You Suck Coco Crisp

My Retirement

2009-02-11T09:20:00.000-08:00

It is my sad duty to announce that I am retiring from the blogosphere.

The good news is that we can fast forward immediately to the part where I un-retire and start blogging for another site.

So, yes, it is true that the blog formerly known as You Suck Coco Crisp is no more. But don't panic. A newer, better, fancier blog has emerged to take its place, thanks to the good people at sny.tv.

It's called Struck Out Looking, and you can access the site directly by going to www.struckoutlooking.com or via the sny.tv website.

Other than the name and location, it will be pretty much business as usual. Baseball, the Bronx and, of course, the eternal question: How did Brett Favre trick us into ignoring the disparity between the spelling and pronunciation of his last name?

I want to thank those of you who have been my faithful readers. YSCC has been one of the greatest joys in my life, and I couldn't have done it without you. Well, I could have. But I have low self-esteem, so I probably wouldn't have for long.

So, to send this thing off in style, I think we all know what we need to do. Once more, in unison, for old time's sake, and with a heavy heart: You Suck Coco Crisp.

Talkin' Blago-ball

2009-02-11T05:26:00.000-08:00

Well, if you thought that we had finally hit rock bottom—that things could only get better in the world of baseball by virtue of the fact that there was no human way imaginable that they could ever get worse, think again.

Apparently, the Joliet Jackhammers, an unaffiliated Illinois baseball team in the Northern League have offered former Governor Rod Blahblahblahgoveich a contract.

Yeah, like to play baseball.

When I first read about it, I thought, “Now, don’t be cynical, Melanie. Just because this has all the appearances of a really tacky publicity stunt, you shouldn’t assume that it is. Give the good people of Joliet a little credit. After all, they are from the Midwest. Maybe they just really thought this particular forty-two year old with no experience in the sport looked like a good prospect.”

But then I read about "Bobble-Hair Night."

And that’s not the only clever promotional idea the marketing team at the Jackhammers has come up with. They will also be selling special "Golden" seats and have dubbed the whole concept as "pay him to play."

Congratulations, Jackhammers. You’ve found a way to capitalize on both the sad state of your local political system and your sport all in one shot. Not to mention that you are in direction violation of the principle of separation of sports and state.

As a lover of baseball and Midwestern values, all I have to say in response to this shameful mockery is that I will be cheering for the Fargo-Moorhead Redhawks for the duration of the Northern League season. Previously, I hadn’t planned on following this season at all because I hadn’t heard of the league, but whatever. I’m flexible.

More Fun Than Steroids

2009-02-10T18:16:00.000-08:00

With pitchers and catchers reporting at the end of the week, I’ve been desperately searching for some kind of feel good baseball story on which I could focus.

I know; good luck.

Literally every single headline on yankees.com is about A-Roid. Before that, it was the Torre book. Then, of course, there’s the Tejada thing. To be honest, it’s been getting me down.

Then someone sent me this video.

No, it’s not baseball. But it what was just what I needed to remind me why sports are worth all the crapelbon we put up with as fans.

If nothing else, it sure as hell beats talking about Frost-Tip.

A-Lawdy, Lawdy

2009-02-10T10:38:00.000-08:00

So, after a couple of days of listening to us all say that the best thing that A-Roid could possibly do at this point was confess, he confessed. I mean, duh. He saw how we received those who did (Giambi and Pettitte) as compared to how we shunned those who didn’t (Palmeiro and Clemens). After all, the only thing we hate more than a cheat, is a liar and a cheat.

A-Rod’s Mea culpa came in the form of a hard-hitting interview by ESPN’s Peter Gammons, a guy who isn’t afraid to ask the easy questions in a nice tone of voice. A-Rod wore blue. To bring out the color of his eyes.

All in all, it was extremely informative. And by informative, I mean wasteful of everyone’s time. Here are some gems from the transcript along with my commentary.

PETER GAMMONS: What kind of substances were you taking?
ALEX RODRIGUEZ: Peter, that's the thing. Again, it was such a loosey-goosey era. I'm guilty for a lot of things. I'm guilty for being negligent, naive, not asking all the right questions. And to be quite honest, I don't know exactly what substance I was guilty of using.

I don’t get this. At all. Why would anyone ever think that it worked in his favor to act as though he didn’t know exactly what he was taking? ( Something I don’t believe for a second, by the way.) I mean, it was the act of knowingly taking any banned substance that put A-Rod on shaky moral ground. If he really didn’t know specifically which ones he was using—well, that just makes us question his intelligence as well as his values.

PETER GAMMONS: Where did you originally get the substance?
ALEX RODRIGUEZ: Again, at the time, you know, you have nutritionists, you have doctors, you have trainers. That's the right question today: Where did you get it? We're in the era of BALCO ... Back then, it was just about what.

That’s funny. Because I thought that back then, and I quote, “I don’t know exactly what substance I was guilty of using.”

There's many things that you can take that are banned substances. I mean, there's things that have been removed from GNC today that would trigger a positive test.

Oh, I see. He pretended not to know “what” in order to trick us into thinking it was something that might have come from GNC. Now I get it.

PETER GAMMONS: You're saying that the time period was 2001, '2 and '3?
ALEX RODRIGUEZ: That's pretty accurate, yes.

“Pretty accurate?” I like that. Open to interpretation. Loosey-goosey, even. Like the steroids era.

PETER GAMMONS: How much of the culture -- how prevalent was this culture in Texas at that time?
ALEX RODRIGUEZ: You know, I've always been a guy that raced my own race. And I don't like to look left, I don't like to look right. You just feel there's an energy. To say only Texas, that wouldn't be fair. But overall, you felt that there was -- I felt a tremendous pressure to play and play really well. I felt like I was going up against the whole world. I just signed this enormous contract. I got unbelievable negative press, for lack of a better term, for [Rangers owner] Tom Hicks and I teaming up together...

So I felt that I needed something, without over-investigating what I was taking, to get me to the next level.

Huh? So he races his own race and isn’t influenced by the people to his right or to his left. But…he IS influenced by the energy. And the negative press. And the culture. Oh, OK. Now I understand.

PETER GAMMONS: How long was it before you found out that what you were doing was actually illegal?
ALEX RODRIGUEZ: Again, at the time of that culture, there was no illegal or legal. It was just -- you have to understand the time. To take you back there, again, people were taking a number of different things, from GNC, to whatever.

Uh, yeah. I’m pretty sure that there was a legal and illegal. And, again, pretty sure that nothing that could be found at GNC made A-Rod fail his pee test.

PETER GAMMONS: Now, you mentioned the Katie Couric interview. You were asked if you ever used steroids, human growth hormones or other performance-enhancing substances. You said no, flat-out no. In your mind, that wasn't a lie?
ALEX RODRIGUEZ: At the time, Peter, I wasn't even being truthful with myself. How am I going to be truthful with Katie or CBS?

Congratulations, A-Rod. Best excuse for lying ever.

PETER GAMMONS: Now, Jose Canseco talked a lot in his books about you. He claimed in his last book that he hooked you up with a guy that was very well acquainted with performance-enhancing drugs here in Miami. Is that true?
ALEX RODRIGUEZ: That couldn't be more false. That's a hundred percent not true.

Or…is this just one of those times when A-Rod’s not being truthful with us because he’s not being truthful with himself?

PETER GAMMONS: You were tested during the WBC [World Baseball Classic] in 2006, is that correct?
ALEX RODRIGUEZ: Correct. I got tested in 2006. And also this year when I go down to Puerto Rico, I'm sure I'll get tested again in 2009.

Prior to Texas, I really had -- at that time in Seattle, I had never even heard of a player taking a substance, a steroid of any kind in my Seattle days. I mean, I know this lady from Sports Illustrated, Selena Roberts, is trying to throw things out there that in high school I tried steroids. I mean, that's the biggest bunch of baloney I've ever heard in my life.

I mean, what makes me upset is that Sports Illustrated pays this lady, Selena Roberts, to stalk me. This lady has been thrown out of my apartment in New York City. This lady has five days ago just been thrown out of the University of Miami police for trespassing. And four days ago she tried to break into my house where my girls are up there sleeping, and got cited by the Miami Beach police. I have the paper here. This lady is coming out with all these allegations, all these lies because she's writing an article for Sports Illustrated and she's coming out with a book in May.

Not only does A-Rod’s rant bear little-to-no relation to the question, but I would say that shooting the messenger is an extremely ill-advised tactic for a man in the middle of an admission of guilt. Leaving aside the fact that everything he says about Selena Roberts is unverified, by accusing his accuser, he sort of kills that whole contrite man in the blue sweater thing he has going.

PETER GAMMONS: Given the opportunity, would you like to go to Major League Baseball and say, "OK, what can I do to help kids across the country?"
ALEX RODRIGUEZ: 100 percent.

Wow. Talk about gotcha journalism.

In case anyone’s interested in what I think A-Rod should have said, it would have been more like, “At the time, I knew what I was doing was wrong, and I knew it was illegal; I did anyway. I have no excuses and no one to blame but myself. Oh, and I lied to Katie Couric. Obviously.”

Do I think the stuff about being young and feeling pressure was probably true? Sure. Do I think you say any of that stuff in an apology? No. I think apologies never involve excuses. And just because someone says, “There are no excuses,” it doesn’t mean we don’t register all the excuses he makes when he makes a bunch of them.

So, all in all, I thought it was pretty weak.

I don’t think that A-Rod is faking the humiliation. I mean, it’s humiliating. And despite what A-Rod said about the race and looking to the right, this is a guy who is deeply invested in public opinion. So I do think that he sincerely feels bad. It’s just that I think he feels bad about the fact that people think bad things about him rather than about his actions. In short, I don’t think he regrets what he did so much as that I think that he regrets that he got busted.

But one thing's for sure; next time I get caught in a lie, I’m totally saying, “At the time, I wasn’t even being truthful with myself. How am I going to be truthful with you?”

Either A-Rod’s more clever than I thought, or he got a hand from the likes of hip hopera artist R. Kelly with that one.

Pinstripe Patterned Glasses

2009-02-09T16:29:00.000-08:00

I would like to take a moment to respond to what a couple of my readers had to say about my post, “A Schilling For Your Thoughts.”

My reader, Josh, wrote, “In principle, I agree with Schilling. The fans deserve full disclosure from the Union. And the players who didn't use deserve to be vindicated.”

Blindbejeezus commented, “Don't let those pinstripe patterned glasses make you hate curt for saying something good. Screw what is possible and what is not, is there another player out there saying what is PLAINLY obvious at this point: The power currently wielded by the MLBPA has been bad for baseball ($$$ aside). The union has screwed the sport. I'm ready to bring collusion back.”

I want to make an important distinction.

I agree with both Josh and Jeez on one point: I think that the MLBPA does a major disservice to all of the players who aren’t juiced by covering up for the ones who are. Moreover, I think that part of the MLBPA's obligation as a union is to create a fair and safe working environment for everyone in baseball—an environment which obviously can’t exist as long as steroids are such a huge part of the game. This was, in fact, the subject of my piece, “Nothing Against A-Roid.”

So, in short: Do I think that the MLBPA should have agreed to the confidentiality terms of that collective bargaining agreement? No. Do I think they could have done more in the past to put an end to all this nonsense? Absolutely. Is there more they could and should be doing now? Obviously.

However, it doesn’t change the fact that the terms of that agreement were binding. Case closed. End of story. And just because we WANT to be able to know the names of those 104 players, we can’t demand that those terms be nullified. It’s simply not how the law works.

Here’s the problem: While the corruption in this case may be obvious enough for the breach of confidentiality to seem warranted, where do we draw the line? Maybe I’m just nostalgic for those two months I spent in law school, but you get into dangerous terrain when you talk about rewriting the law under certain circumstance when morality deems it reasonable.

So, while I think there’s nothing to be done with those tests that were taken in confidence—except wait for more of the names to be leaked—I do agree with both of you that the MLBPA needs to start getting its act together and cracking down on this situation like now. If the MLBPA and MLB combined forces and made a sincere effort to get steroids out of the sport, you wouldn’t eliminate them entirely, but you’d come a hell of a lot closer.

On another note, for those of you who haven’t already, you should check out Josh’s blog—Jews in Baseball. It’s about, well, exactly what you think it would be about, and it’s always a delightful read.

I'm Waiting For My Man(ny)

2009-02-09T08:12:00.000-08:00

In a recent interview with the La Times about his failure to negotiate a deal with anyone as of yet, Manny Ramirez said, “We're in the seventh inning and I'm waiting for my pitch.”

Adorable.

But here’s the thing about that: When you’re 0-2, you can’t exactly afford to wait for your pitch.

Manny has said of his stint in LA, "I enjoyed the time I spent there. The reporters treated me well. They treated me with respect. When I needed my 15 minutes to go to the cages, they gave it to me. I felt really comfortable there. Everyone treated me well, all of the guys."

Given all that and the fact that the Dodgers are the only team that have officially made Manny an offer, what seems to be the problem?

I know you want a four-year deal, Manny. And I want to be the princess of an island nation in the tropics and to have a staff position at the New Yorker. But that doesn’t mean that I would turn down a trip to Trinidad and freelance job at New York Magazine.

But, whatever. According to Manny, he has no say in the matter. He claims that “it's in God's hands.” While I think it’s pretty unlikely that God cares all that much about where Manny play baseball, it’s not impossible that God cares more than Scott Boras. That guy doesn’t seem to care at all. I just hope that after God makes this decision, Manny knows that he will have to be the one to actually show up to sign the contract.

A Schilling For Your Thoughts

2009-02-09T07:10:00.000-08:00

Curt Schilling wrote a post for his blog a couple days ago entitled, “Shocked? You Just Can’t Be Anymore.” (Awesome title, by the way, Curt.) In his piece about the recent A-Roid scandal, Schilling said, “I’d be all for the 104 positives being named, and the game moving on if that is at all possible. In my opinion, if you don’t do that, then the other 600-700 players are going to be guilty by association, forever.”

Here’s the problem with that: It’s not at all possible. Sure, I agree with the sentiment, but under the collective bargaining agreement, those tests were to be confidential. Period. And even though I don’t support the use of steroids—at all—a deal’s a deal. Now, a leak is one thing, but you can’t just decide that because someone leaked one piece of confidential information, you’re going to blow the whole agreement to smithereens. But, whatever. Unless you’re Curt Schilling, I’m assuming that this is obvious.

In fact, for those other 103 juicers on the list; take heart. Baseball COO Bob DuPuy assures us that there is no need to lose faith in the confidentiality of the testing, saying, “I am comfortable [the] program is operated currently as it should be."

Seriously, Bob? Did your subscription to Sports Illustrated lapse, or are you just living in the Lake House?

Nothing Against A-Roid

2009-02-07T16:16:00.000-08:00

Well, it looks like A-Rod’s hair isn’t the only thing he’s been chemically enhancing.

Unless you’ve been hiding under a rock, you’ve probably heard by now that Sports Illustrated printed a story revealing that Frost-Tip tested positive for steroids in 2003.

Wait a second. That’s funny. I feel like A-Rod did something else of note that year. But what the hell was it? Oh, right. Win AL MVP and the league home run championship.

What a coincidence.

But believe it or not, I’m not going to take this opportunity to rag on A-Roid. (Though obviously he has a new nickname for life.) I mean, you all know how I feel about the guy. This doesn’t really change that. And whatever. If someone somewhere is doing something morally compromising, I just assume that Frost-Tip is involved. So it’s not a surprise or a disappointment. Tell me Bernie Williams tested positive, that’s a different discussion.

My issue right now is actually with the MLB Player’s Association.

Yeah, I said it.

I believe in unions. Screw the man and all that. But Adam the Bull made an interesting point today on WFAN. (Not interesting enough to forgive the name, but I’ll address that another time.) He said that, while, on the one hand, it’s the MLBPA’s responsibility to protect the players who have been busted for violating the steroid rules, it should also be its obligation to protect those players who haven’t. The ones who are struggling to compete in an industry in which people have gone outside the system to give themselves an unfair advantage. So, when Gene Orza, the COO of the player’s union, warns players about upcoming drug tests, he may think that he’s only sticking it to the people at MLB. But not so.

By enabling the guys who are juicing to keep on juicing, he’s kind of sticking it to all the players who aren’t. And by keeping all of this under such a veil of secrecy, the people at the MLBPA end up tarnishing the names of everyone in the sport. Until someone decides to just bust this thing wide open, every player is a suspect. And that hardly seems like a way to protect whatever members of the union are within regulations. And those would seem, to me, to be the members most deserving of the union’s protection.

But not so fast, MLB. You’re not exactly exempt either. This whole thing only got so out of control in the first place because you let it. By treating our bitterness over a strike with a steroids-fueled home run frenzy. Patently imbecilic.

Basically, it would be as though your kid had a weight problem, and you were worried because all the other kids were teasing him. So when he started smoking crack and got thin and made friends, you decided not to say anything. Obviously he was going to eventually start robbing gas stations and having paranoid delusions, but for the moment, the problem was addressed.

Well, guess what? That’s obviously the dumbest way to deal with a problem ever. My analogy may be a little far-fetched, but seriously. Your kid is fat, you put him on a diet. You don’t let him smoke crack. People don’t like baseball? You do more promotions, have players do more community outreach, do more personal interest stories. I don’t know. Ever heard of marketing? I thought the whole reason advertising was everywhere was that we were all stupid enough to buy into it. But whatever you do, you don’t turn a blind eye as a steroid epidemic of unbelievable proportions takes over your sport because the effect that it’s having is working to your advantage. That’s lazy, and it’s immoral, and for salaries of up to $18 million a year, I would expect the guys over at baseball to be doing more than just calling it in.

So, here’s a revolutionary idea. Maybe the people at MLB and the MLBPA can see this as possibly the one opportunity they’re ever going to have to share a common goal—the total elimination of steroids from the sport.

It could happen.

And Coco Crisp could just wake up one morning and realize that, somehow, miraculously, he doesn’t suck anymore.

(Don’t worry; I haven’t forgotten.)

A H-O-R-S-E By Any Other Name

2009-02-06T11:52:00.000-08:00

In case anyone wasn’t totally clear on just how bad things were going in the economy, let me paint a picture.

This year’s NBA All-Star weekend is going to feature a game of H-O-R-S-E—something that’s long been fantasized about by many. Only it’s not going to be H-O-R-S-E. Because it’s going to be G-E-I-C-O.

No, you read that right. Like, instead of an “H,” it’ll be a “G,” and instead of an “O,” it’ll be an “E,” and so on. I totally get why no one buys fiction anymore. I mean, the stuff that actually happens is truly amazing.

Now, we’re obviously all totally inured to advertising at this point. We go to the movies and see advertising for sodas, we buy cans of sodas and see advertising for movies. It’s everywhere, shamelessly woven into the fabric of our lives, and you know what? We deal with it. That is, however, until it subsumes the event that it is supposed to be merely sponsoring. That’s when we decide to get annoyed.

And by we, I, of course, mean me.

H-O-R-S-E is a game that reminds people of their youth, which is why it was such an appealing idea to bring it to the All-Star Game. Seeing as that H-O-R-S-E is such a classic game and that its name is integral to the actual playing of it, it’s going to irritate people when they find out that the good people at NBA had the gall to actually sell the naming rights. Like they owned them.

I mean, it’s not a total surprise. I’m guessing that the genius who thought of this figured that we’d all think it was insanely clever and adorable. Like everyone seems to think that gecko is. Everyone except me. What can I say? I’m just not a huge fan of those Geico commercials. Yeah, I know; I’m the only one. But A) Australian accents make me insane, B) Talking animals remind me of mascots, and C) I don’t get what’s so goddamn funny about a caveman.

Leaving aside my feelings about cavemen and Australian accents, the bottom line is that there was a semi-tasteful way to do this. Like to have it be H-O-R-S-E—sponsored by Geico. That I could have lived with. But this leaves me with the unsettled feeling that the only derby I’ll be watching this July will be the Exxon Derby.

But maybe I’m just being bitter. My friend Josh seems to think that we should capitalize on the advertising frenzy and is actually working on a deal with Google in which every fifth word he speaks will be Google. I’m currently trying to work out a similar arrangement with Snuggie.

You’d be surprised, but for people who walk around wearing blanket-robes, they’re kind of a bunch of hard-nosed pricks.

Leave Michael Phelps Alone

2009-02-04T13:35:00.000-08:00

In a recent article entitled, “Michael Phelps Betrays Himself and His Admirers,” David Ramsey wrote that Phelps “fills us with shame.”

Because he took a bong hit.

And Ramsey isn’t the only one up in arms. Elisabeth Hasselbeck of “The View” and countless others have been making a stink about Phelps and his degeneracy, expressing their disappointment in his failure to act as a proper role model, even going so far as to demand that he serve time for his crime.

I’m sorry. Maybe I missed all the news coverage on this one, but did Michael Phelps kill a prostitute and burn an American flag after he finished smoking that bong hit?

I’ve never been a huge Michael Phelps groupie. I mean, much respect for all those medals and everything, but as soon as someone starts to have a following, that’s kind of where they lose me. Naturally, though, now that the world’s turned its back on him, I’ve obviously come to love him.

Sure, smoking pot is juvenile and silly and whatever. But you want to know what else is juvenile and silly and whatever? 23-year-old dudes. And you know what? Even though he has weird super strength and some kind of magical hidden retractable fins and is more famous than most of us will ever be, at the end of the day, Michael Phelps is just a 23-year-old dude. So I don’t get the expectation that he’d do anything other than act like a 23-year-old dude.

I understand that what he did was illegal. It’s just hard for me to take seriously that people are so up in arms about this when we live in a culture that turns a blind eye to the excessive consumption of alcohol by its young people. And legal or not, alcohol is the most toxic drug there is.

Seriously.

Too much alcohol can literally kill people. Too much pot makes people eat too much and laugh at dumb crap. Again, detox from alcohol can literally kill people. Detox from pot makes people get jobs and haircuts.

But what about his DUI in 2004, people will ask. Isn’t this a pattern? Well, a DUI is a heinous offense. I will admit that. I have no tolerance for that kind of idiocy. But it’s not impossible that the only pattern it was a part of was the pattern that dictates that dumb teenage boys will act like dumb teenage boys. Phelps lives his life under a microscope, so we just get to bear witness to every dumb thing he does.

But let’s say, for the sake of argument, that these behaviors are indicative of some kind of issue with substance abuse. It seems a little weird that our reaction would be to demand his head on platter rather than to express our concern. If the guy’s got a problem, he deserves our sympathy and support—not our censure.

In any event, I think it’s a little early to make that kind of assessment. For now, all we’ve got on our hands is the case of a 23-year-old kid who smoked weed at a party. And if that 23-year-old kid isn’t an Olympic medalist, this story sure as hell ain’t making headlines.

Oh, and speaking of which, State of South Carolina, I’m sorry but what? Criminal charges? For photos of someone taking a bong hit? I mean, really South Carolina. You already have John Edwards and those accents working against you. Is the goal to just eliminate any doubt from our minds that you are not a state to be taken seriously?

Well, don’t worry. I’m sold.

Battle Lines Being Drawn

2009-01-30T08:14:00.001-08:00

Last night, Mets fans gathered outside of the SNY studios to stage a “Bring Manny to Queens” rally. The turnout was small, but the message was clear: Some people just have way too much time on their hands.

Don’t get me wrong; I believe in protest as a valuable tool to affect social change. I just kind of think that if you are going to expend that kind of energy it should be on something that matters. Like an actual cause.

I’ve learned after years of fanmanship that there is not a balance of power in sports relationships. We care about our teams more than our teams care about us. Players, managers and owners are ultimately going to do what they do regardless of what we think about it. Sure, once in a while they appear to be responding to popular opinion, but usually only when it’s a question of damage control. For the most part, though, we don’t have a particularly loud voice in the decision-making process. Nor should we. Opinions are like pujols—everyone’s got one. Show me forty people who want Manny on the Mets, I’ll show you forty who don’t.

But the good news for Mets fans is that Wilpon and Minaya ultimately share the same goal as their fans—to win championships. They’re just going to try to accomplish that goal in whatever way they see fit. Regardless of what anyone has to say about it. So no matter what they tell us, if they sign Manny—and I don’t think they will—it won’t be because anyone froze his ass off on 6th Avenue in a dreadlock wig to make it happen.

Boras Being Boras

2009-01-28T18:38:00.000-08:00

In today’s LA Times, the Creature from the Black Lagoon (aka Scott Boras) was quoted as saying this about the Manny dilemma, “I can’t put a timetable on this, but I know that spring training is a long time away,”

Um, I hate to be that jerk who breaks the bad news, but it’s actually not. I mean, maybe according to the Kabbalah calendar. But in baseball time, it’s in a couple of weeks.

Clearly Boras is trying to Jedi mind trick us into thinking that Manny isn’t screwed because he needs to divert our attention. From what? The fact that he’s the one who screwed him. How? By making Teixeira his real priority, by overestimating Manny’s market worth and by failing to encourage Manny to sign with the Dodgers—because that’s really the place where he belongs.

Manny’s options are dwindling away. The Giants won’t give him the years he wants, the Angels are supposedly not making anymore moves in the foreseeable future, and the Yankees plain old don’t need him. (Hallelujah.) As for the Mets, despite Jerry Manuel’s rumblings, I don’t see it happening.

The bottom line is that the Dodgers haven’t just given him his best offer. At the moment, they’ve given him his only offer. I’m no sports agent, but when the season’s rapidly approaching, and no one seems to want sign your client, don’t you advise him to take the only offer he’s been given? Especially when it involves $45 million?

But, like I said, I’m no sports agent.

Leaving aside the question of who wants Manny (the Dodgers) and who doesn’t (everyone else), the fact is that Manny makes sense as a Dodger. He needs to be the big fish, needs to play for fans who care more about big hits than running out the ground ball. In short, he needs a town so laid back that its residents are oblivious of the reality that there are few things in life more irritating than Manny being Manny.

So, Boras, I’d advise you to go to the Dodgers and give them a reasonable counteroffer—like one that’s basically the same as their original offer but just a little bit higher so that you fools can save face. But do it soon because their offer has already expired and who knows at what point they’re going to be too annoyed to give you the courtesy of saving face.

Or you could just go with the Andy Pettitte strategy and stand your ground until you get the Dodgers to give you half of what they had originally offered. That or wait for someone unhinged enough to give Manny a four-year contract.

It could happen. And the Cubs might also win a World Series again.

No Lie Worse Than A Bald-Faced Lie

2009-01-28T08:49:00.000-08:00

In case we were all getting bored while we waited for pitchers and catchers to report, here’s a little bit of good news: More steroids intrigue.

