Fighting Gravity

"In baseball heaven, not one cloud dares impede the glorious sunshine. A slight, sweet breeze whispers through the azaleas, palmettos, royal palms and scrub pines. Perfectly groomed diamonds emit a Zen-like tranquility. And the voices and laughter of the Boys of Summer still rise from the hallowed grounds." Tom Verducci, Sports Illustrated, February 26, 2007

Verducci's words seem a fitting antidote to the 4 inches of slushy snow that are piled up outside my windows this evening, even as I could have done without the "zen-like" stuff - it is only a game, after all. Nonetheless, as Baseball Poetry goes, this is pretty good stuff. Ostensibly about Dodgertown, the author's words ring true in locales all over Florida and Arizona, and anywhere else where baseball fans' thoughts are finally turning to next month's Opening Day.

Every sport has a pre-season, and every annually observed human endeavor offers some modicum of renewal. Baseball, though, seems to honor its limbering-up ritual more deeply than the others in the major sporting firmament.

Boston's own Spring Training ritual usually begins with a media-manufactured controversy, and 2007 brings no exception and in fact offers us the bonus of 3 primary media storylines to compete with the actual business of building a ballclub. Manny Ramirez hasn't reported to camp yet, Curt Schilling won't be getting a new contract before the squad breaks camp for the season, and Daisuke Matsuzaka looks for all the world like a comet, trailing a stellar tail of Japanese and American media types. 2 tempests in twin teapots, and a full-blown international sensation. Welcome to Red Sox baseball.

I don't know much, but I do know that Manny Ramirez will eventually show up in Fort Myers, and that he will hit 40 homers, drive in 120 runs, and post an OPS around 1.000. As for Schilling, I'll let his SoSH post speak for him (and me):

"Am I disappointed? Yep. Am I surprised? Nope. Is everyone but the parties involved making way too much out of this? Yep.

I've forever needed baseball a whole hell of a lot more than it needs me, I've always known that. I have also always known that it is a business, even when you don't want it to be.

Please trust me when I say, and have said, this will have zero bearing on my preperation or performance this season. I don't pitch for contracts, never have. My three best years were in the first year of new contracts. I pitch to win, just like most of the other guys in this game do.

One of the lines CHB failed to put into the article he wrote a few weeks back was me, on the phone, calling him an asshole. He knows as sure as he's reading this right now that I think he's a giant sphincter.

At some point soon he'll realize that the dislike for him here is not because he's the guy always taking the 'other side' while trying to illicit opinions and responses from readers, but rather he's disliked because he treats people like shit."

Schilling also took some time to praise Matsuzaka and describe how happy Sox fans will be to have a new #18 to worship, wrapping this little MLC diversion up in a neat bow. Things are proceeding at such an even keel in the Nation right now that SoSH is spending its time celebrating Carl Yastrzemski. Nothing to see here folks, with the possible exception of the fact that the Sox still really don't have a closer.

Changing directions in time to the scratching coming from Mixmaster Mike's turntable, I stumbled across VH1's Hip Hop Honors this evening while scouring the vast satellite TV wasteland for something better than an Arizona/Arizona State hoops game. As the Beastie Boys turned out a live version of "So What'cha Want", the cameras caught Ice Cube and Method Man doing the same slow nod I was performing, and moved on to frame MC Lyte rapping along with Ad Rock. Me, Cube, Method and Lyte - that's a foursome I'm quite certain nobody's ever considered in the same sentence before.

Talking Heads

Much of the February baseball chatter that oozes from the media sources is like sweat through a body’s countless pores; it’s a necessary function of all those perspiratory outlets, but the droplets are wiped aside with haste and minor annoyance. As such, it’s hard to take but so much umbrage at the confidence-near-cockiness voiced by the Philadelphia Phillies in recent days. It’s even more difficult given the relatively conciliatory after-quips that followed from Camp Phightin’. Somehow, of course, David Wright managed to sound like he was tacking it up on the proverbial bulletin board; here’s hoping it manifests itself in an extra spark during the dog days at Citizens Bank Park and not in anything that drowns out the little voice in his head that chirps, “Opposite field, ding-dong.”

The reason it’s worth mentioning in Mets territory is that, to the untrained eye, Jimmy Rollins and his cocksure peers might be right. According to the wintertime hypotheticals that deliver play-by-play for an entire season’s worth of games played out on the synthetic, indoor surface known as paper, the Phillies are not nearly the 12 games worse than the Mets that the 2006 standings still sport. They didn’t lose anyone integral, the young stars might be only getting better, and they added a handful of solid to star quality pitchers. It’s speculation, as usual, but the folks paid the most to offer it have plenty to say about this club.

Will it pan out that way? Who knows, but all signs point to more of a divisional showdown than last year. That said, many, many times a few cold months away from the game deaden our by-May sharp senses of player’s worths. Pat Burrell in February signifies a dangerous 5-hitter that could bat clean-up elsewhere; by the time the same guy rolls up a 1-for-25 drought in June, all we hear is “cripes, we’ve seen this before” and a should’ve-known-better smirk from Phaithfuls and Phantasy owners (replete with erstwhile four-letter-words that now begin with “ph”).

There’s no reason to think either Utley or Howard will suffer a downturn, but the aforementioned Rollins has an erratic bat that has labeled him the “futility infielder” for stretches. The Phillies seemed to miss Bobby Abreu’s supposed leadership about as much as they missed The Terry Francona Era, but will they actually miss Mike Lieberthal behind the dish? (Speaking of Francona, though, what ever happened to that guy, anyway? Tito went 285-363 over four years, including the worst season by the Phils over the last 30 years – which is, uh . . . really saying something. Is he selling hot dogs somewhere in Scranton?)

Anyway, Peter Gammons had a good blog post a few weeks ago insinuating that the only thing we know with any certainty is that we don’t know much, citing a number of 2006’s sheer surprises. So, as “obviously” as Philly – and the Braves, for that matter – have bettered themselves, and as frustratingly dormant (complacent?) as Omar and the gang have decided to be, I’m still in a better place than I was 365 days ago. The Mets were poised to be the goods last year, but it was mere conjecture until they went out and smoked the division rivals from spring till fall. Now the Phillies are drawing the same amount of impressed rumblings, but it’s still a lot of talk. Meanwhile, the Mets are a lot of talk and a badge, as it was once shouted, with last year under their belts and a roster relatively unchanged.

