The Mamas and the Papas

Games 34 & 35 - Red Sox

Orioles 6, Red Sox 3
Red Sox 13, Orioles 4
Record: 24-11

Yesterday's drubbing of the Orioles was Exhibit A from the People' Case for the Epstein/James theory of baseball. The Sox worked, and worked, and worked the already abused Baltimore staff until it broke. Oriole pitchers gave up 7 walks and hit 2 Sox batters in the course of throwing 209 pitches in 8 innings. Meanwhile, the Sox walked 2, hit one and threw 143 pitches over 9 frames. The Sox got to the soft underbelly of the Oriole bullpen and sliced it open to the tune of 9 runs in 3 2/3 innings, providing the winning margin despite a relatively mediocre outing for starter Curt Schilling.

The Epstein/James "control the strike zone" mantra demands patience, patience, patience on offense and efficiency on the mound. The value is intuitive - more pitches for an opponent mean tired arms, stretched bullpens and more chances to hit in favorable counts (read: fastballs down the middle). On the other hand, fewer pitches thrown by your staff mean fresher arms at the back of the pen and more pitcher's counts. Currently, the Sox have drawn 15 more walks than anyone in the American League, and rank third in the number of pitches faced. Conversely, Sox pitchers have thrown fewer pitches than any other staff through the season's first 35 games. Those two trends, if stable across the remainder of the season, bode extremely well for the Sox.

Julio Lugo's recent trend, though, bodes poorly for his acceptance among the faithful. Lugo's been killing the ball at the plate - that's a habit we can get behind. His baserunning, though, has the grumble-meter pegged. On Friday, with the Sox trailing by 2 and David Ortiz at the plate representing the tying run, Lugo got himself picked off first to end the inning and take the bat from Papi's hands. Yesterday, in an unwanted encore to a particular bad show, he led off the bottom of the first with a single and promptly got picked off by Steve Trachsel, killing another potential rally.

(Random related aside: I've read Whit bemoaning Trachsel's pace on the mound in this space, but I'm not sure I truly appreciated it until yesterday. Yikes. I'm not sure, but I think I saw Miguel Tejada packing a portable cot at shortstop.)

Not to get all David Eckstein on you here, but Alex Cora's play over the first part of the season has really demonstrated the value of a solid veteran utility player. Good teams need guys like Cora - dependable, quiet, veterans who know the game, make all the routine plays and a few less routine, and fill their role. Cora came up with a critical 2-out, 2-run single to stretch the Sox' advantage to 4 runs in the bottom of the 7th, and then made a sick (and slick) play in the field a half-inning later, fielding and flipping Corey Patterson's grounder to Lugo to trigger a crucial twin-killing against the fleet Oriole outfielder. Cora's not going to post a 1.229 OPS all season long (that'd be nearly twice his career mark), but he's won't be asked to, either. Tim Kurkjian calls him the game's smartest player, and that'll be good enough for me.

Friday's game had the strange vibe of a sure loss from the jump, when the Sox loaded the bases in each of the first 2 innings, tallied 10 hits and 8 walks, and only managed 3 runs. At some point, the law of averages said that the Sox would lose to the Orioles after entering this series on a 22-3 run against the Birds.

The same law implies that Josh Beckett will lose a game at some point this season. The 2 runs he just spotted Baltimore imply the same thing. Enough for me here - I'm gonna go yell at the television and let my wife go out for a few hours on this beautiful Mother's Day.

Smashmouth

Game 33 - Red Sox

Red Sox 8, Blue Jays 0
Record: 23-10

Man, that was a fun series. The Sox did what good teams are supposed to do against struggling clubs, never letting the Jays up for air in the process of outscoring their hosts 26-5 in the 3-game set. Most of those Toronto runs were scored long after the outcomes had been decided. This was, plain and simply, an old-fashioned behind the woodshed beating.

From MLC's keyboard to the Sox bats, apparently, as Tim Wakefield finally got some offense to go with his stellar pitching. The Sox scored all 8 runs last night in the game's first 4 innings, punctuated by a 6-run outburst in the 3rd against Roy Halladay. Wake shook off some early wildness to completely stymie the Blue Jay batsmen. His 7 shutout innings dropped his ERA to a league-leading 1.79.

Doug Mirabelli was the only Sox starter not to record a basehit in the game, but his defensive play in the bottom of the 1st inning may have been the most important play of the night. Wake had allowed a pair of singles and a walk to load the bases with 1 out and bring Frank Thomas to the plate. After falling behind, 2-0, to the still-dangerous though slightly smaller Hurt, Wake battled back to get Thomas on a swinging 3rd strike. Belli caught the dancing knuckler cleanly and whipped the ball to first, where an alert Kevin Youkilis had snuck in behind a somewhat less-alert Troy Glaus. Routine strikeout/pickoff double play to end the inning - and exactly the kind of thing that happens to teams that are going the way the Jays have been over the past 2 weeks. Sox were up, 1-0, at that point with 8 innings to play, but the game was over.

I'm riding an 18-mile mountain bike race tomorrow morning, so if you don't hear anything from this part of MLC for a bit, it's because I'm in a hospital somewhere. Call your Mom on Sunday.

The Nitty Gritty Dirt Band

Game 32 - Red Sox

Red Sox 9, Blue Jays 3
Record: 22-10

Nitty gritty dirt being the kind that I got in my mouth diving in vain for a groundball last night, as the forlorn Hot Action squad fell to 0-8. I'd resolved to discard my normal superstitions this week in an effort to turn things around for the Action, eschewing the years-old Nike shorts and faded Red Sox hat that I normally sport for new shorts and a Blue Jays lid that I own because I lost a bet to Whitney years ago. I ultimately decided not to take that drastic step yesterday because the Sox were in Toronto, and I didn't want to be the butterfly wings that flapped and caused a shift in the Sox' fortunes. So they can thank me anytime they want. I'll be wearing the Jays cap and new shorts next week, 'cause the Action need me.