Awesome.

Am I the only one who misses the good old days when the financial scandals happened on quiz shows, the press knew better than to publicize the tawdry details of a president’s affairs and the baseball players letting us down were at least underpaid enough to be sympathetic?

In this latest addition of “Roid Rage,” both David Justice and Doc Gooden deny claims made by former Mets employee/steroid peddler Kirk Radomski in his new book. The claims? That he gave David Justice HGH and Doc Gooden two cups of pee. I’m honestly not sure which one I’d pick given the option.

The bottom line in these cases is that we never really know what happened. It’s one man’s word versus another and all a person has to go on is a gut reaction. And there is nothing less reliable than a gut reaction. (Except maybe Fox News.)

That said, I’m obviously going to give you my gut reaction.

It’s a well established fact that Doc Gooden had a cocaine problem. A fact established by the arrests, the trips to rehab, the positive tests for cocaine and, of course, his admission that he had a cocaine problem. So there’s no real reason for Doc to want to hide any behavior related to his drug use. The fact that a drug addict would want to cover up a dirty urine is hardly newsworthy. And, yet, Gooden vehemently denies the claim that Radomski ever peed on his behalf, saying, "I don't know what he's talking about. I've made mistakes through the years, and I've admitted them, but that never happened. And the way the tests were administered, it couldn't have happened. I've done enough wrong on my own, I don't want to get blamed for something I didn't do."

True, it’s possible that the old ballplayer instinct to “Deny ‘em all and let Mitchell sort ‘em out” may have kicked in. But, seriously, if Radomski’s story was true, I think Doc would have put the issue to bed a lot sooner by saying, “Yeah, I had a cocaine problem, which I wanted to keep from my employers. Obviously, I was never successful.”

But you know what else my gut tells me? That it’s a little weird that the only time David Justice would have purchased HGH from Radomski would have been right after the season had ended. And right before he was going to through airport security. I’m not saying Justice was never on the juice. I don’t claim to know. I’m just saying that the timing and location of their one and only transaction seems a little suspect.

Of course, Radomski does have a check that Justice gave him, which proves, at the very least, that money changed hands. But we’ll have to take Radomski’s word on that one. He can’t like produce the check or anything. But we know he has it. Cuz he told us. Unless, of course, as Justice suggests, Radomski is telling a "bald-faced lie.”

Touché, Justice. That’s harsh.

While we will never really know what happened here, a lot of the verifiable facts in the book were just plain wrong. For one, the assertion that Clemens and Conseco never played on the same team. (They played on not one but three of the same teams.) There was also the claim that the reason Radomski left the Mets was because the Wilpons had bought out the Doubledays and created an unpleasant working environment. (Radomski quit in 1995 and the Wilpon buyout happened in 2002.) Finally, Radomski suggests that Gooden's suspension happened in 1988 following Radomski's refusal to give Gooden a third clean urine. (Actually, that suspension happened in 1994.) The only thing these errors prove definitively is that Radomski had a lousy fact-checker, but it makes us question the veracity of a lot of his other assertions.

Regardless, there’s one thing I can say for sure: Anyone who distributes steroids for a living and, when exposed, is not penitent and humiliated enough to not want to write a mud-slinging book about it? Piece of crapelbon. Period. That’s not a gut reaction. That’s just obvious.

Ultimately, it doesn’t matter all that much who’s telling the truth. I mean, either way, we’re left with pretty much the same results. Radomski’s still a scumbag, Gooden still had a drug problem, and David Justice will still be best remembered by history as one of the worst commentators of all time.

I know that’s how I’m going to remember him, anyway.

Pettitte: Driving A Hard Bargain

2009-01-27T05:59:00.000-08:00

After months of fruitless negotiations, Andy Pettitte and the Yankees have finally come to an agreement. And I think we’ve all relearned an important lesson: When the Yanks brass make you an offer and say, “Take it or leave it,” they mean it. And if you’re a thirty-six-year old pitcher, coming off of a mediocre season and that offer is for $10.5 million guaranteed, you take it.

Or you could just go with Pettitte’s strategy and holdout for months, have your people spread rumors about a three year $36 million offer from a “mystery team” and then eventually sign with the Yanks for half of what they originally offered. True, Pettitte’s new contract is filled with incentive clauses and he stands to make even more than $10.5 million assuming he is able to meet the criteria laid out in the contract. $4.5 million in incentives based on innings pitched, 2 million based on time on the active roster. It’s also true that, based on past performances, the incentives are fully within Pettitte’s grasp. However, given his age and his shoulder injury at the end of last year’s season, my prediction is that he walks away with less than what he would have gotten out of the first offer.

It’s like they always say: $10.5 million birds in the hand is better than $6.5 million in incentive clauses in the bush. Or something.

Not surprisingly, Pettitte was somewhat sheepish about the deal, saying, “Heck, the bottom line is I'm a man, and I guess it does take a shot at your pride a little bit.”

Note to Pettitte: Don’t say heck. Ever.

I have made no secret of the fact that I didn’t think that we should sign Pettitte, that having signed CC and AJ, we should give the kids a shot at the back end of the rotation. But now that we have, I’ll say this, though I’m sure that no one in the Bronx will hear me: Put Joba back in the bullpen. We have a rock solid starting rotation without him. With Joba as your setup man, followed by Mo, we’re dealing with a six-inning ballgame—most of the time. Then, eventually, when Mariano reveals himself to not be an alien and his body gives out on him, Joba becomes our closer. Unfortunately, however, Cashman seems pretty wed to the idea that Joba belongs in the starting rotation.

But in Cashman’s defense, these are hard decisions, and he has a stressful job. He said so himself just yesterday: "I feel the heat. I've always felt the heat. I've never not felt the heat. Do I think it's any hotter now than it was before? No. But do I feel it every day? Yeah, I do."

Does anyone else see a second career in tropical meteorology in Cashman’s future?

Et Tu, Torre?

2009-01-26T07:27:00.001-08:00

According to recent reports, Joe Torre has decided to reveal more than just the seedy underbelly of the Yankees in his new tell-all book “The Yankee Years.” He reveals that beneath the veneer of his Austenian perfection lies a man just as willing to sink to the depths of human depravity as the rest of us.

Mark this one down with Santa and the Easter Bunny.

I’m not going to lie and say that I don’t sort of love reading reports that Yankees teammates referred to A-Rod as “A-Fraud” and that he was widely perceived to have a “single white female” complex with Jeter. Nor will I pretend that I wouldn’t have given anything to have been a fly on the wall during the final failed negotiation meeting between Torre and the Bombers brass. But just because gossip-hungry jerks like me want get cheap US Weekly-type thrills from having this information, it doesn’t mean that I’m glad to have gotten them from Torre.

I don’t know exactly what compelled Torre, after so many years of restraint, to suddenly go all Jose Conseco on our asses. Was it the revenge factor? After seasons of dealing with a ruthless Steinbrenner clan and a spineless Cashman, had Joe just built up so much hostility that he was ready to air his laundry now that he was finally in a position to? Or was it all about the money? Period. I don’t quite know which would be a more upsetting prospect. The possibility that Torre is as petty and childish and disappointingly human as the rest of us or that his principles have a price.

If it’s the former, and I assume that there’s at least a little of that mixed in there, then here’s the thing that’s upsets me the most. It’s that Torre doesn’t give us enough credit. Yeah, we’ve heard him defend George Steinbrenner over the years, we heard him say that Cash was his greatest proponent during the negotiations, we also heard him express his undying support for A-Rod as a player in whom he had faith. But guess what, Skip? We knew that none of that was true. I mean, please. You think that just because you acted like you thought Steinbrenner was a sometimes spirited but ultimately well-meaning team owner rather than a sociopath we actually doubted the fact of his derangement? Do you think that just because you held your tongue about the way that Cashman failed to come to your aid during last year’s infamous negotiation meeting we somehow didn’t know that Cashman was a Steinbrenner whipping boy who would always fail the test if the test involved showing a little backbone? I mean, really Joe. Do you think any of us thought that A-Rod was anything other than despised in the clubhouse or that you ever considered him to be Jeter’s equal on the field or as a man?

Please. Give us some credit. It’s not that we didn’t know all this stuff. But the reason we all respected you so much was that you had too much class and good taste to ever say it.

Don’t get me wrong. Are there things that you reveal in your book that we didn’t know? Absolutely. Like the fact that the Yankees medical staff informed Steinbrenner about your prostate cancer before they ever talked to you. But, again, while this may be a detail about which we were in the dark, it does little to change the way that most of us already felt about Steinbrenner. When you write a trashy book about people generally perceived to be trashy already, the only person who it stands to negatively affect is you, the author.

Now, according to the book’s co-author, Tom Verducci,Torre and the book are getting a bad rap. Verducci claims that it is a third person account of a period of Yankee history rather than a first person tell-all about Joe’s experience. He also says that, while Torre is always honest, he’s never tasteless. That the details that we have read about the book are going to seem a whole lot less smutty when read in context.

Gosh, I’m trying to think. Where else have I heard something like that this week? Oh, right. From Governor Rod Blagojevich, who claimed that the recording that we heard of him suggesting they sell off the Senate seat would actually make him sound like a fighter of corruption when played in context.

Well, more will be revealed on both of these fronts, I assume—after both the impeachment hearing and the release of Torre’s book. I certainly plan to read the book and am open to the possibility that I am wrong. However, as it stands, and based on what I know, I have to admit to being disappointed. The prospect that Torre is a man with anything other than impeccable integrity? Well, it would be like finding out that Obama didn’t totally believe in Hope. (Capital “H.”) Or that Mike Mussina actually hated tractors.

It's All Greek To Me

2009-01-22T09:11:00.000-08:00

Well it appears Stephon Marbury may have finally found a place to rest his weary (and by weary, I, of course, mean crazy) head. And that place is Greece.

Yeah, as in that dope country on the Mediterranean coast. Who knew all you had to do to get shipped off to that place was act insane enough to be committed and make a bunch of unreasonable demands?

That’s right. It turns out that the Greek team Olympiacos has recently lost Josh Childress for up to two months to a sports hernia, and they’re clamoring for some new talent. Apparently, they have reached out to the Knicks to discuss what it would take to have Marbury released from his contract.

As you might imagine, Greek basketball franchises are not often the brokers of buyouts between NBA teams and their players, but this wouldn't be the first time. In 2007, Olympiacos rival, Panathinakos, reportedly paid the Spurs for the release of one of their players.

(Similar reports have also been made—but cannot be verified—about Greek team Bananafanafofinakos.)

Now, in theory, this could pan out to be a great option for everyone. Olympiacos finds someone to fill their hole, the Knicks get rid of a little dead weight, Marbury gets a shot—not only to actually play—but in a country where people can’t understand what he’s saying well enough to register how crazy he is. Everybody wins, right? Right.

Amazing. Done. I’m pumped. Let’s make it happen.

But there’s one little problem, which is that everyone involved with the Knicks apparently suffers from the Greek brain disease Whatthehelliswrongwithyouofinakos. How do we know this? Well, for starters, the only thing that originally prevented them from solidifying Marbury’s release was James Dolan’s refusal to accept Marbury’s offer to give back a million dollars of his $20.8 million salary. Why? Because Dolan wants two million dollars. (That is according to Mike Francesa, anyway.) And while I know the difference is a lot in real people money, in sports franchise money, that’s like a one month MetroCard and a week’s worth of lattes. Enough to be annoying but not nearly enough to be a deal-breaker.

Further evidence of this judgment-impairing illness is the fact that Donnie Walsh is likely to hold off on pursuing the deal until February 19th because he is clinging to the delusional hope that NBA teams that actually want Marbury are going to magically come out of the woodwork before the trade deadline. But guess what, Donnie? The president of the other NBA teams speak English and have, consequently, had to bear witness to all the drama that has unfolded in your clubhouse over this situation over the last several months. As previously established, the people in Greece do not speak English. At least not as a first language. I think that’s your real advantage here. So you might want to hop on it. And soon. Like before they get suspicious and bust out the old Greek-to-English dictionary and get some poor Olympiacos intern working on translating old archived Marbury-D’Antoni articles from the deadspin website. Because that will undoubtedly be the kiss of death.

That or they may also just get annoyed and impatient and start looking somewhere else.

So come on, guys. Don’t be proud. Just suck it up and get it done. We don’t need another gyro.

Integrity Shmintegrity

2009-01-20T06:56:00.000-08:00

In yesterday’s New York Times, Tony La Russa made what I thought was an interesting comment about Mark McGwire’s integrity. He said that he had it.

La Russa cited, as an example, the fact that McGwire retired with two years and $30 million left on his contract—without asking for a buyout—because he didn’t think he could be effective anymore.

Was that an admirable thing to do? Sure, of course. I guess. Though, in theory, we shouldn’t think it's that admirable. Because it’s actually just plain old decent. I think we’ve just become so accustomed to dealing with greedy athletes that our standards are low. But, regardless, admirable though the act may have been, one admirable act does not a person with integrity make.

Integrity can be defined as an adherence to moral and ethical principles; soundness of moral character; honesty. And adherence is steady or faithful attachment. So it follows that a man’s integrity can’t be defined by one act. It’s defined by all of his acts.

The bottom line is that the use of performance enhancing drugs—AKA cheating—isn’t an adherence to any kind of moral and ethical principles. And, ultimately, this is the act for which McGwire is currently being barred from the Hall. A person gets into the Hall because of his merit as a player. Apparently, not everyone feels comfortable voting someone in if they feel like he’s come by his merit dishonestly. You see, whether or not McGwire asked for a buyout on the last two years of his contract is sort of beside the point, La Russa.

I understand that for some it can be hard to reconcile the inconsistencies in people’s actions. Let me quote our soon-to-be-former President, who recently said in his farewell address that “good and evil are present in the world and between the two there can be no compromise.” That would appear to be La Russa’s take.

Well, to paraphrase the words of another philosopher, “It may be hard to understand, but compassion and cruelty can reside side by side in the same heart.” OK. So maybe that wasn’t a philosopher as much as it was the epilogue from an episode of Desperate Housewives. (What? I’m not above it.) The principle, however, is sound.

Take, for example, La Russa, who can be, well, a jerk. Who likes to defend the honor of other jerks. (See Bill Belichick.) Who makes public his grievances with players and reporters. (He of course also gets DUI’s, but I’d say that’s less evidence of jerkiness than of a drinking problem.) But then here’s the confusing part: La Russa loves kittens. No, like, really loves them. And also puppies and pretty much everything cute and furry. So much so that he’s a vegetarian and has an animal rescue foundation. As someone who loves most puppies and kittens more than I love most people, this definitely scores some pretty major points with me.

So, then what’s our assessment: good person, bad person? Person with integrity or no integrity?

Perhaps, McGwire’s steroid use—I’m sorry alleged steroid use—is not evidence of a black soul as much as it is evidence of an insane and tragically unrelenting need to excel and be perfect. Just as it’s possible that his decision to retire with two years left on his contract may have been less of the result of an exceptional character as a guilty conscience. I don’t presume to know. The point is that people are complicated, as are their motivations. But that doesn’t matter. The world doesn’t judge us by our motivations but by our actions. And the common perception is that Mark McGwire gave himself an unfair advantage by taking performance enhancing drugs.

So, La Russa, it’s not just about the fact that we’re at odds about our definitions of integrity. It’s about the fact that if McGwire never finds his way to Cooperstown, it won’t be so much about his integrity as it will be about the unfair advantage. I mean, seriously, if it was about integrity, they’d find a way to bar Manny, and I assure you they won’t.

Another One (Manning/New York Sports Franchise) Bites The Dust

2009-01-13T19:07:00.000-08:00

One of the callers on today’s Mike Francesa Show was able to provide me with some interesting insight into Sunday’s somewhat catastrophic Giants game. He said that the fundamental difference between last year and this year was that last year the Giants were hunters, and the other teams were their prey.

That was the sum total of his commentary.

I, like probably a lot of you, thought this year’s devastation had at least a little something to do with Eli Manning’s total inability to manage the wind, the insane dominance of the Eagles’ defense, two failed fourth down attempts, and even, perhaps, that whole Trapped in the Latin Quarter Club thing.

But, no. It’s because last year the Giants were hunters.

I’m sorry. Do they not have someone over at WFAN to like screen the callers or something? Maybe an intern?

Whatever the case, last Sunday capped off a year in both baseball and football that has been truly something of a shit show. Well, for New Yorkers anyway. I mean, I guess someone somewhere is like super psyched to see the Cardinals go on to play in the NFC championship. Presumably someone who is forced to live in Arizona. And obviously people in Tampa Bay had it pretty good this year, considering.

Of course, Philly sports fans—the fans formerly known as the lunatic losers—are still riding the wave of their World Series championship. Let’s just hope they don’t keep riding it all the way to the Super Bowl. I’m sorry but the only thing more unbearable than a Philadelphia sports phan is one with bragging rights. (I mean, other than a chowda head. Obviously.)

But apparently it’s not just the Phillies phans who are classless. It’s their quarterback, too. After running out of bounds in the fourth quarter, McNabb picked up the phone on the Giants’ sideline and had a fake conversation for a few seconds before getting flagged with unsportsmanlike conduct. Giants fans are obviously all up in arms about how it was such an offensive display of bad taste. Eagles fans defend the move as hilarious and all in good fun. (Not that they should be our gauge for class because, as we’ve established, they have none.)

My take? The guy was excited and got carried away. I think it was obnoxious, insensitive, and a display of bad judgment, but I also don’t think that he was exactly thinking it through. I mean, it wasn’t quite what you’d call a premeditated act. So, whatever.

That’s not really what concerns me. What concerns me is why the guy standing on the sidelines wearing a Giants jacket would have thought to smack McNabb on the ass while all this was going on. I get that, for whatever reason, ass-smacking is just always going to be some weird, big part of sports that I can’t wrap my brain around. But, I mean, at that moment? Really? Is the overwhelming need to smack the ass of anyone who has collided into you so all-consuming that you fail to realize that that the ass you are smacking actually belongs to the quarterback for the team that is currently dashing your Super Bowl hopes while he makes fun of you to your face with his unsportsmanlike conduct? Seriously, if you’re gonna smack ass, try to make it at least a little bit dignified.

But I guess it was just ones of those games where everyone was acting on emotion, and sometimes emotions makes us do foolish things—smack an ass, pick up a phone, or, in the case of Tom Coughlin, recklessly throw a red flag.

When Derrick Ward failed to get the first down after the Giants decided to go for it on fourth and inches, Coughlin threw away his second timeout in order to challenge the call. Not necessarily that well reasoned. But, as Joe Buck said, Coughlin was close to the ball, and he saw it with his heart, if not his eyes.

Spoken like a nine-year-old girl riding a unicorn through Narnia, if not a sportscaster.

The Dawn Of A New Eira

2009-01-09T21:07:00.000-08:00

I know it’s been a while, and I’m sorry. But let me assure you that the theoretical move to SNY.tv is happening within the month-ish, at which point I will be updating my situation multiple times daily.

But in the meantime, while you may not be able to count on regular updates at YSCC, it’s nice to know that there are still some things in life you can depend on. Like, for example, MLB beat writer Bryan Hoch. There’s just something comforting about the fact that whenever there’s a basic piece of Yankees-related information to be communicated, you know that somehow Hoch is going to find the craziest possible way imaginable to communicate it.

There was my personal favorite—the time that he accidentally phrased a sentence to make it sound like there was a statistic for water and oxygen. (What he had really meant to do was use water and oxygen as part of a stupid analogy.)

There was also the time he described the speech that Jeter made to close down the Cathedral as “a moment stripped from cinema.”

Oh, and that time he said, “If Robinson Cano was given a do-over, he might have attacked Saturday's seventh-inning grounder differently. But the Yankees second baseman has no intention of changing the way he plays.” Hard to wrap your brain around, right? It’s like, does Cano want the do-over or would he not change a thing?

But that’s what I love about Hoch. He makes you think.

More than that, though, Hoch is what you’d call reliable. Reliably confusing. And in a recent expression of this confusing reliability, he wrote, “Securing back pages on snowy street corners means little for the regular season—a fact the Yankees know all too well.”

Now, I can’t confirm the veracity of this statement because the “fact” in question—the one about the back pages and snowy street corners—would have to make sense in order for it to be verifiable. (Seriously, I read this sentence twenty times before finally picking up Finnegan’s Wake because my brain hurt and I wanted to look at something that would be easier to digest.) So, if the Yankees are indeed familiar with this “fact,” then hats off to them for speaking, uh, Hochonese. A language so difficult that, like Arabic, the members of the U.S. Intelligence Community are still trying to master it.

As a result of this language gap, I couldn’t tell you for sure what Hoch’s piece was about. However, based on the headline and a few other tidbits that I managed to piece together, I think I got the idea. The gist of it was that, apparently, as it turns out, money was not the deciding factor for Teixeira in his decision to come to New York. It was family. Damn. Cashman’s gotta feel like kind of an asshole for having offered such stupid salaries to two of the only players alive who didn’t actually give a crapelbon about the money. (Remember? For CC it wasn’t a business decision either.)

According to Hoch, Teixeira brought the issue to the table when he “dined with his wife, Leigh, over their regular date.” (Don’t ask.) Apparently Teixeira asked her where she thought he should play, assuming all the offers were equal. I’m sorry, but that’s like asking your broker what stocks to buy assuming all stock values were equal. I mean, it’s nice to fake decide who you’d fake save on some fake boat if you only had two fake life preservers or whatever, but truth bomb; the only thing more pointless than a hypothetical is a wish for a do-over. (All truth bombs courtesy of Tim McCarver—obviously.)

Recently, one of my readers gave me a hard time for my criticism of Sabathia. Among other things, he said that I should know by now that it’s always about the money. And you know what? Point taken. But it’s not so much that I don’t get that it’s all about the money or think there’s some universe that exists where it ever could be about anything other than the money. (Not that that wouldn’t be nice.) It’s more that it would be refreshing to just hear these guys say unequivocally, “Hell yeah, this was a business decision. Because it’s all about the money.”

A.J. Burnett actually did say that—more or less—when he went on the Mike Francesa Show. Sure, he made a point of saying how excited he was to play for the Yanks and to be in pinstripes and all that other stuff, but he was honest about his bottom line. And you know what? Much respect. I know these guys think that they sound less like jerks when they pretend that there are other factors that go into making these decisions, but they actually sound less like jerks when they don’t treat us like idiots.

This is not to say that I have a real beef with Teixeira. My impression of him is that he's actually a pretty good dude. Plus, at the end of the day, if it was gonna be Manny or Teixeira—and it was gonna be Manny or Teixeira—well, you know the end of that sentence unless you literally just landed on earth, have never spoken with me, and started reading my blog right this second. OK. I guess there are other scenarios in which you might have never spoken to me or read my blog until now. That was crazy. Consider yourself Hoched. But you get the point.

Another reason that I have for getting behind the Teixeira acquisition is that this insane expenditure of money means that we’re not going to go after anymore pitchers, Pettitte included if he continues to hold out for a bigger offer. What does that mean? Our young guys get to duke it out for the number five spot. And who was it who suggested that that’s what we should be doing with our number five spot? Oh, right. That was me.

As for talent, I mean, obviously. A gold glove caliber, switch-hitting first baseman who hits for power and drives in a lot of runs? Not exactly the kind of guy you kick out of your lineup. Did we pay a kind of obscene amount of money to acquire him? Of course. Did we, in fact, probably overpay for him? Yeah, sure. Do I think it’s like kind of unreasonable and out of control that there’s such a disparity between our payroll and, say, the Marlins’? Yeah, definitely. And someone needs to regulate that situation. And I won’t lie and say I don’t feel at all sheepish about the fact that we waltzed our way into and out of the offseason with the three most coveted players on the market—just because we can. But that doesn’t mean I’m sad to have him. And, seriously, who could be? (I mean, other than Nady and Swisher. But that’s another story.)

I have but one grievance.

Um. Teixeira? Really? What in the what is going on with that insanity? I mean this isn’t even a case of a spelling that doesn’t match its pronunciation. It’s about a spelling with no pronunciation that makes sense. Like, if your last name’s Teixeira, you might as well do what Prince used to do and just use a symbol for your name.

Oh, and P.S. sports fans, Tex is not the correct nickname for a guy who pronounces his name “Tesherra” But I guess Tesh would also be a pretty demented nickname, so I don’t know where you go from here. I mean, call me crazy, and I know it’s a little on the dull side, but…Mark?

Has a certain ring to it.

Favricles, Prince Of Interception

2008-12-29T20:30:00.000-08:00

As previously established by me on this site, God has nothing to do with sports. I mean, seriously, if God exists and has the ability to look the residents of New Orleans in the eyes and be like, “Sorry about that whole hurricane situation. But, whatever; I was watching baseball,” then shoot me in the face.

That said, every so often a sports storyline so epic, so Biblical, in proportions emerges that its hard to believe that it wasn’t somehow predestined by some kind of sports deity. Take for example this years battle between the Jets and the Mammals—I mean, Fish. Forget about God. This story is practically Shakespearean in nature. (Sorry, but Shakespeare did Biblical better than even the Bible.)

Let’s start with a recap.

As with any good dramatic narrative arc, we have our villain. An awesome villain. A bumbling, sociopathic, deer-hunting, self-obsessed Southerner who can’t pronounce his own last name and, from the appearance of it, either can’t read his team’s playbook or has a depth perception issue.

As with many an evil mastermind, this particular villain is deceptive. (Think Iago.) He has made a lifetime out of tricking the public into buying into the myth of his goodness. He begins by playing for one of the most beloved team in all of football—located in the most beloved region in all the country, I might add. (You know me and that Midwest.) He charms us with his buffoonery, blinds us with his scruff, never misses a game, forces us to all but overlook the sheer insanity that is the existence of his last name. And for years this went on.

But then. Of course. Starts with an R.

After several pathetic attempts to get our attention by threatening to retire, he finally actually retires. There’s a press conference where tears are cried, a ceremony scheduled to retire his jersey, a cornfield maze designed in his honor.

Oh, but wait. Suddenly after he has milked the whole retirement thing for all its worth, he realizes that retirement is kind of bullshit because you get an awesome amount of attention all in one shot and then basically no more attention ever again.

We all know how this story ends. Decision to unretire. Annoyance over the fact that the Packers refused to give him back his old spot despite the whole announcement of his retirement. Displacement of Chad Pennington. (By the way, he’s the hero of this story.) And suddenly it's like modern day Shakespeare with a Miami backdrop. Which works because it’s a comedy.