Last year the Mets added one large piece in Carlos Delgado. (Puzzle piece, that is; four years prior, the Mets added a “large piece” of another kind in Mo Vaughn.) Somehow the Mets improved 14 games between ’05 and ’06 (after jumping up 12 the year before), and it was clearly more than Delgado’s presence. Players stepping it up, 25 individuals becoming a team, Willie Randolph doing what Art Howe could not (which includes finding his locker on a daily basis), and most significantly, management filling the gaps with the right personnel. Even the bankrolled New York Mets can’t put an All-Star at every position, and to crank out 97 wins with names like Jose Valentin, Endy Chavez, Xavier Nady, Chris Woodward, Orlando Hernandez, John Maine, Darren Oliver, Roberto Hernandez, and Oliver freakin’ Perez adding solid contributions all over the box scores and beyond . . . it takes a lot of intuition and quite a bit of guts on Omar’s part.

What Omar Minaya has accomplished in two seasons has already generated enough ink, but don’t let the excess of accolades cloud the issue. Minaya, along with a re-dedication by the Wilpons and more than his fair share of good luck, is an unmitigated success thus far. So why would we doubt that what he sees as the right road for right now – seemingly an “ain’t broke” course of action – will pan out just fine? Sure, Damion “The Omen” Easley and Chan Ho “There Ain’t a Big Enough” Park are in camp. And the Mets’ biggest off-season acquisition was born during the Johnson Administration. (Someday I’ll be too old not to chuckle at that title, but not today.) And calling the rotation “iffy” is generous. None of that bothers me yet; nor do these additions in Philadelphia and Atlanta. Let’s have a little faith – there’s magic in Minaya. Scott Schoeneweis ain’t a beauty, but hey, he’s all right.

Rob and I have been taking an approach of tempered to stunted enthusiasm in the spring for years, but this year he’s clearly excited and I’m optimistic despite a winter of tepid movement for my team. Looks like the Zoloft finally kicked in, or maybe the expansion of our key-tapping to realms not founded on misery (this weekend’s old friends revisited included Brooklyn Brown Ale and Fine Young Cannibals’ rendition of “Suspicious Minds”) has induced a more buoyant vibe in this space.

That’ll change, and you can be damn sure of it, but for now there’s nary a word of mass media opinion that can darken our days.

Take This Job and Shove It

Obviously, this post title has nothing to do with me or my colleague. Obviously.

No, this is an homage to one of the gutsiest postseason performances in recent professional sports history. Keith Foulke retired today after essentially giving his right arm in exchange for a 2004 World Series ring.

Foulke's 2004 postseason is the stuff of legends - he took the ball game after game, inning after inning, pitching on a knee that was so badly injured that it cost him 2005, and gave up 1 run in 14 frames. He pitched 6 innings over 3 consecutive days in ALCS Games 4-6 with nothing but guts and an 83 mph fastball - and put up a series of bagels against the Yankees. (We'll leave out the part about Tony Clark's ground-rule double in Game 5 - game of inches, and all that.)

Then, finally, he caught Edgar Renteria's comebacker in St. Louis and underhanded the ball to Doug Mientkiewicz, and all hell broke loose.

Foulke wasn't lovable, or quotable (Johnny from Burger King notwithstanding), or all that friendly. All he did was his job, even when it probably wasn't in his best personal interest. Godspeed, Foulkie, may the road rise to meet you, and may you never have to reach for your wallet in the presence of a Red Sox fan.

Roxanne

That was it? One lousy song? The Police reunite after 20 years, and all we get is one lousy song? I've seen t-shirts with better slogans - if only I could remember where. Although, despite the fact that Sting looked like Village People cast-off, they did perform said single song crisply.

Which leads me to the very much better other hand, as my colleague informs me that the band will be coming to Fenway Park in Boston, Massachusetts on Saturday, July 28 as part of the worst-kept secret tour in history. I'm going to have to raid the loose change jar.

Finally, to close this abbreviated Pitchers and Catchers Eve post, I do note with anticipation that the Sox begin reporting officially to Fort Myers tomorrow. As I just told Whitney, I'm having a difficult time tempering my enthusiasm for this year's squad. Guess I've just got a feeling.

New Order

Six days to pitchers and catchers, as my little buddy reports. Almost time to start stretching out here at Misery Loves Company. Almost.

I’m not there yet. Soon enough it will be time to begin thinking about the New York Mets and Boston Red Sox; for now, though, we can focus on our other passions at MLC. Until I can find the inspiration to ponder how ol’ Willie Larry will fill out the Opening Day lineup card, I have a semi-related tangent.

The thought that goes into the assembling of a baseball lineup is not unlike the compilation of music tracks into an album, and I refer to the entire gamut of “albums” – from calculated, professional releases on major labels to the personal touches of a mixed CD for a fellow music appreciator. If you subscribe to a few time-worn tenets, you’ll be constructing playoff-contending recordings every time.

1. Lead-Off: In baseball, getting the lead-off man on base is an obviously enormous factor in offensive success. It’s no less a given that any LP, 8-track, cassette, CD, or playlist absolutely needs some fire from Track 1. The tone-setters, the top spot holders may not be the very best in the lineup, but they must present a positive portent of things to come. “Runnin’ with the Devil” comes to mind right off the bat. Speed and power? Even better. Think “Safe European Home” off The Clash’s second album or Pearl Jam’s “Go.” “Thunder Road,” “Begin the Begin,” “Peter Piper,” “Gimme Shelter,” “Lust for Life,” “Rain on the Scarecrow,” and especially “Blitzkrieg Bop” are vintage intros. Less mainstream first hitters include Spoon’s “Everything Hits at Once,” the DBT’s “Where the Devil Don’t Stay,” and my all-time fave: “Jagged,” by the Old 97’s.

The lead-off spot should certainly make something of a statement. Just ask Lenny Dykstra about leading off Game 3 of the Series. “Wild Flower” was stronger noise about The Cult’s new sound than calling the album Electric even was, and “Hells Bells” was a brilliant, eye-opening salve to fans lamenting Bon Scott’s loss. “Smells Like Teen Spirit”? The Rickey Henderson of album openers. If you’re constructing your own record, you know what to do here.

