Game 3 - Red Sox
Red Sox 7, Yankees 3
Record: 1-2
Wow, Whitney's been a veritable Tom Wolfe lately, churning out prolific wordcounts while I've sat idly by - mostly in Hartsfield International Airport. This entry won't tip the scales much, to be honest.
If there is such a thing as a must-win in the season's third game, the Sox delivered one Wednesday afternoon. 3 outs from being swept, with Mariano Rivera on the hill and the Yankees poised to...hey, wait a minute...this sounds really familiar. I'll save Whitney some well-deserved angst by not completing that thought.
The subsequent 5-run "outburst" was as ugly as it was desperately needed. Hell, if Alex Rodriguez makes a relatively routine play on Manny Ramirez' erstwhile doubleplay grounder, folks from Bangor to Cranston are in full woe-is-us throat. But he didn't, and a few dribblers, flares, and wild pitches later, the Sox recorded their first win of the season.
Of note, the Sox once again touched up Mariano Rivera, leading the Yankee reliever to exhibit all manner of petulant gestures at his teammates' failings, and precipitating a full-voiced Bronx cheer from the ever-classy Yankee Stadium denizens. Rivera's still great, but there's no question that the Sox are more confident against him than any other team.
I'll be happy when next week's Sox/Yanks repeat is over, so we can get on with the business of playing the season without the screeching cacophony of hype that's accompanied this first week. At least the Sox win avoided adding another layer of drama to that particular mess.
Friday, April 08, 2005
Thursday, April 07, 2005
The Revolution Will Be Televised . . . Nats Games Will Not
As I alluded to before, it seems that Peter Angelos is having the last laugh, and trust me people, when he laughs, it's never pretty. The jowls shake, the belly quivers, and it all quickly evolves into a phlegmy smoker's hack.
It seems Napoleon's greedier, more sinister descendent has brokered a deal with baseball where he gets 90% ownership of a regional cable network that reserves the right to show Nationals games . . . unless they're pre-empted by A Very Special "Smallville." (You think I'm kidding?) The Mid-Atlantic Sports Network (MASN) was formed at the 11th hour because of Angelos's lingering threat of lawsuit, one that most had deemed utter crap. They might as well rename it the Mid-Atlantis Sports Network, since it hasn't been seen since Opening Day, thought the Orioles continue to get unwanted airtime on ComCast. And Angelos gets his wish -- no new baseball team in DC.
One of the DC City Councilmen who fought through jackelopes local and nationwide (Linda, Peter, Bud, and the rest of the herd) to get baseball here was heard to threaten the stadium deal last night upon realizing that exactly one game of the inaugural three-game series for the Nationals would be televised. He backed off this morning, but his point was not without merit. Not televising Nationals games and that horrendous TV deal (how decidedly un-apropos -- a one-sided deal favoring a two-faced guy) is bad for the prospective buyer, which means it's bad for every owner who owns a soul (Reinsdorf bought his back at an escalated price, so it's rumored). It all means less revenues for the team, which then will put a lower-priced product on the field, thinning out ticket sales and screwing the city. A chicken-little, slippery slope of transitive property economics, but it adds a little justification to the otherwise subjective notion that awarding a team to DC with much fanfare and then not showing the games on TV is just about the dumbest thing I've ever heard. And it's more fodder for the conspriacy theory that Peter Angelos is blackmailing MLB HQ, as well as the case that Bud Selig is the worst commissioner of anything that's every had a commission ever in any industry in any country on any planet. Honestly . . . honestly, I wouldn't trust this guy with the job of taking out my garbage. It'd take six weeks, it wouldn't quite get to the curb, and the lawn would stink to high heaven. And the Garbage Games would end in a tie.
It seems Napoleon's greedier, more sinister descendent has brokered a deal with baseball where he gets 90% ownership of a regional cable network that reserves the right to show Nationals games . . . unless they're pre-empted by A Very Special "Smallville." (You think I'm kidding?) The Mid-Atlantic Sports Network (MASN) was formed at the 11th hour because of Angelos's lingering threat of lawsuit, one that most had deemed utter crap. They might as well rename it the Mid-Atlantis Sports Network, since it hasn't been seen since Opening Day, thought the Orioles continue to get unwanted airtime on ComCast. And Angelos gets his wish -- no new baseball team in DC.
One of the DC City Councilmen who fought through jackelopes local and nationwide (Linda, Peter, Bud, and the rest of the herd) to get baseball here was heard to threaten the stadium deal last night upon realizing that exactly one game of the inaugural three-game series for the Nationals would be televised. He backed off this morning, but his point was not without merit. Not televising Nationals games and that horrendous TV deal (how decidedly un-apropos -- a one-sided deal favoring a two-faced guy) is bad for the prospective buyer, which means it's bad for every owner who owns a soul (Reinsdorf bought his back at an escalated price, so it's rumored). It all means less revenues for the team, which then will put a lower-priced product on the field, thinning out ticket sales and screwing the city. A chicken-little, slippery slope of transitive property economics, but it adds a little justification to the otherwise subjective notion that awarding a team to DC with much fanfare and then not showing the games on TV is just about the dumbest thing I've ever heard. And it's more fodder for the conspriacy theory that Peter Angelos is blackmailing MLB HQ, as well as the case that Bud Selig is the worst commissioner of anything that's every had a commission ever in any industry in any country on any planet. Honestly . . . honestly, I wouldn't trust this guy with the job of taking out my garbage. It'd take six weeks, it wouldn't quite get to the curb, and the lawn would stink to high heaven. And the Garbage Games would end in a tie.
Live from the Nation's Capital (Where You Can't Watch the Nationals on TV)
Game 3 - Mets
Reds 6, Mets 1
Record: 0-friggin'-3
Since I am blog-agog in the early part of this quickly worsening season, I thought I'd take a crack at the play-by-play style my colleague employed a couple of days ago. The game is already underway, so here goes . . . (I'll explain this post's title between innings.)
Top 1st Inning
Tuned in late. Aaron Harang mowed down the Mets in the top of the 1st. On-base specialists Jose Reyes and Kaz Matsui fanned, the latter on three pitches. Just as "Gadzookie" Matsui had trouble seeing the ball off the bat last year, he's missing most of his take signs this year.
Mets 0, Reds 0
Bottom 1st Inning
Kaz II: Electric Boogalo is on the hill. He walks the first batter.
He walks the second batter on four pitches.
Sheesh, I don't know what we were so worried about!!
Sean Casey actually has to swing and wisely hits it at Kaz I: Original Recipe. Good call, as Matsui boots it and a run scores. Another comes home on a sac fly.
Two runs on no hits. How's Jason Phillips doing right about now?
Reds 2, Mets 0
Top 2
David Wright walks and Ramon Castro (in for Piazza on a night-day combo) gets his first hit of the season, but Victor Diaz ends their chances. Ishii is due to lead off next inning. Here's hoping he makes it that far.
Reds 2, Mets 0
Bottom 2
Wily Mo Pena homers on an 0-1 count. Makes you long for the days of walking guys.
No more damage. By the way, the Mets have given up seven first-inning runs in three games so far this year. Oh, I know, it's early, though. Good grief!
Reds 3, Mets 0
Top 3
That was the fastest half-inning ever recorded. The Mets cannot wait to get the hell out of Ohio.
Ishii did bat, and whiff. Reyes popped out and Kaz M. (pronounced "chasm," which is what he represents at the top of this order) grounded out. Stay tuned for the exciting conclusion of which Kaz can have a more putrid afternoon.
Reds 3, Mets 0
Bottom 3
1-2-3 inning! Willie Randolph is quickly rifling through the MLB rule book to make sure the Mets can legally do that.
Reds 3, Mets 0
Top 4
Not to be out-stunk, the Mets counter with a 1-2-3 right back in the Reds' face.
Early returns from today: the potent offense was a fluke, the shabby pitching wasn't. Uh oh.
Reds 3, Mets 0
Bottom 4
Kaz Ishii just struck out the side -- the meat of the order, no less -- on 13 pitches. He's settling in a bit -- the hitters need to reward him for it. Right now.
Reds 3, Mets 0
Top 5
David Wright walked again. Love this kid. Look for him in a Mariners jersey by Bastille Day.
Ramon Castro grounded into a double play. On the plus side, Ramon, Norfolk has really been revitalized in the last 5-10 years.
Victor Diaz made the third out . . . again, meaning the pitcher leads off . . . again. I've seen "A-Team" episode plotlines with fewer holes in it than this game plan.
Reds 3, Mets 0
Bottom 5
A pickle! A two-out, five-throw rundown that results in a tag on Ryan Freel. Nice work, lads. Now, about that hitting . . . the sixth inning will be ours!
Reds 3, Mets 0
Top 6
Oh, yeah, it's Ishii-Reyes-Matsui in the sixth. I meant seventh inning!
Ishii grounds out. Hard to tell from the MLB.com GameDay, but I'm sure it was a laser at . . . the catcher? Reyes flies out. Matsui swings through Strike Three. Okay, first he was the 2nd-best Japanese guy playing baseball in New York named Matsui. Now he's the 2nd-best Japanese guy who plays for the Mets named Kaz?
He needs a pick-me-up. Hey, Kaz, at least you haven't left any men on base, since--
I know I mockingly ragged Ramon Castro, but it was his bloop to left that's the only thing keeping the Mets from staring at a no-no through six innings. From Aaron Harang. Seriously?
Reds 3, Mets 0
Bottom 6
Another 1-2-3 inning for He/She. I am a big enough man to admit when I am wrong, big enough even to eat several greasy spoon entrees as punishment. I'm not necessarily saying I was wrong about Ishii, I'm just hungry.
Reds 3, Mets 0
Top 7
Aaron Harang had pitched 6 1/3 innings of one-hit shutout ball, but Dave Miley saw the wrecking crew at the back end of the Mets' lineup coming on, so he yanked Harang. Just when I was about to include a bad pun about my "errant harangue" on Kaz Ishii. Damn you, Dave Miley.