But this is just to set the stage. What makes it interesting is that as fate—or, rather the NFL—would have it, the Jets and the Fish were scheduled to meet on both the first and last days of the season. What makes it more interesting is that they went into the last game fighting for a spot in the playoffs. Unfortunately, a win by both the Pats and the Ravens made the whole thing a little less high drama than it could have been because it meant that, regardless of the outcome, the Jets were destined to sit this January out. But whatever. For the season to end as it began—Pennington v Fav-ruh. Young screwed over player with his new team battling it out against old guy who stole his spot because he’s too chicken to retire.

There can be no doubt that Pennington has hit his stride this season with Miami. No one could have really put it better than Karen Crouse, who is a recent article for the Times wrote, “There is a lightness to Chad Pennington, as if in his move to South Florida to be the Miami Dolphins’ quarterback, he shed more than a couple of layers of clothing. The smile that was tighter than his spirals toward the end of his tenure with the Jets is now a luminous half-moon.”

OK. Not true. Lots of people could have put it better than Karen Crouse. But the imagery of the half-moon smile is truly evocative.

But it’s not just about the layers of clothing or the spirals or, you know, the half moons. Injury-free for the first time in a while, Pennington is finally living up to his potential. And, moreover, he’s helping the Dolphins live up to theirs.

Fav-ruh on the other hand—well, let’s just say that the last few weeks have really made evident just how much of a benefit he’s been to the 2008 Jets. Sure, they got off to a promising start with big victories against the Pats and the Titans. Hell, the way they were going for a while it was hard to believe that they wouldn’t manage a slot in this year’s playoffs. And, no, you can’t luck your way into nine wins. But you luck your way into a few. And I would say that on more than one occasion, a victory was earned despite and not because of Fav-ruh.

Seriously. It’s almost like the guy just closes his eyes, throws and hope for the best.

But yesterday Brett really reached new heights—I almost want to say dazzling heights—in his quest to shock and awe us with his special brand of throw-and-hope football. (Because, shucks? That’s how they done do things in the South?) It wasn’t just that he threw three interceptions, though he did throw three interceptions. For me, it was really the one in the second quarter that sort of blew my mind. You know which one I mean. The one that was so mind-boggling that it was practically epic. Even I was so flummoxed by the whole thing that all I could think to do was blink a bunch of times and say, “Really? Really?”

You’ll rarely hear me say this, but yesterday’s game did not constitute a team failure for the Jets. That’s what you call a one-man disaster.

Pennington, of course, went 22-for-30 for 200 yards and two touchdowns. I’m spacing on the number of interceptions. Oh, that’s right. CUZ HE DIDN’T HAVE ANY. And he’s obviously been the ultimate in graciousness about the whole thing. As always. I’ll tell you what. I think I have a crush.

And all's well that ends well. For almost everybody, anyway.

Mangini. We all knew it was coming. This one was always a win-or-get-packing game for Eric. I think it’s pretty safe to say that Mangini will have nightmares about Leon Washington from now until the end of time and that somewhere in the Mangini home there’s a voodoo doll with Fav-ruh’s name written all over it.

Fortunately for Brett, there's a good chance that Mangini will get the spelling wrong.

Putting The Puts Into Putz

2008-12-21T10:42:00.000-08:00

Given my interest in names and New York sports, when J.J. Putz was traded to the Mets, everyone just assumed I would pounce on it. And, yet, somehow, I was never really interested. It was almost too easy. It doesn’t require a whole lot of wit or cleverness to poke fun at a name like Putz. A name that, in and of itself, is the insult. It doesn’t require any imagination, any sophistication, to be like, “Putz is a putz.” (You know, the way it requires imagination and sophistication to make fun of people with names that sounds vaguely like poop or a cereal.)

Maybe, if the name was not actually putz but sort of like putz, I’d feel differently. However, as it stands, J.J.’s name simply didn’t seem challenging enough to be worth my while.

That is, until I found out how he pronounced it.

Puts.

As in, it puts the lotion in the basket. Or, it puts me in a better position to make fun of you when you pronounce the name Putz like puts.

According to Putz, he doesn’t opt to mispronounce his name because he thinks it will deter people from making a joke out of it. (And good thing because it wouldn’t.) He mispronounces his name because that’s the way they pronounce it in Hungary. Supposedly.

Well, there are definitely people in Hungary who have the name Putz—I discovered this through the use of facebook, a reference tool second only to Urban Dictionary in credibility. However, when I really went to test the mettle of his assertion with the assistance of a website called ancestry.com, my search yielded somewhat different results.

According to this site, the name Putz has its roots in Austria and Germany. Its meanings are sundry and perplexing. Putz is, for starters, the “topographic name for someone who lived by a well.” A little confusing because, back then—whenever then was—didn’t everyone live by a well? Like, as a matter of survival?

In addition to being a “topographic” name, Putz is apparently also a “habitational name for a place so named in Luxembourg.” Presumably a place in Luxembourg where they speak German rather than French or Luxembourgish. No, really. Luxembourgish is a language.

But wait. There’s more. Putz is also “from a pet form of the personal name Burghard.” Which makes sense because if you take Bur off of the beginning, replace the “g” with a “p” and the “hard” with “utz,” it’s basically the same word. Oh, and in case you were curious, Burghard means strong as a castle. But you knew that.

Last, but definitely not least, Putz is apparently a “nickname from a byname for the devil.” At this point we’re supposed to “see also Butz.”

While this is all fascinating, I’m sure you’re all asking yourselves the same question: What’s Hungary got to do with it? The best that I could come up with was that the name must have originated in the Austro-Hungarian Empire. (I mean, I think it’s safe to say that anyone who was living in the Austro-Hungarian Empire who wasn’t a Habsburg was probably a putz.) And then when things got all broken up into different smaller countries, who could keep track? History and geography can be confusing. That’s why I just refer to all Asian countries as the Orient. The war in Iraq? I like to call that “Operation Babylonian Freedom.”

Still, I wasn’t totally satisfied with this line of reasoning, so I went to the multilingual dictionary to find a more tangible link between Hungary and the surname Putz. I discovered that if you translate the German word putz into Hungarian, it is apparently díszes kellékek. So, actually, if Putz wants to say his name the Hungarian way, he should simply refer to himself as J.J. Diszes Kellékek.

(For the record, according to this same dictionary, the English for putz is "trappings." As in, “anyone who pronounces a German name the Hungarian way has all the trapping of a putz.” And by the way, I can now refer to him as a putz and consider myself to be clever because the pronunciation is puts—like putz but not quite. See how that works? By putting the puts into Putz, you inadvertently put the putz into Putz.)

Anyone who has read anything I have had to say about Brett Fav-ruh (or Jhonny Peralta for that matter) knows how crazy it makes me when the spelling and pronunciation of a name are mismatched. In Putz’s case, however, I am especially affronted because I feel like the mispronunciation is a deliberate attempt to try to trick us into not realizing that his name is putz. The irony is that, in so doing, he draws more attention to his name than he would if he just let us say it like its spelled. It’s true that some infantile people out there might focus on his name as an opportunity for an insult. However, for the most part, Mets fans are so grateful to have a decent setup man that, assuming Putz doesn’t blow it, no one would dream of insulting him. In fact, I think that if he stops pronouncing his name the wrong way, eventually, no one will give it a second thought.

The way that I no longer think about toilets when someone says “Flushing.”

A Rising Tide Lifts All Boats

2008-12-17T11:20:00.000-08:00

Another day, another long-term, big-money pitching contract. First Sabathia, now the perpetually-injured Burnett. And, in order to help us understand the significance of last week’s acquisitions, Hank Steinbrenner commented, "A rising tide lifts all boats.”

Gotta love a good idiom.

Unfortunately, however, I don’t think that Steinbrenner went with the right one. When the phrase was originally coined by JFK, it was a reference to the economy. I can't imagine Steinbrenner is trying to imply that anyone other than C.C. and A.J. are going to benefit financially from this most recent insane expenditure of obscene amounts of money. Maybe what he meant to say was that the early bird catches the worm. (Of course, by early, I mean rich, and by worm I mean sought-after pitcher.) Or, more likely, it may just be a local usage of this particular idiom that’s commonplace amongst the people who come from Steinbrenner’s original hometown—the seventh circle of hell.

While I'm no, uh, idiom analyzer, if I had to guess, I would say that Steinbrenner is probably suggesting that, like a tide helps a boat, signing awesome players helps a ball club. Well, Hankus, that’s duly noted, but let me answer your idiom with another idiom: Slow and steady wins the race.

The veracity of my idiom probably depends on how you define “the race.” If “the race” is a 2009 World Series ring, then slow and steady may not be the solution. It may be more about the rising tides and the boats. However, if “the race” can be defined as the effort to build a solid, energetic cohesive ball club with potential for long-term growth, then slow and steady might actually be the way to go. Remember, the Yankees of the late nineties? That team was slow and steady. And it was also the last team of Yankees that actually played like a team.

Last year Cash decided against signing Santana and opted, instead, to hold onto Hughes, Kennedy, and Melky. After a combined no-win record for the two young pitchers and an abysmal season for Melky, that experiment has been deemed a failure. You know which other experiment was initially deemed a failure by the Steinbrenner formerly known as El Jefe? The Bernie Williams experiment. Had it not been for the intervention of Buck Showalter, Bernie would have been 86’d in ‘95. Fortunately, however, someone had the good sense to let him develop.

Melky is set to be sent to Milwaukee in a trade for Mike Cameron. (Though, as the days wear on, the agreement appears to be on the verge of collapse.) Cameron is a solid center fielder and was also thought to be potentially instrumental in luring C.C. our way. (In case the extra $20 million didn’t do the trick.) I like Cameron and don’t have strong objections to the trade on his account, but I just can’t help but feel as though we haven’t quite given Melky his fair shake. That he has the potential to develop into a player worth holding onto. And one, I might add, who’s significantly younger than Cameron.

As for Hughes and Kennedy, as it stands, they aren’t going anywhere, but having just paid such enormous sums for both Burnett and C.C., it’s hard to imagine that we’ll hold onto both. And for what? So that we could lock ourselves into two huge money multi-year contracts after having just been released from the bondage of one that has been for several seasons the bane of our collective existence?

You know what I say to all this? I say stop. No Pettitte, no Lowe, no Sheets. With a solid four-man starting rotation of Sabathia, Burnett, Wang and Joba, we ought to allow Hughes a shot in the number 5 slot and keep Aceves and Kennedy around on the back burner in case he flounders. Or for when Burnett inevitably ends up on the DL. Reports from Arizona and Puerto Rico suggest that neither Hughes nor Kennedy are worth writing off just yet. And let’s not forget that these are young guys—22 and 23 respectively. The idea that a young player is only allowed a season or two to prove his worth is borderline preposterous. Not everyone is Derek Jeter or Mariano Rivera. Some players need time to settle in, hone their skills, adjust to the pressure. And what better way to take some of last year’s pressure off these guys then to allow them to alternately fill the number 5 slot in such a stellar rotation?

Look, I appreciate the tides and the boats and everything. And far be it for me to, well, look a gift horse in the mouth. I get that we have just signed two of the most coveted starting pitchers in the game. And I know that when trying to build the most solid team you can, all you really have to go on is your prospects' numbers. However, at the risk of sounding like Buzz Bissinger, I can’t help but think that there is an unquantifiable benefit to a player whose entire experience of the game is predicated on his relationship with his team. While players are always invested in doing their best, in winning the shiny stuff, I have to believe that there is an added significance for those players who have been brought up by their ball clubs.

Take Yogi Berra. He wasn’t merely a great catcher or a great player; he was a great Yankee. I think that the inevitable consequence of his tie to the Bombers was that, in a way, his pride in his team transcended his desire for personal success. A great team is more than simply the sum of its parts. It requires nine players on the field, not only striving for individual greatness, but with the ability to work well together.

Think that’s a sappy, sentimental, unrealistic load of hooey? Just sign Manny if you want to prove me right. A great player, if ever there was one, but I give him until the All-Star break before he has created a completely toxic and disruptive atmosphere in our clubhouse.

A rising tide may lift all boats, but one bad apple also spoils the bunch.

That's Your Opinon

2008-12-16T11:39:00.000-08:00

I have much to say about some of the recent offseason action. You’ll be hearing from me about that before the day is through. However, someone recently brought something amazing to my attention, so I felt I should bring it to yours.

From the site “Overheard in New York”:

Yankee fan, seeing girl in Red Sox hat: Booo! Boooo!
Red Sox girl's friend: Leave her alone! She's hot! Leave her alone!
Yankee fan: Booo! Red Sox suck!
Red Sox girl's friend: She's got big boobs, leave her alone!
Yankee fan: I've seen boobs before! Booo!
(later)
Yankee fan: Red Sox suck! Booo!
Red Sox girl's friend: Leave her alone, she's hot!
Yankee fan: That's your opinion! Booo!

Wow. Where to begin?

For the moment, let’s assume that the Chowda Head in question is actually as hot as her friend insists she is. That her boobs are truly impressively big. In what universe is that supposed to be an adequate defense for anything—let alone a decision to cheer for the Chowdas? Are her boobs so big that they have somehow stopped the flow of oxygen to her brain and rendered her incapable of exercising good judgment? You see, this is logic that only a Chowda Head would ever think to employ.

And, yet, there’s something almost genius about this line of reasoning. The idea that one can just draw on the strength of any particular attribute in order to serve as an adequate defense against any insult. I mean, there I was back in the days when Amber used to harass me trying to confront the actual substance of her criticism when all I needed to do was tell her to leave me alone. Because I’m hot. Or good at karaoke. Or freakishly exceptional at ping pong. Or whatever.

In a way, while seemingly unsound, this logic is not dissimilar from a proposal I made in one of my earliest entries—that no matter the occasion it’s always appropriate to say that someone’s got hands like tits. Maybe, similarly, “She’s hot and has big boobs” is just a go-to for this guy. An arbitrary response he has created in order to be droll regardless of the context.

But then, this is a Chowda Head we’re talking about, so it’s likely that I’m giving him too much credit. Moreover even if “big boobs” was meant to be a display of his wit and brilliance, it’s not without a fundamental flaw. It’s a comment that exposes itself to responses like, “I’ve seen boobs before” and “That’s your opinion.” Irrefutable comebacks.

But hands like tits? No one will ever tell you they’ve seen those before. I guarantee it.

At least, that’s my opinion.

CC Sabathia: Not A Business Decision

2008-12-10T19:44:00.000-08:00

Well, without further ado, Sabathia has finally deigned to accept our humble offer and become a Yankee.

Clap.

Clap.

Clap.

Clap.

Oh, I’m sorry. I guess I’m supposed to be doing back flips. I just didn’t want to overwhelm him with my enthusiasm. The way he didn’t want to overwhelm us with his.

It’s been about a month since Cashman made his initial offer to Sabathia. Sick of waiting, Cash finally decided to take the bull by the horns and went west to give good old CC a talking to. Cash had said a couple weeks back that his offer to Sabathia wouldn’t be on the table forever. Apparently, what he meant by that was that it would only be on the table until he made a bigger one. That’s right; on his recent trip he offered CC both another year and an additional $20 million.

Is it just me, or is Cash not the guy you want doing your negotiating at the Grand Bazaar in Istanbul for you?

It’s been so long since all this CC talk began that I had basically written him off as a viable option. The word on the street was that he wanted to stay west, wanted what was best for his family, was of the rare breed that couldn’t be bought. Earlier this week, a close friend of CC’s commented, "He's one guy, I'm absolutely convinced, whose decision will not be about getting the last dollar. That's not the way he thinks. This isn't a business decision for him. This is a life decision. So if he chooses New York, it will be because he wants to be there, not because they were the team that offered the most money."

Isn’t it just the greatest when the best life decisions also end up being the decisions that earn you $160 million? Sometimes, everything just comes together.

Ah, to have been a fly on the wall during that conversation with Cashman and Sabathia. To have listened in as Cash expounded on the benefits of big city living, sold Sabathia on the virtues of a private school system that allows famous people to bypass the normal hoops and nail biting that the regular rich people have to endure in order to ensure a quality education for their offspring. He must have told him about the camaraderie in the Yankee clubhouse, how the Bombers were essentially like a family where the allowances are enormous and the berating happens in public. I mean, given what we know about CC, we have to assume that he was ultimately won over by a quality of life argument rather than the offer of more money and another year, right?

And, yet, one can’t help but suspect that the mind-blowingly disgusting size of the offer—slightly insulting, perhaps to some of those hundreds of thousands of Americans who have recently lost a job with a normal salary—had something to do with it.

Don’t get me wrong, I don’t begrudge CC his right to go where the money is best. I mean, it doesn’t make him a bad person. It just makes him a not exceptionally good person. That’s not what I take issue with. What irks me is his refusal to admit that it’s about the money. To shove down out throats the idea that he’s above all that. But the bottom line is that, in a perfect world, I don’t think New York and the Bombers were what CC had in mind. It seems to me that he had a price that made the sacrifice of the quality of life factor seem worth it to him. When the Yanks named that price, he agreed to the deal. And, sure, I know it’s insane to turn down tens of millions of dollars. But I also feel like, in a way, when you’re Sabathia, there’s no real reason not to make these decisions based exclusively on quality of life factors. Ultimately, any of the teams that were courting CC would have been prepared to give him more than any one person should ever have or would need in a lifetime unless he was going to buy a rocket or an island nation or something.

Hopefully, Sabathia will find a way to redeem himself. I mean, Lord knows the guy’s got skills, and, from the moment go, I wanted him in pinstripes. It would just be nice to feel like he was, like, at least a little bit more excited to be coming to play for the team where players become legends.

But whatever. Ever onward. Time to go chase another overpriced, injury prone former pitcher for the Marlins. We like to keep one around for good luck.

TARP-i Field

2008-12-09T16:06:00.000-08:00

I know what’s on your mind.

Given the recent announcement of the staggering number of jobs lost in the month of November, the near collapse of the auto industry, the fact that you probably can’t afford to buy anyone a Hanukkah present, I bet you’ve all been sitting around feeling scandalized and depressed about the Citi Field naming agreement.

For those of you too ignorant to be scandalized and depressed, let me explain why you should be.

Recently, as we all know, the government (in other words, we, the taxpayers) bailed Citibank out of a jam to the tune of $300 billion. And rather than spend all that money on exclusively bank-y stuff, they decided to go ahead and use $20 million a year of tax money to honor a previously established deal with the Mets for the naming rights to their new stadium in Flushing. So, basically, these schmucks are using OUR hard earned tax dollars—7/100 of one percent per year of it—as part of a marketing campaign in a sports venue. Now, that’s chutzpah. Right?

Or is it?

Call me crazy, but isn’t marketing a must for all companies and not just a luxury for the already successful ones? If not, try explaining the Procede hair advertisements to me or the Brett Fav-ruh campaign for that battery brand no one’s ever heard of. Unfortunately, advertising works. It must, or we wouldn’t be forced to endure so much of it every time we tried to watch TV, read a newspaper or even leave our houses. Sure, I don’t get how it works because I’m too smart to be so easily manipulated. (Though, while I’m not totally sure what Chantix is, I do feel strangely compelled to take some every time I’m walking through a meadow.) But advertising makes the world go round. It makes a company thrive. Why else would they continue to invest so much money into crazy expensive, though seemingly too stupid-to-be-convincing ad campaigns? Because, somehow, in some magical way that I might better understand if I had paid closer attention in my Intro to Psych class, it works.

And want to know when it works the best? During sporting events. How do we know this? Because major sporting events constitute some of the most expensive advertising slots in existence. Probably, in part, because so many people watch sports. Probably also because they think those of who do are feeble-minded idiots. (Thanks, face painters, for enforcing the bad rap.)

The point is, if we are going to look at these bailouts as an investment, shouldn’t we be encouraging the companies that we are bailing out to do whatever they have to in order to succeed? Citi spent approximately $2.9 billion in advertising last year. It will cost them about one percent of that per year to honor their deal with the Mets. Even if they halved their advertising budget—which they wouldn’t—that’s two percent. $20 million less per year for them to spend on creepy and annoying rotoscoped commercials that actually serve as a deterrent. (Yeah, I’m talking to you Schwaab.)

Don’t get me wrong, here. I’m no great bank apologist. I just think that of all the things we have to be annoyed at Citigroup about, we’re focusing on the wrong grievances. And, jeez, give the poor Mets a break. They finally have a closer that inspires confidence instead of heart palpitations. (With all due respect, of course, to Billy Wagner, who I respect almost as much as Tim McCarver.) Let’s lay off and let them celebrate.

By the way, when I was making my list, I didn’t mention personal safety as something that you were thinking about because I am assuming that you heard the news. Apparently, the NYPD has sent investigators to Mumbai for a briefing on how to handle potential terror attacks this holiday season. Good thinking, fellas. You know what else you should do? Send someone to Liberia to ask them how to tackle our unemployment problem.

How about this: If we want to decrease the terror threat during future holiday seasons, my proposal would be that we make the holiday season a couple months shorter. Seriously, has Christmas really not happened yet? It’s getting to the point where I just want to say, you suck, “Jingle Bell Rock.”

Oh, and p.s., you suck Coco Crisp. (Seemed like a good segue.)

Trapped In The Latin Quarter Club

2008-12-02T17:08:00.000-08:00

I was recently perusing one of my favorite websites—babynology.com—a site exclusively dedicated to the discussion of baby names. During the course of my browsing, I happened to stumble upon the name Plaxico. Such a coincidence. Given, you know, whatever. Anyway, the name is apparently of African origins. As for it’s meaning: peaceful.

I know. You can’t make this stuff up, right?

And, well, that’s not the only thing about all this madness that you couldn’t make up. The cover-ups, the secret transportation of guns from clubs to Escalades to somewhere in New Jersey, the false accusations, the denials without an alibis, the mysterious emergence of Tiki Barber as hero to the wrongly accused. It’s like, well, it’s like it could be the newest installment of “Trapped in the Closet.”

Because, see, if there is anyone alive who actually could make this stuff up, it’s R. Kelly. And if you’re anything like me, then you are obsessed with Kelly’s Magnum opus to the point where the discovery of it almost tore your life apart. When it was initially released you found it hard to think or talk about anything else. You found yourself watching it again and again, addicted almost, to the insanity. Wanting desperately to wrap your brain around how something could be so simultaneously hilarious, outrageous, and strangely full of depth. You got in fights with friends who claimed that it was stupid, secretly judged them for being too dim-witted to understand its genius. You felt ashamed because you wanted the charges against Kelly to be dropped because, from jail, how could he provide us with more? For those of you who have not had the good fortune to watch this crazy display of epic brilliance, stop reading, click on this link immediately, and behold the magic. Then watch it again, with commentary. Three of the best hours you’ll ever spend.

To me, one of the most appealing aspects of “Trapped in the Closet” is how ridiculously implausible it all is. How little it bears resemblance to anything like life as we know it. And then Burress happened. For those of you who are familiar with the TITC, let me talk you through the events of last Friday night, and you tell me if it doesn’t seem like a reality that only a visionary like Kelly could have concocted.

Burress sets off a metal detector at a club called Latin Quarter, is pulled aside, searched and then ultimately allowed into the club with his gun on account of his famousness. Later in the evening, this same gun goes off in his pants and shoots him in the leg. He remains at the club for an hour and a half while figuring out what hospital will treat him on the sly. His friend and teammate Antonio Pierce sneaks the gun to the Burress family home in New Jersey. (Via the glove compartment of the Burress family Escalade.) Burress arrives at the hospital, says his name is Harris Smith, and purports to have been shot at Applebee’s. That’s right, he said Applebee’s. The hospital staff recognizes him but agrees to keep his secret.

Seriously? This all happened? In real life?

Meanwhile, in another part of town (R. Kelly loves a meanwhile), Derrick Ward is off somewhere having drinks. So he claims. He won’t actually reveal to us his exact location. I am sure in Kelly’s world, Ward would probably be off shtooping someone else’s wife. All he knows is that he insists he wasn’t at the scene of the crime, which is where he is supposed to have been according to a number of sources. And people don’t just claim to have seen him at the club—one witness goes so far as to say that he saw someone approach Ward to inform him that his boy had been shot. Ward, undisturbed, was alleged to have remained on his cell phone.

Then, for our grand finale, we have Tiki Barber swooping onto the scene to reveal the true identity of the third player at the club that night—Ahmad Bradshaw. And Ward is absolved.

To quote R. Kelly, “Who the hell is Roxanne?”

If there’s anyone who can appreciate the outrageously absurd nature of this tale, it’s me. Yet, still, I take issue with all the media coverage. I get that it’s been a slow time for news agencies--given how well everything is going in the world, given how two nuclear neighbors are not potentially on the verge of a standoff, given the stability of the economy, given that no one has made any announcements of import lately. But seriously. This story made the cover of the Times yesterday. From the Post, I expect this kind of inability to discern between real news and celebrity gossip. But et tu, paper of record?

And Bloomberg? I mean, I got nothing but love for his greenification of the city, but his approach to the administration of justice in this particular instance? Meh. Not so much.

Did Burress eff up? Yeah. A lot? Yeah. Do I think the Giants, who have reason to be annoyed with him anyway, would be acting reasonably if they penalize him in whatever manner they see fit? Yeah. Do I think the people of the State of New York need to demand that he get prosecuted “to the fullest extent of the law”—fifteen years in this case?

No. Not really.

When Plax first purchased his gun in Florida, he registered it and got a permit—indicative of the fact that it was not his intention to subvert the law. He was stupid enough to let the permit expire, stupid enough to bring it out of state, stupid enough to bring it to the club with him. But this isn’t exactly the second coming of OJ. This is just an idiot who decided like an idiot that he ought to serve as his own security detail. And guess what? He got shot. I would rather repeat junior high than suffer through a day of the kind of this kind of public scrutiny and humiliation. Not to mention the physical pain. If all of this doesn’t teach him his lesson about trying to provide himself with his own security, I don’t know what will.

Bloomberg’s biggest concern here is that Plaxico be made an example of because he’s a public figure. Here's the problem with that. All men are supposedly equal in the eyes of justice, which means that to come down harder on a celebrity in order to teach society a lesson is basically a perversion of justice. Nothing against Bloomberg, who I’ve always liked, but stop perving out on justice.

Plaxico Burress has a kid at home who's a year and a half old. Call me crazy, but I don’t see how it could possibly be better for society to deprive that kid of a father for fifteen years so that we can use our city’s resources in order to punish someone for criminal idiocy.

Yeah,that’s what society needs—more kids with dads in jail.