2. The Two-Spot: Not quite the pressure-packed position that lead-off is, it’s nearly as integral a slot, one that can quickly undo a bit of good after a decent start if you’re not careful. (See GIDP-worthy tunes like the Chilis’ “Aeroplane,” Bruce’s “Soul Driver,” the Stones’ “Fight,” or Jimmy’s “Baby’s Gone Shoppin’” for Robby Alomar-ish examples of highly disappointed epiphanies that occur moments into Track 2, marking a decidedly downward turn for the whole lineup.) Conversely, a strong second hitter can duplicate or even outdo the spark of its predecessor. It can segue between the initial hit and the real meat of the order like a Mark Bellhorn or Peter Gabriel’s “No Self Control,” or it can be a focal point like Derek Jeter, “Paranoid Android,” “Ma & Pa,” “Alex Chilton,” or “Remedy.” The sublime “Shake Your Rump” is a de facto lead-off, kicking off Paul’s Boutique after the messin’-about opener; one of the great second tracks of all time. Whether you’re scripting a starting nine or a songlist, remember: this spot can be the calm before the storm, but you can’t hide a sub-par entity here. Continuity is the key. No letdowns.

And for some bizarre reason, Ween’s second song from their masterpiece Chocolate & Cheese, “Spinal Meningitis (Got Me Down)” – a creepy, disturbingly mesmerizing tune from an otherwise enjoyable collection – reminds me a whole lot of Mickey Morandini.

3. The Third Hitter: In baseball and especially men’s league softball, the 3-spot in the lineup is considered the place for the best hitter on the team. From Ruth to Musial to Mays to Clemente to Yaz to Papi to Beltr — uh, Pujols. (See, Carlos, this is why you should want to bat third.) A combination of pure skill and big-time pop, it’s a great place to look to get a bead on how the whole collection performs. The 2003 Mets’ third hitters posted a combined OPS of .733, while the same year’s Braves’ 3-men put up a 1.010 mark. There you go.

When Edgardo Alfonzo was thrown into the third spot in 2000, the formerly prototypical 2-hitter put up serious 3-spot numbers (.324/.425/.542) and was no small factor in helping propel the Mets to the World Series. When injuries and slumps plagued him the following season (.243/.322/.403), he slid back to the second spot – leaving this critical space to be occupied by an assortment of otherwise suited hitters (Piazza, Ventura, even a Shinjo or Agbayani). The dynamic was lost, and the team lost a dozen more games in ’01.

Track 3 stand-outs represent some of the best songs on some of the best releases in rock & roll history: “So. Cent. Rain,” “Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds,” “With or Without You,” “Hey Joe,” “Breaking the Girl,” “Roxanne,” “The Night They Drove Old Dixie Down,” “Another One Bites the Dust,” “Alive,” “I Shot the Sheriff,” “Wave of Mutilation,” “Love Me Two Times,” “Sugar Magnolia” . . . and it goes on seemingly indefinitely. Records from the past decade or two don’t disappoint in their 3-slot either, with “A Shot in the Arm,” “Brick,” “Crash into Me,” “Fell On Black Days,” “Float On,” “Take Me Out,” “Wonderwall,” and “Last Goodbye” among the many examples. If you’re compiling your own music for a release, put the tune you’re most proud of in the 3-hole. If you’re making a mix, find the super-solid single that defines the collection best, your .300/30/120 guy, and chuck it in this spot.

4. Clean-Up: Cue the Wood-a-been: “Let me tell you what Melba Toast is packing right here.” Anybody who knows anything about baseball knows all about the clean-up hitter and what his job is. Pummel the horsehide, drive in runs. Dial 9. And so the fourth spots of box scores throughout baseball history are rife with big, burly beasts with names like Greenberg, Killebrew, Robinson, McCovey, Jackson, Murray, and, say, Carlos Delgado and Manny Ramirez. You may not know too much about Home Run Baker, but you don’t have to ask where his manager put him in the lineup.

It may not be as obvious that rock & roll records do much the same thing with their own clean-up spots. The 4-hole is very frequently the post for the big punch; if your album intends to kick any sort of ass, you’ll want a three-song build-up and a knockout punch on Track 4. It doesn’t always have to be a thunderous musical blitz of a song (though it often is), but it definitely needs an eyebrow-raising, palpable wallop of lyrical, musical or any kind of force. Observe: “Ain’t Talkin’ ‘Bout Love,” “Walk This Way,” “Iron Man,” “Stairway to Heaven,” “Simple Man,” “Can’t You Hear Me Knocking,” “Southern Man,” “Pump It Up,” “Jump in the Fire,” “Peace Frog,” “Once in a Lifetime,” “Bullet the Blue Sky,” “Zero,” “Little T&A,” “You Can’t Put Your Finger On It,” “Rock the Casbah.” We’re talkin’ some fuckin’ muscle.

Clean-up isn’t always going to compete with the 3-hole for absolute best, but it should deliver the goods. Louder, stronger, and bigger are recurrent descriptors. “Breed” isn’t the best song on Nevermind, quite obviously, but it may rock the hardest. “You Got Lucky” is a cooler tune, but Petty cranks up his gee-tar on “Change of Heart” in perfect Song 4 style. “Blister In the Sun” has more angst, but “Add It Up” is the frenzied, f-word rocker that will knock you for a loop more readily. Even albums featuring less of a hard edge kick it up for the clean-up track; “Don’t Let’s Start” and “Buddy Holly” are about as rowdy as geek rock gets, and Dave Matthews’ “Rhyme & Reason” is significantly tougher than much of his other work (part of which makes it one of my DMB favorites). The Pogues have done harder and louder songs than “Fairytale of New York,” but few anthems have as much grit and venom. If you have a rocker, and not everyone does (James Taylor has historically had no hits with the fourth track, and that’s no slag, but no coincidence), this is clearly where it goes.

5. The 5-Hole: After turning the corner at #4, there’s less structure from here on out, but there are still more guidelines to the five-hole than there are later in the order. A big RBI guy, some pop, the player you can’t quite justify putting at 3 or 4. That’s not to say the talent wanes considerably: Darryl Strawberry and Don Baylor both excelled in this spot in 1986; Carlton Fisk batted fifth more than any other place in the lineup; the Township’s greatest American hero manned the 5-post throughout this past season. Similarly, don’t let your recording suffer after knocking their socks off with 1-4. “Been Caught Stealing,” “The Weight,” “Higher Ground,” “Welcome to Paradise,” “Mr. Brownstone,” “Tumbling Dice,” “Clocks,” and “Born to Run” are greatest-hits quality tunes that someone decided to hold off on until the fifth place in the order.