Hmmm. New pitcher Ryan Wagner threw two pitches. Mientkiewicz missed the first one on a bunt attempt. The second one he bounced to short for an IEDP. IE means "inning-ending," but it's more of a tip of the cap to Doug "I before E" Mientkiewicz and how it takes me almost as long to type his name as it does for him to chug down to first. Since this poorly organized tangent is off the deep end already (no time to think, game's on!), let me just reference Kaz "I Close One I Before Every E" Matsui and his well-documented vision problems. Thank you very much.
Reds 3, Mets 0
7th Inning Stretch
I added the rant post above about the Nationals not being televised. Ignore as you would any other such piece.
Bottom 7
Ishii plunks Joe Randa. Heh heh heh.
A two-out walk to Jason LaRue. Ugh.
Pinch-hitter D'Angelo Jimenez peppers the piece of cheese Ishii staked him with for a two-run double. Heartburn ensues.
Mike DeJean enters. This could be bad.
DeJean makes quick work of Ryan Freel, meaning he only needs two pitches to give up another run.
Inning over. Game over.
Reds 6, Mets 0
Top 8
By the way, I loved this bit about Mike DeJean over at Flushing Local:
Ramon Castro strikes out swinging. Doumar's, featuring the original hand-rolled ice cream cone since 1907.
Victor Diaz does the same. Somewhere, Mike Cameron is breathing easy.
Marlon Anderson gets another pinch-hit. Somewhere, Kaz Matsui is not.
Hey there! A wild pitch and David Wright scores the first, and likely only, run. We'll take it.
Reyes flies out. Miserable day for Jose, but that thing that misery loves -- he's got plenty.
Reds 6, Mets 0
Bottom 8
Felix Heredia enters. I thought the home team was supposed to provide the fireworks.
Holy crud! (Hey, if the Bad News Bears reference fits . . . ) Heredia got the Reds in order, including two K's. Up is down, down is up, Robert Hernandez and Heredia don't stink, Looper and DeJean do, the Reds will be 3-0, the Mets will be 0-3, I'm blogging a lot, Rob is M.I.A., it's craziness!
Reds 6, Mets 0
Top 9
David Weathers enters. So you're telling me there's a chance.
Just flipped over to what I thought was the Nationals-Phillies GameDay site. Instead, there's just a picture of Peter Angelos there. I knew I didn't jump ship on the Mets for a reason.
Kaz gets out (natch), but Beltran singles and Floyd walks. Here we go . . .
Mientkiewicz flies out, i.e., doesn't get the job done.
David Wright, it's up to you, son. A three-run homer and we'd only need a series of small miracles to win.
Okay, I can't tell what's going on now. GameDay has imploded, ESPN.com is slow and/or broken. This is eerily similar to the technical snafu last year that had me baffled about a game between the Mets and Reds. Too much of a coincidence to be a coincidence?
What's happening??? (Extra question marks because I loved Rerun.)
After abandoning GameDay and ESPN (their last straw was a pop-up ad that covered up the fact that their Play-by-Play text was from the wrong inning), I went to Yahoo, where they already had a recap posted which explained that Piazza had flied to right with the bases loaded to end the game. What a cruddy way to catch the cruddy end of a cruddy game.
Reds 6, Mets 1
Phew. Now I know why my little friend has been on bed rest since he covered a game like this.
0-3 after a season-opening sweep to one of the league's projected doormats. Hmmm.
[Thinking]
[Still thinking]
Aha! False sense of security! I get it. [wink]Secret's safe with me, boys.
Reds 6, Mets 1
Record: 0-friggin'-3
Since I am blog-agog in the early part of this quickly worsening season, I thought I'd take a crack at the play-by-play style my colleague employed a couple of days ago. The game is already underway, so here goes . . . (I'll explain this post's title between innings.)
Top 1st Inning
Tuned in late. Aaron Harang mowed down the Mets in the top of the 1st. On-base specialists Jose Reyes and Kaz Matsui fanned, the latter on three pitches. Just as "Gadzookie" Matsui had trouble seeing the ball off the bat last year, he's missing most of his take signs this year.
Mets 0, Reds 0
Bottom 1st Inning
Kaz II: Electric Boogalo is on the hill. He walks the first batter.
He walks the second batter on four pitches.
Sheesh, I don't know what we were so worried about!!
Sean Casey actually has to swing and wisely hits it at Kaz I: Original Recipe. Good call, as Matsui boots it and a run scores. Another comes home on a sac fly.
Two runs on no hits. How's Jason Phillips doing right about now?
Reds 2, Mets 0
Top 2
David Wright walks and Ramon Castro (in for Piazza on a night-day combo) gets his first hit of the season, but Victor Diaz ends their chances. Ishii is due to lead off next inning. Here's hoping he makes it that far.
Reds 2, Mets 0
Bottom 2
Wily Mo Pena homers on an 0-1 count. Makes you long for the days of walking guys.
No more damage. By the way, the Mets have given up seven first-inning runs in three games so far this year. Oh, I know, it's early, though. Good grief!
Reds 3, Mets 0
Top 3
That was the fastest half-inning ever recorded. The Mets cannot wait to get the hell out of Ohio.
Ishii did bat, and whiff. Reyes popped out and Kaz M. (pronounced "chasm," which is what he represents at the top of this order) grounded out. Stay tuned for the exciting conclusion of which Kaz can have a more putrid afternoon.
Reds 3, Mets 0
Bottom 3
1-2-3 inning! Willie Randolph is quickly rifling through the MLB rule book to make sure the Mets can legally do that.
Reds 3, Mets 0
Top 4
Not to be out-stunk, the Mets counter with a 1-2-3 right back in the Reds' face.
Early returns from today: the potent offense was a fluke, the shabby pitching wasn't. Uh oh.
Reds 3, Mets 0
Bottom 4
Kaz Ishii just struck out the side -- the meat of the order, no less -- on 13 pitches. He's settling in a bit -- the hitters need to reward him for it. Right now.
Reds 3, Mets 0
Top 5
David Wright walked again. Love this kid. Look for him in a Mariners jersey by Bastille Day.
Ramon Castro grounded into a double play. On the plus side, Ramon, Norfolk has really been revitalized in the last 5-10 years.
Victor Diaz made the third out . . . again, meaning the pitcher leads off . . . again. I've seen "A-Team" episode plotlines with fewer holes in it than this game plan.
Reds 3, Mets 0
Bottom 5
A pickle! A two-out, five-throw rundown that results in a tag on Ryan Freel. Nice work, lads. Now, about that hitting . . . the sixth inning will be ours!
Reds 3, Mets 0
Top 6
Oh, yeah, it's Ishii-Reyes-Matsui in the sixth. I meant seventh inning!
Ishii grounds out. Hard to tell from the MLB.com GameDay, but I'm sure it was a laser at . . . the catcher? Reyes flies out. Matsui swings through Strike Three. Okay, first he was the 2nd-best Japanese guy playing baseball in New York named Matsui. Now he's the 2nd-best Japanese guy who plays for the Mets named Kaz?
He needs a pick-me-up. Hey, Kaz, at least you haven't left any men on base, since--
I know I mockingly ragged Ramon Castro, but it was his bloop to left that's the only thing keeping the Mets from staring at a no-no through six innings. From Aaron Harang. Seriously?
Reds 3, Mets 0
Bottom 6
Another 1-2-3 inning for He/She. I am a big enough man to admit when I am wrong, big enough even to eat several greasy spoon entrees as punishment. I'm not necessarily saying I was wrong about Ishii, I'm just hungry.
Reds 3, Mets 0
Top 7
Aaron Harang had pitched 6 1/3 innings of one-hit shutout ball, but Dave Miley saw the wrecking crew at the back end of the Mets' lineup coming on, so he yanked Harang. Just when I was about to include a bad pun about my "errant harangue" on Kaz Ishii. Damn you, Dave Miley.
Hmmm. New pitcher Ryan Wagner threw two pitches. Mientkiewicz missed the first one on a bunt attempt. The second one he bounced to short for an IEDP. IE means "inning-ending," but it's more of a tip of the cap to Doug "I before E" Mientkiewicz and how it takes me almost as long to type his name as it does for him to chug down to first. Since this poorly organized tangent is off the deep end already (no time to think, game's on!), let me just reference Kaz "I Close One I Before Every E" Matsui and his well-documented vision problems. Thank you very much.
Reds 3, Mets 0
7th Inning Stretch
I added the rant post above about the Nationals not being televised. Ignore as you would any other such piece.
Bottom 7
Ishii plunks Joe Randa. Heh heh heh.
A two-out walk to Jason LaRue. Ugh.
Pinch-hitter D'Angelo Jimenez peppers the piece of cheese Ishii staked him with for a two-run double. Heartburn ensues.
Mike DeJean enters. This could be bad.
DeJean makes quick work of Ryan Freel, meaning he only needs two pitches to give up another run.
Inning over. Game over.
Reds 6, Mets 0
Top 8
By the way, I loved this bit about Mike DeJean over at Flushing Local:
He's not supposed to be Eric Gagne out there. But he isn't supposed to be GopherDavid Wright records the second hit of the Mets' day. You ever see that painting of the post-apocalyptic frontier with barren, desolate devastation abound in grey and one tiny gold flower poking up from the ash? That flower's name is David.
McHitmehard either.
Ramon Castro strikes out swinging. Doumar's, featuring the original hand-rolled ice cream cone since 1907.
Victor Diaz does the same. Somewhere, Mike Cameron is breathing easy.
Marlon Anderson gets another pinch-hit. Somewhere, Kaz Matsui is not.
Hey there! A wild pitch and David Wright scores the first, and likely only, run. We'll take it.
Reyes flies out. Miserable day for Jose, but that thing that misery loves -- he's got plenty.
Reds 6, Mets 0
Bottom 8
Felix Heredia enters. I thought the home team was supposed to provide the fireworks.