Want to know what I consider to be the more troublesome issues here? For starters, what in tarnation were the people at Latin Quarter thinking by allowing him into the club with a gun in the first place? I get that certain courtesies are extended to famous people on account of their famousness—free drinks, VIP seating. But illegal concealed weapon privileges? And what of the people at the hospital—an actual hospital with doctors and codes of ethics—to contribute to this insanity with a willingness to cover it up? Here’s the thing; maybe if we all stopped treating celebrities like the rules don’t apply to them, they’d stop acting like it. No, I’m not saying that personal accountability shouldn’t exist for these guys—that they aren’t ultimately responsible for their own actions. But the bottom line is that this is a societal illness. We make spoiled, entitled monsters out of our professional athletes by indulging their every whim and treating them like gods, and then we act surprised and vilify them when they act like, well, spoiled, entitled monsters.

Does part of my plea for Plax have to do with the fact that I am a softy for him ever since I saw that NFL special about how much he loves his momma? Probably. At least a little. But that doesn’t change the fact that the right thing to do is to treat Burress like any other idiot who brought a gun into a club for his own protection and then accidentally shot himself. Because if he was any other idiot, I don’t see him rotting in jail over this for the next fifteen years.

Well, R. Kelly said it first, and he said it best: "This is some deep shit."

La Cuenta De Marbury E D’Antoni

2008-11-30T21:46:00.000-08:00

Thanks to the NFL, I think it’s safe to say we all got to spend more than enough time with our respective families this Thanksgiving. Not a single game slightly interesting enough that it might have reasonably excused a person from making small talk over her third helping of stuffing in order to glue herself to the television. (Not that that stopped me—I just didn’t have a reasonable excuse.) I even switched to college football in the evening, but Texas-Texas A&M had little better to offer.

However, while nothing of note may have been happening on the field (until Sunday, that is), there was plenty of excitement off the field. Particularly in the world of New York sports.

Plaxico Burress got shot. Accidentally. By himself. (He is apparently fine—fortunately he accidentally aimed for his already injured leg.) LeBron James called Charles Barkley stupid. (I put this under the heading of New York sports because LBJ might as well be a Knick at this point.) And, of course, yet another segment of my new favorite telenovella—La Cuenta de Marbury e D’Antoni.

Spoiler alert—in case you missed it and are waiting to watch it on your dvr—in this latest episode, D’Antoni asked Marbury to play, and Marbury refused.

Wait a second…

That sounds awfully familiar. A rerun for the holidays, perhaps? But, no. Because in the previous week’s episode, the game was against the Bucks. Last week, it was against the Pistons. But, still. What the hell’s going on in that writer’s room? Same storyline two weeks in a row? What is this? The Hills?

And it was more than just the nature of disagreement that reeked of stale cheese. As with last week’s episode, the two not only disagreed, but they disagreed about their disagreement. You see, D’Antoni is the only one of the pair who says that Marbury refused to play those games. Marbury claims that he didn’t.

I don’t know. This kind of plot twist—twice? It’s a little far-fetched. When dealing with an issue so clear cut, so straightforward, what possible grounds could there have been for such confusion?

Enter Stephon Marbury, the King of confusion.

While Marbury claims to have never said he wouldn’t play, he does admit to having expressed discomfort at the idea. You know, seeing as how everyone hates each other so much and he was deactivated for all those other games. So, apparently, when D’Antoni asked him to play, and he responded, “I actually wouldn’t feel comfortable with that,” he meant it as an invitation to dialogue. But a refusal? Never. Because that would be “insubordination.” (His word—not mine.) And Marbury is anything but insubordinate.

Marbury was fined and suspended as the result of his discomfort about playing Wednesday. The player’s union intends to file a grievance in response. Walsh and Marbury are going to have yet another sit down to talk about the possibility of a buyout, an idea which Walsh is opposed to in theory, but one that seems more and more inevitable as this insanity wears on.

It’s true that Marbury is a pain in the pujols. It’s true, also, that it has to be annoying to even consider buying out his full contract. But here’s the bottom line: This is a guy who is completely and utterly—what my people would call—meshugana. And his meshugas is not in any way tempered by the counsel of someone who might be looking out for his best interest. Someone, like, say an agent. Marbury doesn’t believe in those. In large part, it appears, because he thinks that everyone everywhere is always trying to screw him. This applies especially to D’Antoni.

If you want my completely unprofessional unfounded opinion that is based solely on conjecture, Marbury does what he does to show the world that he’s not a person to be made a fool of. (By anyone but himself, anyway.) When you couple his overly suspicious nature with the kind of borderline approach the Knicks have taken to dealing with him this season, the result is someone who feels he has been wronged and won’t budge until his version of justice has been served. In other words, Marbury is going to do what he does until he gets what he wants.

So, you know what, Walsh? Give it to him.

Do I think this is how to handle a spoiled child or peace negotiations in the Middle East? No. But this is basketball. Walsh’s decision is not going to affect the kind of adult a child grows up to be or whether we can finally put an end to a major conflict with far-reaching global ramifications. It will determine for how long he and the rest of us are going to have to put up with this headache. And the difference in cost will likely be an amount that is inconsequential to the Knicks in the long run.

As it stands, the Knicks are, for the first time in a while, not abominably awful. But we don’t get to read about that. We only get to read about how the Knicks are such a side show, circus, soap opera travesty. Oh, and how in two seasons they might be getting an awesome player.

So fix it, Walsh. No more of this: Don’t play, but come; dress but don’t play; play but only for a few minutes; don’t come. Despite the fact that Starbury wouldn’t trust D’Antoni to walk his dog (his words—not mine), they both seems to actually share the same goal on this one. To get Marbury out of there like now. So, capitalize on that common ground. Give him what he wants, wish him well even if you don’t mean it, and make a clean break.

For those of you in the viewing public who feel saddened by the possibility that our favorite series will likely be coming to its inevitable end, I know how you feel. The end of Veronica Mars nearly wrecked me. But take heart. I see both Starbury and D’Antoni as having major potential for successful spinoffs.

LeBron James -- Living In The Lake House

2008-11-24T16:38:00.000-08:00

Man, have I been in a state. No, not a Fav-ruh-induced Jets just schooled the undefeated Titans state. A state that, incidentally, has prompted some rather troubling dreams in which the world is overpopulated with a species of Brett Fav-ruhs, and I have to decide if it’s ethical to hunt him--the way he hunts, well, just about anything with a pulse. Mine is a different kind of state.

You know when in a soap opera one of the characters gets into an accident and then when she wakes up all this time has passed but she doesn’t initially realize it until she looks at a newspaper or something? Well, that’s what I thought was happening to me. But it turns out it wasn’t the case. I wasn’t in an accident and it is, apparently, still 2008. I realized that when I got past the sports page and saw that we were still in an economic crisis and confused about which bailouts were going to rescue the good people on main street. What a relief.

The downside, of course, is that this must mean I’m crazy, right? How else could I have possibly gotten confused about the friggin’ year, for crying out loud. You might hear such a tale and wonder if I’ve been living in the lake house. But, in my defense, reading some of the following headlines, couldn’t you just as easily have gotten confused?

"Teams Prepare For the Courtship of LeBron James.” "New Jersey Nets Think Knicks Eyeing LeBron James." “The Knicks Get Ready for Their 2010 Free Agency Pool."

So, you tell me; who’s living in the lake house?

All this gossip about LeBron in New York has been pretty inescapable of late what with the recent Knicks trades that cleared salary cap space for the summer of 2010. And I get that people, sports journalists particularly, are intrigued by the recent developments. But, honestly, and I say this with all due respect, and nothing against sports journalists, but seriously, stop talking about it.

First of all, the Knicks have sucked so much for so long, and now we’re finally a little bit not so sucky. My thought? Let's focus on that. How do we capitalize on the current state of not-so-suckiness? This season. Maybe next season. Try, perhaps, to figure out how we can work through the communication breakthroughs that leave some players saying that they had been willing to play in certain games while other coaches are saying that they weren’t. Because guess what? People will be more likely to actually want to come play for New York if we can get through a year or two without all the dramamine. Well, that’s not true; if history is any indication of anything, people will want to play for whatever team offers them the most money. But you get what I’m saying. Can we, like, be here now a little bit?

Second, I am a Knicks fan as much as anyone can really be a Knicks fan—they make it hard. Would it be good for the Knicks if LeBron came to New York someday? Barring unforeseen injury or psychological disorder, obviously. Is LeBron currently playing in New York? No. Given that he’s playing for Cleveland, that he has established his fan base and stardom in Cleveland, is his obligation to tell everyone to shut their yaps because the only thing he’s focused on is bringing home a Cavalier championship this year? Uh, yeah. Kind of.

Even though it’s totally sacrelig for me to say so, I prefer LeBron as a Cav. The Knicks are like a dysfunctional family that you love because you have to but you wouldn’t really wish on anyone who you actually liked. LeBron will do what he wants at the end of the day, and, from I understand about him, he is ultimately his own chief advisor. But assuming for a second that we lived in some kind of fantasy world where what I said mattered to him, I’d tell him to stay put in Cleveland, where the team is awesome, the owner is salt of the earth, and the fans are Midwest like high fructose corn syrup—as is he.

Either way, like I said, until the time comes for the King to make his decision, I think it’s incumbent upon him to be making more of an effort to silence the speculation. To let people know that whether he’s a Knick, a Net, or a backup dancer for Beyonce come 2010, it's of little consequence because, currently, his only goal is getting the good people of Cleveland their trophy. Their shiny stuff, put in words that Stephon Marbury would understand.

But better do it, and do it soon. Because it’s no longer just about crazy futuristic headlines that confuse intelligent but, perhaps, easily disoriented people like me. That was just where it started. It has since evolved into this: “Knicks Could Help Lead CC to New York.”

Yes, the latest in this tiresome thread of news stories is that CC Sabathia is going to sign with the Yankees—not because they've offered him a a disgustingly enormous sum of money—but because in two years, he speculates the Knicks will probably go after LeBron and that he will probably say yes. And apparently CC loves LeBron so much that he is willing to make major life choices around the possibility that some day in the future they might eventually live in the same city, assuming a number of other things happen or don’t happen in the interim. And, by the way, Sabathia is married with two kids. But, yeah, I guess the prospect of staying up nights and watching old Golden Girls reruns with LeBron while braiding each other’s hair in their lofts in Tribeca TWO YEARS FROM NOW is a compelling enough possibility to outweigh any other considerations about what might be best for his family.

I’m going to hit you with a truth bomb—Tim McCarver style. Despite whatever conversations CC Sabathia and LeBron James may have had with each other in the past about how cute and fun it would be to play sports in New York—and, sure, maybe they have had such conversations—those conversations are not going to dictate the real life decisions they make. The ones that will determine their futures. Even if those conversations did involve pinky swears. Good God. These are grown ass men. And this is sports. Not camp.

Oh, Lawd. And I thought golf was crazy.

You Know Kay. Kay Hates Geeks.

2008-11-21T12:43:00.000-08:00

Well, it’s official. Moose is stepping off the mound and tractoring off into the sunset, which, of course, begs the question: Can tractor be used as a verb?

But it also begs another question: Why so secretive Moose? I mean, you’ve know since last January and you didn’t think to tell us? What gives?

In response to that one, Moose has offered his sincerest apologies and said by way of explanation that he had kept his plan so hush hush because he didn’t want his retirement to become the focal point of the season.

(Fav-ruh, if you’re reading, I’m sure you’ve become confused and disoriented because Moose is speaking in a language that you aren’t familiar with. So, let me take a moment to translate for you. Whoops—can’t. I seem to have misplaced my English-to-Jackass Dictionary.)

Moose, a solid pitcher to the end, will retire with a 270-153 record and a 3.68 ERA over eighteen seasons. Having just completed his first 20-win season, he also retires on top of his game. Sure, he could have gone another few years and probably retired with 300, but Moose is putting his money where his mouth is. He has always said that, above all, he values spending time with his family. Well, he’s giving up millions of dollars and the opportunity to climb even higher up the all-time win and strike out lists so he can do just that. I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again; at the end of the day, he’d rather be at home.

When asked if he had had any second thoughts at all throughout the season, he commented, "I don't think there was ever a point where I looked around and said, 'You know what, I'm going to change my mind. It was like the last year of high school. You know it's going to end and you enjoy the ride."

So, basically, what he’s saying is that Fav-ruh is like a super duper senior.

On yesterday’s Michael Kay Show, there was some discussion as to whether or not Mike Mussina was a Hall of Fame pitcher. On the one hand, he’s an exceptionally consistent 270-win pitcher with 2,816 strikeouts and seven Gold Gloves. On the other hand, no Cy Young, no World Series ring, only one 20-win season and a high-ish ERA by Cooperstown standards.

After a lot of back and forth, Kay commented that it was such a source of lively discussion amongst so many people in the sports world that it make for a great topic for a school debate team.He then went on to say, “I wasn’t on the debate team. I wasn’t smart enough. I also wasn’t a big enough geek.”

I’m going to go with… A) You weren’t smart enough. Or was that not multiple choice?

Well, Kay, that you weren’t smart enough to join the debate team is no surprise to anyone who has ever heard you open your mouth. But if I needed further confirmation, you gave it to me in the form of your allusion to the age old idea that to be smart is to be a geek. Something you only suggest when you’re a fictional character in a teen movie from the 80’s or you’re an idiot.

Really, dude. Aren’t you like five thousand years old? Do you seriously still believe that intelligence is synonymous with geekiness. It’s lame to think that when you’re in high school, but like pathetic and depressing to think that when your old timey.

Tell me, Kay, if you had a Kay Jr. and he came home and said, “Hey, Pop, I decided that I want to expand my mind, learn about new subjects, and improve my public speaking skills by joining the debate team,” would you tell him to forget it? That that stuff's for geeks? That he should find something cooler to do with his time, like run around harassing athletes? Or would you just tell him to become captain of his college Chess Club like you did—because that’s so much more cutting edge?

Seriously, Kay, you make the part of me that likes to rebel against the existence of stupidity want to find a debate club to join. Just because.

Here’s a thought. Maybe, if you weren’t so opposed to not being dumb because you were afraid that it would make you uncool, you would be in a position to help ESPN Radio confront the unfortunate reality that is its imbecilic slogan: “You know us. We know sports.”

What is that? Like, free association?

It’s sort of like if I said, “I have dog. My dog eats food.” Or, “When it’s cold I wear a jacket. My jacket has pockets.” I am inclined to believe that the people at ESPN share a marketing team with the people at the Cubs. I know the stench of that slogan. It smells like “It’s Gonna Happen.”

In other news, it looks like my blog may have found a new home at sny.tv. I am not sure of the details of where you can find me or when you can find me there, but be assured that I will keep you posted. This move should be happening in the near-ish but not immediate future, so be advised and check in for updates. And if you want to help me stay afloat, visit me often. You can think of it as one of those charity sites where you click on the page to feed a homeless animal. Though, if you only have time to do one or the other on any given day, I guess go with the homeless animals. I think there might be a special place in hell reserved for me if I advised you to do otherwise.

In closing, the last song I heard last night on the radio and the first song I heard this morning was Beyonce’s “Put a Ring On It.” And, well, it made me think of someone special. Since I’m too lazy to call into the station, I am putting a link to the video up on my blog, and I’d like to dedicate it to Albert Pujols. Well, really Ryan Howard. Because it sort of reminds me of that thing Pujols said to Howard a couple of years back.

By the way, I am doing you all a favor because this video will blow your mind and change your life and make you fall in love with Beyonce all over again. That bitch can dance. And to quote someone who knows what she’s talking about, “I think it’s good if you can sing, but I think it’s better if you can dance.”

(Thank you, Jane, for bringing this video into our lives.)

Putting The Oi Into Pedroia

2008-11-19T10:03:00.000-08:00

And not cuz he’s Jewish. Cuz he’s not.

Having gotten that out of the way, let’s cut to the chase.

To no one’s great surprise, though to some people’s consternation, Pedroia has been named our AL MVP. Though, unlike other players who have been awarded the MVP this year (whose names I won’t mention out of respect and because they have funny names that sound like unfortunate body parts that people more juvenile than me might be inclined to make fun of), Pedroia didn’t say that he wasn’t surprised. In fact, one might say that he has handled the whole thing with, I don’t know, class and dignity. Which is whatever. Except, well, the dude’s a Chowda. And it makes the universe make more sense to me when the Chowdas are saying things like, “Manny being Manny, man,” and acting like disgruntled bad sports when people are beating home run derby records, and beating people up in dark alleys. (Watch Dateline long enough, Mike Lowell will eventually show up.)

But, instead, Dustin Pedroia responded to his victory by saying, “I really didn’t know what to expect. I was excited just having my name with all those players… For me, just to be in that category is an extreme honor.” So what gives, Pedroia? You reading my blog and think that just because you play cute and humble, you can avoid my wrath? Sorry, buddy, but you’re livin’ la vida chowda, and I’m afraid it’s not quite that simple. I’ve known you for—how long is it now?—a couple years. So one gracious moment does not an absolution make. I’ve seen into the depths of your soul. I know it to be red—and not in the Communist way.

It’s weird, eerie almost, that so many players should come out of one franchise being so strangely, well, the same. Cocky, rude, unsportsmanlike, unfamiliar with the virtues of showering. Yet, they keep churning them out. And Pedroia is no exception.

The thing Pedroia is most famous for other than knowing his way around the bat is that he likes to tell people all about how well he knows his way around the bat. Like, by saying embarrassing things before batting practice such as, “Get ready for the laser show.” If you think it’s too stupid to believe, this information can be easily verified by using one of the most reliable information sources in existence—urban dictionary. That’s right; Pedroia’s been urban dictionized. Look it up. Laser show: A fearsome and awe-inspiring display of line-drive hitting prowess, as made popular by Boston Red Sox second baseman Dustin Pedroia.

Incidentally, while I was on urban dictionary, I decided to go ahead and look up ass clown just to see if it was truly a credible insult. Lo and behold, I discovered that an ass clown is one, who, through the fault of his parents’ conception, is a skid mark in society's collective underwear. So, my apologies for having mocked its merit. Be assured that when I use it in the future, it will always be in earnest. Like, when I say that Dustin Pedroia is an ass clown.

See, it’s not just the laser show thing, though that’s evidence enough of his ass clownery. There have been other offenses—the time Pedroia so tastelessly said that Jerry Remy stunk, the slap attack, the mouthing off to the press, and the fact that, whatever he’s saying or doing, it ultimately always seems like some variation or other of “Get ready for the laser show.”

Don’t get me wrong; I can almost sort of sympathize with Pedroia. There are people in the world for whom things seems to come easy. They are naturally endowed with talent, blessed with good luck, things just seems to go their way. Sports is no exception. There are players like Tim Lincecum who can eat crap before games and not ice their arms. Players like Derek Jeter who have the ability to make baseball look like ballet. Then there are the players whose success is largely dictated by their willingness to work at it, to overcome the odds that would suggest that, by all rights, they shouldn’t make it. My grandfather, who filled the alley by his house with sawdust so that he could practice his slide and used to pay kids to shag balls for him at the stadium on off days, was one of them. So is Pedroia. He has had to battle his whole life because of his size, fight other people’s expectations that he would fail, constantly work harder to compete with guys who were bigger. I respect that that takes grit.

But guess what, dude? You did it. You’re a major league baseball player. You have a World Series ring. You were Rookie of the Year last year. You’re this year’s AL MVP. (And Gold Glove AND Silver Slugger winner, by the way.) You’re Rocky post-victory with Apollo Creed, pre-plastic surgery old and pathetic era. So, by talking about lasers all the time, you’re not telling people to watch out because one day you’re going to make it. You’re just telling people to suck it.

Who knows? Maybe this whole MVP/Gold Glove/Silver Slugger thing constitutes a turning point for Pedroia. But I sort of doubt it. He’s so focused on how hard he’s had to work, so hung up on how hung up others are on his size, I don’t see him letting go of it. Despite his recent successes, he still feels compelled to say things like, “I'm not the biggest guy in the world. I don't have that many tools. If you saw me walking down the street, you wouldn't think I'm a baseball player. I think that's the biggest thing that drives me to be a good player. I've had to deal with that my whole life. I think that's just been instilled in my mind—that I have to overcome everything to prove people wrong. So far I've done that."

And that’s his bottom line: He needs to feel like he’s battling the world to find the necessary motivation to be good. Then, after he wins the battle, he needs to tell the world to shove it up its pujols.

That said, I do believe that it is truly an egregious offense to make fun of someone for his size. (And when it comes to Pedroia-hating, this is usually where people take aim. Stupid, right? Given how many other better things there are to hate on him about.) That shit's just mean. This may seem hypocritical because I like making fun of people for their names, especially when the people are jerks and their names rhyme with crapelbon—but the two seem somehow in different categories to me. A name is just a word—an arbitrary signifier so the world knows how to address a person. Physical attributes are the actual whole material portion of a person’s being. People are sensitive about it. And, for the most part, unless you want to have painful, expensive surgery, your physical features are unalterable. So I leave those alone. I do, however, make an exception for bad hair or facial hair, which I believe to be a reflection of taste and judgment.

Speaking of people whose names I like to make fun of: Holy Covelli. Coco Crisp is a Royal. No, not a royal pain in the pujols. Just a Royal. Like, from Kansas City. I wouldn’t have thought that any trade news from Chowdaville had the potential to break my heart—but, man, was I ever wrong. First Fav-ruh, now Crisp. It’s like all the fancy evil sports lords are having private meetings to discuss what moves to make to give me the most agita. Obviously, despite the trade, I can still tell Coco he sucks because suck is where the heart is. Whatever the hell that means. But now I’m going to have to accidentally make enemies with people from Kansas City, and I actually like those people and want them to like me. But I get it. No one needs two center fielders. And I guess you kind of brought this on yourself Coco Crisp.

Because you suck, Coco Crisp.

You know what? Still feels good.

Putting The Pu Into Pujols

2008-11-17T17:29:00.000-08:00

Baseball.

It’s truly the gift that keeps on giving. Pitchers and catchers report in February, the season goes through October and, now, with Christmas upon us, they’re still stringing us along, doling out the awards. (Yes, Christmas officially starts the day after Halloween. It’s a policy that was implemented around 2005.)

Last week, of course, brought with it the naming of 2008’s Cy Young awards winners. This week? The National League MVP award, which went to Albert Pujols by a wide margin, despite the fact that people thought Ryan Howard might be a contender. However, not everyone was particularly surprised by the ease with which Pujols won his victory. Take for example Pujols, who said, “I wasn't surprised at all."

Holy mother of Krypton. Where’s Joe Torre when you need him?

Does the Midwest that I envision when I think about those great plains in all their friendly, well-mannered glory only exist in myth? First Lee, now this? I mean, I get that Lee and Pujols aren’t actually from the Midwest, but doesn’t something happen to you when you live there? Like don’t the niceness and sense of decency rub off on you or something? I mean, good God, Pujols. It’s like you have Renteria of the mouth.

But this isn’t the first time that Pujols has been—what’s the words I’m looking for?—oh, right, a totally ungracious piece of pu about the whole MVP thing. Back in 2006, the year after Pujols won his first MVP and a year when Howard actually did beat him out for the award, Pujols commented, “I see it this way: Someone who doesn’t take his team to the playoffs doesn’t deserve to win the MVP.”

And the Midwest keeps getting less Midwest-y by the second.

Fortunately for Pujols, who did not see his team to the playoffs this year, he clarified his remarks shortly after making them. He assured people that what he had meant was that this was the case unless one day he should happen to win the MVP without having led his team to the playoffs, in which case it was probably deserved.

I can’t wait until the announcement of the AL MVP award. Maybe Mauer or Morneau will take it and, in an effort to outdo their fellow Midwesterners say, “Yeah, well what did you expect? Those other guys got hands like tits.”

Here’s the thing—Lee and Pujols don’t not deserve their awards. But it makes me not like them when they act so ungraciously. And when I don’t like them, it’s hard for me to be happy for them. And I want to be happy for them. Not to mention the fact that all this obnoxious behavior makes me want to make fun of Pujols for his name. Granted, he bears quite a burden in that he would have to be an exceptional human to avoid having me want to make fun of him for that name. But it’s like he’s not even trying.

Meanwhile, breaking news: Manny Ramirez was suspended. Almost. Four months ago. Why, you ask, bother reporting on this news given the last two addenda to this statement? I’m not sure, but so many other news outlets were doing it I was worried I was missing something. So I figured I should mention it just in case. This may be the first and only time you hear me agree with Scott Boras (who I affectionately like to refer to as the Creature from the Black Lagoon), who said, "The fact is the intent to suspend is not a suspension." My gut feeling about something that didn’t actually happen a long time ago is that nobody cares. But espn.com must know a little more about what is interesting to people since more people are visiting their site than mine, so I humbly defer to their collective wisdom on all matters relating to everything.

Finally, I guess it can’t go unsaid that it looks like there may be some justice in the world. Mark Cuban is finally getting his comeuppance. Technically, it isn’t a crime to be a media-whoring, self-obsessed, unmitigated pain in the pujols. So they—the people—had to bring slightly more boring charges against him for insider trading. Though, presumably it’s some kind of cosmic punishment for the non-crime crimes listed above. (I said separation of church and sports—not separation of church and finance. I want someone regulating that shit.) Anyway, I’m not going to bother to compare him to Martha Stewart. Enough people have done that already, and I like to do my own thing. (Except for when I am stealing stories that I think are stupid about Manny Ramirez from espn.com.) I also think that it’s not a particularly apt comparison because, while their crimes maybe similar in nature, I don’t think Mark Cuban has done anything for society but badger and annoy us. Martha, on the other hand, taught us how to make pear-lychee tartlets and cut tomatoes in the shape of unicorns. I’m sure that the people who don’t order takeout every night for dinner are extremely appreciative.

Oh, and while we’re not on the subject, you suck Coco Crisp.

The Lone Bright Spot

2008-11-15T15:26:00.000-08:00

Forgive my prolonged absence. I’ve been taking a vacation. From my problems. And if you can name that reference, you can take one, too.

But it’s been a long time, so without further ado, let’s get down to business. Because—drum roll—Cliff Lee and Tim Lincecum have joined the ranks of Cy Young Award winners.

While Lee was always the favorite for the AL Award, Lincecum’s landslide victory came as more of a surprise. Giants general manager Brian Sabean has summed up the events by saying “In Obama-like fashion, it wasn’t close.” Yes, and the similarity between these two victories probably has a little something to do with the fact that, like Obama, Lincecum launched his campaign on a platform that was based on the need to shore up our economy, rebuild strategic alliances, a 98 mph fastball and, seriously, what the hell are you talking about, Sabean?