6. Sixth and Beyond: Here’s where it starts to become far more of a grey area for baseball managers and record producers. Spots six through nine in the batting order are places for the less prolific batsmen, and there’s less strategy to go along with less skill. On the musical side of things, it gets even fuzzier; over the course of the last few decades, the evolution of musical media (LP’s to tapes to CD’s to mp3’s) meant a lifting of the size restrictions that have shaped album structures, so what was important in 1978 (putting “Can’t Stand Losing You” as the #6 track so it’d be the first song on Side B) is lost in the modern configuration. Now, in fact, you can have a 25-song CD that could mirror an entire roster (a rainy day post of the future?) and an even longer mp3 playlist. If you’re creating something on your own, this is where it starts to be less formulaic and more personal; it’s not to say that your own touches shouldn’t grace the early portion of the collection, but sticking to the general rules of thumb above may well take your creation it to another level of enjoyment. There’s one last rule, though . . .

7. Last in the Order: Every batting order could use a steady sort in the last spot (the last spot before the pitcher in the National League) to keep things rolling along: a Butch Hobson, a Scott Brosius, a Mark Lemke, and other people who’ve been cursed in this space. While it can be a place to hide defensive whizzes with weak bats (God knows guys like Pokey Reese and Rafael Santana weren’t in there for their plate work), a little something down there can mean a lot. The ’05 White Sox got significantly more production out of their #9 spot than they did out of their 7 and 8 hitters – you say bad managing, I say World Series title.

In music, however, it’s a little different – it’s more like a closer role. The last track on a record should be memorable, even if it’s in a weird way. Sgt. Pepper’s is considered by many a classic among classics, but if it ended with “Being for the Benefit of Mr. Kite,” instead of “A Day in the Life,” it wouldn’t do itself much justice, now would it? It can be a gentle fade-out after a riveting set (“Good Feeling” or “Here Comes a Regular”); a seven-minute intrigue (“Biko” or “Riders on the Storm”); a scratchy feast of guitar-driven psychedilia (“Are You Experienced?”); a rare cover (“Superman”); a hidden pop single after an hour of punk genius (“Train in Vain”); it an even be a ridiculously lyricked, volume-tinkered end to it all (“Some Girls Are Bigger Than Others”). As long as there’s some kind of hook, something to stand out as a final stamp on the album, you’re good to go.

Make it count, as folks did with cuts like “Purple Rain,” “The Ocean,” “American Girl,” “Who Are You,” “Fools Gold,” “Four Leaf Clover,” “40,” “Rock and Roll All Nite,” “Jungleland,” “Wendell Gee,” “Rockin’ in the Free World,” “Road to Nowhere,” “Tin Cup Chalice,” and plenty more. Elvis Costello used to really know how to end an album – consider that “Watching the Detectives,” “Radio, Radio,” and “Peace, Love & Understanding” closed his first three records. It’s just a little bit of marketing to let the last notes lingering in the listener’s head be among the most lasting.

So there you go. The last thing I’ll add is an example of what I feel is a perfectly cast album of the quasi-modern era in this vein. In my mind, Social Distortion’s self-titled major label debut incorporates all of the elements that I mentioned. Let’s take a gander.

Social Distortion: Social Distortion
1. So Far Away
2. Let It Be Me
3. Story of My Life
4. Sick Boys
5. Ring Of Fire
6. Ball and Chain
7. It Coulda Been Me
8. She's a Knockout
9. Place in My Heart
10. Drug Train

A killer opener – one of the sharpest in all of punk rock. Not a bit of letdown with Track 2. #3 brilliance; I think Rolling Stone called it the anti-“My Way” song. Something powerful in the clean-up hole – not quite the most furious of their tunes, but one of their all-timers . . . followed up by one of the hardest and greatest Johnny Cash covers ever done.

“Ball & Chain” at the six-spot might seem out of place, considering that it was the single/video, but I think it’s about right. It’s always solid, but maybe it’s lost some pop over the years for me (especially because I think it’s a slight re-working of their earlier tune “Prison Bound”). It’s certainly closer to Cliff Floyd than Ray Knight, to be sure. 7-9 aren’t filler, not at all, but they’re well-placed. The closer, “Drug Train,” is a driving, bluesy number with a different feel than the rest of the album, and a fine send-off after one of the most spectacular albums of . . . Rob’s and my Strat-o-matic, 40-ouncers, and rock & roll filled summer in Williamsburg, Virginia – if not all time.

Walking on the Moon

Well, from MLC’s lips to God’s ears, apparently.

As hoped here just a few pixels below, The Police are officially getting back together to open the February 11 Grammy Awards. Not exactly a full tour (not yet, anyway), or even a concert, but beggars can’t be choosers. Given the format, Sting and the boys will likely get 10 minutes or so to kick things off, so let the speculation regarding song selection begin.

Because the Grammys, like the music industry they celebrate, are relentlessly commercial, I think the band will be obliged to play at least one megahit. Let’s stipulate that we’ll see 3 songs. The opening act needs to set a tone for the evening and get the crowd out of their seats, which means we’ll likely see an uptempo starter, or at least one with a beat. I’m thinking De Do Do Do De Da Da Da in a nod to contemporary politics – a nod that Sting will turn into a less than subtle dig.

Grammy loves medleys, and so do The Police. On top of that, the 2nd song is usually good for a mood shift, so I’m looking for Every Breath You Take to morph into Roxanne, which is effectively a requisite in this mini-concert.

So many choices to close it out, but I’ll go with Don’t Stand So Close to Me, which they’ll reclaim after the lame ’86 version. Gives them a chance to get back uptempo with a song that builds to a good finish and leaves the crowd happy.

Don't Dream It's Over

Members of a pair of my favorite bands have been channeling Peaches and Herb this winter, rejoining forces after lengthy hiatuses (hiatii?) in a sure-to-be successful effort to separate me from my hard-earned cash. The worn cliché reminds us that all things happen in threes, and fate would have it, a reunion of a different sort is percolating on Yawkey Way. I’m far less sanguine about the latter case of getting the band back together.