Holy crud! (Hey, if the Bad News Bears reference fits . . . ) Heredia got the Reds in order, including two K's. Up is down, down is up, Robert Hernandez and Heredia don't stink, Looper and DeJean do, the Reds will be 3-0, the Mets will be 0-3, I'm blogging a lot, Rob is M.I.A., it's craziness!
Reds 6, Mets 0
Top 9
David Weathers enters. So you're telling me there's a chance.
Just flipped over to what I thought was the Nationals-Phillies GameDay site. Instead, there's just a picture of Peter Angelos there. I knew I didn't jump ship on the Mets for a reason.
Kaz gets out (natch), but Beltran singles and Floyd walks. Here we go . . .
Mientkiewicz flies out, i.e., doesn't get the job done.
David Wright, it's up to you, son. A three-run homer and we'd only need a series of small miracles to win.
Okay, I can't tell what's going on now. GameDay has imploded, ESPN.com is slow and/or broken. This is eerily similar to the technical snafu last year that had me baffled about a game between the Mets and Reds. Too much of a coincidence to be a coincidence?
What's happening??? (Extra question marks because I loved Rerun.)
After abandoning GameDay and ESPN (their last straw was a pop-up ad that covered up the fact that their Play-by-Play text was from the wrong inning), I went to Yahoo, where they already had a recap posted which explained that Piazza had flied to right with the bases loaded to end the game. What a cruddy way to catch the cruddy end of a cruddy game.
Reds 6, Mets 1
Phew. Now I know why my little friend has been on bed rest since he covered a game like this.
0-3 after a season-opening sweep to one of the league's projected doormats. Hmmm.
[Still thinking]
Aha! False sense of security! I get it. [wink]
Wednesday, April 06, 2005
Turkeys Don't Fly, And Neither Does This
Game 2 - Mets
Reds 9, Mets 5
Record: 0-2
A few aimless thoughts bouncing around in my head after watching the game tonight:
I did get to watch the game in its entirety, even if it was with the Reds broadcast team at the helm. (George Grande & Chris Welsh; not bad, as they seem to have been at this gig a while.) So glad I had that ocular flush sink installed when I re-upped on the Extra Innings baseball package (and if you haven’t ordered it by now, Rob, you’re an imbecile and a second-tier fan).
For those who’ve been misusing the term for a while now, “irony” is when said Reds announcers mock the Kansas City Royals in the 2nd inning for having tried to make Joe Randa into a power hitter, when “all you need to do is stand next to the guy and you see he’s no power hitter.” That they carried on without mentioning Game 1’s dramatic home run was one thing, but when Randa connected on the grand slam to center in the 8th, it became painfully comical.
Surprisingly good: Roberto Hernandez. I will admit to lumping his signing in with the go-nowhere veteran acquisitions of the recent past (Erickson, Baldwin, etc.). Way premature to say, but if he continues to pitch this way, he may get some saves before it’s all said and done. (Before we coronate him as the closer, let’s acknowledge that he struck out the side against the weakest part of the order.)
Surprisingly bad: Tom Glavine. Missed a lot of spots along the way. True, home plate ump Chuck Meriweather rooked him out of two inning-ending strike three calls, but Glavine came right back with slow stuff that caught the meat of the plate on the next pitch both times. Two K’s turned into two two-run singles, and he can only partly blame the league’s shabbiest ump.
Also not able to blame the umpiring crew: Willie Randolph, who, on the heels of my lambasting upper management for possibly not considering MLB rules, executed the double-secret-probation double-switch. Except . . . by keeping it secret from the umpiring crew, the double-switch was negated. Of course, that crack team of umps, not quite as up on the whole “rules” thing as the attentive Reds coaching staff was, had to be told of the infraction, and then they enforced the violation. So, Willie inserted Chris Woodward for Doug Mientkiewicz at 1B and brought in Mike DeJean to pitch the 8th, but his blunder meant that DeJean would be in the 9-spot in the order with the #8 leading off. In the end, it was moot, thanks to DeJean’s spot-on impression of himself at this time last year when he was setting fires all over Baltimore. Still, every day my confidence in this unit erodes just a tad more.
More on Chuck Meriweather (pun intended, quite obviously): he squeezed Glavine at key moments but somehow expanded the zone against several Mets hitters, including a bad punchout of Mient-o. He just seemed to be all over the map, when what players beg for is consistency. Actually, I think those players need to be more specific, because he was, in fact, consistently bad. His mates were of little help, botching a stolen base call and giving the Reds a neighborhood 2B tag so far off the Cincy announcers were embarrassed. Can’t really blame the loss on them, but man, pick it up, blue.
Of note: balls are flying out of stadia with increased ludicrousness this year so far, despite the expected power drain due to Commandant Selig’s iron-fisted steroids lockdown. David Wright’s opposite-field poke looked like a sure lineout; Joe Randa “Masshole” and his pair of timely jerks defied the odds; the other night I watched Jim Edmonds flick a pitch that was low and outside over the wall in that wiffleball park in Houston; I also saw Todd Hollandsworth put one out in Arizona that had “rolling gapper” all over it. The story of Bud Selig’s secret plot to replace baseballs with lacrosse balls with stitches drawn on them is breaking here first.
What to do about 0-2? Put your faith in Kaz. The other Kaz. You know, guys, you can bring as many guys named Kaz on board as you want and it won’t bring back Kazmir.
Reds 9, Mets 5
Record: 0-2
A few aimless thoughts bouncing around in my head after watching the game tonight:
I did get to watch the game in its entirety, even if it was with the Reds broadcast team at the helm. (George Grande & Chris Welsh; not bad, as they seem to have been at this gig a while.) So glad I had that ocular flush sink installed when I re-upped on the Extra Innings baseball package (and if you haven’t ordered it by now, Rob, you’re an imbecile and a second-tier fan).
For those who’ve been misusing the term for a while now, “irony” is when said Reds announcers mock the Kansas City Royals in the 2nd inning for having tried to make Joe Randa into a power hitter, when “all you need to do is stand next to the guy and you see he’s no power hitter.” That they carried on without mentioning Game 1’s dramatic home run was one thing, but when Randa connected on the grand slam to center in the 8th, it became painfully comical.
Surprisingly good: Roberto Hernandez. I will admit to lumping his signing in with the go-nowhere veteran acquisitions of the recent past (Erickson, Baldwin, etc.). Way premature to say, but if he continues to pitch this way, he may get some saves before it’s all said and done. (Before we coronate him as the closer, let’s acknowledge that he struck out the side against the weakest part of the order.)
Surprisingly bad: Tom Glavine. Missed a lot of spots along the way. True, home plate ump Chuck Meriweather rooked him out of two inning-ending strike three calls, but Glavine came right back with slow stuff that caught the meat of the plate on the next pitch both times. Two K’s turned into two two-run singles, and he can only partly blame the league’s shabbiest ump.
Also not able to blame the umpiring crew: Willie Randolph, who, on the heels of my lambasting upper management for possibly not considering MLB rules, executed the double-secret-probation double-switch. Except . . . by keeping it secret from the umpiring crew, the double-switch was negated. Of course, that crack team of umps, not quite as up on the whole “rules” thing as the attentive Reds coaching staff was, had to be told of the infraction, and then they enforced the violation. So, Willie inserted Chris Woodward for Doug Mientkiewicz at 1B and brought in Mike DeJean to pitch the 8th, but his blunder meant that DeJean would be in the 9-spot in the order with the #8 leading off. In the end, it was moot, thanks to DeJean’s spot-on impression of himself at this time last year when he was setting fires all over Baltimore. Still, every day my confidence in this unit erodes just a tad more.
More on Chuck Meriweather (pun intended, quite obviously): he squeezed Glavine at key moments but somehow expanded the zone against several Mets hitters, including a bad punchout of Mient-o. He just seemed to be all over the map, when what players beg for is consistency. Actually, I think those players need to be more specific, because he was, in fact, consistently bad. His mates were of little help, botching a stolen base call and giving the Reds a neighborhood 2B tag so far off the Cincy announcers were embarrassed. Can’t really blame the loss on them, but man, pick it up, blue.
Of note: balls are flying out of stadia with increased ludicrousness this year so far, despite the expected power drain due to Commandant Selig’s iron-fisted steroids lockdown. David Wright’s opposite-field poke looked like a sure lineout; Joe Randa “Masshole” and his pair of timely jerks defied the odds; the other night I watched Jim Edmonds flick a pitch that was low and outside over the wall in that wiffleball park in Houston; I also saw Todd Hollandsworth put one out in Arizona that had “rolling gapper” all over it. The story of Bud Selig’s secret plot to replace baseballs with lacrosse balls with stitches drawn on them is breaking here first.
What to do about 0-2? Put your faith in Kaz. The other Kaz. You know, guys, you can bring as many guys named Kaz on board as you want and it won’t bring back Kazmir.
That Little Itch Could Be Telling You Something
It starts with the little itch. The brain trust known as New York Mets management executes a transaction that elicits a fair bit of head-scratching from the fan base. Take, for example, oh . . . let's just pick at random here . . . trading away Matt Ginter unexpectedly. A "Hmmm," a bewildered look, and that Pavlovian head-scratch.
My pate, thanks to the last few years of deals brokered by the Mets' very own Mensa ("Metsa"), looks as if a rabid cat believed my brain to be made of catnip. (Which, coincidentally, a few of our readers believed for some time as well.)