Lincecum is a man of many nicknames. And if you know anything about me, it’s that I have an abnormally large number of pet hamsters for a grown-up, I hate when things don’t sound like they’re spelled, and I love a nickname. The most common of Lincecum’s nicknames is “The Freak”. A name that seems, perhaps, not so flattering but is in fact a reference to his freakish greatness. Not to this penchant for playing Dungeons and Dragons with Mike Mussina during the offseason. Tim’s dad, initially troubled by the possibility that the name was meant to be disparaging, called his son up one day to express his concern. Lincecum reasoned with his father, "O.K. is Michael Jordan a freak? Tiger Woods? Jack Nicklaus?" His father responded, "Yeah, I'd consider them freaks. Then, O.K., you're a freak.”

I’m sorry. I need a second. That story always gets me.

Among Tim’s other nicknames are “Seabiscuit,” a moniker he acquired from scouts back during his days in the minors. It’s a reference to the fact that he packs so much power into such a compact frame—five feet ten inches and 172 pounds compact to be exact. There’s also “The Kid.” Meh. Cutesey but not particularly original. And then the rest of them. Well, they are as much a tribute to the pathetic state of the Giants as they are the awesomeness of the Lincecum. There’s “The Franchise,” meant to imply that Lincecum is the Giants. Or, put more depressingly for Bay Area fans, the Giants are Lincecum. And, well, without Bonds, this assessment is sad but true. There’s “The Silver Lining.” (Which made me think, conversely, of a great nickname for A-Rod—“The Thorn.”) Then, there’s my favorite of the nicknames in that it truly speaks to the embarrassingly tragic state of affairs at AT&T Park. A nickname in which Dodgers fans must especially delight: “The Lone Bright Spot.”
If that’s not the sorriest reflection of how useless the Giants are, I don’t quite know what is. The guy might as well be nicknamed, “The Only Thing Keeping Giants Fans From Shooting Themselves In Their Faces.” Or, better yet, “What Am I Doing On This Team?”

What can we deduce from the fact that Lincecum has earned so many nicknames in such a relatively short period of time? (Other than that people shy away from using his real name because it sounds strangely like a cleaning product.) As previously established, a nickname is a term of endearment. So, to break it down Tim McCarver style, I’m going to go ahead and conclude that people are endeared to the Freak. And, it’s with good reason. The guy’s, well, endearing. He’s so unassuming that stadium security confused him for a bat boy when he was first called up. He would never use a word like instrument to refer to his arm or physique to refer to his body. On the contrary, he eats crap before starts and never even so much as bothers to ice after a game. All this probably doesn’t bode well for his longevity as a player, but it definitely makes him easy to like.

Some might argue that all this is just a reflection of the fact that he is juvenile, not particularly committed to staying in great shape. This is definitely true. And people would probably think his personal care routine was a little less adorable if he had a bad metabolism and a tendency to get injured. But I think the reason people appreciate the Freak’s approach is because it so clearly isn’t a reflection of his lack of investment. If anything, the Lone Bright Spot is so unabashed in his enthusiasm for the game that it’s almost refreshing. At the core of every professional athlete is an adolescent boy living his dream. The problem is that too many of them seem to forget to be excited about it or seem to think that it’s somehow unfashionable to let on that they are. Lincecum on the other hand? He seems not to have outgrown his teenage affection for and approach to the game he loves so well. Of course, this maybe suggests some arrested development and that he wouldn’t be the most awesome boyfriend in the world. But it makes for a pretty likable and compelling ballplayer. The kind who, upon hearing that he has surprised everyone including himself by winning the Cy Young Award at the tender age of 24, responds not with feigned composure but by shouting “Woo-hoo!” It’s fun to see someone care as much as we feel like we would if it was us. It makes us feel like they deserve it. And by us, I mean me, of course.

Lee, on the other hand, offered a different sort of response. When asked what statistic he was most proud of from the 2008 season, he responded, “I can’t really think of one. They all look pretty good to me.”

Come on, dude.

True, it probably would have seemed a little disingenuous for Lee to give us the Lincecum 14-year-old boy routine in response to the big victory given that he was such a shoo-in and that it’s not really in his nature, but that doesn’t mean necessarily meant that he had to be such an unabashed pujol about it. I mean, Lee went 22-3 this season and led the league in wins, winning percentage, home run ration, ERA and walk ratio. Out of all of those statistics, he couldn’t have just picked one and pretended it was his favorite?

For the record, Lee, I know being really good is a new thing for you, but in case it isn’t a fluke, let me give you an example of a correct answer to that same question. Lincecum’s answer. "I've always taken pride in trying to strike people out. I've always been that guy. That's the one (statistic) that kind of gets me fired up."

See how much less douchey that sounds?

The other big news on the beat is that we got Swisher. And if you know anything about me other than the fact that I have an abnormally large number of pet hamsters for a grown-up, I hate when things don’t sound like they’re spelled, and that I love a nickname, it’s that I have a real soft spot for the Swish. Last season was certainly far from his greatest, but I think that if he can tap into his real playing potential, we might just have ourselves a first baseman worth his salt. And I would have to imagine he’s the kind of guy you want in your clubhouse. So, sorry Betemit. Looks like we found our betta man. As for Sabathia, I guess we’ll just have to wait and CC.

Man, I’m sorry. That one was bad—even for me.

OK. Thaz it for now. But you can count on me to resume my regular irregular schedule of posting on a fairly regular basis. But since it’s been a while and you might be a person who needs reassurance, I just want to make sure you know that there are, indeed, some things that you can trust to remain the same despite the passage of time. Like the fact that you suck Coco Crisp.

The Change We Need

2008-11-08T07:13:00.000-08:00

Good morning. It’s time for riddle Saturday, which is a new event that I just made up and will probably never be repeated. Here goes:

What’s perpetually injured and useless and never going to get signed to a major league contract by anyone with half a brain for the rest of his sorry life?

Too easy? Let’s try another:

What’s old and tacky and has a gold thong that will hopefully never again be mentioned by a New York-based media outlet?

It’s the weekend. I don’t want you to overexert yourselves.

The point is that it’s been quite a week. A week of change and progress. New hope for a better, brighter future. No, sillies. I’m not talking about the election. I’m talking about the Yankees, who have taken a look at their options for next year and boldly decided: Out with the old, in with…well, probably the old, if I know the Yankees. But, still, it’s an exciting time. Without Pavano and Giambi and Marte we have positions that need filling, millions of dollars that need spending, and the world at our feet. It’s that rare but wondrous in-between time after you get rid of all the crappy overpaid players you don’t need anymore and before you do something stupid like, say, sign Manny Ramirez. A time when you can still be crazy enough to hope that maybe, just maybe, this year, it’s not gonna happen. And who knows? Maybe it won’t. Assuming we end up with Teixeira, we might be able to avoid degrading ourselves by engaging in that whole conversation.

Leaving aside the fact that he may serve as the one barrier that stands between the Bombers and Manny Ramirez, I feel good about Teixeira for a lot of reasons. First of all, he’s clearly a man of good judgment. How do we know this? He chose college over the Chowdas. Admittedly, college is awesome. But I like to think it had a little something to do with the fact that he thought anything—even playing for the Georgia Tech Yellowjackets—was preferable to playing for a team in Boston. I guess we’ll see how that theory of mine pans out in the next few weeks since the Chowdas will certainly be among his suitors.

Then, of course, there are all of the substantive reasons to like him—like the switch-hitting, Gold Glove first baseman reasons. But that goes without saying. It’s why GM’s across the country are going to be working their blackberries into overdrive in the coming weeks to get him on their rosters. Cashman says that, first and foremost, the Yanks are looking to shore up their defense, and Teixeira certainly helps on that score. And, while it may not be our priority, Lord knows no one’s going to kick that power hitting out of the lineup. So he’s a perfect candidate in every way.

My grievances are two. The first being the succubus that is his agent Scott Boras—an indication of maybe not-so-impeccable judgment. The second? To those of you who know me by now, this one should be obvious.

What the hell is going on with that last name?

In ways very different from Farvil’s, the spelling and pronunciation of this name bear little relation to each other. In fact, I would be hard pressed to think of any pronunciation that made sense for a name that was spelled that way. But the dude is Portuguese, so I am sort of prepared to let it slide. If you begin to chip away at the way they spell things in Portugal, you will eventually just wear away at the whole language. And that hardly seems right.

All this is nice of course, but I was never one to avoid pointing out the elephant in the room. In this case it is that, above all, what we need is pitching. In a way that is desperate, we need pitching. In a way that you need pitching if you only have two pitchers in your lineup, we need pitching. Which means, what? Which means that we probably pay an obscene amount of money for a multiyear contract in order to acquire Sabathia and pray that he doesn’t get hurt, go Pavano or lose his witch powers in the next few years. It wouldn’t be the first time. But, while I am always dubious about big money, multiyear contracts, the one thing Sabathia has going for him is youth—a refreshing change. We all knew that after the Kennedy-Hughes experiment failed so miserably, no one in the Steinbrenner family would ever be persuaded that the way to win pennants was to home grow talent. So, if we’re going to be buying an overpaid pitching staff, I’d rather not invest in goods that are like five thousand years old in baseball years.

Speaking of over-aged pitchers, we have also to wonder whether Mussina decides to hang up the old Gold Glove or try for one last good season. If you want my humble opinion, he just had a last good season. If I were Moose, I’d probably feel compelled to retire on top of my game, coach high school football, spend more time playing with my tractors. (No, that’s not a euphemism.) Of course, if I were Moose, I would also live in Montoursville, PA, so I can’t presume to totally understand how his mind works. Should Moose want back in the game, Cash has all but promised him a spot on the rotation should he want it, saying, "We just obviously have needs...”

Note to Cash: Try to avoid talking about gaps in your pitching lineup the way men who have affairs talk about sex.

Who else? Lowe, Burnett, Peavy, Sheets. Possibilities abound. Peavy’s probably a long shot for a number of reasons, but the Yanks are very persuasive when it comes to convincing players to part with their souls. As for Sheets, awesome as he is, I have a feeling we might be looking at the Second Coming of Pavano, so I say stay away. And, Lowe, well… You know what? I’m not going to make myself nuts. I’ve made a deal with Cash (about which he is unaware): He doesn’t go near Manny, I don’t give him too much grief about who he acquires or cuts loose this winter. Just no Manny. To prove that some things are sacred. That the Yanks know when to say when. That they’re capable of a little self-restraint. Not to mention the fact that Manny and Fav-ruh all in one year might be more than my fragile constitution can abide. Talk about a perfect storm. Slash the end of the world. Slash the seventh circle of hell. We would just need Mark Cuban to buy the Knicks and then we’d have a New York sports trifecta horrifying enough to send me fleeing to the Midwest never to be seen or heard from again

But, then again, maybe Manny will surprise us all and just accept the Dodgers’ offer and not force his contract negotiations into a media circus bidding war that brings us to the Super Bowl. It’s unlikely, but crazier, more awesome things have happened.

Which reminds me. Here’s one last riddle, just for fun:

What’s black and white and President all over?

Election Night Football

2008-11-03T16:47:00.001-08:00

We are all aware of the theoretical separation of church and state. Well, I am. Presumably readers of my blog are. I guess I shouldn’t make any assumptions about the people who run the country and those who voted for them.

The other day, I touched on what I believe to be an equally important tenet. Ah, hell, we’ll call it a principle. That would be the separation of church and sports principle.

This brings us to our third and final in a set of related principles: The separation of sports and state. Obvious, right? Because what does a sports allegiance have to do with government? Presumably nothing, unless you live in a country full of people who vote for someone because they think that he’d be cool to have a beer with.

And, yet, it is a principle perpetually breached.

There was, of course, the famous scandal in 2000 over Hillary’s allegedly fake allegiance to the Yankees. Guess what? If you were going to vote for Hillary but ended up going with Lazio because you decided that she was exclusively a Cubs fan—congratulations, you’re a jackass. (Oh, and also, you were wrong. That bitch loves the Yankees something loco. Always has.)

Then, of course, there is the fact that, ever since 9/11, the people in the Bronx have decided to hijack the age old tradition of singing, “Take me Out to the Ballgame” during the seventh inning stretch by forcing us to first sing “God Bless America.” It’s become a time for us to honor our servicemen and women and the sacrifices they are making for our country by getting drunk and screaming at people that if they don’t take their hats off and show some respect we’re going to punch them in the face. Not that I could begin to presume to understand the sacrifices of our servicemen and women, but I am guessing that that is exactly how I would want to be honored if I was them.

I am all for giving both our country and military its due, but I don’t know that the ballpark is necessarily the proper arena. If you want to know the truth, I actually think it lets people off kind of easy to make them believe that all they need to do is get drunk at a ballgame, yell at someone to take his or her hat off and they will have shown their country the necessary amount of respect. I have some other ideas for more effective ways that people might demonstrate their theoretical loyalty to state, but I will spare you those at the moment.

On “Meet the Press” yesterday, Tom Brokaw asked Republican Fred Thompson which was more likely—that the Titans would win the Super Bowl or McCain would win the election. Now, Fred Thompson is presumably not equipped to answer that question in a way that is statistically more satisfactory than any of the rest of us, for whom the answer to that question would obviously have been The Titans times a thousand. But not the point. The point is, good God, Brokaw, what the hell does that have to do with anything? You’re hosting “Meet the Press.” Not “Meet The Inane Prognostications.”

As for tonight. Well, it’s the Eve of the Election, so where else would Obama and McCain be other than giving interviews during halftime of the Steelers-Redskins game. Fair enough, I guess. People watch Monday Night Football. So that’s not the news that surprised me. What surprised me was the discovery that the outcome of this game will apparently determine the outcome of this election. (Awesome news for me because I’m SO sick of staying up past my bedtime to watch the returns.)

No, it’s true.

According to Steve Hirdt of the Elias Sport Bureau, you can gauge the outcome of a presidential election by what the Redskins do in their home game prior to Election Day. If they win, the party that won the popular vote in the previous election wins the presidency. If the Redskins lose, the reverse is true. Thus, if the Steelers win, it means Obama take the White House. If the Redskins win, we get McCain and Palin. So, either the Redskins have to forfeit to show that they care about our country or…

That’s the dumbest crap I ever heard.

Remember that time we all thought that Babe Ruth did witchcraft on the Chowdas for eighty-six years to make them incapable of winning and it turned out they were just really bad that whole time? So, it’s like that but kind of more of a big deal and therefore more outrageous to suggest that a football team with an offensive name could potentially predict the outcome of this election because the fate of our country and planet and universe depend on it. But whatever. What’s more likely—that the Steelers will win tonight’s game or that Steve Hirdt is—what’s that insult I like so much?—an ass clown?

I’m just saying.

I love sports more than the next person. Possibly more, depending on who the next person is. But sports has nothing to do with politics. And it has nothing to do with God. Period. I remember in 2004, I was taking the subway home from one of the Yankees-Red Sox LCS games, and some idiot Yankee fan (yes, there are a few of them) was saying, “John Kerry is from Boston, so if you don’t like the Red Sox, you shouldn’t vote for John Kerry.”

To which my friend Jane responded with the only comeback befitting someone stupid enough to suggest a link between the sacred but separate concepts of church, state, and sports:

“That's de-men-ted.” Clap, clap, clap clap clap.

Clear Eyes, Full Moon, Can't Lose

2008-11-02T12:42:00.000-08:00

According to Mike Singletary, recently appointed head coach of the San Francisco 49ers, "I think you can be the greatest orator of all time, the greatest motivator of all times, but if those players know that you don't care about them, and you don't try to understand them, then they're never going to hear what you have to say. On the flip side of that, if those players know you have their best interests at heart and it's not about you, it's about them, yes, they do listen."

So, having eliminated oration as an effective means of getting across his point during halftime of last week’s travesty of a game against the Seahawks, Singletary did what any coach committed enough to show his players he cared would have done: He pulled his pants down.

Now, I’m sure that a lot of you are feeling a little judgmental about this whole incident. But visualize, for a second, that you’re Mike Singletary. You have just been named head coach of the San Francisco 49ers. You’re being demolished by the Seahawks. You lose this one, it constitutes your fifth loss in a row.

I know; worst visualization ever.

Anyway, you’re emotional. In a moment of passion, you do something crazy to make a point. (Exactly what point, no one can be sure.) You pull your pants down. Presumably, after the fact, you’re a little humiliated. The endorphins have worn off and you realize, “Dude. I just pulled my pants down in front of a room full of professional football players. I sort of wish I was dead.” I’m sure that, given the chance, Singletary would love to just be able to plead temporary insanity and forget the whole stupid debacle.

Right?

Or maybe not. In recent interviews, Singletary has said that he “can’t think of anything I would do differently.”

OK, Mike, I don’t want to be a jerk, but do you remember that you pulled your pants down? That you addressed your team without your pants on? I would go with, “I can’t think of anything I would do differently—except keep my pants on.”

But, no, Singletary has decided to stick to his guns, saying that the problem was not his inability to keep his pants on but the team’s inability to remember that what happens in the locker room stays in the locker room. (Whatever. My motto is: If you see something, say something.) Singletary commented, "It's unfortunate ... we will find out who is leaking information out of the locker room because what happens in the locker room should be sacred and stay there."

Uh, nothing against Singletary, but if anyone on the Niners failed to see what was going on in the locker room as “sacred,” that one might sort of be on him.

One can’t be totally sure of what Singletary was attempting to communicate by de-pantsing himself. From what I gather, I think that he was trying to say, “You see how much I’m humiliating myself right now? Well that’s what you’re doing on the field.” Whatever the strategy, it didn’t appear to be particularly effective. The 49ers went into halftime down 20-3 and ended up losing the game 33-14.

While the removal of his pants may have been the most notable of the unconventional inspirational strategies that Singletary employed during his debut as head coach, it was not the only one. In this same game, he also decided to bench quarterback J.T. O’Sullivan, had a sideline beef with tight end Vernon Davis that ended with him sending Davis to the showers and, after the game, he made a public statement criticizing Davis, saying, “I'd rather play with 10 people and just get penalized all the way until we have to do something else, rather than play with 11 when I know that right now that person is not sold out to be a part of this team.”

In the immortal words of Matt Yallof, “That not just hurts. It stings.”

While Singletary’s rash of crazy moves last week has met with criticism from bloggers and journalists alike, a number of his fans have come to his defense, citing his greatness as a player as evidence of his infallibility as a coach. A rock solid argument. Because, in the history of professional sports, there’s never been an amazing player who has failed to measure up as a coach Remember, for example Maury Willis and what a stellar job he did as the manager for the Mariners? Great player = great coach. Bottom line.

Among my favorite of Singletary’s supporters are those who wrote on his facebook wall. Yes, Singeltary has a facebook page. But don’t get too excited. You can’t become his facebook friend—only his fan. (How delightfully arrogant.) Also, to my great disappointment, he does not have a status message. If the guy had any sense of humor he’d write, “Mike Singletary is wearing pants. For now.”

He does, however, allow people to write on his wall. And the feedback was so overwhelmingly positive, so devoid of mention of any pantlessness, that it might almost give people the false impression that there was someone vetting the comments before they were posted. But, no. That’s just how much people love the guy. No one could have put it better than one of his many facebook fans who wrote, “Don't listen to fools like Len Wilson or Ben Tallman, Mike. You're a Niner, a FAITHFUL. Those guys are ass clowns. I'm ready to see Gore run wild again and good work putting VD in his baby place. 4154LIFE Mike!!!”

How better to know that you have arrived than to receive such a flattering facebook wall comment from a guy who has a photo of Vizzini from Princess Bride as his profile picture, uses the number 4 in lieu of the word for (and isn’t a twelve-year-old girl), and gives his point special emphasis by using not one, not two, but THREE exclamation points? That guy really said it, Singletary; you’re a FAITHFUL.

And he’s an ass clown. (!!!)

The "Winter" Of Our Discontent

2008-10-31T10:15:00.001-07:00

I was at Starbucks yesterday. No, not because I was hoping to catch a glimpse of Moose in action—sitting in a corner drinking a soy chai latte and writing poetry. And, no, not because that’s where I like to get my coffee. (If you will recall, I have an edge.) But I was at the airport, and options were limited. I was waiting for my order when I glimpsed an ad for some new hot chocolate blend that they have coming out. It read:

Made with a mélange of exceptional cocoas. It makes “fall” feel more like “autumn.”

As always, I know what you’re going to say. How does John McCain find the time to write ads for Starbucks when he’s campaigning for president? You’re also probably going to say that that’s the dumbest crap you ever read. Because it’s like saying, “Drink this smoothie. It has lots of fruit in it. And it makes summer feel like summer.”

But, actually, if you read between the lines, this ad is totally brilliant, hilarious, and teeming with irony.

First of all, the word mélange is French. (It happens to be among my favorite French words because it is the word that comes up on people’s cell phones when they try to text my name. How fun is that?) It’s a well-established fact (in my mind) that the use of any French word in casual conversation is always meant to be ironic. As is the saying of a French word that has been integrated into the English vernacular—like croissant—with a French accent. Unless you are like a Proust scholar or something. And, actually, now that I bring it up, it is also my belief that people who are Proust scholars have chosen that career path as a way of making a clever and deeply hysterical joke. They’re just way more committed to irony than the rest of us.

Then, of course, there are the unnecessary quotation marks—and there is no greater ironic device than an unnecessary quotation mark. For a long time, the fact that people used quotes in ways that didn’t make sense made me completely insane. A few years back, I had a bagel store near my apartment that was actually called “Everything on a Bagel”—in quotes. I found it maddening. What was their meaning? Were they trying to suggest that the phrase, “Everything on a bagel” was some kind of famous saying? By…Socrates? Nietzsche? Then, of course, there are also all those delis that advertise “Healthy” Deli, “Gourmet” Deli. For ages, I agonized over the seeming nonsensical nature of the usage of all those quotations.

Until one day it hit me. It’s ALL a joke. Those quotation marks are all just a really clever way of being sarcastic. Because how many of those delis ever really offered anything even remotely healthy or gourmet? And obviously there are things that don’t actually belong on bagels. Hummus goes on pitas. Salsa goes on chips. Nutella goes on a spoon. “Everything on a bagel.” Ha! HILARIOUS.

So what were the people at Starbucks REALLY trying to say? What they were really trying to say was, “Your decision to order hot chocolate is obviously going to hinge entirely on whether or not that was what you wanted coming to the counter. But isn’t it funny how some companies think that by employing the use of ridiculous poetic language and fancy foreign words they are actually going to be able to affect your decision or make you suddenly take interest in a drink that has been around since the dawn of time?”

SUCH a good one.

So, I wanted to pay tribute to the brilliance of this ad campaign by making my discussion of the end of the baseball season an hommage, if you will, to its creators.

As I’m sure you all know by now—and you certainly must because it’s such a “historic” event—the Phillies finally went and won themselves a championship. C’est magnifique!

Various news publications have cited the fact that there has been a certain symmetry to the victory. The Phillies last win was in ’80. This year is, of course, ’08. (The Times was “helpful” enough to point out for us that those two numbers are the inverse of one another.) Additionally, When the Phillies won their previous championship—their only other championship—they closed the game on a strike out by Tug McGraw, number 45. This time? Number 54, Brad Lidge, closed it out by striking out Eric Hinske on a slider. Weird. What a “crazy” set of coincidences.

All in all, despite an outstanding season and October up until now, the Devs failed to deliver much of a performance during this series against the Phils. They underwhelmed in every way imaginable, never following through whenever they began to spark what looked like even the slightest hint of a resurgence. In fact, one might even say they made the “Fall Classic” feel more like “spring training.”

In any event, winter is officially upon us. Baseball winter if not actual winter. And that means that all I have to look forward to in the coming months is spending Sundays with “Farve,” wondering how someone who bungles so many plays still manages to win games. It means I get to sit around and wait to see what overpriced, over-aged pitchers the Yankees are going pick up during the offseason. It means I get to hear more than I wanted to know about what Frost-Tip has to say about “Kabbalah.”

To be honest, I can’t say for sure how I’m going to make it through. But, every year, I find a way. This year, probably with the aid of the timely arrival of a new season of 30 Rock, a lot of self-reflection, and the new Starbucks mélange of cocoas. (Whatever. It sounded good.)

What can I say? The crowning of a new champion is just so bittersweet. It always manages to makes the “end of the baseball season” feel more like the “end of the baseball season.”

Are You There, Baseball God? It's Me, Selig.

2008-10-29T14:05:00.000-07:00

I have stated often and publicly that I don’t believe in baseball gods. That, furthermore, I have a hard time believing that Jesus or Ganesh or Yahweh or Buddha or whoever else care about whether or not any given batter gets a critical hit at a critical moment during a critical game. In fact, I actually kind of think it’s like a little insulting to Jesus and Ganesh and Yahweh and Buddha to suggest that they might. But on the off chance that I am wrong—that some kind of deity, baseball-specific or otherwise, is watching and controlling the factors that will determine the outcome of this World Series—that deity is apparently as bored as I am. How else do you explain the fact that, just when I was ready to write this off as the “Fall Classic” least worth watching since Anaheim played the Giants in 2002, the weather went and got all kinds of Biblical up in Citizens Bank Park on Monday?

Finally. A little excitement.

The storm prompted a suspension that began in the 6th inning of game Game 5 on Monday and that hasn’t ended yet. That will, in fact, go on until Thanksgiving if necessary, according to baseball commissioner Bud Selig.

That guy’s so drama.

Everyone knew in advance that, no matter what happened, the game was going to be played through to its completion. Well, everyone but Joe Buck, Tim McCarver and the viewing public—all five of us. So everyone that mattered knew. While a player or two for the Phils have rightfully grumbled about the fact that the game wasn’t called earlier—claiming that the Devs were only able to tie things up because the field conditions had so rapidly deteriorated—none among them seemed to be upset about the predetermined ruling to finish the game no matter what. I mean, seriously, if you’re going to win your first World Series in twenty-eight years, you’ve got to know that it’s embarrassing to do it with a rain-shortened outing. It’s sort of like being Justin Morneau and knowing that you only won the Home Run Derby because Josh Hamilton expended all his energy hitting five million home runs in the first round. And that no one wanted you to win anyway. Like that but twenty times lamer.

It’s fortunate for Selig that the Devs managed to tie it up when they did because it effectively took the choice about whether or not to resume play at a later date out of his hands. With the game tied in the 6th, it forced the suspension. True, if the Phils end up losing this Series on account of the decision not to call the game earlier, Selig probably won’t live long enough to lower his golf handicap this winter. True, also, that every journalist this side of the Mississippi has gone all Mike Lowell in a dark alley editorial-style on Selig as a result of his ineffectual decision-making skills. But it’s a small price to pay to avoid taking responsibility for changing a rule. So it worked out for the best. It’s also good that it panned out like this because if the Devs hadn’t gotten that run in the 6th, they were going to call this two-day suspension of play a “rain delay.”