Didn't see any of the game, but sure do like the reports coming from across the Nation regarding Matsuzaka's outing. Against a Toronto squad that caused him trouble previously, and coming off two very mediocre efforts, Daisuke twirled 7 innings of 5-hit, 1-run, 8-k ball. The three walks remain a concern, but there's a noticeable sigh of relief emanating from New England.

Sox batters hit 4 homers and scored 9 runs for the second consecutive day, ensuring that Tim Wakefield, the World's Unluckiest Pitcher, will get nothing and like it tonight as he squares off against Roy Halladay. Me, I'll be rinsing my mouth vigorously to get all this sand out of my teeth.

Cutting Crew

[A weak second choice to a better title snagged by MetsGrrl, dang it]

Games 31 through 33 - Mets

Giants 9, Mets 4
Mets 4, Giants 1
Mets 5, Giants 3
Record: 21-12

Normally I have to lump my pithy commentary on Mets games into bunches when I miss them for good reasons like three-day benders in far-off locales; I can't even blame late start times and afternooners for my tardiness this week, however. Sad to say, I caught two 10:10 starts earlier this week and a 3:30 contest yesterday (note to Rob: tendering your resignation apparently leads to much more baseball watching), yet these will be my first thoughts aired on a noteworthy series. I guess it could be argued that I spent my recent blogtime on the label-mandated compilation release below, and that that post needed some time to breathe before being shoved downward by decidedly inferior new material.

It could also be argued that I'm lazy.

Anyway, the trio of games was more eventful than the scores might indicate, but all of the play took a back seat as far as storyline goes. The real "news" was that the New York Mets roster has decided to shave its collective head. 25 grown-up adolescents on a road trip to Cali can have predictably bizarre results. Deep analytical excavation into the shearing by journalistic counterparts has discovered a "bonding tool," "mojo reversal," "change of fortune," and other keen insights. (Although, like Crash said, if you believe you're playing well because you're getting laid or because you're not getting laid or because you wore red silk panties, then you are.) My reaction to the head-shavings: Damn, I miss college.

(If the Red Sox shave their heads, of course, the Boston media will make parallels to Samson and the Ku Klux Klan, then blame the stunt for every single thing that goes wrong for the next month; don't do it, boys.)

Game 1 of the series saw Ollie Perez throw four good innings. I wish we could leave it at that, but the 9-spot the Giants posted in the 5th probably warrants mentioning. Three of the nine runs were earned: first, Damion Easley proved once again that, amazingly, we miss Lt. Castillo's glove more than his bat; soon thereafter, Shawn Green was unable to come up with a relatively routine fly, and I'm unable to come up with a real reason why. Three home runs in the inning made those errors that much more costly. That Yadier Molina's brother hit two of them is just a punt in the groin for anyone unfortunately paying attention.

After it went to 9-1, I spent less time watching the Mets crawl back towards a respectable score and more time flipping over to the Independent Film Channel to watch The Bridge, a documentary on the massive number of suicides via leaping off the Golden Gate Bridge. The coincidence of the setting and the symmetry of the nosedive the New York nine had just taken seemed ripe for metaphor . . . until I watched a while and actually saw people plummeting to their deaths, putting something of a damper on my jokes. At any rate, it was significantly more compelling than the 9-4 loss. And more depressing.

Game 2 was all about the baldness, and I was buying into it when the first three Mets hitters doubled. The 3-0 lead claimed in that frame held up, thanks to then-hirsute Tom Glavine. Tommy parted with his graying locks soon thereafter; the only remaining Met not to go the route of the clippers will be Jose Reyes (once Aaron Sele has his family portrait taken). It's not exactly spelling it "teim" to hold out, but Jose should avoid any inferred divisiveness and part with the follicles just the same.

The final game of the set saw an early lead squandered and recaptured, and the late-inning tandem of rallying play and blind luck might lend itself to crediting the haircuts once again . . . except for one thing. When Armando Benitez implodes in the ninth inning, luck and fate have zero to do with it. For those who weren't around for The Benitez Years (or those for whom hypnosis and medication have successfully blocked out those memories), just check out his mention in the post a couple below for a peek into the angst. Despite some success against his old club in recent years, I felt the Mets had it locked up when he took the hill yesterday.

In truth, Armando had a tiny bit of help blowing this one. Reyes hit a floof that somehow fell in 'twixt RF and 2B. Between the sun, the haircuts, and bad vibe of having Benitez on the mound, it was just too much to handle. That loaded the bases for Dee-Dub, who's been coming around around lately (thereby making Mets Township giddy). He doubled to left on a 3-1 count to plate two and put the Metmen just a Wagner 1-2-3 inning away from taking the series.

Full circle. I'm now elated to see Benitez enter a ballgame. He's still the same old guy; he seems to start every batter with a ball a foot above or wide of the strike zone. In many cases, he goes 2-0 before the batter can ever settle into the box. Every Met batsmen up to and including Wright took a ball to start the at-bat, while the final two outs after D-W began with quick strikes. As always, Armando throws hard, but his balls are obvious and when behind in the count, hard often means straight and lends itself to getting taken deep. (God bless the juvenilia that passes for mature comment here.)

Off-day today as the Mets travel back home to host the Milwaukee Brewers, who have the . . . wow, it's true . . . best record in baseball. Time for the Mets to separate themselves from the middling chaff (read: small-market payrolls) that the Brew Crew has been pounding so far this spring. Doing so with Jorge Sosa, Mike Pelfrey, and Oliver Perez, though, might require some more home barber work.

The Smiths

Game 31 - Red Sox

Red Sox 9, Blue Jays 2
Record: 21-10

It's a shame we started using band names in our headlines instead of song titles, because Bigmouth Strikes Again would probably be the most appropriate headline in the history of MLC.

I don't have much time this afternoon, and that's a good thing. I'm going to keep my remarks brief, and then I'm never going to discuss this issue again.