But it gets worse from there. When the puzzlement turns to frustrated angst, such as, oh, say, when the Ginter deal indirectly causes the Mets not to have a starter for next Saturday's game in Atlanta, that's when the hair is yanked out and the forehead begins its volley with the nearest wall. Yes, it seems that thanks to some unfortunate timing -- a euphemism for a little bit of bad luck and lot of bad planning -- the Mets are bereft of sound options for Saturday's contest. "Pray for Rain" in Game 5 of the season is just so unbelievably pitiful. Almost on cue, Kris Benson came up lame (and not in the usual way) immediately following Ginter's widely challenged departure, and with recent demotees unavailable until well after Saturday, the Mets are looking at a pair of left nut/right nut options for the smashing. (By the by, this site has been overabundantly rife with male anatomy metaphors of late -- I guess we should try to expand our horizons beyond our pants for a while, eh, Rob?) Those two options are:
It's a bit presumptuous to ink the L in now, but I have more than a sneaking suspicion that I'll be gagging you with "Santiago got a Code Red from the Braves" or "Old Man and the Sea Monkeys Failed to Reel One In" on Sunday or Monday. (It's only too bad the Mets aren't playing the Marlins this weekend.) And the same instincts that led us to assure ourselves that Opening Day is but one game of 162 will say that Game 5 is, too, and together this week's bookends of botchy-ball will only account for 1/81 of a season. Not to mention the ever present springtime mantra, "It's still early." Aaargh, to reference Charlie Brown for the second time in two weeks. (At least I didn't refer to my "Peanuts," to perpetuate the tired theme.)
I've chattered away at length in this space on and off for two years about how one game may be but one game, but it is in no way the meaningless throwaway that it's regarded as after a bad loss. I'll grant you that players and managers have to tell themselves something to prevent the past from seeping into their conscious and cluttering their concentration in future contests. There is certainly no sense in fixating on yesterday's gaffes for those guys. But for us, the fans, the bloggingly inspired who wax philosophical (wax philistine here), we can and should acknowledge winnable losses as the road block between aspirations and realization. Winnable losses. They're the enemy. They're dry rot. They're termite infestation. They're an internal contagion, cancerous in their self-destruction. Uh, they suck. Monday was one, and an ominous tone-setter to boot, and dammit, I'm tired of the Mets looking forward while stumbling over the present.
Meanwhile . . . next Saturday just might go down as an unwinnable loss, something the Mets recorded many of over the past few seasons, but something that should never afflict this current assemblage of players. That somehow it's happening in Week 1 of the season has me scratching my head, pulling my hair out, and banging my head on my desk here. I look like I'm the one who got the Code Red.
My pate, thanks to the last few years of deals brokered by the Mets' very own Mensa ("Metsa"), looks as if a rabid cat believed my brain to be made of catnip. (Which, coincidentally, a few of our readers believed for some time as well.)
But it gets worse from there. When the puzzlement turns to frustrated angst, such as, oh, say, when the Ginter deal indirectly causes the Mets not to have a starter for next Saturday's game in Atlanta, that's when the hair is yanked out and the forehead begins its volley with the nearest wall. Yes, it seems that thanks to some unfortunate timing -- a euphemism for a little bit of bad luck and lot of bad planning -- the Mets are bereft of sound options for Saturday's contest. "Pray for Rain" in Game 5 of the season is just so unbelievably pitiful. Almost on cue, Kris Benson came up lame (and not in the usual way) immediately following Ginter's widely challenged departure, and with recent demotees unavailable until well after Saturday, the Mets are looking at a pair of left nut/right nut options for the smashing. (By the by, this site has been overabundantly rife with male anatomy metaphors of late -- I guess we should try to expand our horizons beyond our pants for a while, eh, Rob?) Those two options are:
- Manny Aybar. He was last spotted allowing a run off a pair of crushed doubles on Opening Day. You know, the run that set it up for the event we'll simply call "What Braden Did." Oh, and he's started one game in the last five years. Swell.
- Jose Santiago. You mean you're not familiar with Santiago? That's because, according to the MLB rulebook (worth noting: Amazon's shipment of the MLB rulebook to Shea Stadium got backordered), he cannot have made the Mets' 40-man roster. (Also worth noting: according to his level of talent, he cannot have made any big league team's 40-man roster.) Jaap at Archie Bunker's Army does a nice job of spelling out exactly who Santiago is, while skewering the powers that be for this series of events.
It's a bit presumptuous to ink the L in now, but I have more than a sneaking suspicion that I'll be gagging you with "Santiago got a Code Red from the Braves" or "Old Man and the Sea Monkeys Failed to Reel One In" on Sunday or Monday. (It's only too bad the Mets aren't playing the Marlins this weekend.) And the same instincts that led us to assure ourselves that Opening Day is but one game of 162 will say that Game 5 is, too, and together this week's bookends of botchy-ball will only account for 1/81 of a season. Not to mention the ever present springtime mantra, "It's still early." Aaargh, to reference Charlie Brown for the second time in two weeks. (At least I didn't refer to my "Peanuts," to perpetuate the tired theme.)
I've chattered away at length in this space on and off for two years about how one game may be but one game, but it is in no way the meaningless throwaway that it's regarded as after a bad loss. I'll grant you that players and managers have to tell themselves something to prevent the past from seeping into their conscious and cluttering their concentration in future contests. There is certainly no sense in fixating on yesterday's gaffes for those guys. But for us, the fans, the bloggingly inspired who wax philosophical (wax philistine here), we can and should acknowledge winnable losses as the road block between aspirations and realization. Winnable losses. They're the enemy. They're dry rot. They're termite infestation. They're an internal contagion, cancerous in their self-destruction. Uh, they suck. Monday was one, and an ominous tone-setter to boot, and dammit, I'm tired of the Mets looking forward while stumbling over the present.
Meanwhile . . . next Saturday just might go down as an unwinnable loss, something the Mets recorded many of over the past few seasons, but something that should never afflict this current assemblage of players. That somehow it's happening in Week 1 of the season has me scratching my head, pulling my hair out, and banging my head on my desk here. I look like I'm the one who got the Code Red.
Tuesday, April 05, 2005
Silver Linings In Hurricane Clouds
With the perspective that 24 hours and watching the [WORLD CHAMPION] Red Sox drop another game to the Yankees brings, I am calmed from the lunacy I posted below and I'm reminded of a little nugget of wisdom I heard once upon a time:
Can't place it? Well then you haven't been perusing the MLC archives frequently enough, because it's a quote from a blogger who calls himself "rob" on Tuesday, April 1, 2003. See, the Red Sox had just lost their Opening Day contest to the Devil Rays thanks to two homers in the bottom of the ninth, including the walk-off winner. The starting pitcher who was denied the win thanks to the sorry 'pen-manship?? Pedro Martinez. Whoa. Eerily similar, and though Pedro's got to be kicking himself for signing up for what will likely be the longest baseball season(s) of his life, I'm ignoring the dread in my cohort's tone and opting for the least practical application of that quote: We're only a season away from a championship run!
In truth, I was starting to see some similarities between this club and the 1985 Mets, anyway -- a significantly improved, pieces-are-starting-to-fall-into place kind of team with ever-increasing karma. This confirms it. Omar needs to start setting his sights on a Bobby Ojeda-for-Calvin Schiraldi-and-loose-change trade now. I'm thinking Bronson Arroyo for Felix Heredia. Then the Mets and Sox square off in 2006, 20 years after the original, in "Mets-Sox II: This time it's not nearly as personal since the talent was bought with unfairly large revenues instead of cultivated like a decent league would have mandated." Okay, so we've got some time to fine-tune that slogan. But hear me now and believe me later, this won't be the first bizarre parallel we encounter this season.
"Truly, I was miserable all night last night. Intellectually, I know that there
are 161 games left, and that one loss is not terribly relevant, but I can't help
feeling that I've been down this road before. Dammit."
Can't place it? Well then you haven't been perusing the MLC archives frequently enough, because it's a quote from a blogger who calls himself "rob" on Tuesday, April 1, 2003. See, the Red Sox had just lost their Opening Day contest to the Devil Rays thanks to two homers in the bottom of the ninth, including the walk-off winner. The starting pitcher who was denied the win thanks to the sorry 'pen-manship?? Pedro Martinez. Whoa. Eerily similar, and though Pedro's got to be kicking himself for signing up for what will likely be the longest baseball season(s) of his life, I'm ignoring the dread in my cohort's tone and opting for the least practical application of that quote: We're only a season away from a championship run!
In truth, I was starting to see some similarities between this club and the 1985 Mets, anyway -- a significantly improved, pieces-are-starting-to-fall-into place kind of team with ever-increasing karma. This confirms it. Omar needs to start setting his sights on a Bobby Ojeda-for-Calvin Schiraldi-and-loose-change trade now. I'm thinking Bronson Arroyo for Felix Heredia. Then the Mets and Sox square off in 2006, 20 years after the original, in "Mets-Sox II: This time it's not nearly as personal since the talent was bought with unfairly large revenues instead of cultivated like a decent league would have mandated." Okay, so we've got some time to fine-tune that slogan. But hear me now and believe me later, this won't be the first bizarre parallel we encounter this season.
A Little Too Early To Have My Head Buried In My Hands
Game 1 - Mets
Reds 7, Mets 6
Record: 0-1
My post yesterday seemed schizophrenic and spastic, and a few hours later anyone could see why -- that's my natural mental state where the Mets are concerned. Nine innings of New York Mets Opening Day baseball ran a gamut of highs and lows it takes many clubs a month to experience. That the wave of emotions would culminate in a colossal punt in the groin was utterly predictable, but here's hoping it's just another valley awaiting the inevitable ascent up the next peak.
Reds 7, Mets 6
Record: 0-1
My post yesterday seemed schizophrenic and spastic, and a few hours later anyone could see why -- that's my natural mental state where the Mets are concerned. Nine innings of New York Mets Opening Day baseball ran a gamut of highs and lows it takes many clubs a month to experience. That the wave of emotions would culminate in a colossal punt in the groin was utterly predictable, but here's hoping it's just another valley awaiting the inevitable ascent up the next peak.
Consider this roller coaster:
- Kaz Matsui homers in his first at-bat of the season . . . again! What a tease this guy is.
- Pedro allows single-single-homer in batters 2-3-4 of his first game as a Met. Made the call to Rob to thank him and his Red Sox for steering their waste management to Queens, NY.
- Carlos Beltran homers to tie the game. Just happy to see a high-priced free agent paying off, even just once.