The Police, absent the rock scene since 1984’s Synchronicity tour, are rumoured to be patching things up in honour of the 30th anniversary of the release of ‘Roxanne’. (Pretentious British spellings in the previous sentence brought to you by Sting’s ego, the primary reason the world was deprived of 20 more years of The Police.) The day before I found out about the possibility of this tour, I told a colleague that I’d pay $500 for the chance to see The Police in concert – guess I’d better start saving some of that paycheck.

Less well known than The Police, though brilliant in their own way, Crowded House took their leave of the world music stage in late 1996 (and waited until just now to release the live recording of their final concert). After drummer Paul Hester’s suicide in 2005, the prospects for Neil Finn and bassist Nick Seymour to reprise their perfectly-crafted hooks in front of a live audience seemed bleak. Cut to January 2007, when the lads announced that they’ll be playing April’s Coachella festival as part of a larger reunion tour and color me ecstatic.

In the words of the legendary Meatloaf, 2 out of 3 ain’t bad, which is why I’m glad to have the previous reunion notices to balance the possibility that Roger Clemens hasn’t thrown his last splitter in a Red Sox uniform. My feelings for the Texas Con Man cut a well-worn path through this blog’s 900+ posts, so I’ll refrain from (another) long-winded dissertation on the subject. I’m old enough to know that we fans root for the laundry, but I’d have a difficult time separating that particular set of flannels from its wearer. Suffice it to say, in the words of Milan High’s Norman Dale, my team’s on the field.

Notwithstanding, of course, the recent news that the Sox are pursuing Colorado Rockies first baseman Todd Helton, he of the career 1.023 OPS. And, relevantly, of the far-below-career-average 2006 season and 3 consecutive years of declining OPS. I’ve always liked Helton, but he’s still owed $90.1m for the next 5 years, and even if last year was a bit of a fluke, 33 year-olds don’t typically have a lot of bounce left in their stat lines. I’d say I’m mildly opposed to this deal, unless Helton’s 2006 season was more influenced by injury that public reports indicated, and the Rockies are willing to cover a big portion of his salary.

Finally, the usually shy Curt Schilling made news today, telling Boston radio station WEEI that he’s changed his mind about retiring after the 2007 season, and now plans to pitch through at least 2008. As long as this isn’t Schilling’s way of foreshadowing his intent to embark upon his own version of Roger Clemens’ long goodbye, I’d be happy to have Schill back on the hill for one more year. Don’t dream it’s over, indeed.

Winterlong

I’ve never much cared for January. It’s a dormant time of year, and life seems to slow to a halt in a number of ways. The weather keeps folks indoors more, and most people’s social calendars reside in some sort of nadir between New Year’s revelry and Super Bowl parties. After the often anticlimactic end to the college football season, we’re left with mid-season NHL & NBA, plus some early-season college hoops. This week’s Texas-OK State barn-burner aside, that’s not much. I suppose it is a decent month if you’re a fan of the English Premier League or the Heineken Cup, but you let’s face it, you’ll need to pay a bit extra and still be fortunate to see very much of the action.

And baseball is off the radar entirely. January bites.

The Hot Stove has even grown cold; we’re wandering on the desolate tundra between the flurry of free-agent inkings and the first sparks that come with pitchers and catchers. Mets fans are in a particular no-man’s land this winter. I guess we’ve been spoiled with off-season excitement the past couple of years; this year . . . not so much. The last two Januarys have seen Omar’s press conferences compete with, even outshine Steve Jobs’ Macworld unveilings. In ’07, though, the Mets are content – probably wisely, considering the circumstances – to rest upon the platform of the last couple of years and let the iPhone dominate the month’s buzz.

Not only has it been a drab off-season for Mets transactions, but it’s been a grin-and-bear-it scenario where we can’t even stir up some excitement with some justified hollering. Every big name – hell, every name whose mention didn’t induce an ugly scowl – got scooped up by a GM other than Omar Minaya, and yet I’m strangely grateful. Quite a number of this winter’s free agent contracts already loom like prison sentences for the team and its fans; everyone in town will be counting down the days until it comes off the books like a paroling, and in the meantime, a GM with a cash commitment or two like that is like a man with a prison record looking for work. Good luck with all that.

Every year I naïvely think that stability and sensibility will creep in and balance Major League Baseball’s fallible economic structure, and every year I look increasingly foolhardy. A small handful of teams skew the numbers and screw the system by displaying less fiscal responsibility than the dozen clowns in Rob’s and my rotisserie baseball league. Honestly, Rob, wouldn’t Brian Sabean and Tom Hicks get laughed out of the room in our league? It becomes farcical; you just get the sense that there’s more logic at work with the team intern playing Sudoku than in the execs working contract negotiations. Let the culpability be shared, though – Scott Boras, you are bad for the game and you will get what’s coming to you.

And so the best thing about this off-season is that the Mets did next to nothing. Hooray. Though the re-signings of Tom Glavine and El Duque should prove to be worthy ones (barring quadragenarian breakdowns), we’re left to celebrate one significant landing of Omar Minaya this winter, his landing into the world of discretion and prudence. It’s actually something worth lauding, but not today. It’s January 18, and it’s too damn cold to think positively.

In keeping with the new MLC triad of themes, we’re also amid the annual worst six weeks of the year for music. Around the holidays, it’s understandable that not much new music is released, what with most record companies eyeing Black Friday for the biggest new arrivals. Also understandably, bands take a break from the road to be at home with the families (or substance abuse habits) for the festivities. Somehow, though, there is a continued lull of record releases and touring resumptions that doesn’t break up until the last week or so of January. More reason to be “down on Jan.”

In the meantime, there’s plenty from 2006 to keep hearing. Been doing a lot of driving lately, not by choice, and a few albums have kept me cruising along. My Morning Jacket’s live double disc-er “Okonokos” gets me through a chunk of miles by itself. TV on the Radio is a uniquely funky operation, worth checking out if you want to stray from the straight-ahead. The Drive-By Truckers keep churning out kick-ass southern rock (with a modern edge), and I was recently introduced to the Band of Horses and their song “The Funeral”; the track hasn’t made its way out of my head, much less my car.