One week after justifiably tearing into the media for ill-considered and inaccurate public statements, Curt Schilling managed to totally and irrevocably yield the high ground, and in the process demonstrated himself as less credible and less sympathetic than Jose Canseco and Barry Bonds. That's an exacta box of legendarily long odds. Schilling's unprovoked blast at Bonds may have contained completely defensible sentiment, but his command of the facts rivaled that of the Bush Administration (Hey, wait a minute. Schill's a noted Republican. The current Administration is notably Republican. Ipso facto, all Republicans have a slippery grasp of the truth. I feel like the kid at the end of PCU that found the link between Hackman and Caine.). Furthermore, Schilling's diatribe was just stupid. All it did was serve to make him a story and create churn in the already manic Boston media environment.

Schill's comments are all the more disgusting after his meek capitulation in front of Congress several years ago, when the blustery one disavowed any knowledge of widespread PED use in baseball. The lesson, shared from MLC to No. 38, is this - you're an idiot, just like us, and we'd all be better off if you remembered that when the lights go on.

As I told Gheorghe: The Blog proprietor T. Coraghessen Doyle this morning, the media's a bit culpable here, too. Yes, Schilling would be better served to keep his own counsel, but the media consistently wants to have the ability to both criticize athletes for not being open and then blast them when they are. In 5 years, all athletes will use their own blogs to communicate to the public and never speak to the mainstream media – and I can’t blame them.

My spidey sense tells me that for all his prolific public communication, Schilling's not actually one of the leaders of the Sox clubhouse. Pay attention over the next few days, and I bet you'll see Papi, Wake, Tek, and Lowell saying a whole lot of nothing about this issue - and their teammates will follow suit.

Shame that I spent this many words on this crap, because Josh Beckett was fantastic once again last night, giving up a single run (on a first-pitch homer to Alex Rios) and only needing 89 pitches to get through 7 innings. My man Dustin Pedroia hit his first big-league homer (against former Met fave Victor Zambrano), and has gone 8-for-13 over the last 4 games to raise his average to .254. Big swing keep on swinging, little guy.

No more Schill talk here. I hope he chooses to do the same.

10,000 Maniacs

. . . and 1,000 posts.

Yes, fair readers, this brief time-out from the standard recapping and wisecracking represents Post #1,000 at Misery Loves Company. Here at MLC, self-deprecation and self-praise go together like PB & J, so we hope you'll indulge us as we drop a little nostalgia on you.

The First Post: We began this undertaking on April 1, 2003, and it's a minor miracle that it lasted beyond an April Fool's Day gag. Rob took the initiative and launched us into the 'sphere with the following intro:

"The What

The Baseball Poets, as Tony Kornheiser calls them, are in their finest throat in these, the first days of a new baseball season. The profound beauty of the game, the emerald cathedral of the ballpark, the elemental symmetry in the 6-4-3 double play - all of these things resonate to the literati. To which we say, blah, blah, blah, let's play some ball. This spot is dedicated to a season-long chronicle of the fortunes of the Boston Red Sox and New York Mets, our favorite teams. Recent memory (or in the case of the Red Sox, the last 84 years) tells us that it might get painful."

I was drinking some sort of Mets Kool-Aid, or perhaps just drinking:

"You'd think that after last season, we [Mets] fans' expectations would be low. Somehow we still misguide ourselves with delusions involving salary cap figures and all of the pieces that should be interlocking by now. So let's aim for 83 wins and see what happens."

Over these four-plus seasons, there have been high highs:

"Jump on the Positivity Train, boys and girls, next stop Game 1 of the World Series. Lotta ball left. Stay on target."

"Oh, my. Cliff Floyd hit a bomb to center and the celebration from before looked sleepy in comparison. What a blast, and what a blast ensued. It was Game 62 of 162, one tiny win that couldn't offset the handful of recent losses -- couldn't even fend off last place, and yet it was enormous. And it capped off a marvelous weekend of memorializing my Met-lovin' grandfather. Even the most secular-minded among us was alluding to there being something to the timing of things and our being together in the ol' town for this game."

"As Ruben Sierra's groundball settled first into Pokey Reese's glove and from there into Doug Mientkiewicz', every memory of Red Sox tragedy, every wasted opportunity, every held relay throw or mental error, or managerial blunder, every ghost, and every disappointment washed away. I fell to the floor of my living room and pounded the carpet with both fists, crying, laughing, repeating, "They did it. They did it. They did it."

"Next year is right now. It's 12:30 am, I'm drunk, tears are dried on my cheeks, and I have a perma-grin on my face that's not likely to recede any time soon. To steal from the great Jack Buck, I cannot believe what I just saw."

"True Confessions: I may have pulled a muscle in my side when I leapt off the couch upon seeing Carlos Delgado's three-run jack. Worth every twinge as I danced and jumped and made hideous caucasian fist-pumping mayhem in the den. It ain't no sin to be glad you're alive, the sage once crooned. And dammit, I was."

"At that moment, we simply knew the Mets were going to win. We in the right-mezz screamed like sixteen year old girls seeing the Beatles in 1965, vainly took the Lord’s name in bellowing admiration, and hurled ourselves into each other void of consideration for the injuries that resulted. It was the kind of little-kid bliss not common to folks in their mid-thirties’ regular routine. It was fucking awesome. The best 10 seconds I’ve ever experienced at a sporting event, bar none."

And super low lows:

"What do you call bungee-jumping with no bungee cord? That's what the Mets did for 17 games, sandwiching a tiny win between two eight-game losing streaks. . . In the second half of this aesthetic equivalent of ipecac syrup, the Mets have suffered 4-game sweeps to the Braves, Phillies, and Expos. That leaves just the Marlins, who didn't have a four game series on the 2nd-half schedule. They did get swept in the only 3-game series they played against Florida, and they have the final trio of this season's games to make it 6 in a row. . . Playing the Mets is like walking into a going out of business clearance sale. They're just giving everything away! Come on down before it's too late!"

"No more ball left. No more targets, just a sick feeling in my stomach."

"Timlin in the 8th
Williamson in the 9th

Is that so fucking hard to understand?"