- Pedro slides into a nasty groove and strikes out 12 through five. Rob calls back to say, "You're welcome."
- Beltran breaks the tie with a single off David Weathers. Memo to David Weathers: please stay in the National League, old friend.
- Cliff Floyd homers to make it 6-3, just part of his 3-hit day. Clifford, old buddy, . . . all that stuff about dumping you this off-season? We were just kidding, of course.
- Manny Aybar keeps the middle relief a large question mark by allowing a run, but Dae-Sung Koo pitches well to keep the lead a two-run one for Braden Looper to close it out.
- I wander across the street to The Dubliner to catch the end of the game on the tube. The Nationals are on, but after Kenny Lofton goes deep (a bad omen for the Nats if there ever was one), it's 7-1 and I ask the kindly barkeep to switch it over to watch the Mets.
- Braden Looper comes on and promptly surrenders a single, then another prodigious bomb to Adam Dunn. As soon as Dunn connected, I bellowed an "Oh, God!" that startled my neighbors at the bar who weren't paying close attention, including a self-proclaimed (several times) Mets fan who proceeded to wow the crowd with trivial sports facts and figures that were astonishingly inaccurate for the frequency and verve with which they were delivered.
- The very next batter, Joe Randa, ends the game with a towering ball over the left-field fence. While Dunn's launch was a no-doubter, this one seemed like it might possibly get gloved, but alas, it was gone. When Cliff Floyd turned his back, though, another sinful groan seeped out of my mouth, and the flurry of painful phone calls sent and received began.
- I asked my bartender friend to, upon any future requests from me to flip over to the Mets game, punch me in the eye. He quickly agreed.
The interesting thing brought to light is that throughout most of the Met analyses offered up by my comrades in bloggery, Braden Looper didn't stand out as an area of grave concern. While the rest of the pen is sketchy at best, his performance last year was solid enough to overlook him as a 2005 worry. Here's the thing . . . coming into last year, there were alarm bells sounding all over the place about the tenuous closer spot. His 2003 Marlin record was woeful enough to frighten Mets Township going into '04, but he effectively laid those fears to rest by appearing in 18 Mets games before allowing an earned run. This year he didn't even throw 18 pitches before giving up two. His ERA is infinity, he has a blown save and a loss without recording an out . . . yeah, it is only one game (if either Rob or I have to hear that tired refrain again, someone's taking one in the ear), but what a horrible, horrible start to the season. We've done the Scary Closer thing before, and, uh . . . thank you, no. Just when you thought your ulcer had cleared itself up . . .
Unfortunately, it's not that uncommon, especially in Metville, for seemingly solid players to see the bottom drop out of their game one year after a respectable season. Ask Jason Phillips about it. Or David Weathers, or Mike Stanton, or especially Roberto Alomar. And it's not always drugs or booze or a rash of injuries or wealth-bred complacency. It's quite simply that these players forget how to play baseball. They come back from the winter and they just cannot remember how to hit, throw or catch. I remember asking Robby Alomar before the '02 season how he managed to hit so well, and he shrugged it off with a smile, saying "Aw, I don't know." Two months later, while stitching up my Little Robby voodoo doll, I faintly recalled seeing him pause a beat after saying that and give a look like, "Oh, crap, I mean I really don't know!" It happens, and if you think it doesn't, you're fooling yourself. It happens on a grand scale, like it did to Mark Wohlers, Rick Ankiel, and I think Steve Blass in the 70's, not to mention our own Mackey Sasser. It even happens in other sports, like Ian Baker-Finch and David Duval in golf and Kevin Costner in baseball movies. It even happened to me -- actually it happens on an ongoing basis to me, when I throw darts after 10 beers. You wake up and you cannot, for the life of you, remember how to play the damn game.
The weird thing about the Mets' occurrences is that, with the dead-horse exception of Robby "I actually retired in 2001" Alomar, it's normally a case of pretty-good becoming pretty-bad instead of the massive downturns that receive massive press. Jason Phillips was a prime example. So surprisingly solid two seasons ago, he kept us all wondering last year when he was going to revert to that form. But we should have known -- he wasn't slumping, he just forgot how to hit well. Like it was a set of car keys Rob lost on the beach during a love escapade, or a pair of glasses Rob lost on the beach during a love escapade, (note to Rob: get a friggin' room, cheapskate), he just misplaced his ability and he can't seem to get it back. He's a good kid, I hope he does find it one day. (I'm talking about Jason -- Rob's a good kid, too, but his stuff is just gone, man.)
Anyway . . . what we learned on Opening Day can be summed up in three points:
- Pedro and Beltran should make for an exciting season.
- The bullpen -- top to bottom -- should make for an exciting season.
- Exciting seasons make my palms sweat, and when my palms get sweaty I tend to lose my grip on reality rather quickly.
Giddyup.
Monday, April 04, 2005
Applying the Blinders Once Again
I suppose it's time, what with Pedro warming up as we speak, to weigh in on the 2005 New York Mets. It's lots more fun to rag Rob and his Red Sox, but there's a job to do here.
Ah, Opening Day. Much has been written over the years about the sense of renewal that this days brings year after year. The clean slate, the fresh start, the new day rife with new opportunities for success. That's what most see. I, of course, am already into Cynical Mode -- about three months early this year, and I see the cart's wheels already loosening.
In the modern age of free agency, there have been exponentially more cases of foolhardy optimism. We're duped time and time again by our own fallible pseudo-wisdom like "at this point, any change is good," "well, they must know what they're doing," and "there has to be something going on that we don't know." We instinctively bite on the notion that you get what you pay for, and that dollars spent = results achieved. We acknowledge but ultimately ignore warning signs along the way. If a pitcher has a mostly torn labrum, fading stats and an enormous contract, well then quite clearly, that pitcher will be a Cy Young candidate. Naturally.
The last few years have beaten me into this permanently embittered state of Mets fanship, one that skews all good news into sour retorts. Between the Mo Vaughn-sized busts (that's big enough to make Russ Meyer jealous), the prospects that never lose that title, and the misguided management, all of my optimism was delusion. The lingering bile from the last few seasons of baseball has spoiled this Opening Day for me. I have clear images in my head of Beltran in the middle of the pack, Pedro on the DL, Piazza tailing off even more -- and a disaster behind the plate, a slew of injuries, and another underachieving year. Again, I'm not sandbagging this bet with Rob, but 83 wins is as high as I can see the Mets finishing. Maybe it's this pessimism that has biased my prediction, but I just feel like we've been here before.
What worries me most about this season? Is it the startling lack of depth on this club? (The bench consists of Eric Valent, Chris Woodward, Ramon Castro, and Miguel Cairo. Yikes.) Is it the bucket of swill that comprises the bullpen? (But I love that we have Felix Heredia as our blogosphere's punching bag already. This could get good.) Is it the nagging injuries that face every team but seem to plague the Mets consistently? Is it the subconscious dread that the owners may strong-arm Omar into a bad trade? Is it that already there are a few questionable transactions in the log for 2005? Is it that the escalated payroll makes the Mets unquestionable targets for the line of bashing I used to front? Is it that the division may be merciless, or at least significantly more difficult to muddle through than the cakewalk that was the first half of 2004? Who can say, really, what is most worrisome when there are so many things to consider?
What doesn't worry me? David Wright batting eighth. Much has been written about why his placement at the bottom is unfair and unwise, but I'm not worried. He hasn't even played a full season -- this tiny swallow of the rookie treatment isn't going to hurt him. There will be a very easy way for him to move up. Hit his way there. Also not worrying me is the legion of players in Norfolk perhaps better than their Shea-bound counterparts. The Tides look better than they have in years, and this can only be a good thing. There are rising stars top to bottom in the farm system; we know a few may turn out to be Escobars, but as long as some of them live up to their early toutings -- and the think tank stops sending them away for middling starters, we'll be okay.
Well, there really isn't much more cause for prognostication at this point. Game on. Now that I've established that I don't believe in the '05 Mets, it'll take exactly one pitch before I revert to my old self.
Pitch 1: A called strike to Jose Reyes.
The Mets are going all the way this year. 85 wins is the bet. Wild Card. World Series. It's all there for them.
Ah, Opening Day. Much has been written over the years about the sense of renewal that this days brings year after year. The clean slate, the fresh start, the new day rife with new opportunities for success. That's what most see. I, of course, am already into Cynical Mode -- about three months early this year, and I see the cart's wheels already loosening.
In the modern age of free agency, there have been exponentially more cases of foolhardy optimism. We're duped time and time again by our own fallible pseudo-wisdom like "at this point, any change is good," "well, they must know what they're doing," and "there has to be something going on that we don't know." We instinctively bite on the notion that you get what you pay for, and that dollars spent = results achieved. We acknowledge but ultimately ignore warning signs along the way. If a pitcher has a mostly torn labrum, fading stats and an enormous contract, well then quite clearly, that pitcher will be a Cy Young candidate. Naturally.
The last few years have beaten me into this permanently embittered state of Mets fanship, one that skews all good news into sour retorts. Between the Mo Vaughn-sized busts (that's big enough to make Russ Meyer jealous), the prospects that never lose that title, and the misguided management, all of my optimism was delusion. The lingering bile from the last few seasons of baseball has spoiled this Opening Day for me. I have clear images in my head of Beltran in the middle of the pack, Pedro on the DL, Piazza tailing off even more -- and a disaster behind the plate, a slew of injuries, and another underachieving year. Again, I'm not sandbagging this bet with Rob, but 83 wins is as high as I can see the Mets finishing. Maybe it's this pessimism that has biased my prediction, but I just feel like we've been here before.