Speaking of funerals, Rob and I had to go to one this month, and that’s cast as large a rain cloud over this month as anything. When gauging the loss of our friend, it’s substantial in our three areas of discussion at MLC. Baseball players got sports therapy and the local teams got hearty support from him; he was a large enough force to be the biggest fan I knew of Pearl Jam, the Stones, the Black Crowes, U2, and Big Country; he also could put more beer away in one sitting than any individual with whom I’ve shared bar space. What a void there is now.

And how do we cope with these losses? By drinking, of course! It’s in this area alone that I enjoy this dreadful time of year. My most relished bar order is the McDLT – the age-old Irish pairing of hot-side-hot Irish coffee and a cold-side-cold Guinness. (I just made up that name, but I’ll be using it from here on out.) And the dead of winter is the ideal time to warm up with a mug of spiked java and a hearty stout. I found myself wishing for colder weather if only to order it; now that winter (in full effect) is here, the twin beverage order is not quite enough to justify the chill, but it’ll do, lad. It’ll do.

Here’s to sunnier days, newer music, and the submerging of sorrows sixteen ounces at a time until they float away harmlessly. Here’s to the Omar Show in ’06-’07, a show about nothing. And here’s to Dave Flynn, the original “Nutty Irishman.” God love you, kid.

Hazy Shade of Winter

Time for some long overdue updates here at MLC, now that the calendar’s turned over and the absurdly warm weather in the Mid-Atlantic region has awoken hibernating beasts of all sorts. I hate to push Whit’s sublime retelling of the Mets’ final 2006 efforts down the page, but if by doing so I can get him to post something else, then I’ve done a solid for humanity.

Sunday marked the 7th annual Hot Stove, Cool Music charity concert in Boston, where Peter Gammons has combined his love of baseball and rock and roll into a must-attend offseason event. The Globe’s brief recap mentions Theo Epstein and erstwhile Sox hurler Lenny Dinardo as members of Gammo’s band, and highlights the legendary scribe’s continuing recovery from last season’s aneurysm. We’ll add Cold Brews to the recipe and start long-tossing in advance of the 2007 season.

The Sox’ 2007 Spring Training roster looks just about complete with the addition of Joel Pineiro as the prospective closer. The bloom has certainly faded from the former buzz-baby’s reputation, as he’s put together a string of mediocre to dreadful seasons as a starter with the Mariners. Looks like the Sox see something in his delivery and makeup that lead them to believe they can reclaim Pineiro in Gagneian (Gagnesque?) fashion. Color me skeptical to terrified that the Sox are staking their 2007 hopes on this wing and prayer. Given that the only viable backup plan is to move Jonathan Papelbon from the rotation back to the end of the bullpen, the Sox are risking disruption to the entire staff should Pineiro not fill the bill.

The iTunes fairy was pretty good to Team MLC over the Christmas holiday, so we’re working our way through various additions to the song library. Pitchfork Media’s become a monumentally fun time-waster, and probably will lead to a significant dent in my checking account sooner rather than later. I’m digging The Hold Steady, which sounds like early Springsteen crossed with Marah (which is a little like saying Springsteen mixed with Springsteen). Robert Randolph & The Family Band’s ‘Ain’t Nothin’ Wrong with That’ is getting heavy rotation on the iPod, as well – funky, groovy and head-nodding fun.

This week brings news that Loudoun County’s own Old Dominion Brewing is on the verge of selling out to the man. The purveyors of top-notch microbrews (including personal fave Tupper’s Hop Pocket Ale) are rumored to be in acquisition discussions with Anheuser-Busch and other investors. One more thing for me to boycott in a feebly quixotic attempt to remain the champion of the little guy.

Wicked Game

I was talking to my friend Jimmy Chitwood, and I’ve got something to say. I don't know if it'll make a difference, but I figured it's time for me to start blogging.

I’ll start slowly, clearing out the cobwebs that have invaded my portal to Misery Loves Company and treating my just-scabbed-over wounds from the end of the Mets’ season gingerly.

It’s time. Jerry over at the Wheelhouse just addressed his agony over the Game 7 defeat last weekend, and he summed up a good bit of what I was thinking and feeling about the Mets. The Mets-fan waiter at my pub of choice finally got around to discussing the squad after two months of grumbling “not ready to talk about it yet” as he’d walk by my barstool. My little MLC cohort has been exhorting me on for weeks now. I suppose it’s time to address the season and move on.

Today I’ll simply talk about Game 7. In case you’ve shelved the memories of the game to make room for more current NFL, college football, NHL, NBA, college basketball, and competitive eating thoughts, it was a dandy.

I happened to be sitting in the mezzanine seats in right-field, up there in the night with the excitable beer swillers and frenzied Met lovers. Sure, I’d love to have seats behind home plate for such a contest, but the mayhem of the upper sections turns out to be equally exhilarating, maybe more so, if you’re up for it. (You have to watch yourself up there; the guy behind me took a first-inning finger in the eye from a badly straying high-five attempt. Mine, of course.) Up there the tickets are cheaper, but in most cases the buyer felt the financial sting a little more to see the big game. Worth every penny, and not just because my bro-in-law gave me my ticket as an awesome birthday gift.

He, my cousins and I rode the 7 train out to Shea after a few pregamers at an Irish joint in midtown Manhattan. The ride out was killer, with every rider decked out appropriately, and a palpable buzz coming from both the anticipation of the climactic evening and the tall boys of Murphy’s stout that were passed around communally. It’s really the only way to go to the stadium on a night like that.

Approaching Shea was just as stirring, but it couldn’t compare to the moment of finding your seat and turning to face the spectacle of Game 7 NLCS baseball in Metville. That I did so after dumping half a beer on the guy in front of me’s neck didn’t faze the guy in the least or detract from the awe, it just began a comedic sidelight of me as the spazzy fan that would accompany the drama and offer comic relief at night’s end.

Rob had suggested that moving Dee-Dub down in the order might do the Mets some good. I averred that Willie’s vote of confidence, similar to the effective one he’d given Jose Valentin earlier in the series, would pay off, and in the first inning it did. Wright finally returned to the form that serves him best (someone explained to him that the abuse Mike Piazza took in the press was for a different kind of going the other way), knocking one into right field for a ribbie. “And the crowd goes wild” was the cliché that fit the moment.