"These aren't meaningful games; these aren't even meaningful players. . . There's nothing but worse news every day, and there's little positive to point to right now. There might be tomorrow, but not right now. I can't justify spending any more time bemoaning the sad state of affairs in Metville. I can't even make a joke here. It's just that numbing. "

"This was the Season of the Not Quite Right. . . The little things kept adding up and adding up, even as the Sox scrapped and battled and bashed their way to 95 wins, and in the end, the little things spelled the end of the 2005 Sox, 11 wins short."

"By August 12, I was reduced to arguing with myself and Whitney over my mental status, and by August 23, I was scouring retrosheet.org for classic contests – anything to take my mind from the gruesome train wreck the Sox’ season had become. From contenders to roadkill in less than 3 weeks."

"I'm not ready to talk too much about this yet. The highest of highs was all too quickly followed by the deepest depths. There are stories to be shared, but it'll have to wait until the nausea that comes with every discussion fades away. I'll say with the perspective that 48 hours brings that the Endy Chavez catch was the greatest live sports moment in my life. The chills still come at the memory of the moment that we all realized he'd actually come down with it, not to mention the double play that ensued. If only . . .

Damn. It's just . . .

Damn."

But in between such biploar activity has been the lengthy, arduous slog though 162+ games in six months for over four years. Baseball players catch a little flack from non-believers because they aren't taxed on a per-game basis the way footballers, hoopsters, or a number of other athletes are, but no one endures the grind quite like our group. Six months of day-in, day-out. Rain days, rest days, so few and far between. Expectations high, energy low. Life on hold for half the year. It's grueling.

Oh, and when I say "our group," of course I mean baseball bloggers. It's a different kind of long haul for us than the folks actually throwing, catching, and hitting the ball. It's not quite as simple a game for us; creativity and originality, the "style points" art of blogging if you will, are just as mentally draining, as evidenced by some of our late-season inanity.

Liken ourselves as we do to large-scale journalists (Rob, there's a bump-set there waiting for you), we get to enjoy some freedoms not known to mass media writers. We can bash people sans recourse, be they (supposed) friends:

- Grady Little ("addle-brained")
- Art Howe ("the man who brought a knife to a gunfight")

- Roberto Alomar ("horrid," "falling-off-a-cliff awful," "Bait and Switch," "the season-and-a-half-long enema," "fair Spanish lady," "the little boy down the street who plays with dolls")
- David McCarty ("whose best position may actually be Disabled Hitter," "uselessness," "first homer of the season, which was disappointing because it may make Terry Francona believe that McCarty has any redeeming value - which of course, we know to be demonstrably false")
- Mo Vaughn ("putrid," "large piece," "bust big enough to make Russ Meyer jealous," "my favorite player over 600 pounds," "biggest waste/waist")
- Cesar Crespo ("Spanish for 'Now batting for your Pawtucket Red Sox'," "shouldn't have 43 plate appearances in Pawtucket, let alone Boston," "still sucks")
- Kaz Matsui ["Doormatsui," "stunk up second base and the 2-spot in the lineup with equal amounts of stank," "Kaz M. - pronounced 'chasm,' which is what he represents at the top of this order," "I Close One Eye Before Every E," "had to leave hurt again, this time with spasms (though I think that's just how he throws, doc)," "the hobbled Kaz Matsui (not sure which of the gang hobbled Matsui, maybe they flew Kathy Bates in, but it was a good call any which-a-way)," "with partial credit given to Kaz for his Diego Maradona-like footwork (also referred to as the 'hand of dog' play)," "more E-6's in the Mets' infield than at a Bingo convention in West Virginia," "still a few rehab starts away from reprising his steady suck at Shea"]
- Roger Cedeno ("train wreck," "the slow-witted guy trying not to be noticed in the back of the class," "finally did something that didn't make me kick the couch," "Roger 'I Shall Be Released' Cedeno went 0-for-5 again today, sending his average down to .146," "a joke of a leadoff hitter," "the most fundamentally unsound player, both at the plate and in the field, among a squad of guys void of discipline and basic awareness," "you pretty much know what kind of season it's been when you see that Roger Cedeno has been allowed 443 at-bats," "in deep, deep Cedeno")

- Ramiro Mendoza ("crappy loss to a crappy team compounded by the fact that crappy Ramiro Mendoza was in the game to take the loss," "horrrrrible," "Mendoza is... well, still sucking")
- Dan Wheeler ["Enter Dan Wheeler. (A dinner bell rings in the distance.)," "Lead Poisoning," "'FedEx' Wheeler once again excelled at the home delivery of inherited runners," "last seen handing out extra base hits like they were buffet coupons in an Atlantic City casino," "last seen applying Miracle-Gro to every small deficit he encountered," "Dan 'My ERA Hovers Around 18' Wheeler," "Wheelers Are Coming Off the Cart." and "Wheeler threw gasoline, kerosene, butane, turpentine, some crude oil, a little lighter fluid, an aerosol can, a propane tank, a splash of rubbing alcohol, and half a bottle of Bacardi 151 on the fire Baldwin had started. His 60'6" replica of the Great Fire of Chicago also featured more fireworks than at South of the Border. The ESPN Game Log stenographer called in sick today with early onset Carpal Tunnel from Wheeler's stint alone. Dan 'Wheeeeeeeee!' Wheeler entered into a 4-4 ballgame, retired four batters, and left with the score 12-6."]
- Rudy Seanez ("unworthy," "abysmal," "looked like poop," "physical resemblance to Freddy Krueger and Manuel Noriega, they inflict similar amounts of terror," "the Dwight Schrute of the Sox")
- Armando Benitez ("Win it for Armando Benitez, who blew Game 1 of the 2000 World Series, and while we would never want him to pull a Donnie Moore about it, he could at least punch himself in the face a lot, please. Armando, we hardly knew ye, but what we knew was flakier than dandruff cereal in the Yukon.", "when the biggest of the big games are coming down to the wire, you want Armando Benitez three states away")