What worries me most about this season? Is it the startling lack of depth on this club? (The bench consists of Eric Valent, Chris Woodward, Ramon Castro, and Miguel Cairo. Yikes.) Is it the bucket of swill that comprises the bullpen? (But I love that we have Felix Heredia as our blogosphere's punching bag already. This could get good.) Is it the nagging injuries that face every team but seem to plague the Mets consistently? Is it the subconscious dread that the owners may strong-arm Omar into a bad trade? Is it that already there are a few questionable transactions in the log for 2005? Is it that the escalated payroll makes the Mets unquestionable targets for the line of bashing I used to front? Is it that the division may be merciless, or at least significantly more difficult to muddle through than the cakewalk that was the first half of 2004? Who can say, really, what is most worrisome when there are so many things to consider?
What doesn't worry me? David Wright batting eighth. Much has been written about why his placement at the bottom is unfair and unwise, but I'm not worried. He hasn't even played a full season -- this tiny swallow of the rookie treatment isn't going to hurt him. There will be a very easy way for him to move up. Hit his way there. Also not worrying me is the legion of players in Norfolk perhaps better than their Shea-bound counterparts. The Tides look better than they have in years, and this can only be a good thing. There are rising stars top to bottom in the farm system; we know a few may turn out to be Escobars, but as long as some of them live up to their early toutings -- and the think tank stops sending them away for middling starters, we'll be okay.
Well, there really isn't much more cause for prognostication at this point. Game on. Now that I've established that I don't believe in the '05 Mets, it'll take exactly one pitch before I revert to my old self.
Pitch 1: A called strike to Jose Reyes.
The Mets are going all the way this year. 85 wins is the bet. Wild Card. World Series. It's all there for them.
That's a Peach, Hon
Game 1 - Red Sox
New York Yankees 9, Red Sox 2
Record: 0-1
Let the record show that the Boston Red Sox scored the first run of the 2005 Major League Baseball season. And then proceeded to stumble through 7 more innings, defining uninspired. On the bright side, I was drinking at a bar with terrible TV sightlines, so I didn't have to see much of it.
I did catch enough of the game to note that it seems a perfect microcosm of the things that worry me about the 2005 Sox. We haven't previewed our clubs in this space, but if we had, I'd have noted that the following things concern me:
New York Yankees 9, Red Sox 2
Record: 0-1
Let the record show that the Boston Red Sox scored the first run of the 2005 Major League Baseball season. And then proceeded to stumble through 7 more innings, defining uninspired. On the bright side, I was drinking at a bar with terrible TV sightlines, so I didn't have to see much of it.
I did catch enough of the game to note that it seems a perfect microcosm of the things that worry me about the 2005 Sox. We haven't previewed our clubs in this space, but if we had, I'd have noted that the following things concern me:
- Complacency - it would be completely understandable if the idiot Red Sox take a deep breath after the whirlwind finish to 2004 and the exhausting multi-media hype. Completely understandable, and more than a little annoying.
- Pitching - more specifically the uncertainty of the pitching staff. The Sox will be asking fat, old David Wells, surgically repaired Curt Schilling and Wade Miller, young Bronson Arroyo, control-challenged Matt Clement, and wildcard Tim Wakefield to man the hill for them in 2005. In a good-case scenario, that's a diverse, deep, potentially dominant staff. In a darker vision, it's a recipe for having John Halama throw a lot of innings, or for a ton of bullpen wear. I don't think last night was particularly indicative of Wells' capabilities, but it would suck if I was wrong.
- The Yankees - well, duh. As I told Whitney last night, my (admittedly biased) perspective is that their age will catch up to them in 2005. Sheffield, Williams, Posada, Martinez, Womack, Johnson, Mussina, Brown, Gordon, and Rivera are all on the wrong side of the age curve for their positions. They're also way on the right side of the talent curve. If the curves don't intersect in 2005, they could be dominant.
In the end, though, last night was just one game. A really astute observer of the Sox wrote this after opening day last year, "Eh. Pretty indifferent performance by the Sox to open the 2004 campaign." Replace 2004 with 2005 and this year's opener is described to a T. And, to Whitney's eternal chagrin, we all know how last year turned out.
Saturday, April 02, 2005
Tap, Tap...Is This Thing On?
Before Whitney gets offended and cranks out 10,000 words on the overrated nature of watching a game at Fenway, or how he really, really hates when people use "wicked" as a modifier, it's time to call his attention to something about which he actually cares.
I'm talking about beer, people. Really good beer, like Genessee, or some other New York-bred ale. I thoroughly enjoyed the case of Harpoons that my good friend deposited in my fridge after the Sox 98-win season (exactly the number predicted by yours truly) clinched victory for me in our annual bet. As I recall, Whit had predicted 75 wins for his Mets, and for a goodly part of the season, his victory seemed assured. Then, as surely as the salmon flock to Capistrano, the Sox roared through the last 6 weeks of the season while the Mets went as ineffectual as an ethics advisor at a Tom Delay meeting. (Man, I went a long way to get that shot in. And it's not even that good.)
Pay attention now, as the next sentence is as close as you'll get to a season preview from this side of the MLC table. I'm picking the Sox for another 98-win season in '05. They have the talent to win more, especially if Wade Miller is healthy, but the uncertainty surrounding Miller and Curt Schilling is enough to keep me balanced in my assessment.
So all that's left is for my colleague to think hard and post his predicted Mets win total. He tried last week to convince me that 75 was the right number. After I stopped laughing, I told him to try again. With Beltran, Pedro, a full season of David Wright, and a solid rotation from top to bottom, I see his orange and blue-clad heroes taking 85 games - even in an improved division. Talk to me, Goose.
I'm talking about beer, people. Really good beer, like Genessee, or some other New York-bred ale. I thoroughly enjoyed the case of Harpoons that my good friend deposited in my fridge after the Sox 98-win season (exactly the number predicted by yours truly) clinched victory for me in our annual bet. As I recall, Whit had predicted 75 wins for his Mets, and for a goodly part of the season, his victory seemed assured. Then, as surely as the salmon flock to Capistrano, the Sox roared through the last 6 weeks of the season while the Mets went as ineffectual as an ethics advisor at a Tom Delay meeting. (Man, I went a long way to get that shot in. And it's not even that good.)
Pay attention now, as the next sentence is as close as you'll get to a season preview from this side of the MLC table. I'm picking the Sox for another 98-win season in '05. They have the talent to win more, especially if Wade Miller is healthy, but the uncertainty surrounding Miller and Curt Schilling is enough to keep me balanced in my assessment.
So all that's left is for my colleague to think hard and post his predicted Mets win total. He tried last week to convince me that 75 was the right number. After I stopped laughing, I told him to try again. With Beltran, Pedro, a full season of David Wright, and a solid rotation from top to bottom, I see his orange and blue-clad heroes taking 85 games - even in an improved division. Talk to me, Goose.
Friday, April 01, 2005
Ventilation at the Nation
Red Sox fans throughout the Nation, or at least throughout my world, are teetering on the edge of a bad fall. For the most part, I'm not speaking of my diminutive counterpart Rob Russell. Then again, he's increasingly guilty with every post, and I hope to nip his culpability in the bud here and now.
We get it. You won the World Series. Let's move on.
I know, there's more to that victory than one snide sentence could possibly acknowledge, but in the end, your team won a major sport title. Oh, yeah, swept it. And before that, they came back from a brink no team before had witnessed and lived to tell the tale. Uh huh. And in doing so, they ended an excruciatingly painful, seemingly interminable drought. Gotcha. Again . . . let's move on.
The rest of us are psyched for you, or at least we were. I can't speak for everyone, but even I, the deranged Mets fan, was pulling for you guys down the stretch, and I was really pleased to see your long-awaited thrill. Many others felt the same way – outside of St. Louis, and maybe Wrigleyville, and of course the Bronx (and everywhere the Yankwagon travels). But you've taken that initial worldwide interest in your frenzied, relieved, tears-of-joy status and rubbed our faces in it like a rapidly rotting sock.
We gave you as much leeway on this as we'll give any fans of opposing teams. Ever. We marveled at your celebrations and grown-men hugs and sobs and diary entries with interest, amusement, and – I'll say it – jealousy of your elation. Most of us will never know that degree of heavenly rush simply because we won't have to suffer for that long – for anything. And that's not all bad for us – the best leaks I've ever taken came on boozy road trips that culminated in a sprint to the restroom (or just any place outside of the car, discreet or otherwise), but I'm not really sure the euphoria of the release was quite worth the agony of mile posts 42 through 58, plus the long-term bladder damage. Anyway, what we might've looked over your shoulder at with mild envy has changed. What began as something that was universally cool despite moments of being idiotic, childish (to a fault), dorky, melodramatic, oddly effeminate, and extremely hyperbolic has now become tedious, annoying, even obnoxious. And not in the good way.
We tolerated, even enjoyed, the first wave of the Win It For . . . SOSH thread. By now, though, it's a tired subject. If it has become your Bible, fine. Just keep it to yourself. Jews and Muslims don't want the Christian Bible forced upon them, and likewise, while we acknowledge that this document means a lot to you, we're not members of the same congregation, so simply hand us your propaganda and don't go Jehovah's Witness on us. (You think this religious imagery is a bit much? Rob refused to put a link on SOSH to my Win It For parody because: “That thread is sacrosanct – it'd be like me making fun of the Pope. 'Hey, nice hat!'”)
We outside the Nation also initially chuckled at how many people have cashed in on this supposedly sacred event. Now it's just irritating. One book on the 2004 Red Sox, two books on it, 37 books on it, 11 DVD's, and now a badly adapted movie from a brilliant book . . . about English soccer. We're still waiting for 86 Years, 1 At-Bat: The Pokey Reese 2004 World Series Biography, Kevin Millar's book of inspirational quotes, and the CD featuring soundbytes from various Sox fans' living rooms as they shrieked with glee and burst into tears after Game 4 was closed out.