Somewhere in the early innings I had an epiphany inspired by the ghost of my old Phillie friend Evan, who was prone to such quirks: it occurred to me that since Budweiser products are brewed, or at least based in St. Louis, there’s no way in hell we Mets fans should be paying for and consuming them on this night. Instead, it was Miller Lite all night – the only alternative, and really, we’ve had little beef with the Brewers through the years. After showing my traveling companions the light, I took to rallying the entire beer-buying population of the right-field Level 3 corridor to do the same. My hoarse voice the next day was surely due in large part to the urging on the boys in blue and orange during the game, but in no small part to my “follow me to freedom” shouting tour of the beer stands in close proximity between frames 2 and 3. At the very least, later the amused beer man would consistently crack open a couple of Lites for me before I even said the words, and even let me walk away with four on one occasion. The little things, I tell you.

So what of the game? It stands as a blur of images in my memory at this point, with Oliver Perez being brilliantly elusive, the hitters being agonizingly unproductive, and the defense holding tight with flashes of . . . well, what can I write about that catch that hasn’t been written??

Endy’s grab was a sports moment that will remain tattooed in my brain for as long as said brain remains functional. From deep right, we had the picture-perfect vantage point. Just after the crack of the bat, a collective “ugh” emanated from our section as we were all sure it was a dinger. Then little Endy got higher than we’d have figured he could and seemed to make a play, and we were hopeful . . . but we really couldn’t tell if he caught the ball or not. We all completely froze, and I’d love to have the audio as much as the video of these few seconds:

a huge groan
a gasp
total silence
a thousand people in our section in unison

and then . . . utter chaos
a burst of gleeful screams followed by a second one after the double play was completed

I’ll echo what ol’ Jerry said – 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 that same stadium 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.

The superlatives, I am tremendously saddened to say, ended there. The night was on the verge of being the best game I’ve ever attended, but as a personally brutalizing loss, it’ll simply remain in the Top 5. If the Mets had won, it might have approached one of the best nights of my life, since I feel sure the Powerball ticket in my pocket that night would have hit, Springsteen would have shown up in the bar and asked me to join him onstage, and my wife would have arrived at the end of the raucous celebration with a limo full of playmates and a head full of bad ideas.

Well, in case you don’t remember, Yadier Stinkin’ Molina bested Aaron Heilman, and the Mets did not, as it turned out, go on to the World Series. We were the last four people to leave the mezzanine, doing so only after hounded by security. And that subway ride back to Manhattan – it was like a rattly funeral procession, eerily silent and a depressing juxtaposition to the trip out, as well as to the thought of the roof-tearing ride back that could have been. All too many uses of “could have been” have been thrown around in our heads and chatter since, and each has kept me from wanting to focus on the night until now.

A final note on the night that was – well, it actually comes from the next day. We awoke in my cousin’s apartment to a horrible morning. It was bad enough to wake up and wish that I’d dreamt the night before, bad enough to feel a horrible hangover buying real estate in my head and belly. It was bad enough to know that I had a two-hour car ride, then a two-hour train ride, then a three-hour car ride to get home that day, with little to think about besides how the Mets had crushed my spirits the night prior. It was even bad enough to walk the six blocks to the car in a disgustingly rainy New York morning that we knew would lengthen our return trip.

What I did not need, what I really could have done without, was the 12-year-old twerp in the Yankee jacket who spotted Patrick’s and my Mets caps and proceeded to scream for seemingly all of the five boroughs to hear “Mets suck, Mets suck, Mets suck” over and over again for – without exaggeration – a city block. Patrick and I looked at each other, partly in mutual annoyance, partly in amusement at the kid’s persistence. I remarked that my team had fared better than his, to which the youngster replied that he wasn’t a Yankees fan – he was a Tigers fan. (This encapsulates perfectly my impression of the lesser 90% of the Yanks’ following.) Patrick more logically inquired whether the kid shouldn’t be at school, but by then he was back on the “Mets suck” tirade. A block later, with this little bastard’s hollering fading into the distance, we wondered if we should have shoved him in a trash can. Somehow, despite the instinct, we kept our dignity.

Perhaps the reason we didn’t react more to the insult was that in our minds and hearts, we knew that “Mets suck” was a pretty dumb thing to say. The Mets won 97 regular season games (most in the league), many of them in exciting fashion. They breezed through L.A. and came damn close against the eventual World Series champions (American League dominance be damned) – even with their #1 and #3 pitchers on the shelf. This was a great season, and this was a great team. And man, to be able to type that sentence after the frustration beyond belief of the first few years of this blogging endeavor . . . well, that’s a whole lot of reason not to wallow too long in the depression that Game 7 precipitated.

It has to be the journey as much as the destination, maybe more, or there would be 29 dissatisfied fan bases to just one satisfied one, which would make following baseball a mostly fruitless passion. It’s easy to get hung up on the disappointment of such a finish, but now we move on to appreciating the body of work the 2006 New York Mets delivered. In future posts I will get into that. For now, though, I will merely bask in the recollection of one fantastic evening in Queens amid 56,357 of my best friends, ignoring the way the night soured and fixating on the magnificence of the memory.

Good times.

Can't Buy Me Love

Hot Stove, Cold Beer, Cool Cash Money

My head is spinning a bit, but I can’t tell whether it’s related to the obscene amount of money being tossed at professional baseball players or last weekend’s liver-pickling extravaganza at Whitney’s house. While J.D. Drew was pocketing $70 million dollars over 5 years and Julio Lugo bringing down $36 million for 4 years’ work in Boston, Whit and I conducted a tasting of notable seasonal brews from Harpoon, Anchor Steam, Abita, and Troegs with a little Dogfish Head thrown in for, well, killing a few more brain cells.

Of note, we concluded that it’s far easier to taste beer with an eye towards the critical if you’re not working toward the concurrent goal of getting sloshed. Abita’s 20th Anniversary brew was by far the most appropriate for the latter goal, owing to its smooth palate and clean finish. Unfortunately, we figured that out fairly late in the game, after chewing through most of the other offerings first. Harpoon Winter Warmer has a distinctive nutmeg and cinnamon flavor, and would be perfect for sitting around a fire and sipping. Not that there’s anything wrong with that. Anchor Steam’s Christmas Ale is a bit darker, nearly a porter in style, with some of the same wintry spice that livens up the Harpoon – again, good for enjoying with a meal, a bit filling if you aim to howl at the moon. The Troegs Mad Elf was simply a strange concoction, lively at 11% ABV, but aggressively unusual from a flavor perspective. If I could remember any details about that flavor, I’d surely share them – I’ve got 6 more in my fridge, so perhaps I’ll get into them this weekend in the interest of enlightening you. The Dogfish Head 90 Minute IPA lived up to its reputation as one of America’s best beers, hoppy and fruity with a sit-up-and-take-notice 9% ABV.