Even guys we came to love:
- Derek Lowe ("worst starting pitcher in major league baseball")
- Mark Bellhorn ("liability," "Bellhorn is Eeyore/shuffling back to the dugout/after one more K," "bat-holding ninny")
- John Franco ("Mets Relievers I Only Want to See Pitching on ESPN Classic," ""somewhere between shaky and awful," "wretched," "entered and assured us that there would be no more comebacks", "get him off the roster without losing any more face," "Franco's July ERA is 10.80; August's most terrifying spectacle may not be the new M. Night Shyamalan flick")
- Kevin Millar ("toast," "sucked donkeys at the plate and in the field," "worthless sack of elephant puke," "standard-setting ineptitude in right-field," "one of the most godawful throwing arms in major league history," "he must be the mascot, because there's no other explanation for why he's still on the active roster," "German for Designated for Assignment," "new color represents his decaying corpse, which apparently played left field last night," "Kevin 'LOB' Millar," ".156, but he looks worse than that")


And there there are the enemies:

- Bud Selig ("legacy is somewhere between that of Richard Nixon and George Custer," "could fuck up a wet dream", "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," "Has anyone considered what Selig's miserable legacy will be years from now? (Strike/no World Series/All-Star tie/steroids/Expos) Can you impeach a commissioner?")
- MLB Executives ("masterminds," "brain trust," "think tank," "Mensa with bats")
- George Steinbrenner ("ugly pigdog")
- Peter Angelos ("miserable bastard," "miserable prick, "Diablos," "There Is Currently No Expletive Vile Enough," "jackelope," "Ebenezer Scrooge," "Napoleon," "limitless prick")
- Roger Clemens ("jackass," "mercenary fat bastard," "Tom Arnold," "still the same guy who gets called 'Dick' more than the vice president," "abrasive," "Clemens and Houston, a.k.a. Ass and the Astros," "all we'll ask of our boys is a Rocket beaning," "bastard," "true asshole, "Clemens' hubris was spectacular in its brazen disregard for, well, not being a dick," "arrogant ass," "Hate the Clemens," "Oh, and I hope Roger Clemens' arm falls off today.")
- Joe Morgan (Rob has berated him too many times to list)

Of course there were splendidly positive things we've had to say. They're just not as wryly funny. We've laughed a lot, usually at each other or ourselves, and we've gotten fairly pissed off. In an actual count, a mere 79 of the 1,000 posts have contained the F-word. Predictably, Rob was responsible for 71 of those posts. (I cornered the market on "douchebag," though.)

And finally, if you've taken to reading our work at all over the last four years, you should have come away with but one message. One piece of hard evidence. One . . . lesson.

"The lesson, as always, is that I'm an idiot." (4/12/04)
"...and the lesson here is that I am an idiot." (3/22/05)
"The lesson, as always, is that I'm an idiot." (4/16/05)
"The lesson, as always... c'mon, don't make me say it." (5/28/05)
"I really am an idiot . . . sometimes." (6/8/05)
"Further, let it once again be proven that I'm an idiot." (4/10/06)
"The lesson, as always: I’m an idiot." (7/7/06)
"The lesson... c'mon, do I really need to say it? I am, as you know, an idiot." (4/13/07)
"It goes without saying: like my little friend across the aisle, I am an idiot." (4/14/07)
"The lesson, if not the mantra here, as always, is that I am an idiot." (4/23/07)
"The lesson, as always . . . well, you know." (4/24/07)

And so we move on from post number one-thousand, back to your regularly scheduled programming of daily, weekly, or as-warranted outbursts of insight, opinion, and utter drivel.

Here's to another thousand posts , and then some. Thanks for reading.

(Nearly all of that was from Whitney's fertile mind, and I thank him for making the effort to recap 999 posts while I spent a gorgeous mid-Atlantic afternoon on the golf course. Over 80% of the f-bombs attributed to my side of the ledger? My first thought is that I have a hard time believing that, and then I remember who I am and shake my head ruefully.

We don't really write this blog for anyone but ourselves and maybe a few friends. That's really sort of stating the obvious, judging by the hit count stats, but we've really not made any effort to spread the word beyond our little circle of knuckleheads. The fact that we've managed to keep this going for some 4+ years - remember, you're dealing with two guys whose idea of follow-through is making sure that the empties get stacked on the counter in an orderly fashion so their wives can get the recycling out - is a testament to our love of baseball and of these teams. Not for nothing, but it's also turned out to be a terrific shared experience with my friend. So, as Whit says, thanks for reading, and to Whit - thanks for writing, pal.)

Beck

Game 30 - Red Sox

Red Sox 4, Twins 3
Record: 20-10

Strange, long, and ultimately utterly worthless day down at Spacely's Sprockets for me, which kept me from my normal appointment with MLC. My colleagues are some of the nicest people on the planet - and you know what Leo Durocher said about nice guys.

Another solid to good outing for a Sox starting pitcher, as Schilling set the Twins down without much trouble for the first 6 innings before blowing a tire in the 7th. Okajima got the last out of the 7th and pitched a scoreless 8th before yielding to Papelbon, who never gave the Twinkies a chance. FIrst series victory by the Sox in Minnesota since 2000.

I saw bits and pieces of this one, finding it difficult to make any good excuse to keep from being an actual parent on a beautiful spring afternoon. I did see Paps nail it down, and noted with a distinct slowing of my heartrate that he seems to have shaken off whatever ailed him in his last two outings.

Douchebag Dan Shaughnessy fired another shot in the ongoing war between the Boston media and Curt Schilling, blatantly misquoting No. 38's response to the Yankees' signing of Roger Clemens. Writing in the Boston Globe, the CHB said the following:

"After the Sox beat the Twins in Minneapolis today, Schilling was asked his reaction to the Rocket's re-entry into the Yankees clubhouse. Ever the blowhard, Schilling declared, "We don't need him" -- a comment of stupefying arrogance that is sure to come up a couple of million times between now and the end of the 2007 postseason."