And to those who might argue that this is your once-in-a-lifetime moment, so quit raining on your parade, I'd counter that this is my point exactly. It's your moment, so quit heralding it in public for all the world to see. On TV, on the radio, in print, online, at the water cooler, it's everywhere – and formerly fresh revelry has nearly decayed into smug smarminess of someone who knows they won something. The latest and saddest evidence of this comes in the Sports Guy's article on ESPN.com's Page 2 today, a “memo to Cubs fans” giving “lessons” and “advice” like be upbeat, be superstitiously wacky, don't believe in curses, and hey, it's all worth it when you win it. Go get 'em, tiger. We're all pulling for you. Oh, please. Stop patronizing them, you wanker, they need your pity like they need another free-swinger in their line-up. If there has ever been a bigger gloat wrapped in sympathy's clothing, I've not seen it. Were I a Cubs fan, I'd tell Mr. Simmons, “Hey Sports Guy . . . you can take your pep talk and your trophy and shove 'em straight up your ass! And another thing – just wait ‘til next year!”
Just stop it. Let’s move on.
Yep, as defending champs, you aren't factually incorrect when you constantly refer to the outcome of last season, and your thinly veiled tootings of your own horn are founded in truth, but what you're still too drunk on merriment to see is what you have become this offseason.
Yankee fans.
Oops. There's the record scratching into silence. That's unparalleled blasphemy in the Nation's circles, or at least it used to be. Better get used to hearing it, though, because repetitive, not very subtle references to one's own past success is called arrogance – at least that's what you called it when the Yanks fans were doing it. You won your World Series and became the Yankees in doing so. You spent millions upon millions, outpricing the other clubs for your talent, and then you won. Sure, there was a small handful of other clubs who spent a lot and failed, but the next time you hear someone say, “I never paid for it . . . ever,” you know you can't honestly say it. So you became a big-market bully, you won your trophy, and now you just can't stop talking about it – as if it were discovering an alternative energy resource or something. Please, please stop resembling everything you've railed against mightily in the last decade or so.
The Red Sox won a major sports title. It happens four times every year, or three times a year from now until when the NHL gets its head out of its five-hole. It's arguable, as Jeremy Flantzer first postulated, that while MLB used to be the toughest trophy to garner, it's now the easiest if you have the financial means. (The Mets have a rather detailed counterpoint to that hypothesis, but that's for a later discussion.) The league is actually smaller than it was in 1918, figuratively speaking. Only a select number of teams can really compete. Not your fault, but hey – you guys were the ones who brought payroll into the discussion a few years back.
I really, truly never intended or even wanted to try to tear you guys down from your loftily euphoric post in the clouds, but it's come to this. Be happy, of course, and never forget the warm, fuzzy feeling, but stop beating us over the head with it. Go have a Red Sox fantasy camping trip in the Mansfield woods, build a campfire, huddle around it, play some Peter Gammons bluegrass, have a reading of the SOSH scrolls, role-play Game 7 of the ALCS, cry until your ducts are dry, and blather on about how you won the 2004 World Series until you throw up. That's perfectly acceptable. Unless you televise it.
To sum up (at long last), we understand that since last fall, you all have been the kid in the candy store. The boy who found his daddy's Playboys. The mafioso who somehow slipped through the gates of heaven. You never figured you'd be here, and now you don't quite know how to act. That was fine for the first month or two. It's now five months later, we're on the verge of the 2005 baseball season, and the rest of us are looking at each other like with a panicked expression like, “Are we really going to have to root for the Yankees this year??” We're not suggesting you revert to the cynical, bitter, curmudgeonly bastards we enjoyed for so many years. We just want one thing.
Let's move on.
We get it. You won the World Series. Let's move on.
I know, there's more to that victory than one snide sentence could possibly acknowledge, but in the end, your team won a major sport title. Oh, yeah, swept it. And before that, they came back from a brink no team before had witnessed and lived to tell the tale. Uh huh. And in doing so, they ended an excruciatingly painful, seemingly interminable drought. Gotcha. Again . . . let's move on.
The rest of us are psyched for you, or at least we were. I can't speak for everyone, but even I, the deranged Mets fan, was pulling for you guys down the stretch, and I was really pleased to see your long-awaited thrill. Many others felt the same way – outside of St. Louis, and maybe Wrigleyville, and of course the Bronx (and everywhere the Yankwagon travels). But you've taken that initial worldwide interest in your frenzied, relieved, tears-of-joy status and rubbed our faces in it like a rapidly rotting sock.
We gave you as much leeway on this as we'll give any fans of opposing teams. Ever. We marveled at your celebrations and grown-men hugs and sobs and diary entries with interest, amusement, and – I'll say it – jealousy of your elation. Most of us will never know that degree of heavenly rush simply because we won't have to suffer for that long – for anything. And that's not all bad for us – the best leaks I've ever taken came on boozy road trips that culminated in a sprint to the restroom (or just any place outside of the car, discreet or otherwise), but I'm not really sure the euphoria of the release was quite worth the agony of mile posts 42 through 58, plus the long-term bladder damage. Anyway, what we might've looked over your shoulder at with mild envy has changed. What began as something that was universally cool despite moments of being idiotic, childish (to a fault), dorky, melodramatic, oddly effeminate, and extremely hyperbolic has now become tedious, annoying, even obnoxious. And not in the good way.
We tolerated, even enjoyed, the first wave of the Win It For . . . SOSH thread. By now, though, it's a tired subject. If it has become your Bible, fine. Just keep it to yourself. Jews and Muslims don't want the Christian Bible forced upon them, and likewise, while we acknowledge that this document means a lot to you, we're not members of the same congregation, so simply hand us your propaganda and don't go Jehovah's Witness on us. (You think this religious imagery is a bit much? Rob refused to put a link on SOSH to my Win It For parody because: “That thread is sacrosanct – it'd be like me making fun of the Pope. 'Hey, nice hat!'”)
We outside the Nation also initially chuckled at how many people have cashed in on this supposedly sacred event. Now it's just irritating. One book on the 2004 Red Sox, two books on it, 37 books on it, 11 DVD's, and now a badly adapted movie from a brilliant book . . . about English soccer. We're still waiting for 86 Years, 1 At-Bat: The Pokey Reese 2004 World Series Biography, Kevin Millar's book of inspirational quotes, and the CD featuring soundbytes from various Sox fans' living rooms as they shrieked with glee and burst into tears after Game 4 was closed out.
And to those who might argue that this is your once-in-a-lifetime moment, so quit raining on your parade, I'd counter that this is my point exactly. It's your moment, so quit heralding it in public for all the world to see. On TV, on the radio, in print, online, at the water cooler, it's everywhere – and formerly fresh revelry has nearly decayed into smug smarminess of someone who knows they won something. The latest and saddest evidence of this comes in the Sports Guy's article on ESPN.com's Page 2 today, a “memo to Cubs fans” giving “lessons” and “advice” like be upbeat, be superstitiously wacky, don't believe in curses, and hey, it's all worth it when you win it. Go get 'em, tiger. We're all pulling for you. Oh, please. Stop patronizing them, you wanker, they need your pity like they need another free-swinger in their line-up. If there has ever been a bigger gloat wrapped in sympathy's clothing, I've not seen it. Were I a Cubs fan, I'd tell Mr. Simmons, “Hey Sports Guy . . . you can take your pep talk and your trophy and shove 'em straight up your ass! And another thing – just wait ‘til next year!”
Just stop it. Let’s move on.
Yep, as defending champs, you aren't factually incorrect when you constantly refer to the outcome of last season, and your thinly veiled tootings of your own horn are founded in truth, but what you're still too drunk on merriment to see is what you have become this offseason.
Yankee fans.
Oops. There's the record scratching into silence. That's unparalleled blasphemy in the Nation's circles, or at least it used to be. Better get used to hearing it, though, because repetitive, not very subtle references to one's own past success is called arrogance – at least that's what you called it when the Yanks fans were doing it. You won your World Series and became the Yankees in doing so. You spent millions upon millions, outpricing the other clubs for your talent, and then you won. Sure, there was a small handful of other clubs who spent a lot and failed, but the next time you hear someone say, “I never paid for it . . . ever,” you know you can't honestly say it. So you became a big-market bully, you won your trophy, and now you just can't stop talking about it – as if it were discovering an alternative energy resource or something. Please, please stop resembling everything you've railed against mightily in the last decade or so.
The Red Sox won a major sports title. It happens four times every year, or three times a year from now until when the NHL gets its head out of its five-hole. It's arguable, as Jeremy Flantzer first postulated, that while MLB used to be the toughest trophy to garner, it's now the easiest if you have the financial means. (The Mets have a rather detailed counterpoint to that hypothesis, but that's for a later discussion.) The league is actually smaller than it was in 1918, figuratively speaking. Only a select number of teams can really compete. Not your fault, but hey – you guys were the ones who brought payroll into the discussion a few years back.
I really, truly never intended or even wanted to try to tear you guys down from your loftily euphoric post in the clouds, but it's come to this. Be happy, of course, and never forget the warm, fuzzy feeling, but stop beating us over the head with it. Go have a Red Sox fantasy camping trip in the Mansfield woods, build a campfire, huddle around it, play some Peter Gammons bluegrass, have a reading of the SOSH scrolls, role-play Game 7 of the ALCS, cry until your ducts are dry, and blather on about how you won the 2004 World Series until you throw up. That's perfectly acceptable. Unless you televise it.
To sum up (at long last), we understand that since last fall, you all have been the kid in the candy store. The boy who found his daddy's Playboys. The mafioso who somehow slipped through the gates of heaven. You never figured you'd be here, and now you don't quite know how to act. That was fine for the first month or two. It's now five months later, we're on the verge of the 2005 baseball season, and the rest of us are looking at each other like with a panicked expression like, “Are we really going to have to root for the Yankees this year??” We're not suggesting you revert to the cynical, bitter, curmudgeonly bastards we enjoyed for so many years. We just want one thing.
Let's move on.
When You're Right, You're Right
(Note: I love Blogger. Okay, I'm lying. This should be posted above Whitney's last entry, not below it. You'd think that the fact that I wrote it 12 hours after he wrote his would ensure such placement, but you'd be wrong.)
