe Buck.

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