Setting aside for a moment the oddly personal and offended characterization of Schilling's "stupefying arrogance" (and hey, pot, I'm kettle - and you're a black motherfucker), it turns out the Shaughnessy clearly and blatantly twisted the words of the Sox' righthander. Ron Blum's AP story carries this quote from Schilling: ""It would have been nice to have him, but we didn't need him," Curt Schilling said. "I feel like we were a legitimate World Series contender without him." Not nearly incendiary, and exactly what I want the Sox players to be saying. Frankly, I agree with that sentiment entirely, notwithstanding the tired opinion of a desperate hack clinging precariously to whatever relevance he once maintained.

Off day for the Sox, so I'm watching someone named Matt DeSalvo shut the Mariners down in the Bronx. The M's seem to be the tonic for what ails the New York pitching staff, scoring 2 runs over the last 24 innings after exploding for 15 on Thursday. Looks like the Sox will be 5 games up as they head to Toronto for three with the Jays.

----------------------

Don't-Need-Him-Gate expands this morning to increasingly ludicrous proportions, as ESPN's Mike & Mike Show nominated Schilling (and Julian Tavarez, who said essentially the same thing before the Clemens announcement) as a candidate for their weekly "Just Shut Up" awards. Honest to God, what are the Sox supposed to say? How batshit would the media and the fanbase be if Sox players had come out and shed crocodile tears, channeling Bill Paxton in Aliens ("Game over, man. We're screwed.")?

We've decried the media quite a bit in this space, and we'll continue to if they continue to shovel this kind of bullshit manufactured controversy. It's crap like this that's driven people like me to get information from blogs and non-traditional sources instead of swallowing mass media pabulum. I used to hit ESPN.com every morning - it was my homepage. Now, my required reading is The Big Lead, Deadspin, and Dan Shanoff. I still know who won, and my bullshit hype intake is vastly reduced.

Oh, and for the record, I think Clemens will be fairly successful for the Yankees, and I think his presence won't make a difference. There. I said it.

The Replacements

Game 30 - Mets

Diamondbacks 3, Mets 1
Record: 19-11

"All this talk about it will undoubtedly give the Diamondbacks a much-needed win this afternoon . . ."

Well, not nearly so much as this will:

J Reyes SS
E Chavez CF
D Wright 3B
C Delgado 1B
S Green RF
R Castro C
D Newhan LF
R Gotay 2B
M Pelfrey P

Predictably, one run on six hits, eight men LOB. Arizona squealed "uncle" late last night, and Willie's lineup card reflected his kinder, gentler side.

In truth, with Valentin shelved for a while, Alou ailing, LoDuca doing the day-after-night thing, and Carlos Beltran simply resting, this was bound to happen. And now that we see that David "No Newhan is Good" Newhan isn't much better in a starting role than he was coming off the bench, we can start to think beyond his stay with the Mets. Still, I just kind of wish the Mets had let me know before I pissed away three hours on their hangover while nursing my own.

Mike Pelfrey fell to 0-4 as his ERA swelled to 6.39. Those unsightly numbers belie an otherwise . . . eh, "not that horrible" is about the best I can say about his work thus far. He's shown just a few flashes amid a rather unimpressive first five starts, and his spot in the rotation is surely being re-evaluated at this juncture. He should be good after a while, but for now he's still too raw in the middle -- throw him back on and let's have another beer.

Off to San Francisco for a close look at the man we all thought would be fronting the Mets' staff about now, Barry Zito. The pitching match-ups look strong to quite strong for the series, with SF's Zito/Cain/Morris a favored trio over Ollie, TG, & Johnny Maine. Gonna need those bats to wake back up tomorrow. Oh, and there's some other Barry making news out there. I try to be more high-minded, but throw me into the group of douchebottles looking to see HGH meet HBP every night. Can't help it.

After the three-gamer by the Bay, the Metmen come on home for a 10-day homestand that culminates in a weekend interleaguer against the crosstown pinstripers. With a few wins under the Yanks' belt recently and their new signing arriving to just a modicum of fanfare, there should be plenty of bloated coverage 10 days from now. Just preparing you for the onslaught.

Canned Heat

I wrote the following in this space on July 14, 2004 about the trade deadline media furor surrounding a certain aged but available starting pitcher:

"Y'know what? I don't want him. I don't want the Sox to win the World Series by buying it. I don't want to be a Yankee fan. I want my team - my really, really talented team - to strap it on, play up to their potential and smoke the American League over the next 76 games, then roll through the post-season like Sherman through Atlanta. The Yankees or Angels or Twins can have Randy Johnson and his mullet. It'll just make the victory beer taste sweeter."

Damn, but a lot of that was prescient. I can't work up the righteous anger about the financial aspects any more, because I'd be a hypocrite, but the feelings are otherwise exactly the same upon hearing the news today that Roger Clemens has signed with the Yankees. Good for them, good for him, and good for the Red Sox. It wouldn't be sporting for the Sox to take on the Yankees with their pitching staff in its current condition.

George Thorogood

Game 29 - Mets

Mets 6, Diamondbacks 2
Record: 19-10

Strange things are afoot at Chase Field. Last year's Cy Young winner couldn't even raise Arizona's hopes against fill-in starter Jorge Sosa. In fact, it was Sosa who looked the ace last night, surrendering just a pair of runs in the sixth inning after Jose Reyes dropped the transfer on a woulda-been IEDP. (I'll not chastise the star shortstop even a little for the rare slip; I only mention it to asterisk the pitcher's ERA.) The last couple of lines of my last post were written as if playing with a stacked deck, and yet it played out against the odds. Strange days indeed.

The performance Jorge Sosa delivered last night might even make us take a closer look at Mike Pelfrey's start today, wondering if perhaps Sosa would supplant the youngster if he reverts to early April form. Before we get there, though, a second asterisk needs application on Sosa's outing last night. (Hey, with Barry Bonds nearing 756, those little things are everywhere.) Because he was pitching in the Met-friendly Twilight Zone of Phoenix, very little can be drawn for the outcome.

The myth of the Arabian Phoenix goes as such:

As the end of its life approached, the phoenix would build a pyre nest of aromatic branches and spices such as myrrh, sets it on fire, and is consumed in the flames. After three days there is a birth -- or as some legends say, a rebirth -- and the phoenix arises from the ashes. According to some sources, the phoenix arose from the midst of the flames.