Holy crap. That’s demented.

In any event, at long, long last, if and when this ballgame ever resumes, there’s a chance it’s going to be worth watching. The suspension probably favors the Devs, who will be able to avoid facing Hamels for the remainder of the game. And even before the weather went and got all squally on us, my friend, The Thunderphobe, made the prediction that B.J. Upton's slide just might just constitute the turning point in this series. The Thunderphobe is not only wise but often prescient, so I like to quote him when he offers these kinds of insights. If he ends up being right, you can say you read it on my blog, and I look good. If he’s wrong, I can just be like, “Whatever. Who’s the Thunderphobe?” It’s a win-win. (Oh, and for the record, in addition to being prescient and wise, The Thunderphobe is also afraid of thunder—thus, the name.)

Regardless, it will be exciting to see how Manuel and Maddon manage a three and a half inning ballgame. If the Phils had been ahead going into the game, maybe they pitch a starter—bank on holding the Devs at bay and try to wrap it up at home. But with a tied game, they have to feel more of a need to keep some reserves in the tank. Anyway you slice it, it’s going to be fun to watch.

So, baseball gods, if you’re out there and you did this, thanks. Same goes for real God, if perchance it was you. Also, I have some other questions about like poverty and war and stuff like that. But mostly thanks.

Oh, and while we’re on the subject of things that have nothing to do with each other—like baseball and God—maybe this would be a good time to mention, apropos of nothing, that you suck Coco Crisp.

Still feels good.

The Phall Phorreal?

2008-10-27T16:20:00.000-07:00

Well, there’s good news for the people in the Commissioner’s Office and bad news for the people in the people at the Commissioner’s Office. The good news is that, the way things are going, they may be able to avoid the unpleasant ordeal of sitting through another game at the Trop. The bad news is, less games, less revenue. Though, if it ends up being a short series, they can always take comfort in the fact that nobody’s watching anyway. And who could even begin to understand why? It’s the Devs and the Phils for Chrissakes. We got Hamels the Hammer on the mound tonight, Ryan Howard has finally remembered how to use his bat, and Chase Utley? Well, it doesn’t even matter what the hell he does cuz that guy is just adorable. And…

And I’m falling asleep as I write this post.

I guess there was what might you might call some dramamine last night. Some beef over a tag at third. The Devs got screwed. Maddon put the mad into Maddon. In the end, the margin of victorino was so great—10-2—that it was of little consequence. Just add it to the ever-increasing list of weird events and craptastic calls that have been hovering over this series since that non-balk call in Game 1. But strangely all of this excitement has done nothing to make the Fall Classic even remotely more interesting. In fact, I kind of feel like the word "classic" shouldn’t even be used when referring to this series. Let’s just call it the “Phall Phorreal?”

However, things did start to genuinely heat up a little bit last night when Maddon went and accused Blanton of keeping pine tar underneath the brim of his hat. According to mlb.com, “He [Blanton] flashed an impressive slider with sharp movement, striking out both Evan Longoria and Carl Crawford on the pitch. The movement, combined with a visible discoloration on the top of the bill of Blanton's cap, gave the Rays reason to try to put two-and-two together.”

Gave the Rays reason to try to put two-and-two together?

First of all, what? Second of all, seriously, mlb.com, just say the word, and I’ll send along my resume.

Blanton had this to say in his defense: "It's nothing. They rub the balls up with whatever they rub them up with, and you rub it up and get it on your hand. I'm constantly trying to get moisture, and just touch my hat. It's nothing sticky. Anybody can go touch it. It's basically just dirt from the ball that gets ... over time, over so many starts, I don't change my hat. It just gets rubbed on the hat."

OK. First of all, ew. Second of all, I get that when you’re being interviewed by the press—particularly when it’s about an accusation that you have been cheating—it’s stressful. Hard to think on your toes. But, as a rule, try to avoid all sentence structures involving the phrase “They rub the balls up with whatever they rub them up with.” I mean, seriously, Blanton. You want to talk about how you did or didn’t go all Kenny Rogers on a baseball and all you could think to say was: “They rub the balls up with whatever they rub them up with”? Nothing against, Blanton, but that guy’s got brains like tits.

Manuel jumped to Blanton’s defense saying, "But if you look at my hat, see right there, it's got the same kind of stuff he's talking about. That right there is the fact that I haven't changed hats all year."

First of all, ew. Dude. Superstition shmuperstition. That’s disgusting. Second of all, if you insist on not changing your hat all year, don’t go showing people your nasty head funk. They don’t want to see that.

Anyway, leaving aside all this “excitement” about who is rubbing their balls and where, the reality remains that Tampa Bay might be heading South for the winter on the soon side if they don’t pull it together. We all knew that the Phils were a more likely bet for this series. As I said the other day, it was pretty much just a matter of someone lighting a fire under the offense’s pujols. And it appears to have finally happened for them. Rollins and Howard have been the real offensive heroes in the last couple of games. In Game 4 alone Howard homered twice and drove in five runs and Rollins got three hits and scored three runs. Utley has also contributed to the hit parade with a couple of dingers, starting the whole thing off with a dinger during his first at-bat in the first inning of the first game of the Dance. Again, not that it matters. Cuz he’s just so darn adorable. Like David Wright. But playing for a city that less people care about. So he doesn’t get the deals with Vitamin Water.

Now, I won’t begrudge the Phils their impending win, despite the fact that I have been pulling for the Devs. The fact is that, at the moment, they’re really the team that’s earning it. And, yet, there remains a compelling reason to cheer for the Devs to overcome the odds and pull a come-from-behind victory out of their hats. It’s that I think I’ll shoot myself in the face if I have to read thirty different variations of the headline “Clock Strikes Midnight on the Rays” the morning after they have been defeated once and for all. And believe me; it’s gonna happen. That headline is like the denouement that sports columnists everywhere have been waiting for. It's like a sickness. They must know that it's the wrong thing to do, and, yet, they can't seem to help it.

However it pans out, let’s hope that, one way or another, this thing gets at least a little bit interesting. And that it lasts just a little bit longer. True, it’s boring and awful and doesn’t involve any team that I remotely care about. But it’s sort of like that bad relationship you stay in because you’d rather have a bad relationship than no relationship. All things being equal, I’d rather have this baseball than no baseball.

Beats spending the winter with Farvil.

It Just Doesn't Matter

2008-10-25T20:37:00.000-07:00

I received an ecard from my friend Chris a couple of days ago that read, “This is going to be one of the most exciting World Series ever until my bedtime in the seventh inning.”

That pretty much sums it up for me.

I had to deliberate a little about who I was going to back this year—for better or worse, I always have to give myself at least a fake rooting interest. It keeps me engaged. It was a tough call because, ultimately, I kept coming back to this nagging feeling. The feeling that, at the end of the day, it just doesn’t matter.

There are always compelling reasons to cheer for any team. In the case of the Devs, there’s obviously—forgive me; I’m going to say it again—that whole Cinderella thing. If they manage to win it, it will be the first time in the history of any professional sport that a team has gone from being last in their division to world champions in consecutive years. And, it’s true, it’s a heartwarming tale. But it becomes a little harder to compare the Devils to Cinderella when the villain in the story is a team that has a much longer and more pathetic history of loserness than they do. A team like the Phils.

But, still, there are other reasons to like the Devs. They have young, dynamic players. (And Cliff Floyd. How the hell did he worm his way onto that club?) They’re fun to watch. They work well as a team.

But, then, while Tampa Bay is a team that I would like to see succeed, their fan base, well, I’d be just as happy to see most of them packed up and shipped off to an island. And not like a really nice island as a reward for being awesome. The hair-dying, the mowhawks, the cowbells, the overly-loud Napoleonic need to assert their greatness, the bandwagon factor. Despite the amazing name, I would never wish a stadium like the Trop on any franchise. But if ever there was a fan base that kind of deserved it. I mean, seriously. Despite all the aforementioned obnoxious ways that this fan-i-ness is manifesting itself now, take a look at what the Trop looked like at a regular season game a couple years ago. It makes it hard to give that much of a crapelbon about whether those Devs fans get their happy ending.

This is not to say that anyone could ever accuse Phils fans of being classier than the Tampanians. No, in fact, despite the fact that you have to travel some distance to get from Pennsylvania to Canada, Phils fans seem hell-bent on putting the hockey into baseball. Sure, at every ballpark, fans get drunk, things get loco, people get punched. In Philly, it just seems to happens more. A lot more. Not to mention the fact that Phils fans are notorious for cheering when a player for an opposing team gets injured on the field. That’s not just classless—though it’s definitely that—but it actually shows a profound disrespect for the game in which they are theoretically so invested.

That said, while you could never accuse the Phillies fans of being classy, you could also never accuse them of not caring. Of being fair-weather. Of not having suffered enough. They have been waiting for twenty-eight years to win another championship. The Devs haven’t even been existence half that long. If this is going to mean something to anyone, it’s going to be to the Phils fans. I mean, no offense, but even if you are one of the rare Devs fans who has actually cared about the team since it first got there, it hasn’t really been long enough to count. And, by the way, if you are a Devs fan, unless you’re a kid, or were one when the Devs came into existence, what’s wrong with you?

Leaving aside the question of the fans, the Phils raise in me some other doubts. One, there’s the fact that Jon Stewart wants them to lose. Presumably because he’s a diehard Mets fan. It’s true that I will likely never meet Jon Stewart and that it will probably never come up, but if it should, I would like to be able to say, “Yeah, I was totally hoping that the Phils would get the Brotherly Love kicked out of them in ’08 also. Want to go to karaoke?” There’s also the fact that Barry Zito picked the Phils to win, and, as a rule, I like to go in the opposite of direction of Zito when all matters concerning anything are concerned. Why? It’s personal. He owes me money.

But, finally—and I’m pretty sure most of you know what’s coming—I’m afraid I’m going to have to point out the rather large, green, overstuffed, demented-looking mascot in the living room. That’s right. The Phanatic. With a ph.

As in, phorreal?

Despite the fact that my distance friend and mentor (it’s like distance learning—you do it online without ever meeting) Tim McCarver dubbed the Phanatic baseball’s best mascot, I’m afraid we're going to have to agree to disagree on this one. Like we did that time he said, “Mt. Everest erupts again.” (I still assert that it never erupted a first time.)

There is, of course, the fact that the Phanatic breaks all the fundamental rules of mascotism, starting with the rule that dictates that there shouldn’t be mascots down to the one that mascots, though they shouldn’t exist, should at the very least be real animals and not amorphous green balls of creepiness. But let’s just pretend, for the sake of finding other reasons to criticize the Phanatic, that those rules don’t exist. (And also that it’s OK to spell Phanatic with a Ph.) There is also the fact that the Phanatic, much like many who comprise the fan base that he’s meant to galvanize, is a no-goodnick. He taunts the other team, gets into fisticuffs with Tommy Lasorda, and has been the target of more lawsuits than any other mascot in baseball—once for bear hugging a fan so hard that the guy sustained back injuries. Apparently that one cost the Phanatic a cool 2.5 million in the final assessment. I guess the old, “I’m a hugger, not a phighter" defense didn’t fly so well with the jury.

Not that Raymond of the Rays is much better. The only thing that really distinguishes him from the Phanatic is the fact that he’s blue. And doesn’t have a beef with Tommy Lasorda.

At the end of the day, it’s like I said, I don’t care that much. But if I had to pick, weighing in all these factors, I guess I go Devs. Because I like watching them play. I enjoy the unbridled enthusiasm they bring to the game. I love the Maddon. And there's just something about B.J. Upton. The Phils are probably the favorite if they can get that whole RISP thing working for them. They’ve certainly got the more solid pitching rotation. But in a short series--and especially in October--anything can happen. So until it’s all over, I guess I’ll be ringing that proverbial cowbell in my mind.

Until my bedtime in the seventh inning, anyway.

Don't Stop Believing

2008-10-21T14:17:00.000-07:00

I’m sure you all know what’s coming. Chowda elimination after a nail-biter of an ALCS and an eighth inning where it almost looked like—maybe, just maybe— they might regain the lead. And, well, since they didn’t, I bet you probably think that I’m just here to say, “In your faces.”

But not so.

And not just because if I did say, “In your faces,” Chowdas fans would say, “Whatever. Your team didn’t even make it to the postseason.” To that I would simply respond, “This is sports, where logic does not dictate taunting. So in your faces.” But the reason I’m not here to say that is because I know how—what are the words I’m looking for?—oh, right, I know how bitter, and mad, and miserable most Chowda Heads must feel right about now.

No one could have expressed the stinging disappointment of this game 7 defeat quite as eloquently as utility infielder Alex Cora:

"Our goal the whole time was to win the World Series. It didn't' matter if we came back in Game 5 or whatever…Like I said, we're disappointed because our goal from the get-go was to win four games in the World Series. It didn't matter who it was against or whatever… Like always, you have a week or whatever and then you're going to look back and think about everything we accomplished."

Or whatever.

I’m not quite the wordsmith that Cora is (of course, he’s not quite the hitter I am), but he is essentially making the point that I was trying to make the other day. In the end, if you are a Chowda or a Chowda Head, the fact that there was almost a miraculous comeback is kind of neither here nor there. Because, well, almost making it to the World Series is kind of like being half-pregnant. Or, to put it in the immortal words of Ricky Bobby, when it comes to the LCS, if you’re not first, you’re last.

So, the point is that, while I’m psyched, I won’t rub it in because I get that this is hard for Chowda Heads. To have lost. In what ended up being such a close series. In a game that they really almost could have won. And to have watched all those Devils pile on top of each other after that last out in the ninth as they celebrated the fact that they were one step closer to the championship. That feels pretty crappy. So, I think it would be wrong for me to pour salt in the wound. I’m sensitive like that. What I will say to all you Chowda Heads out there is, “Don’t stop believing.” Because I know believing is, like, your big thing.

Of course, despite Boston’s crushing defeat, it was a bittersweet weekend for us Bomber fans. Sure, we can take comfort in the fact that the Chowdas are all golfing with the rest of us schmucks. But news from Nebraska cast a pall on what would otherwise have been a sense of unadulterated glee—Boy Wonder Joba Chamberlain went and got himself a DUI. Apparently, he wasn’t just drinking and driving. He was drinking while driving.

I mean, it’s been a tough October for all of us, buddy, but get it together.

I don’t know what it is, but something about Joba inspires people to want to get his back. In response to the news, even the cantankerous Hank Steinbrenner got all gushy about how you stand by your family in their time of need. And, apparently, Joba is a part of the Steinbrenner family. A dubious honor. There are those cynics who might say that this has a little something more to do with Joba’s numbers than the fact that the dude is just compulsively likable. If this had been, say, Ian Kennedy, Hankles would probably not have given him quite the same Prodigal Son forgiveness—family or not. Blood is thicker than mud, but not quite as thick as an 8.17 ERA.

But, you see, it’s not just Hank. It seems to be everyone. Even my cousin Ben, a tried and true Chowda Head, came to Joba’s defense when I mentioned the incident to him. “You don’t understand how it is in places like that, Melanie. Drinking and driving is obviously stupid, but when you’re in Nebraska? It really doesn’t matter because you’re literally the only one on the road.” He then went on to tell me that a friend of his had read a 300-page novel while driving the Texas panhandle with his car in cruise control. (For those of you who complain that you wish you could read more but just can’t find the time—no more excuses.) The point is that you know you have an uncannily lovable Yankee on your hands when even citizens of Red Sox Nation starts jumping to his defense.

In any event, Joba may be looking at a longer off-season than the rest of us. Even if he gets off easy—with probation—he is facing at least two months without a license. In Nebraska, having no license is like the ultimate in not-coolness. And just when he got all cool by getting famous and everything. Let’s just hope moms is game to drive him to the bowling alley on Friday nights for the rest of the winter.

But we weren’t talking about Joba. We were talking about the Chowdas. And how we won’t try to make them feel bad even though we’re happy that we aren’t going to have to look at any of their ugly mugs for the rest of the year. (Will Kevin Youkilis do us all a service by shaving off at least SOME of that facial hair? It’s just like too much facial hair.) And how even someone like Crisp deserves his due right about now. He had a hell of a postseason. Well, guess what, Coco Crisp? I know you’re feeling pretty fragile at the moment. So just to show how thoughtful I can be, for today, I’m going to refrain from telling you that you suck Coco Crisp.

(Even though you suck Coco Crisp.)

Everything Is Nothing If You've Got No One

2008-10-19T16:23:00.000-07:00

So, it’s come to this. Tied series. Game seven. At the Trop.

The question is: How?

Game five, the deal seemed just about sealed for the Chowdas going into the bottom of the seventh. And then? Well, it all happened so fast. Pedroia with an RBI. Papi with a three-run dinger. Then, in the eighth, there is the two-run shot by D.L. Drew. And, of course, the Sultan of Suck has a mind-blowing at-bat before eventually driving Kotsay home from second with a single into right—tying the game. Then, well. We all know how that story ends. Walk-off single for a “historical” comeback. (I put historical in quotes because I think that the amount of attention that this game receives from history will have a little something to do with whether or not the Chowdas are able to actually take the series.) From there, of course, they managed to grind out a sixth game win against Shields in Tampa. Varitek Shmaritek, blah, blah, blah.

And here we are.

Since 2004, there has undoubtedly been a paradigm shift. The Chowdas are no longer the team that you can count on to lie down and die the way that for years, and years, and years, and years—well, I’m not going to write it out eighty-six times—you were able to. They’re grittier, less pathetic, a team that’s capable of a miraculous comeback. They’re officially not losers anymore.

Unfortunately, as I have suggested on my blog, this hasn’t done much to imbue them with a winner’s psychology. They’re like the consummate losers who, now, finally on a winning streak, feel the need to overcompensate with obnoxious, relentless pomposity. As my friend Chris so astutely observed, “It would be like if Charlie Brown finally won something--and then you found out he was actually an asshole.”

And, yet, while I loathe the Chowdas, disdain their fan base, and think Crisp the very definition of suckiness—whether or not he’s hitting game-tying RBI’s—I don’t wish them out of existence. In a sense, I need them.

I was listening to “Islands in the Stream” last night. (Don’t judge. I don’t care who you are; Dolly’s better than you.) When she came to the line “Everything is nothing if you’ve got no one,” it got me thinking about New York’s relationship with Boston. How critical we are to each other’s narrative arcs.

If, somehow, this rivalry had never come to exist, it would obviously still be pretty awesome to win world championships—six for the Chowdas, and—what is it?—oh, yeah, twenty-six for the Bombers. But having a villain to complement your hero—someone’s face to rub it in—just makes it more rewarding. For example, imagine if the story of David and Goliath was just about David fighting some random kid from school. Not that David was actually in school as far as I am aware. But, anyway,if he was, it’s a decidedly less compelling story, right?

Ideally, a rivalry can make the game more fun, it makes us more invested, encourages us to do better. I mean, would I have enjoyed game 7 of the ALCS in 2003 if the Chowdas had been the Mariners? Sure. Obviously. Would I still—four years later—feel a rush of warmth whenever I think about that 11th inning Aaron Boone walk-off home run had we been playing Seattle? Probably not. Just as I probably wouldn’t still feel nauseated whenever I replay the tape of the seventh game of the ALCS in 2004 if we’d been playing that game against Seattle.

So, while I know it’s not quite what Dolly was driving at, in a way, all those Yankee championships wouldn’t have meant so much were it not for the fact that we knew that Chowdas and Chowda Heads alike were suffering somewhere as a result. Just as I’m sure that those six times that Boston managed to win, they were psyched because people like me were sad and nauseated. You see, it’s not just about winning. It’s about sharing the experience with someone. Even if that someone is the enemy who you are trying to obliterate. That’s part of what makes it fun.

Of course, having been eliminated, the only thing left to do at this point is live out this dynamic vicariously through whatever team the Chowdas happen to be playing. The enemy of my enemy is my friend. It would be nice to see the Devils make it to the big dance, but if they continue to crumble, I’m just as happy to see it go down in the World Series. Get their hopes up. Then crush them like a bug.

But all this being said, make no mistake; when I tell Coco he sucks, which I will do until the end of time, I do it with the sincerest appreciation for the fact that—in a way—he completes me. I mean, I wouldn’t have a blog without him. So, seriously, Coco Crisp; thank you. And also, as ever, you suck Coco Crisp.

Principle Number Four

2008-10-16T13:47:00.000-07:00

Yes, it’s that time again. Time for me to share with you another of my principles—the list is virtually unending. For those of you who follow my blog at all or have any common sense, this one oughta be a no-brainer. It’s principle number four: Never Take Advice From Fav-ruh. I mean, it’s like taking advice from Eric Cartman.

But clearly, Tony Romo neither follows my blog nor has common sense.

The latest, in case you weren’t aware, is that Romo got a broken pinkie. Fav-ruh, being the good Samaritan/busybody that he is, decided to give Romo a call and offer him some unsolicited advice. His counsel? Play through the pain. Whatever he said must have struck a chord because Romo took the field at practice today to test the waters and now claims to want to play on Sunday, despite initial reports that he would be out for four weeks.

I’m no, uh, hand doctor, but isn’t the pinkie finger kind of critically important to quarterbacking? And, furthermore, if you break a bone, isn’t the best way to exacerbate the break by further impact to the site of the break by a flying object—an object like, say, a football?

Maybe I’m wrong, though. Like I said, I’m no hand doctor.

Leaving all this aside, however, the fact that Farvil encouraged Romo to play should be reason enough for him to sit. Brett Fav-ruh calls me with advice, I’m thinking that it’s like a George Costanza thing where you just do the opposite. Farvie says jump, you say, “Meh, I’d rather take an escalator up.”

But apparently Romo doesn’t have the dignity not to follow the cool kid, stupid though he may be. So, what gives Romo? I mean, I get that Fav-ruh played through the pain of a fracture once so as not to break a consecutive game streak, but everyone with your team is telling you that the pinkie is different. Why not listen to their collective wisdom? To the wisdom of people whose names sound like they’re spelled? I mean, if Brett Fav-ruh jumped off the Brooklyn Bridge, would you?

Anyway, I’d watch your back Marion Barber—or your locker. Given the spell Farvil seems to have cast on Romo, I wouldn’t be surprised if he started leaving turkey guts in people's lockers in the not-so-distant future. Or making important decisions and then changing his mind about them a couple of months later and throwing everyone’s life into a state of disarray.

As for the baseball, what can I say? Dodgers fans are going to be feeling more than just Dodger blue this week. My sincerest sympathies. I guess for now, all that remains is to hope for Chowda humiliation. Why, some of you ask, root against the Chowdas and not the Devils? Because they’re Boston, and that’s what I do. They’re the Vader to my Skywalker, the Tom to my Jerry, the Pinkberry to my Tasti D-Lite.

Oh, right, and because you suck Coco Crisp.

Once Upon A Time...

2008-10-15T19:12:00.000-07:00

Three down, one to go.

That’s right. The Devils—the Tampa Bay only-been-in-existence-since-1998-and-have-the-second-smallest-payroll-in-baseball Devils—are only one win away from knocking the Chowdas into oblivion. (The Marlins, incidentally, are the team with the smallest payroll—by a lot. Who knew Floridians were so frugal?)

So the Devils need one win, and they have three games in which to get it. Oh, and, by the way, two of those games are going to be played at home—at the Trop. For the record, if you’re going to sell the naming rights to your ballpark, sell it to a company with a name like Tropicana. The Trop? It just sounds cool. (Citizens Bank Park—not cool.)

In any event, given the way things have been going for the Rays, chances are that—to borrow a phrase from the Cubbies—it’s gonna happen.

We keep hearing a lot about the whole Cinderella aspect of this story. And, boy, isn’t an allusion to Cinderella an original way to make reference to the underdog. Not that I don’t love the thought of Cliff Floyd and Evan Longoria turning into field mice at the strike of midnight as B.J. goes scurrying off the field in a state of panic, losing the glass cleat that will eventually be returned to him by Joe Maddon who turns out to be his soul mate. Unless, of course, Maddon is the fairy godmother in this scenario. I don’t know. I haven’t quite worked it out yet. All I know is that if this is, indeed, the Cinderella story that everyone keeps shoving down our throats, then that casting director in the sky couldn’t have picked a better team to play the role of the evil stepsisters than the Chowdas.

It’s a well-established fact (in my mind) that the Chowdas are the most deplorable team in baseball. For those of you who are dubious, who suspect that my disdain for the Sox is merely the result of my allegiance to the Bombers, let’s review the roster:

Dustin Pedroia, who basically went and told Japan to shut up on his team’s recent visit. He is also famously rude when people ask for his autograph. Even when those people happen to be small children. Or puppies. Mike Lowell of beat people up in dark alleys fame. (This is merely conjecture, but my gut rarely leads me astray.) And, no, Lowell may not be on the field in body, but he’s there in spirit. Crapelbon, who doesn’t know how to shut his big old Yapelbon. D.L., I mean, J.D. Drew. Youkilis of the unfortunate facial hair. Papi, who refers to himself as Papi. Third person? Embarrassing. Third person nickname? Abomination. Then, of course, the Lord of the Suck—Covelli. Yes, you still suck Coco Crisp. For the same reasons as always.

So, with the Devs poised to take the series, I hope you all bear in mind that the truly compelling aspect of this story isn’t the success of our heroes; it is the demise of our villains. If I cared more about the former, I might want to see this all play out at the Trop. Because that’s what makes sense when your narrative is centered around the protagonists. However, since it’s all about Chowda humiliation for me, I say do it Fenway. Fill up that stadium with Chowda-loving Chowda heads, and then make them cry. In their house. Like the old-timey days when that kind of stuff happened all the time.

Incidentally, while we’re on the subject of the Chowda collapse and our good friend Coco, I hate to be the one to point out the elephant in the room, but it was Covelli who hit into an inning-ending double play last night. Two on, one out. Now why would you want to go and do something like that during one of the most important games of the postseason? Oh, right, because you suck Coco Crisp.

We Don't Want To Hurt Nobody

2008-10-13T08:34:00.000-07:00

Finally.

The postseason is getting a little bit fun. After two days of being used and abused in Citizens Bank Park, the Dodgers came home last night and decided to bring the beef. And, no, I’m not talking about Dodger dogs. I’m talking about a good old-fashioned benches-clearing brawl. But, just to be clear, it was not their intention to “hurt nobody.” At least not according to Manny Ramirez.

So what happened?

