In defense of crabgrass

Posted on Posted in Games, Life



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Crabgrass is the Delmon Young of the horticultural world.

Yes, yes, I get it. There are totally times and spots where crabgrass can only be described as a noxious weed. I cringe when I see it growing up between the cracks in the landscaping rocks (in much the same way that I cringe when I see Delmon tear off after a fly ball over his left shoulder, only to switch to his right shoulder…and then back to his left). And I agree that it looks awful there with its wicked little tentacles flailing across the flagstones (in much the same way that Delmon looks awful there with his desperate arms flailing across the outfield).

But there's more to crabgrass than that. And this season, I've become a fan.

For who knows what reason, my lawn has just about totally given itself over to crabgrass this summer. (It's not like there's something I haven't been doing this year that I usually do. I usually do nothing.) But the spots that crabgrass has taken over are primarily the spots where my pretentious, hoity-toity "real" grass doesn't want to go in the first place. It's the spots where my lawn usually fries out and dies by mid-July. (Okay, I'm in danger of switching metaphors in midstream here. Because, in this case, crabgrass is totally the illegal Mexican migrant worker of the horticultural world [is that redundant?]. But screw it. I'm sticking with my original Delmon metaphor. Cuz the Twins game is in a rain delay and I've got some time to kill.)

This year with all the crabgrass, most all of my lawn is still a lush green (although, in the above-mentioned spots, it's kind of an eerie, slightly fluorescent green). And I, for one, don't care that some parts of that green are more broad-leafed than others. Or that there are inconsistent, spiral patterns to some of the growth in that green. So what? It's green. And normally, it would be dead-brown.

So Delmon, ignore all the haters. You keep driving in those runs and keep knocking the ball out of the park.

And crabgrass, pay no attention when that pussy "real-grass" crowd talks their Zima-swilling crap. You're welcome in my lawn any time. (Just stay clear of the landscaping.)


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