Not coincidentally, Diamondbacks leftfielder Scott Hairston performed much the same ceremony last night, minus the rebirth. As he charged a low liner off Paul LoDuca's bat with two on, you could smell the myrrh. When the ball skipped under he glove, he gave a sideways glance as if deadpanning to the camera, "Somebody just light me on fire." Brandon Webb offered a match.

And so 2-0 with us wondering when the D-backs would get to Sosa suddenly became 4-0, then 5-0 when Shawn Green (who'd already homered off his former team to provide the 2-0) singled in LoDuca, then 6-0 when Green stole second (more unexplainables in the desert), was grounded to third and was sac flied home in true scratch-across fashion. And with a six-run cushion in the sixth, it was time to relax and marvel at the oddity of the Mets's success in this park. 13 straight wins in Arizona. All this talk about it will undoubtedly give the Diamondbacks a much-needed win this afternoon, but it's been remarkable.

For now, we'll hope that what Jorge Sosa pulled off last evening was his own doing, but we sort of have to assume it was Arizona. If not Arizona, then a land not too far away. Where all parents are strong and wise and capable. And all children are happy and beloved.

I don't know. Maybe it was Utah.

Trapp Family Singers

Games 28 & 29 - Red Sox

Red Sox 2, Minnesota Twins 0
Twins 2, Red Sox 1

After a terrific pitching performance by Tim Wakefield and the Sox bullpen on Friday, the new-found magic of the Tivo allowed me to spend last night with a few of my favorite things: the Sox, Old 97's, and a brace of Mendocino Brewing Company's Red Tail Ale.

In a nod to my wife's summerlong baseball widow status, I acceded to watching The Break Up on HBO last night - a decision made much less painful because I was recording the Sox game and the Old 97's are featured in the movie. The movie's a relatively painless two hours of cinematic fare - it's never all that difficult to look at Jennifer Aniston, and I'm a fan of the Vince Vaughn experience. The aforementioned Texas rockers show up in a live concert scene towards the film's end, with Murry Hammond's "Hello everybody!" kicking off the always-rousing first few bars of "Timebomb". Snippets from "Salome" and "Melt Show" follow - enough to tease, but not quite a full meal.

The Sox' offense, viewed upon completion of the movie, followed the script implied in that last line above to a snug-fitting tee. 11 runners left on base, including 3 in the very first frame, spelled doom for the good guys, even as they made Johan Santana work for his supper. The Sox knocked the Twins' ace out of the game after 5 hard-fought innings and 99 pitches. Meantimes, the frequently cursed Julian Tavarez (and I mean cursed at, not metaphysically jinxed) gave up a mere 4 hits and 2 runs in 6 strong innings. I accept the fact that the Sox are most likely gonna lose when the managers inscribe Santana vs. Tavarez on their respective lineup cards; I just don't dig that the Sox offense seemed to do so, too.

I also don't dig programming that emanates from the Twins' regional network instead of my homies RemDawg and Orsillo. Fox Sports North's duo of Dick Bremer and Bert Blyleven have taken homerism to a new level of artistic expression. We're in Sonny, Sam, and Frank territory here. On Friday, the Twinkie booth went plaid, first clearly blowing a call at first when J.D. Drew was obviously safe, then excoriating the umpiring crew for missing the exact same call in exactly the same manner against the Twins. I watched a lot of last night's game with the sound off, cranking the iPod while playing with my kids to keep my blood pressure manageable.

Schilling against Ponson this afternoon along the Mississippi River, and I'll probably have to listen to the FSN North team yet again. Good thing I've got a few more of those Red Tails in the fridge. Mismatch on paper, but so was Santana/Tavarez, and that shoulda coulda woulda turned out in the Sox' favor.

Finally, lifting two wheels off the ground in a screeching segue, I find the burgeoning Whitney/mets grrl comment relationship too cute for words. Perhaps I'm just jealous that Sox fans seem to avoid this little corner of the blogosphere like the plague.

Teenage Fanclub

Game 28 - Mets

Mets 5, Diamondbacks 3
Record: 18-10

Let's all give thanks and breathe easy that we don't have to hear the tri-state media dead-horse the subject of PopcornGate, since it had no bearing on the outcome of the contest.

Whew.

For those that missed it, it was Jeffrey Maier Part II, minus the impact of postseason play, and plus about 20 pounds. Some Arizona equivalent of Engelberg was pumping fistfuls of popcorn into his mouth, and when Endy Chavez went back to rob new Pat Burrell imitator Orlando Hudson of a home run (routinely - this was a fraction of the degree of difficulty on Rolen's ball), the kid shoved his paper tub o' corn into Endy's glove, sending the ball back into the field and sending Chavez sprawling to the ground. The wishes racing through my mind immediately after the play:

1. Endy is not hurt.
2. The umps get the call right.
3. It doesn't impact what was a 5-1 game prior.

We'll accept two out of three. When the trainers came out and Endy grimaced while holding his ankle, the muscles tensed. Ugh. That worst-case faded and he stayed in the game, though.

Meanwhile, third base ump Gary "No Friend of Ron" Darling continued to spin his pointer, oblivious to the fan interference. 5-3, Mets, bottom 8. I'm really going to miss typing "Amburglar" if Burgos keeps channeling Armando Benitez, but he closed out the eighth and Wags shut the door. No damage.

And so instead of seeing some Redenbacher-fueled adolescent make the rounds on the late-night talk shows (okay, it was a pale imitation of the original play), we get to talk about the phenomenon that is Julio Franco. He hit an opposite-field pool-splashing jack in the second that set the tone and some records -- in addition to re-writing his own record for home runs and stolen bases by a septagenarian, there was also some chatter since he hit it off the decaying corpse of Randy Johnson. The bottom line is that he's made a recent turn-around this season since dropping off . . . pretty much after the Arizona series last year. Way to go. (Sir.)