Basically, the Dodgers spent the first two games of the series being brushed back by Phillies pitchers. Myers threw behind Ramirez in the second inning of game two, and catcher Russell Martin got beaned a couple of times as well. But when Martin was knocked down in the second inning of the Dodgers first game in their own stadium by a Condrey pitch, Hiroki Kuroda decided he was mad as hell and wasn’t going to take it anymore. He hurled one over the head of Shane Victorino.

Victorino’s response? He shouted at Kuroda while pointing at his head, to indicate that the kisser was where he drew the line. He was quoted after the game as saying, “Someone was bound to get hit. The situation called for it. Just don't throw at my head.” In other words, the kneecaps? Fine. Just don’t mess with the punim. I think Victorino needs to allow himself permission to be a little less measured and understanding. I mean, dude. Even if the situation dictates that the pitcher can and should be throwing at you, it doesn’t mean you have to say that. Just say, “Don’t throw at me. Ever.”

After grounding out to first, Victorino exchanged words with Kuroda, which prompted both benches and bullpens to empty. Manny being, well, Manny, he was obviously more worked up about the situation than anyone else on the field and had to be physically restrained by Torre, teammates, and an umpire, lest he belt someone and get himself ejected. Interestingly, Larry Bowa was also among the more heated of the arguers on the field, yelling angrily at Phillies first base coach Davey Lopes before the fight was broken up. I guess this just shows that you can take the boys out of the East Coast, but you can’t take the East Coast out of the boys.

In the end, both teams were given a warning, which the ever-diplomatic Torre reasoned was fair enough. The Dodgers went on to win the game in a 7-2 decision thanks to both an outstanding five-hit outing by Koruda and a five-run first inning, including a bases-loaded triple by rookie Blake DeWitt.

Interestingly, in the eleven regular season games in which they have played each other this year, the Dodgers and Phillies have both been the winners in all of their home games. Thus far, this has remained consistent throughout the series, but it’s a cycle the Dodgers will have to break if they want to make it to the big dance. And I sure hope they do. Because I can’t imagine anything more boring than a Phils-whoever World Series.

As for the ALCS, the Devils and the Chowdas had an exciting eleven-inning outing on Saturday. Leaving aside my disdain for the Chowdas, I have to admit that I can’t help but be a little swept up by the youthful exuberance of the Devils. Longoria, Upton, Pena. They’re just so, well, young and exuberant. And I don’t know if it’s all an act, but I love that whole, “Oh, really? It’s the postseason and we’re playing against the reigning world champions?” attitude. It’s so delightfully cocky. Maybe I wouldn’t think so if the reigning word champions weren’t the Chowdas. But they are.

By the way, speaking of cocky, isn’t is slightly outrageous that we refer to the winner of the World Series as the world champions? I mean, it’s not actually the world. It’s the U.S. And the Jays.

It's All Farv And Games Until...

2008-10-08T13:03:00.000-07:00

I have been known, on occasion, to give Fav-ruh something of a hard time. Because, well, he sucks. But, perhaps, I am being unfair. I am so narrowly focused on all that is sucky about Farv (just for a refresher: the spelling/pronunciation of his name, the crying, the unretiring, the destruction of my allegiance to the Jets) that I sometimes fail to see the good in him. For example, I was scouring espn.com for an interesting story, and nothing really grabbed my attention. There was no baseball yesterday. Nor is there any today. Last weekend’s football games are already old news. I suppose I could talk about how McCarver dissed Manny in a recent interview. But whose side to take? Both of them are just so damn winsome. So I did what I often do when I’m at a loss. I googled Farvil to see what he was up to. As usual, it’s something awesome. Truth be told, he really never let’s me down.

So, on behalf of all (one) of us at "You Suck Coco Crisp," my apologies to Fav-ruh for failing to acknowledge the fact that you are truly the gift that keeps on giving.

The latest is that Fav-ruh is still chipping away at the hearts and minds of his fellow Jets. How? With a little bit of good old-fashioned Southern charm. At least I think that’s what you would call it. I don’t totally understand Southerners, but I figure that maybe, in the South, it’s charming for a football player to leave a dead animal inside a fellow teammate’s locker. I mean, I know they’re into killing things down there.

And, yes, that’s exactly what happened. A player for the Jets, universally presumed to be Brett Fav-ruh—America’s un-favorite unretired quarterback—bagged what appeared to be a dead wild turkey, which he is believed to have killed himself, and stuck it inside the locker of teammate Eric Barton.

Like I said, Southern charm.

Farvie is known for loving a practical joke. The idea is that it pulls the team together. Call me crazy, but I don’t know if I would feel particularly endeared to one of my teammates if he had left that bag of blood and guts in my locker. I think I might feel a little bit more like I should sleep with one eye open. I mean, hasn’t Fav-ruh ever heard of the old whipped cream in the underwear locker room gag? Or a whoopee cushion? The real shame is that Barton’s birthday was on the 29th of September. Oh, but that Farv had just sat in Barton’s cake ala Sparky Lyle. I guess only few prank players are so truly gifted.

Of course, as an animal lover, vegetarian, and general believer that it is wrong to be wasteful, I can’t help but take offense at the nature of this prank. I don’t think hunting is all that cute, but at the very least most people who indulge in the “sport”—as they insist on calling it—actually eat what they kill. Rather than using it as part of a tasteless locker room joke and eventually throwing it away. If you believe in eating meat, that’s fine. I don’t. But I also subscribe to the philosophy that one should live and let live, so I won’t sweat you about it. However, I do believe unequivocally that it is wrong to kill a living thing for absolutely no reason. (Oh, I’m sorry. Not no reason. To build team camaraderie.) I think it’s something that you only do if you have no soul and are a sociopath.

Not that any of this should come as a surprise. As already established on this site, Fav-ruh meets the text book definition of a sociopath.

Barton, who claims to have been amused by the prank, responded by saying, “I hope that the animal rights activists find out about it, whoever did it, that cruel person.” Barton may have been joking, but I would be surprised if the animal activists didn’t find out about it. The people at PETA, at least, have it in for Fav-ruh, who they seem to find about as amusing as a pig roast.

You see, it seems I was not the only one who was irked when, a few months ago, Fav-ruh so courageously decided to come out of retirement. Apparently, people from PETA staged a protest at Lambeau field. According to a PETA spokesperson, "Mr. Favre’s continued retiring and un-retiring is an affront to the rights of animals all across the world.” He went on to say, “We also have evidence that the depression caused by constant Favre coverage has resulted in American’s eating much, much more… almost all of it in meat products. We have to stop this – if not for the protection of animals, then for the protection of our sanity.” Hmm…Now, I love PETA probably more than the next person, but, seriously, what in the crapelbon is this guy talking about?

He did say one thing in his argument, however, that made sense: “In addition to that, it’s really fucking annoying. I’d love to go through a week without hearing about that guy.”

Ah, there it is.

This seems to gets at the heart of the real reason for the perturbation of the good people at PETA. And, Lord knows that if anyone can relate, it’s me. That said, it sort of seems like a waste of PETA resources to be protesting the guy for the non-harmful-to-animals things he does, annoying though they may be, when there are so many other legitimate reasons for which to go after him—reasons that fit into the PETA mission statement. Go after him for killing a turkey as part of a practical joke. Go after him for hunting deer for sport. Because if you’re PETA, that’s what makes sense.

Now, PETA, I get that you’re agitated about the other stuff. But leave the criticism of the misspelling of the name and the unretiring to me. I assure you; I’m on it. In the mean time, can we get some kind of adorable picture of Alicia Silverstone posing with wild turkeys that we can start e-mailing around our offices under the headline: “Brett Fav-ruh is a heartless murderer?” Stat.

In other animal-related news, two of our hamster friends have passed away this week. Hamsters that did not reside with me, but were near and dear to my heart, nonetheless. Felix and Jolene, both born July 28, 2006. They are survived by brother Fitzy; nephews Cyrus and Auggie; nieces Mackenzie and Rose of Sharon; great nephews, Cristobal, Alonzo, and Max; great niece, Su Lin; and guardians Christina and Jane. Felix, who was an escape artist extraordinaire, will be remembered for his gentle spirit and large head. Jolene, who spent the latter part of her life with the use of only three legs, will be remembered for her strength of spirit and will to fight. They will be missed.

But, Seriously; You Suck, Michael Kay

2008-10-07T09:53:00.000-07:00

As recently established on this site, there are lots of reasons to tell someone he sucks. Sometimes, you say it because you mean it. But there are also times when you say it ironically. Or for fun. So, just to avoid confusion, I wanted to state for the record that, when I tell Michael Kay he sucks, I am in earnest. 100%.

There are a number of way in which Michael Kay embodies the essence of suckiness. He asks asinine questions. He is pompous and self-obsessed. He cheers for the other team too much. But, at the moment, none of these are the reasons why I feel compelled to tell him he sucks. This time it’s because he had to go and open up that big, fat yap of his. About Torre. Again.

What he’s saying isn’t new. That Torre just happens to stumble into postseasons—thirteen in a row, for a refresher. Apparently, he did it twelve times on the steam of a great team that Buck Showalter put together, once on the steam of a former Chowda power hitter. Some guys have all the luck.

As I said, this isn’t the first time that Kay has had something less than glowing to say about Torre—St. Joe, as he likes to call him. (Though, he swears that’s not meant to be cutting or condescending.) Just a few months ago, Kay took issue with the fact that Torre had called Jorge Posada to inquire about his injury. According to Kay, as the manager of the Dodgers, it was inappropriate for Torre to check on the health of a player for the Yankees, even if that player happened to be a guy he had managed for twelve years. Apparently, a manager is only supposed to take a fake interest in his players and only for the duration of time for which he is under contractual obligation to do so.

It’s sort of funny that, of all things Kay should take issue with, it would be Torre’s loyalty to former players. That actually sort of contradicts some of the other things about Torre that Kay has taken issue with. For example, Kay once said, “There are things about Joe Torre, if I wanted to come out and say, would show how cold and calculated he really is… Joe Torre is for Joe Torre. … The graveyard of Yankees coaches is loaded with bones of coaches Joe Torre did nothing about.”

OK. Let’s leave aside the weird dead body imagery for a second and consider the rationale behind this assertion. If Torre’s so self-interested, why is he calling former players to inquire about their health? For some secret, selfish reason that I just can’t wrap my brain around because I’m a baseball outsider? And if Torre has such a bad rapport with his coaches, why would he have brought Mattingly and Bowa along to L.A. with him? Better yet, why would they have agreed to go? Is it just me, or is Kay’s logic a little unsound?

Lord knows it wouldn’t be the first time.

As some of you may remember, a couple of years ago, Kay became completely unhinged over complaints that he had interfered with a Chien-Ming Wang no-hitter by announcing it as it was happening. It is, of course, an old baseball superstition that you should never, ever mention a no-hitter in progress, lest you jinx the pitcher.

Now, do I believe that someone can affect the outcome of a game by what he or she says? Well, no. Obviously. But I also can’t affect the outcome of the game because I did or did not wear my hat to the stadium, nor can Jason Giambi by growing or shaving a mustache. Or wearing a gold thong. And, yet, we do these things because silly superstitions have always been a part of the age old tradition of baseball.

But Kay doesn’t buy it.

When a fan called into his show to complain, claiming that Kay had breached what was universally considered to be “baseball etiquette,” Kay went all kinds of Mike Lowell in a dark alley on him. He told the caller he was “infantile,” “asinine,” and “cretinous,” yelling “That was a stupid, stupid thing to say.” Apparently, though, Kay was worried that he wasn’t being explicit enough. He decided to analogize. He went on a tirade about how lots of things used to be considered “etiquette” that are no longer tolerable. Things like slavery and “putting people in ovens” in Nazi Germany.

No, you read that right. He said, “putting people in ovens.”

The issue of whether or not it’s appropriate for a broadcaster to mention a no-hitter in progress is debatable. On the one hand, there’s Michael Kay’s argument—the one he managed to spit out in the midst of his on-air meltdown. What he said was that it wasn’t his job to aid Wang in his attempt at a no-hitter; it was his job to report that it was happening. On the other hand, tradition is tradition. And you would think that, if anyone was going to understand a long-standing baseball tradition, it would be, well, a baseball broadcaster. It is ultimately up to Kay to decide if he wants to adhere to the unwritten no-talking during a no-no rule. But it hardly seemed necessary to make his caller out to be the Second Coming of Hermann Goring just because he happened to have strong feelings on the subject.

But I am not trying to convince you that Kay is off his rocker just because I want you to ignore what he has to say about Torre. There is another reason to do that. You shouldn’t listen to what Kay has to say about Torre because Torre once embarrassed Kay inside the Yankees’ clubhouse, and Kay has had it in for him ever since.

It was way back in 1996, Joe’s first year with the Bombers. Kay questioned Torre about a managerial decision, and Torre got upset with him for making inquiries that could be damaging to the clubhouse atmosphere. Some say that Kay felt Torre had humiliated him in order to rally his team together and that Kay has never gotten over the resentment. To add insult to injury, Torre dubbed Michael Kay the Rona Barrett of the clubhouse. Rona Barrett is an old-timey gossip columnist. To call Kay Rona Barrett was basically tantamount to calling him a nosey Nellie. Presumably, Kay didn’t love that too much. After all, he does sort of pride himself on, well, himself. All this was only compounded by the fact that Torre, who never appeared on Kay’s radio show, was a frequent guest on Mike and the Mad Dog—Kay’s major competition.

So, nothing against Michael Kay, but his beef with Torre sort of appears to be more of a case of sour grapes than anything else.

I mean, maybe I’m wrong. Maybe Torre is a sham who lucked into twelve Yankees postseasons. Maybe it’s a coincidence that the first year that the Yanks have failed to make it to October just happens to be the first year that Torre is no longer managing. Maybe Manny did singlehandedly lead the Dodgers to the DS. And to a sweep of the Cubs—the universally acknowledged favorite for that series. Maybe all this is true. Or, maybe, it’s like Chris said, and Joe just got a little hand from a farm animal and some indie kid. Whatever the case, as far as the Cubs are concerned, all that I can say is, sorry guys, but for this year, it’s not gonna happen.

It doesn’t really matter how Joe got there because, at this point, he remains my only rooting interest in what is panning out to be a really stupid postseason. Friggin’ ChiSox. And, man. What are the odds that the only game that the Angels would have taken against the Red Sox would have been the game that Beckett was pitching? Oh, well. I truly don’t care when or how the Chowdas get eliminated. If it happens early, it’s more humiliating. If it happens later, Chowdas Heads suffer more of a crushing defeat. Either way, I’m happy. Either way, Boston sucks.

And, either way, you suck Coco Crisp.

I will never be silenced on the subject.

Sorry, Dodgers Fans; It Was Only In Your Dreams

2008-10-06T13:20:00.000-07:00

There's been a lot of discussion lately about whether or not I suck. I figured that, while that one was still left unresolved, I would give you a break from me and share with you the thoughts of someone who DEFINITELY doesn't suck. Chris Yamaoka. Enjoy his musings. I know I do:

I woke up smiling on Sunday. The night before, I'd watched my beloved Dodgers storm past the NL-best Chicago Cubs to secure an improbable berth in the NLCS. It was great. They'd played wonderfully. Our starters went deep; our bullpen was solid; our hitting was timely and consistent. And great memories, too, already: James Loney silencing the Wrigley crowd with a 5th inning grand slam, Larry Bowa leaping into the air as Manny Ramirez slid home to score from first, Big Jon Broxton pumping his fist after striking out Alfonso Soriano to end Game 3. What a series!

What a dream, it turns out. I was disappointed to learn, after watching Sportscenter and scouring the internet for some post-series coverage, that the Cubs had been defeated -- not by the Dodgers -- but by some 100 year-old Curse. I was heartbroken. I really couldn't believe it, so I looked into it some more. This Curse, it appears, involves a black cat, an indie-looking kid in headphones, and a farm animal of some sort. I know, it sounds weird, like J.K. Rowling is ghostwriting the postseason now. I didn't believe it at first either, but it's true. I mean, it must be, or else someone would have written something about the Dodgers, right?

To be honest with you, this whole thing has me a little worried. I'm actually thinking about scheduling a doctor's appointment. This isn't the first time this has happened to me. Last week I also hallucinated an entire vice presidential debate. I imagined the whole thing, and even conjured up a name for one of the participants: "Joe Biden." Ridiculous, I know, and I'm almost embarrassed to admit it. This guy's answers were thoughtful and substantive, so I should've known something was up. The next day, of course, I learned that there is no such person as "Joe Biden," and in fact Republican nominee Sarah Palin had defeated Expectations, in a stunning upset. Despite being heavily favored, Expectations were no match for Governor Palin's winking, smiling, and overall mavericky maverickness.

Hopefully, I'll be able to find a cure for what ails me. In the meantime, I should probably stop trusting my eyes so much. Clearly, I've been misperceiving reality lately. I'm just thankful I have the media to set me straight, otherwise I'd just go on thinking these foolish thoughts.

It's nice to dream, though.

Melanie You Suck

2008-10-02T15:21:00.001-07:00

Bear with me. I am about to try to apply logic to nonsense. But it's what I do best.

I am going to share with you a few comments that recently turned up on my site. This first one's by an anonymous poster:

"Sounds like someone is just jealous cause you could probably never pull off a name like coco. why don't you focus more on how he plays baseball, he's an awesome defensive player and his batting average just keeps getting better I'd choose the name coco over something stupid and unoriginal as Melanie."

The first sentence of this comment is fundamentally flawed. The implication is that Coco actually is pulling off the name Coco. He is not. That's not to say that I think I could. But it isn't a particularly hard pill for me to swallow. I mean, nothing against Coco Crisp, but, as already established a million times on this site, that name sucks.

Now, it is possible that my name is stupider and less unoriginal than I had ever realized. I am willing to own that. (Though, actually, I'm just saying that, but I am disinclined to believe it. I have a great name.) However, despite the possibility that my name may be stupid and unoriginal, the assertion that you would rather be named Coco than Melanie? Unless you are a toy poodle, Ice T.'s wife, starting a perfume line, or an exotic dancer, that is actually the incorrect answer. Thanks for playing.

This next one is by someone named Amber:

"I read that, but just because of his name you feel that he sucks? that's stupid, why don't you judge players on their ability not there name, if you want me to actually believe he really sucks then you'd better give me a reason other than because it's fun to say he sucks."

Amber, you seem to be laboring under a misapprehension with this one -- that I care whether or not you believe anything I say. I assure you, I don't.

However, it is not for you to tell me the criteria that I should or should not be using to determine suckiness. I actually think it's pretty limited and narrow-minded that your sole conception of sucking is based on a player's stats. That may be, perhaps, how one can determine whether or not a player sucks at baseball. But I look at every aspect of the player when assessing suckiness. And there are lots of ways to suck that are unrelated to a player's ability. For example, you apparently think I suck, and I don't even play baseball.

If you want to decide who does and doesn't suck on the basis of statistics, feel free. But don't box me into your prison. And, by the way, not to pick apart your reading comprehension skills, but I am pretty sure that I made a point of saying that Coco is not actually, by any definition of sucky, the suckiest Red Sock. It's like you said, I just happen to enjoy yelling, "You Suck Coco Crisp."

This brings us to our next quote, also by Amber.

"Personally i think it's a lot more fun to yell Melanie YOU SUCK! How's that?"

If that were true, I would say knock yourself out. Far be it for me to deprive you of one of life's greatest joys. And I am secure enough in the knowledge that I don't suck to handle it. Problem is I think that Amber's a dirty liar. (I am giving her the benefit of the doubt because, if she is not lying, she is just too dumb to know what's fun and what isn't.) The problem with my name is that, while it may be stupid and unoriginal, it isn't funny. I mean, Melanie? It just isn't. And by the way, Amber, no matter what you yell, it's funnier if you put the name on the end. So, I suggest that if you are going to try it, say, "You suck, Melanie."

Meh. Still not that funny.

Just to review, while I may occasionally include statistics in my postings, this site is not about statistical analysis. I never claimed it was. It's a forum for me to discuss what interests and amuses me in the world of sports. It's a place for me to tell Coco Crisp that he sucks. Just because I want to. What's great about the internet is that you don't have to like me or agree with me. You can find another site. Or start your own site about how you don't like me or agree with me. Or, if you prefer, stick around and tell me you don't like or agree with me. That's fine, too. Bring your friends. I like being insulted. Partly because I'm a masochist, and partly because I don't value what you say and think it's funny. However, don't expect a posting dedicated to your ranting every time. Once was fun, but it is the postseason.

Speaking of which, so far, other than the Dodgers-Cubs series, nothing has panned out quite how I had wanted. I am especially disappointed about the ChiSox, but I am keeping hope alive. Boston, of course, won the first game, but because this is my site, I am still allowed to say they suck if I want. So consider it said. As for Coco Crisp, he didn't take part in last night's win against the Angels. Wonder why? Could it be because -- this one's for you, Amber -- You Suck Coco Crisp.

The Baddest Part of Town

2008-10-01T15:13:00.000-07:00

I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again. It doesn’t matter how you play the game; it’s whether you win or lose.

In the case of the ChiSox, what that means is that it’s not important that they barely squeezed into the postseason with a narrow 1-0 victory over the Twins on a solo home run during a playoff game for their division. What’s important is that they made it. Because once you’re in there, no one cares how you got there. Your team has just as good of a shot as anyone else’s. Except maybe the Angels. Their team definitely has a better chance than yours. I don’t care who you are; they’re better than you.

As I stated a couple of months back, I have a soft spot in my heart for the ChiSox. Maybe it’s that Guillen is so compellingly crazy. Maybe it’s that I have an undying affection for Nick Swisher. Maybe it’s that I’d like for Griffey Jr. to finally get his ring. Maybe it’s just that they have a powerhouse lineup, and, boy, are they ever fun to watch? In any case, it seems to me that there are plenty of reasons why a person might love the southies. And, yet, it’s the losers up north that everyone seems so hell-bent on loving. Yeah, you know who I’m talking about. Bigger than a breadbox, smaller than a sow—the Cubbies.

This brings us to the real issue.

For the first time in over a century, both the Southies and the Northies are playing in the postseason. Which means what? Well, war. Obviously. The rivalry in Chicago is no joke. Especially when compared with the rivalry that exists between, say, the Mets and the Yankees. Let’s face it. Yankees fans are more fixated on hating the Red Sox than any other team. And, sure, when we’re playing in the Subway Series, we care a little more than usual. But, ultimately, we just aren’t that invested in hating the Mets. Some people, like me, will even go so far as to actually cheer for them when they’re playing anyone but the Yankees. I think that, at the end of the day, you really only have enough room in your heart to hate one team as much as we hate Boston.

Now, I know that, generally speaking, Mets fans tend to feel more rage towards the Bombers than we feel towards them. And I get it. They’re upset because they’re always in our shadow. We win more often. We don’t have an embarrassing mascot. We aren’t in Flushing. All that stuff. But both sides need to be fully on board for a cutthroat rivalry to exist. A rivalry such as the one between the Yanks and Chowdas. A rivalry such as the one in Chicago.

Unlike the feud between the Yanks and the Sox—the battle between a superior city and one that shouldn’t exist—the Cubs-Sox rivalry constitutes a division within the city of Chicago itself. Historically, a division that has been drawn along racial and socioeconomic lines. The stereotype is that Cubs fans are rich and white. And, it’s true that if you take a stroll around Wrigleyville—yes, Wrigley Field gets its own Ville—yuppies and frat boys abound. U.S. Cellular Field, on the other hand, is located in the somewhat less illustrious South Side of Chicago. The White Sox do not have their own Ville, and the stereotype is that the White Sox are the working man’s team. Blue collar. True grit.

There is no denying that Chicago lauds its Cubbies while it ignores its…wait, there’s another baseball team in Chicago besides the Cubs? It’s true. Just looks around. Everywhere you turn, there is someone lettin’ you know that it’s gonna happen. The bumper stickers, the flags, the t-shirts, the buttons, the hats, the posters, the themed bars the restaurants. I mean, they have a Ville for crying out loud. But ask any White Sox fan, and they’ll tell you that it’s all style, no substance. Look beyond the Ville, the slogans, the bumper stickers, and what you will see is a fan base more invested in getting drunk and having fun than in the fundamentals of baseball. That if you want people who care, who know the sport and are there to watch it, take a visit to the Cell.

To this, Cubs fans respond, “White Sox fans are trashy.” Good comeback.

In addition to their other grievances, White Sox fans complain that they don’t get the same amount of press coverage as the Cubs. That, in fact, Chicago’s biggest newspaper, The Trib, is biased against the Sox. That would be correct. The Trib, of course, owns the Cubs so it is in their best interest to promote them. To focus on their lovability rather than their loser-ness. And the good people at the Trib do little to veil the inequity in their reporting. In 2005, the Trib ran 2,047 articles in which they mentioned the Sox—that was the year they won the championship. In how many articles do you think the Cubs were given a mention? 2,824. What about 2006, when the Sox were reigning champs and postseason contenders until the last week of the season? 1,975. The last place Cubs? 2,556. All of this is documented on a website called www.cubune.com along with countless other specific examples of blatant Tribune Cubophilia.

“But what does it all mean Basil?” you will ask. Good question. For those of us not actually involved in the rivalry—those of us on “Main Street,” if you will—does any of this even matter? If so, how much? The answers to those questions are, yes and a little. Like I said, we all only have room enough in our hearts to truly despise one team. Chances are, if you’re not from Chicago, it will not be the ChiSox or the Cubbies. And, frankly, even though I favor the White Sox, I can’t ignore the reality of my affection for Soriano and Piniella.

So, this is how I’m going to break it down.

The ChiSox are the only team left in the AL race that I could give a crapelbon about. Yeah, I guess that whole Tampa Bay Cinderella story is nice and all. But I can’t ignore the fact that the Devil Rays went and changed their name to the Rays. Truly idiotic. Not to mention the fact that, ultimately, I watch them and find myself thinking, “Meh. Who cares?” As for the rest? I am obviously hoping for a swift, humiliating Bosox elimination. And, since they’re starting against the Angels, I’m apt to get my wish.

As far as the NL is concerned, I have to give my love to the Dodgers. Mostly because of Torre. If the Cubs should eliminate them in the first round, and it’s likely, I’ll back the LL’s through the LCS and dream about the possibility of a Windy City Showdown. It’s a long shot, of course. If the ChiSox get past the Devils, it will likely mean that they will see the Angels in the LCS. And this season they would be more appropriately dubbed the Angels of death.

But anything’s possible in a short series. And, while I’m not saying it’s gonna happen, it definitely could. So, if by some miracle both Chi-town teams battle their way to the big dance, you better believe that I’ll be rooting for the boys down south. Hoping they send the Northies a crushing blow by putting the loser back into lovable loser.