As for the Sox offseason exploits, there are certain amongst you who’ll not likely take my fiscal sanity harangues seriously anymore, and I suppose I’ve got that coming. I will say this – after seeing Ted Lilly get $10 million a year and Gil Meche (Gil Freaking Meche!) sign for $55 million guaranteed smackeroos, the Drew and Lugo contracts are market value at worst, and damn near steals. Drew’s a top-25 offensive talent with elite defensive skills. His career OPS is over .900, and he projects to be a plus-power on-base machine at Fenway if he stays healthy. Ahhh, but that’s a big if, no? Drew’s a risk, no question, but if healthy, he combines with Ortiz and Ramirez to create an imposing middle of the order.

Lugo slots immediately into the leadoff spot, dropping Kevin Youkilis into the 2-slot and creating a tantalizing combination of speed and patience in front of the big 3. Lugo’s presence allows Coco Crisp to drop down to the bottom of the order where he can get his stroke back under a lot less pressure than he faced in 2006. Lugo’s not gonna pick it as well as Alex Gonzalez did last year, but he’s also not likely to post a sub-.700 OPS.

The Daisuke Matsuzaka negotiations should be the subject of a Harvard Business School case study in game theory. Though Scott Boras is undeniably evil, he's also a brilliant motherfucker, having manufactured pressure on the Sox in a closed negotiation where it theoretically shouldn’t exist. On the other hand, Theo Epstein, Larry Lucchino, and John Henry weren’t born yesterday, and the Sox still do hold the best cards, so I expect a deal to get done before next week’s deadline.

After Matsusaka joins the fold, the Sox only hole will be at the back of the bullpen, empty because of Keith Foulke’s departure and Jonathan Papelbon’s transition to the rotation. I’ve heard everything from Eric Gagne to Chad Cordero to Derrick Turnbow (um, yeah, not so much), and I can’t say that I’m terribly thrilled by any of the options. Since I’m running short on time (it is 5:00 on a Friday, after all) and on original thought (as if that’s ever stopped us), we’ll leave the closer situation for another day. Lord knows we’re struggling for offseason content. Ahem.

Leaving on a bright note, Jon Lester appears to be cancer free, and even if he doesn’t make it back to Fenway in 2007, there’s no reason to believe that he won’t resume his ostensibly bright career.

And go listen to Neko Case’s Fox Confessor Brings the Flood, Jenny Lewis’ Rabbit Fur Coat, and the new Wreckers album if you want to hear some seriously killer chick-rock.

Only Everything

Title above in homage to the research Whitney and I performed last night, catching Scott Miller solo at Iota in Arlington, VA and taste-testing several Shiner Bocks, Harpoon IPAs, and Guinness drafts. We probably talked about baseball, too, though I can't really recall. For what it's worth, Shiner's overrated - it's nearly indistinguishable from Bud Light.

Those of you not familiar with Miller should be - he's the former frontman of the V-Roys, and a proud product of the College of William and Mary, Class of '90. He appeared to be trying to go drink for drink with Whitney, which resulted in a laid-back, good-timey set of alt-country tunes. (The fact that Whitney tried to make out with him after the show was mostly entertaining, as well, though probably not for him.)

I'm refraining at the moment from buying into Friend of MLC Teejay Doyle's premise that Manny Ramirez is not long for Olde Towne Team. I know it's the popular media hook this week, but I can't see the Sox' front office particularly eager to part with the American League's most potent right-handed bat, especially given the way that contract values for mediocre outfielders have gone plaid this offseason. If Alfonso Soriano gets $17m per season, and Gary Matthews, Jr. gets $10m per, then Manny's an absolute steal at his current $20m or so per year. (Of course, you could argue that the "correction" in the value of Manny's contract makes him easier to trade, and you'd be right. Easier to trade, though, doesn't certify that the Sox would get equal value in return.)

Because Manny's contract is no longer the above-market albatross it once was, the Sox' incentive for trading the enigmatic one has diminished. Unless - and this is a big 'unless' - they can get what they perceive to be value for him. I just don't see that happening, certainly not in any of the deals that have been floated to date. The Sox' front office has been highly disciplined in its approach to the media since Theo's return from the wild, so I'm fairly sure that none of the 'Manny's gone' material is coming from Yawkey Way. More likely, to this uninformed opinionater, that the media is bored and Manny's departure is an easy story to write.

Says here that Manny's in leftfield for the Sox on Opening Day in April, nodding his goofy head in time to music that only he hears. I'd sure hate to have to write a farewell to one of the most entertaining players of my lifetime.

Much Too Young to Feel This Damn Old

Whitney wanted me to pass along the following nursery rhyme that he wrote in honor of the Mets' newest acquisition. To the tune of Alouette:

Alou-Metta
Ancient Alou-Metta
Alou-Metta
At least he'd swing at strike 3

Thank you. Thank you very much.

Turning Japanese

Matsuzaka!

That's all - now back to your regularly scheduled offseason catatonia.

Question

Can we move on to the Hot Stove phase of the season yet, Whit? I realize that there's a series being played, but it's somewhere out in the Midwest, amongst all those red state people that we don't talk about at cocktail parties. I'd rather focus on what matters to us East Coast elites. Like the fact that the Sox resigned Mike Timlin this week to a $2.8m, 1-year deal. Guess I'll be waiting another year before I give him that Gilley's gift certificate as a retirement present.

We've got big plans here at the LC, including but not limited to the expansion of the blogroster and a broadening of the focus to include 2 more of our favorite things, beer and music. If we execute on this vision, you're looking at the interweb's primary purveyor of all things baseball, brews, and backbeats. Or, perhaps, a site frequented by 25-30 mostly bored nitwits, as opposed to the 15-20 that visit us now.

So we need you to wrap up the Mets' season, which despite the admittedly painful end was a pretty damn successful one. As we've discussed, the pain will serve to make the pleasure that much sweeter next year, if the Curse of MLC runs its natural course.