Johnny Maine kept chugging along, allowing one run through six, and Jose Reyes did what he does. Whatever it is that makes everything go marvelously in the desert, by all means keep it up. Gonna need the mojo tonight, since Brandon Webb throws for AZ and Jorge Sosa gets the nod for the Mets. Why is my money still on our guys?

The Information Society

Update: A-Rod Versus the Nats

You've all (one of you has) been clamoring for an update on the bold prediction Rob made in the season's second week:

It says here that A-Rod will finish the 2007 season with more homers than the Nationals collect wins. And there’s a chance that it won’t really be close.

Well, after fast starts for each competitor, there's been a flattening out to the norm of late. I mean, hell, A-Rod wasn't going to hit 150 homers, and hell, the Nationals weren't going to win 60 games. The current standings:

Alex Rodriguez Home Runs: 14
Washington Nationals Wins: 9

A-Rod is still hitting well (in part because when you're down six runs, you get strikes thrown to you), just not for power. He collected his first RBI in nine games last night after simply killing it for three weeks.

Meanwhile, the Nots are . . . not so good, Al. Most teams have giveaways that include bobbleheads and inflatable bats; the Nats give away leads, wins, and all sense of confidence every other night. This race could get interesting. Stay tuned.

Dramarama

Game 27 - Mets

Mets 9, Diamondbacks 4
Record: 17-10

Oh, my. Now, that there's some shit.

A mere nine days had passed since Damion Easley had lifted me off the couch with his heroic hydraulics, and yet when he came to the plate in Arizona last night with one down and the Mets down a run in the ninth, my faith in him was half-hearted at best. Between Easley's recent 1-for-12 spell and the notion that this particular well couldn't have been replenished so quickly, I guess I doubted him. Just as for Thomas the Apostle, the light shone and I was shown. And I won't soon disbelieve again.

Fortunately for us, Jose Valverde also sensed nothing ominous about Damion's presence, catching too much plate with a 2-0 pitch that Easley propelled into the deepest part of left-center for a three-run game-changer. 6-4 became 9-4 a few batters later when David Wright shook off a theretofore hitless night to drive one of his trademark opposite-field taters.

Tommy Glavine's leisurely stroll towards 300 experienced a lull, as he couldn't keep the D-back hitters contained in Chase Field. Neither Orlando Hudson or Chris Snyder is known for his power, but you'd never know it from the rockets they fired off Glavine. Fortunately, the pen permitted just a pair of baserunners over the last three frames, and the game was kept close for the dramatic finish.

And that dramatic finish, my friends, is why we got so peeved at Errant Heilman the other night for turning a deficit of a single run into three. It's not to say that the Mets can't come back from three runs down, but trailing by one run in the ninth is almost (not quite, but almost) where the Mets are at their best right now. The briar patch. The fabled catbird's seat. End of the bar with a full wallet, an empty bladder, and a friendly barkeep.

Not that I wouldn't appreciate an easy win tonight, boys. But just keep it close and I'll show a little faith.

Zodiac Mindwarp

Game 27 – Red Sox

Red Sox 8, Mariners 7
Record: 18-9

The Sox did their best Harvey Dent impression last night, showing two very different faces on their way to an unexpected victory.

On the one face, Daisuke Matsuzaka was as bad as I’ve seen him in the top of the first inning, walking the first three Mariners while growing increasingly frustrated at the home plate umpire. The M’s wound up plating 5 in the inning on a single hit, as Matsuzaka’s efforts to extricate himself from the self-inflicted trouble were blunted by Julio Lugo’s iron-gloved fielding stylings.

Manny Ramirez needed a whole package of mustard to cover his hotdogging self in the same first inning, as he Willie Mays Hayesed a fly to left, basket catching the ball before flipping it back to the ashen Lugo. I usually enjoy most of the Manny experience, but my state of agitation at watching the Matsu/Lugo show had me in no mood to celebrate his doofus oeuvre.

Rounding out the scar tissue, Jonathan Papelbon remained in the pen in the top of the 9th, despite the fact that the Sox held a one-run lead and he was rested from his unusually long outing on Tuesday. Sox officials and manager Terry Francona are making light of it, saying that they’re trying to ensure that Papelbon makes it through the entire season. That’s fine spin, but out here in Crazyland with the rest of the nutjob fans, I rewind to Tuesday night and remember Paps with just a tiny bit less hop on his fastball and thismuch less bite on his split and start thinking thoughts that I don’t want to talk about at tailgate parties.

Turning to the left and changing profiles, Matsuzaka backed up his abysmal opening inning by keeping the Sox in the game over the next four. He wound up yielding a total of 5 walks and 7 runs – but he once again steeled himself against fairly significant adversity and gave the team a chance to win. Really, at the end of the day, can’t ask for much more from a first-year big leaguer.

I didn’t give Manny a chance to win me back over in person, as I had to go out for the evening to meet a friend. (I’m moving and shaking here, people – bebopping and scatting all over the business world.) As Whitney later informed me via text, Manny was Manny, blasting two homers and breaking out another vat of condiments after his 8th-inning drive to right gave the Sox their game-winning margin. Breakout game for the struggling slugging machine? Perchance to dream.

The aforementioned Lugo (who was originally charged with 2 errors in the first inning, though one of them has been changed to a hit) showed a different face of his own in the bottom of the 2nd, lashing a ground-rule double to deep right-center with the bases loaded. His hit catalyzed a 5-run rally as the Sox quickly dug themselves out of the hole created by Matsuzaka’s erratic opening.

Finally, setting aside the worrisome Papelbon saga, the rest of the bullpen responded brilliantly, with Kyle Snyder, Brendan Donnelly, and JC Romero combining to allow a single Mariner hit over the final 4 innings. Romero got the save, becoming the Sox’ 4th pitcher to record a save over the season’s first 27 games – another testament to the depth at the back of the pitching staff. Unfortunately, looks like the Sox may need it, as Mike Timlin went on the 15-day DL yesterday.

If the loss to Oakland was a downer of a yin, yang just responded with a showman’s flair to balance out the Sox' karmic account. On the road to Minnesota this weekend, land of 10,000 lakes and crappy artificial turf.