I return to my blogchair full of righteous indignation, preparing now to unleash a vitriolic response to my the blasphemous screed unleashed below. Except I'm having a hard time working up the proper sense of wounded anger because, for the most part, I think he's pretty well right on.
I'd say that it's impossible for my emotionally-addled friend to adequately understand the immensely cathartic reward represented by Foulke to Mientkiewicz, and I'd be right, but his central thesis about the public nature of Sox fans' glee and rapid transition from plucky ever-striving underdog to something much less lovable was proven in full by Bill Simmons' most recent column in ESPN: The Magazine.
Simmons represents the problem writ large: it's the most visible members of Red Sox Nation that are making the rest of us look like assholes. God love the Farrelly Brothers, but Jimmy Fallon and Drew Barrymore prancing around during the on-field World Series celebration was an abomination that gave an immediate kick-start to the backlash. The rush to commercialize the victory hasn't helped, as Whit notes below, nor has the media's ever-growing crescendo of hype around the Red Sox/Yankee rivalry.
But here's the thing: those named above - and below - don't truly represent the faceless masses of Red Sox Nation, those for whom October truly was a religious experience. They're dilettantes masquerading as long-sufferers; hell, Simmons cares more about the Celtics than the Sox, and now he's the Nation's voice? Um, yeah, thanks. The Win it For thread was not meant to rub anyone's nose in it, but to chronicle what the Sox meant and mean to generations of Sox fans. That it's become the public face of Soxfan sentiment doesn't rob it of its value - but I understand why its meaning to me doesn't translate to Whitney.
Real Sox fans don't want special treatment, we're tired of the endless hyping of the Yankee rivalry, and we understand that baseball's financial model smiles upon us. We're also smack in the middle of the greatest 6 months of our lives, so we'd ask just a bit of indulgence from our extra-National friends. That, and we'd like Ben Affleck to shut the fuck up.
I return to my blogchair full of righteous indignation, preparing now to unleash a vitriolic response to my the blasphemous screed unleashed below. Except I'm having a hard time working up the proper sense of wounded anger because, for the most part, I think he's pretty well right on.
I'd say that it's impossible for my emotionally-addled friend to adequately understand the immensely cathartic reward represented by Foulke to Mientkiewicz, and I'd be right, but his central thesis about the public nature of Sox fans' glee and rapid transition from plucky ever-striving underdog to something much less lovable was proven in full by Bill Simmons' most recent column in ESPN: The Magazine.
Simmons represents the problem writ large: it's the most visible members of Red Sox Nation that are making the rest of us look like assholes. God love the Farrelly Brothers, but Jimmy Fallon and Drew Barrymore prancing around during the on-field World Series celebration was an abomination that gave an immediate kick-start to the backlash. The rush to commercialize the victory hasn't helped, as Whit notes below, nor has the media's ever-growing crescendo of hype around the Red Sox/Yankee rivalry.
But here's the thing: those named above - and below - don't truly represent the faceless masses of Red Sox Nation, those for whom October truly was a religious experience. They're dilettantes masquerading as long-sufferers; hell, Simmons cares more about the Celtics than the Sox, and now he's the Nation's voice? Um, yeah, thanks. The Win it For thread was not meant to rub anyone's nose in it, but to chronicle what the Sox meant and mean to generations of Sox fans. That it's become the public face of Soxfan sentiment doesn't rob it of its value - but I understand why its meaning to me doesn't translate to Whitney.
Real Sox fans don't want special treatment, we're tired of the endless hyping of the Yankee rivalry, and we understand that baseball's financial model smiles upon us. We're also smack in the middle of the greatest 6 months of our lives, so we'd ask just a bit of indulgence from our extra-National friends. That, and we'd like Ben Affleck to shut the fuck up.
Thursday, March 31, 2005
T-Minus 79 Hours
A smorgasbord of random natterings while wondering which will last longer: David Wells' back or Randy Johnson's knee.
1. Recently picked up the Sports Pack on DirectTV, giving me access to NESN and Fox Sports New England, among numerous other excellent time-wasting options. In case anyone had any questions about whether the Sox' World Series championship had dulled my, um, passion for the game, my ball-throwing tantrum in the wake of 2 boneheaded fielding efforts by Trot Nixon against the Devil Rays last weekend ought to put that to rest. I not only surprised the hell out of my daughters and wife, I managed to shock even myself at my lunatic rantings during a spring training contest. Note to readers: the kinder, gentler, MLC will not be shown at this local multiplex.
2. This morning's Washington Post notes that the steroid "expert" chosen to testify on behalf of Major League Baseball at the recent Congressional hearings is, well...he's a liar in the best tradition of George O'Leary. Kudos to Bud and the gang - just when we thought you couldn't handle the steroids question any more clumsily, you go and...totally redeem yourself. Okay, not really - we'll go to extreme lengths to get Dumb 'n Dumber quotes into our prose. Selig, et al, are still stunningly stupid on this topic. It's almost as if they think that chicks dig the longball.
3. Since we're three short days from the season-opening tilt (or, if you prefer ESPN's version, apocalyptic thriller) between the Sox and Yankees, this seems a good time to reinforce the MLC credo. We are not - by inclination, intelligence, or work ethic - here to deliver you well-reasoned statistical analysis, though we may throw out some random OPS and ERA+ references here and there to set ourselves apart from that idiot Joe Morgan. If you're looking for critical insight into the relative merits of John Halama versus Scott Kazmir (ooh, sorry - that might sting a bit), you're in the wrong room. Though Whitney is likely to rip off a few good nicknames for either or both of those lefty hurlers at some point in the season. However, if you want no-holds-barred fandom, full of passionate (insane?) rantings and melancholy mutterings on the myriad ways in which Tim Wakefield both infuriates and inspires, combined with fond memories of Art Howe's haircut and shared manlove of Pedro Martinez, welcome aboard - we hope you'll stick around.
4. I'm the proud holder of 4 tickets to the Washington Nationals' franchise home opener. Who loves me? And how are you willing to prove it?
1. Recently picked up the Sports Pack on DirectTV, giving me access to NESN and Fox Sports New England, among numerous other excellent time-wasting options. In case anyone had any questions about whether the Sox' World Series championship had dulled my, um, passion for the game, my ball-throwing tantrum in the wake of 2 boneheaded fielding efforts by Trot Nixon against the Devil Rays last weekend ought to put that to rest. I not only surprised the hell out of my daughters and wife, I managed to shock even myself at my lunatic rantings during a spring training contest. Note to readers: the kinder, gentler, MLC will not be shown at this local multiplex.
2. This morning's Washington Post notes that the steroid "expert" chosen to testify on behalf of Major League Baseball at the recent Congressional hearings is, well...he's a liar in the best tradition of George O'Leary. Kudos to Bud and the gang - just when we thought you couldn't handle the steroids question any more clumsily, you go and...totally redeem yourself. Okay, not really - we'll go to extreme lengths to get Dumb 'n Dumber quotes into our prose. Selig, et al, are still stunningly stupid on this topic. It's almost as if they think that chicks dig the longball.
3. Since we're three short days from the season-opening tilt (or, if you prefer ESPN's version, apocalyptic thriller) between the Sox and Yankees, this seems a good time to reinforce the MLC credo. We are not - by inclination, intelligence, or work ethic - here to deliver you well-reasoned statistical analysis, though we may throw out some random OPS and ERA+ references here and there to set ourselves apart from that idiot Joe Morgan. If you're looking for critical insight into the relative merits of John Halama versus Scott Kazmir (ooh, sorry - that might sting a bit), you're in the wrong room. Though Whitney is likely to rip off a few good nicknames for either or both of those lefty hurlers at some point in the season. However, if you want no-holds-barred fandom, full of passionate (insane?) rantings and melancholy mutterings on the myriad ways in which Tim Wakefield both infuriates and inspires, combined with fond memories of Art Howe's haircut and shared manlove of Pedro Martinez, welcome aboard - we hope you'll stick around.
4. I'm the proud holder of 4 tickets to the Washington Nationals' franchise home opener. Who loves me? And how are you willing to prove it?
Thursday, March 24, 2005
Barry, You Ignorant Slut
Our readers come to us because we're the blogosphere's leading purveyors of poorly reasoned, off-the-cuff reactions to the issues of the day. Wait, I'm confusing us with Sean Hannity. Nevermind. No, you come to us for futile venting about Major League Baseball, and in appreciation of your loyalty, I'm happy to oblige.
Most of the free world has by now seen footage of Barry Bonds' narcissistic whining in the wake of his recent knee surgery. Real-live journalists have responded, roundly criticizing Bonds for any number of sins, real or perceived. And don't get me wrong, most of them are real from where I sit. Nobody, though, has latched on to the thing that bothered me most about the whole shameful circus.
Bonds' self-pity reached epic heights as he tilted against the assembled windmills, crying, "You did it. You finally brought me down." I will grant that the media has not been Barry's friend over his career. (Forget for a moment that most of that reaction stems from the overwhelming evidence that he is a colossal, unmitigated prick.) But - and please correct me if I'm mistaken here - Barry's recent presser focused on his knee injury. Unless the media actually caused such injury, we can add "What is moron?" to the Jeopardy category, "Words that describe Barry Bonds."
Most of the free world has by now seen footage of Barry Bonds' narcissistic whining in the wake of his recent knee surgery. Real-live journalists have responded, roundly criticizing Bonds for any number of sins, real or perceived. And don't get me wrong, most of them are real from where I sit. Nobody, though, has latched on to the thing that bothered me most about the whole shameful circus.
Bonds' self-pity reached epic heights as he tilted against the assembled windmills, crying, "You did it. You finally brought me down." I will grant that the media has not been Barry's friend over his career. (Forget for a moment that most of that reaction stems from the overwhelming evidence that he is a colossal, unmitigated prick.) But - and please correct me if I'm mistaken here - Barry's recent presser focused on his knee injury. Unless the media actually caused such injury, we can add "What is moron?" to the Jeopardy category, "Words that describe Barry Bonds."
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