"That Not Just Hurts. It Stings."

2008-09-29T14:43:00.000-07:00

Before the Yankees played their last game at the Cathedral, I introduced you to another of my many principles—the principle of DUACLTLGTYAEGTPAYHS—Don’t Under Any Circumstances Lose The Last Game That You Are Ever Going To Play At Your Home Stadium. When a team fails to live up to this principle, it is both shocking and disappointing. It leaves fans and players alike with, not only an off-season, but a lifetime of regret. Fortunately, despite a season during which the Bombers did not always look like the Bombers, they were able to rise to the occasion and adhere to the principle of DUACLTLGTYAEGTPAYHS. Somewhere in our hearts, I think we all believed that they would.

Tragically, however, as well all know, the Mets couldn’t muster the feat. Just ask Mr. Met—he got the boos to prove it. Like that wasn’t a long time coming.

Yesterday, as I lived through the roller coaster that was the Mets-Brewers showdown, I felt conflicted about how it would all play out. On the one hand, it seemed impossible that any team should fail to live up to the principle of DUACLTLGTYAEGTPAYHS. On the other hand, this was the Mets, whose very hallmark is their ability to find new and excruciating ways to disappoint their fans. But, really? Now? On the last day of the year? With a potentially season-ending game? By breaking the principle of DUACLTLGTYAEGTPAYHS? In the words of—who was it again?—“That not just hurts. It stings.” Whatever that means.

The real icing on the cake, of course, the final eff you in the face of all of the fans in attendance, all of the former Mets who had schlepped out to be there, all of the players who had just suffered a painful and humiliating loss, was that the top brass thought it would be a good idea to conduct the farewell ceremony after the game rather than before. Why? I really couldn’t tell you. Did it not occur to anyone that if the team lost that game no one was going to feel particularly celebratory afterwards? Did it not occur to anyone that if ever there was a team that was likely to suffer such a crushing blow, it was the Mets?

The answer to both of these questions is, “Apparently not.”

Who knows, though? Maybe it’s perfect. Yankee Stadium has such a legacy of pride, honor, and victory. To have failed to live up to the principle of DUACLTLGTYAEGTPAYHS would have been to spit in the face of that legacy. Shea, on the other hand? What can I say? It was a pathetic stadium—down from its pathetic orange and blue seats up to its pathetic paper mache apple—and from it was born a pathetic legacy. With only a few exceptions—miracles, if you will—it’s a stadium that is shrouded in failure and bitter disappointment. And maybe the best way to honor that legacy was with one last failure. One last bitter disappointment. For old time’s sake. And, maybe, now that the doors to Shea have finally closed, the Mets can also close the door on that legacy. New Stadium, new beginning. Jeff Wilpon, who envisioned the plan for Citi Field seems to think so. When asked if the Mets were going to be making any major changes during the off-season he responded, “We are. We’re moving to a new ballpark.”

And may it help them turn their luck around. If, perchance, it doesn’t, at least the fans can finally watch their team be pathetic from a really nice stadium.

Living Well Is The Best Revenge

2008-09-28T12:57:00.000-07:00

Please forgive my absence. I was working on a piece for another publication—one that people actually read—and I had a tight deadline. It’s an article that I was writing on spec. What that means, for those of you who don’t know, is that I pour sweat, blood, and 48 hours into working on the thing, and then the editors decide if they think it’s worth publishing. I tell you there’s nothing on earth more suspenseful and exhilarating than being a writer. Except maybe being a day trader. Or a strategist for John McCain. And, by the way, is it just me, or does he maybe have the same PR rep as Brett Favre and Celine Dion? (“I will go to the debate.” “ I won’t go to the debate.” “I will, but only if I can fix the economy first.” “OK. If you insist.”) Who knows? Maybe we’ll get lucky and he'll just retire before the election.

Speaking of the debates, Friday, the very same day that John McCain came to the conclusion that the government could manage the economic crisis without him for an hour, Paul Newman passed away. I will not attempt to write a tribute worthy of his greatness—plenty of people are already doing that, and most are failing. I will, however, say a couple of words about Newman and how he affected my life. First his work in Cool Hand Luke was what made me want to act. OK. That might not be totally true, but it contributed to my desire to be better at acting. Granted, I gave up that whole dream after high school. I mean, let’s get real; acting is great, but it is fraught with rejection, and most who try it are destined for failure. I wanted to do something more practical with a greater sense of security, which is why I went with writing. But that’s neither here nor there. The point is that Cool Hand Luke was amazing. One of my all-time favorites.

The other story about Newman that relates to me was that I rode in an elevator with him once. Now, I’m not a person who’s easily moved, but this is Paul Newman we’re talking about. And I was humiliatingly starstruck. We had a brief conversation, during which he asked me a number of questions, all of which I answered by repeating them back to him in statement form. He was very gracious about it.

Whether you loved him for his brilliance on the screen, his dreamy blue eyes, his political leanings, his charitable contributions, his humility, or that delicious array of sauces, dressing, and cookies he brought to the world, you’d have to be made of stone not to have loved him at least a little. The world has lost a great man, and a great talent. So, why not take your bike for a spin today—in his honor? You know what song to sing. Doo doo doo doo—doo doo—doo doo doo doo.

But moving onto baseball. That is, after all, why you come here, right? For cutting edge insights on America’s favorite pastime that no one else has to offer.

The other day I was discussing the final outing at Yankee Stadium. It was a tearful goodbye involving actors playing great Yankees, real great Yankees, family members filling in for great Yankees. However, a couple of great Yankees were notably absent at last week’s ceremonies. No, not Roger Clemens. Like anyone wants him to represent anything having to do with anything great, at the moment. For the record, some may think that this is controversial, but I do not consider Clemens to be a Yankee, and I never have. He is a Chowda in his soul. 100%.

But the Yankees to whom I am referring are undoubtedly Yankees and undeniably great—Donnie Baseball and Joe Torre. Unlike Clemens, Mattingly and Torre were not, of course, deliberately excluded from the events. They just had a more pressing engagement, one they couldn’t get out of—leading the Dodgers to divisional victory.

Mattingly is one of the most beloved living Yankees. And, as the manager to lead the Yankees to twelve consecutive postseasons, Torre, though never a player for the team, is no less a Yankee than anyone who ever was. He is certainly not less admired. The two of them have been such an integral part of the Yankees' recent history that it felt practically criminal to close down the shop without them, particularly since we never got to give them a proper sendoff after last season. Sunday’s ceremony allowed us the chance to show Bernie how we felt. And, while Mattingly and Torre are no doubt aware of how much we love them, it still would have been nice to have given them that last ovation in the Bronx.

Both Torre and Mattingly were, not surprisingly, ill-treated at the hands of the Yankees top brass. If the Steinbrenners have a motto, it seems to be: The family that betrays together stays together. First, of course, they insulted Torre by offering him a pay cut and incentives for getting to the playoffs and World Series. Torre, the man who led the Yanks to twelve consecutive postseasons, six trips to the big dance, and four world championships. Torre, of course told them that they could take their incentives and shove them up their pujols. But in a nice, classy, respectful way. Like he says everything.

Then it was Mattingly’s turn to get burned, when they decided to give Girardi the job rather than him. Which was obviously an awesome move. The 2008 Yankees were really well-managed.

They say that living well is the best revenge. And what better opportunity for Torre and Mattingly to exact their revenge through good living than the move to Los Angeles? No, I’m not talking about eating organic, getting high colonics, and waking up at dawn to go surfing. Though, it’s not impossible that all that is happening. The Southern California air does crazy things to people. And Torre is looking pretty relaxed these days. However, what I am referring to is the fact that, while the Yankees will be watching the postseason from their 62 inch flatscreens for the first time since the pre-Torre era, the Dodgers have just clinched their first division title in four years. The fact that Torre has let it be known that he didn’t luck into those twelve consecutive postseasons—it’s just that everything he touches turns to gold. Even without an incentive clause in his contract. And without him, well, apparently things fall apart. As for Mattingly? He gets to go along for the ride, sending the message, “Yeah, what he said. That goes double for me, too.” The bonus is, of course, that they are finally free of the ulcers that must inevitably comes from daily interactions with some member of the Steinbrenner clan. That and the high colonics.

Meanwhile, back in Flushing. Well, I’m not even going to comment. I am just going to hold my breath until it’s over. As for Chowdaville, Moose is trying to work his way to twenty. Fingers crossed. He got some help with a little run support early on. As a side not on the game, you won’t have a chance to tell Coco Crisp how much he sucks because they did not start him. Why? Probably because you suck Coco Crisp.

A Baseball Cathedral In Truth

2008-09-23T10:15:00.000-07:00

Well, we’re still in it. Technically. So, I suppose I should be happy. And, yet, I’m not. Why? Let me analogize, if I may.

I saw a truck hit a deer on the highway once. It was devastating. The deer was lying in the middle of the road, convulsing, in pain, unable to move. Naturally, I pulled over to call 911—you know, to get help for the deer. It occurred to me about ten seconds into the call that 911 exists as an emergency service for people and not for overpopulated species of animals. Especially in Wyoming, which is where I was. So I sat by helplessly, watching the deer as it struggled unsuccessfully to stand up. Eventually, another truck pulled over. A man emerged holding a hammer, and I realized with some terror what was about to happen. I watched shocked and horrified as he dealt the doe its death blow. But, to my surprise, it was quick, well-executed, and probably the most merciful thing he could have done. Do you see what I’m driving at?

Just put me out of my misery.

Barring a miracle, The House That Ruth Built has closed its doors for the final time. My last request before I made my way up to the stadium on Sunday was that we win. And, win, we did—with fairly little trouble. It was a night that I will never forget—alternately moving and strange.

With the pre-game ceremony, the emphasis was definitely on the strange. For reasons inexplicable, they kicked it off by parading a bunch of guys dressed up like old-timey Yankees onto the field. Each actor was meant to represent a different player from a bygone era, and all of them stood awkwardly in a line in center field for the duration of the hour-long ceremony. Why? Your guess is as good as mine. To give the effect that the ghosts of the stadium were present? To try to transport us back in time? To make me feel uncomfortable and embarrassed? The other weird and unnecessary attempt at dramatic effect was that the ceremony that we were watching live in color was being displayed to us in black and white on the jumbotron. It was very meta.

The rest of the ceremony was reminiscent of the All-Star Game. They paid on-screen tribute to many of the greats, calling a number of them forward to take their respective positions on the field. Willie Randolph made the most notable entrance, sliding into second base. He may be too stoic in the dugout, but, when it comes to an emotional farewell ceremony—what a ham.

Yogi was in attendance, of course. But that’s hardly noteworthy. In recent years, it’s more unusual for me to go to the Stadium when Yogi isn’t there than when he is. I think he’s their go-to guy for a first pitch if they can’t find anyone else. I wonder what it’s like to be Yogi, whose whole existence is basically predicated on the fact of his Yankee-ness. More so than many of the other retired Bombers, I would say. (For the record, I named my hound after Yogi because she’s cute, has big ears, and gives the appearance of being not-so-bright but is secretly a total genius. I think.)

Bobby Murcer, whose wife and children attended in his place, received a warm welcome, as did Paul O’Neill and Tino Martinez. But, ultimately, it was Bernie’s night. After an unceremonious exit and a two year absence from the team, Sunday was our chance to let Bernie know just how much we love him. And I think it’s safe to say that we got our message across. He received an ovation larger than anyone else’s, lasting almost two minutes, and by which he seemed very moved. Bernie was always a favorite of mine. I was angry about the way he was treated and regretted the fact that we never got the opportunity to say a proper goodbye. So, for me, had they excluded the entire ceremony—the old-timey players, the black and white jumbotron—but given us this chance to show Bernie our undying devotion? Dayeinu.

In honor of the fact that Babe hit a home run on the day that the stadium opened—something they seemed eager to drill into us, as if we didn’t already know—his daughter, Julia Ruth Stevens, threw out the ceremonial first pitch. Pretty amazing. I should be in such good shape when I’m 92. Johnny Damon and Jose Molina must have been channeling the Ruth energy because each of them got dingers of their own. Johnny a three-run shot in the 3rd and Molina a two-run homer in the 4th.

(A note on both of their names. I have talked about Jhonny Peralta and how confused I am by the fact that he doesn’t just decide to spell his name the right way. However, a friend of mine commented to me at the game that it actually would make sense if Johnny Damon were to spell his name Jhonny. I can’t say why, exactly, but I agree with this assessment. It just works. I almost expect it. As for Molina, I am not sure quite how or when it began, but I have noticed that the people who work the Stadium scoreboard have launched a campaign to get us all to refer to him as Panda. To my knowledge, they have not been particularly successful, which makes it weird. I am aware that both Bengie and Jose Molina go by this nickname in their clubhouses, which I also think is weird—two brothers should not share a nickname. However, the fans have obviously not decided to pick up the thread. So, to the people who operate the Yankee Stadium scoreboard, stop. Just stop. It’s not happening.)

After a season of ceremonially counting down the number of home games until the Stadium lights went out, Michael Kay had the audacity to tell us that the number on the ticker would never go to zero—because the Stadium would live on in our hearts until the end of time. Instead, they moved the ticker from one to—get ready for this—“forever.” Please. What a gyp. I wanted that number at zero. Zero gives you closure. Forever does not. But I got my closure. Or my closer, rather. It was only appropriate that Mo should end the game and shut down the Stadium. It was only when the first bars of “Enter Sandman” came over the loudspeakers that it finally registered: This was it. This was really and truly it.

Bob Sheppard has the uncanny ability to makes everything he says sound important. I will leave you with his tribute to the Stadium. But I want you to imagine it in his voice. If you don’t, it might sound sort of dumb:

Farewell old Yankee Stadium, farewell
What a wonderful story you can tell
DiMaggio, Mantle, Gehrig and Ruth
A baseball cathedral in truth
Farewell.

October Is The Cruelest Month

2008-09-21T13:12:00.000-07:00

Forgive me; I'm about to wax poetic.

The first day of fall is almost upon us. We know this, of course, because the pennant race is winding up. But also because the advertisements for eggnog lattes are hitting Starbucks windows. And, by the way, the reemergence of the peppermint latte will be your sign that it’s winter.

Despite my unspeakable sadness over the end of an incredible era in The House That Ruth Built, there is something poetic about closing up shop on the last night of summer. Not that I wouldn’t have preferred an evening in late October. But if it couldn’t happen in the postseason, better that it should happen with the close of the season—the way it was meant to, according to Bart Giamatti, former Commissioner of baseball.

Giamatti starts his essay "Green Fields of the Mind," by saying, “It breaks your heart. It is designed to break your heart. The game begins in the spring, when everything else begins again, and it blossoms in the summer, filling the afternoons and evenings, and then as soon as the chill rain comes, it stops and leaves you to face the fall alone. You count on it, rely on it to buffer the passage of time, to keep the memory of sunshine and high skies alive, and then just when the days are all twilight, when you need it most, it stops.”

The other day, I expressed annoyance about the fact that our boys had chosen such an inopportune time to go on such a winning tear. I want to clarify something, lest anyone get the wrong idea. I said that it was too late for us to end our season with pride, and I still think that’s true. However, I want to say for the record that I credit the Bombers for holding on to the principle of Try Your Hardest. Sure, it has been with a certain amount of frustration that I have watched them suddenly come to life—now that it’s a moot point. But it would have been easy to just roll over and die this week. And I’m glad that the principle of TYH overrode any inclination they might have had to do that.

However, tonight, I’m afraid that that principle simply isn’t going to be enough. Tonight, our boys are going to have to draw on another, rarely applicable but infinitely more important principle—the principle of Don’t Under Any Circumstance Lose The Last Game That You Are Ever Going To Play At Your Home Stadium. See, unlike suddenly winning when it doesn’t count, the principle of DUACLTLGTYAEGTPAYHS? Totally a matter of pride. More than that, it’s a matter of respect. Respect for a tradition, for a long line of legendary players, historical moments, and magical late inning comebacks. I hate to weight this game with unnecessary pressure, but to lose tonight? It would be like spitting in the face of Lou Gehrig. Babe Ruth. Mickey Mantle. Joe DiMaggio. Yogi Berra. Roger Maris. Thurman Munson. Reggie Jackson. Don Mattingly. Paul O’Neill. Bernie Williams. You get the point.

So, while history may not remember what you boys did these last two weeks, it will certainly remember what you do tonight. And presumably, so will you—as you sit in Starbucks this fall, like Mike Mussina, drinking eggnog lattes and writing poetry.

Despite another week on the road, tonight is the night that matters--the night that, for most of us, it really “stops,” as Giamatti said. Not just for the season, but for all eternity. So, make it a game to sustain us through the winter—a winter that will be longer than usual for us Yankee fans.

The Pride Of The Yankees?

2008-09-19T16:11:00.001-07:00

Well, the Yankees sure picked a hell of a time to start winning—right when it couldn’t matter less. And, I assure you, it couldn’t matter less.

If you think that this point is obvious to anyone who isn’t Tim McCarver, you would be surprised. I have had several fellow Yankee fans comment to me in the last few days, “At this point, it’s just a matter of pride.” I would argue that, no, in fact, having been all but officially eliminated from the postseason race by mid-September, we’ve blown our chance at pride. When history remembers this season, it will not remember us for failing to make it to the postseason and then admirably restoring our dignity. It will simply remember that we did not live to see October in our final season in The House That Ruth Built. For the first time since 1993. I guess, in theory, one could argue that it’s a matter of avoiding total humiliation—that’s certainly within our reach. But it’s not what I would call a matter of pride.

Now, it may sound like, as Curt Schilling suggests, I am just bitter and mad and miserable. But let me assure you that my vitriol is just a mask for my pain. I look forward to October baseball. This year, particularly, it seemed significant, what with the closing of the Cathedral and all. I just assumed we’d be saying our goodbyes in October. In late October. It seems too unceremonious for us to just be playing our way through a vaguely autumn-like week in late September for “pride.” Especially given our run in that place.

To make matters worse, there has been so much scandal surrounding the new stadium—the accusations of fraud, and waste, and abuse of public funds. Then, of course, there was the recent announcement that premium season tickets are going to cost up to $2,500 per game—that’s roughly $200,000 per person per season. Outrageous, true. But, not surprisingly, there are takers. Well, there were last week anyway. This week, good luck selling your house for that much. Well, at the beginning of this week, anyway. Today, who knows? I’m confused about the fundamentals of the economy.

The point is that it’s disappointing that the new stadium is already tainted with that stench for which the Yanks are so famous—Eau de Evil Empire. I try to argue with the haters, but it’s an uphill battle. Stuff like this doesn’t help.

Ultimately, it doesn’t matter all that much. I’m a Yankees fan because I love the boys in pinstripes—not because the Steinbrenner family speaks to me on a spiritual level. And when my boys are working their magic, it’s pretty easy to ignore the top brass and all their meshugas, as my people call it. But, alas, there has been little magic this year, so it’s more of a challenge. True, there have been injuries. But there have also been unaccounted for disappointments. A lack of cohesion. A seemingly blasé attitude. An inability to get players around the base. And let’s get real—injuries or not—there should have been enough bats in our lineup to have ensured a solid offense.

So, again, don’t mistake my tone for bitterness, madness, or misery. I’m just disheartened by the generally uninspiring nature of the season. With all of my fond memories from the Cathedral, I figured it was all but impossible that we’d go out without a fight.

But, you’re all depressed enough, so I’m going to leave you with a happier thought. Early this year, I asked my friend, the Thunderphobe, if he would rather take the championship in the last season at the old stadium or the first season in the new one. He responded, emphatically, and without hesitation, “First season at the new one. Without a doubt.” Here’s hoping he gets his wish.

If that didn’t cheer you up, affirm yourself with the reminder that, at the very least, you’re not Coco Crisp. Oh, Coco Crisp, it just never gets old. You suck Coco Crisp.

Jeter And The Mildly Encumbering Flaw

2008-09-17T15:56:00.000-07:00

It would be inaccurate to say that Derek Jeter has a tragic flaw—just as it’s inaccurate to say he has an edge. He is not exceptionally tragic. Or even a little bit tragic. But he has, I guess, what you could call a mildly encumbering flaw—perfection.

Let’s review the facts.

He plays for the Yankees. He is, in fact, the first Yankee to be named captain since Donnie Baseball. He is known as Mr. November, a tribute to his walkoff home run in the wee hours of the morning on November 1st during the postseason of 2001. Generally speaking, people are fond of referring to him as clutch. And, not only that, he makes those crazy, standout fielding plays that dazzle the eye and go down in the annals of history for their greatness. He never says the wrong thing, never does the wrong thing. He always gets the girl—the girls. Sometimes, you just can’t help but want to scream, “Marsha! Marsha! Marsha!”

What is it about perfect people that is so inherently annoying? Is it that we resent them for making us aware of all of our own imperfections? Is it that we find perfection to be boring? That maybe, in fact, we believe that it is our imperfections that make us interesting? Or is that we don’t buy it? That, ultimately, behind every perfect person there is always a secret sex scandal, or worse, a secret love of Sarah Palin?

Whatever the reason, people can’t stand Derek Jeter. (Leaving aside, of course, all those people who worship him.) They call him a robot, they call him overrated, they look for unflattering ways to picks apart his statistics, to dispel the myth of his greatness. Those who don’t love him and laud him are irritated by just how much he’s loved and lauded. And they are ever-looking for ways to chip away at the exterior—to reveal the terrible truth about either his character or his ability.

I will admit that it was my initial instinct to resist liking Derek Jeter. It can be hard enough to earn respect as a female sports fan. And during Derek’s younger years, it seemed like men were just waiting for me to even mention him in conversation, as if that would explain the otherwise inexplicable interest in baseball. “Oh, I see. You think Jeter’s got a nice tush, huh? So, THAT’S it.” For small-minded morons, this is apparently the only logical explanation. By the way, all you girls out there walking around in pink Derek Jeter baby tees aren’t doing much to help the cause.

However, the baby tees were only part of the reason for my lukewarm reaction to Jeter in the beginning. Like a lot of people, I am wary of perfection. I take a “wait and see,” attitude. Assume that, eventually, the cracks will begin to show. So, by way of rebellion, for many years, I politely ignored him, focusing my attention on the likes of Paul O’Neill, Tino Martinez, Bernie Williams. I never hated Jeet. I just couldn’t jump on the bandwagon.

But, over time, I must confess, slowly but surely, he got to me.

No, he’s still not my top Bomber—that would be Mo—or even necessarily my number two. However, in recent years, I’ve started to get a little more defensive, a little more irritated, when people sling mud in his direction.

This year, Sports Illustrated surveyed 495 major leaguers to see which players they believed to be the most overrated. Jeter’s rank? Numero uno. (If this were football, he could put it on his jersey. Or not.) Interestingly, those same players ranked Jeter second in a survey on which player they would most like to build a team around. Sounds a little flip-floppy to me. But, then, a foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds. (In case anyone in Washington is reading.)

This raises an interesting question—a hot button issue in the baseball community. By what measure, exactly, do we rate our players? The hard line Moneyballers say it’s all about the SABRmetrics. The Buzz Bissingers say, “OBP, ShmoBP; it’s all about heart.” I think that it is unwise to disregard either argument out of hand.

I happened to love Moneyball, and I think it raises interesting points about stats that old school baseballers are simply afraid to acknowledge. They harbor the fear that the usefulness of Moneyball will render them obsolete, nullify their special skills in understanding exactly who’s got “heart” and who doesn’t. That said, the brainiacs could stand to show a little bit more respect for their elders. To consider the possibility that, even though it’s crazy to make multi-million dollar decisions on the basis of gut feelings, there are factors beyond the numbers that do count for something.

The fact that so many players would choose to build a team around Jeter—that should be a consideration in our decision on how to rate him. Because what can we speculate that this means about him? That he’s a player around whom other players coalesce. That he’s a player whose presence in a clubhouse is a benefit to other players. That he is a player who is likely to get better performances out of other players. That he is an overall asset to his team. And isn’t that the whole point?

Just as the Moneyball way is scary to the olden-timers because it’s new-fangled and requires complicated math, the stat geeks tend to get judgmental and defensive about their system because they don’t know how to manage factors that can’t be quantified. Both matter. If they didn’t, Manny would still be a Chowda.

The bottom line about Jeter is that, from the very first day he donned his pinstripes, he put his everything into the game. Always hustling, always running out the ground ball, and making defensive plays that are—to my mind—impossible. The dive. The flip. Epic plays. True, Jeter’s fielding statistics are a far cry from perfect—they’re about the only thing—but when he does something special, it is impossible to deny his greatness. Yes, even as a fielder.

While Jeter’s defense may leave something to be desired, he is truly a phenomenal offensive shortstop. And he has plenty of numbers that can back me on that one. Among others, last night, he broke Lou Gehrig’s record for first on the all-time hit list at Yankee Stadium. Yet another thing for which we can resent him—setting a record that can never, ever be broken. And an awesome record at that. Prior to his record-breaking hit, Jeter had 1,269 hits in 8,001 at-bats. When Gehrig retired, so did he. I’m pretty sure we can all agree that Gehrig wasn’t overrated, right?

So, say what you want about Jeter. All I know is that this is the first year that the Yankees will not be playing in the postseason since cap got called up from the minors. I also know that Jeter always handles the press with dignity and respect for his fellow players. That rookies look to him as a role model. That, even though he’s a man-whore, at least he’s not a married man-whore, as are so many other players.

And, by the way, take an office-wide survey of the person you work with who most people believe to be overrated, and it will probably be someone who is getting paid a whole lot and rarely does anything wrong. You have to be highly rated to be overrated. And people don’t like people who are highly rated. As we’ve established.

Whatever. With or without the mildly encumbering flaw, I’d rather be Derek Jeter than Coco Crisp. Yeah, you know what’s coming, Coco Crisp. Cuz You Suck Coco Crisp.

Losing Games, Wrecking Homes, And Ruining Lives

2008-09-15T07:33:00.000-07:00

One word, two syllables. Fav-ruh.

He is the Iago to my Othello. The Pharaoh to my Moses. The Gargomel to my Papa Smurf. And, as we all know, he is trying to ruin my life.

There has been such an air of celebration since his arrival in the City, such a sense of unbridled glee. And I must confess to having felt a little bit lonely. Was it really the case that I was the only one who felt personally affronted by the fact that Farvil hadn’t just stayed in Wisconsin? Who were these bandwagon Fav-ruh fans, and how did their brains work? Was there an actual thought process that precipitated the donning of the green cheesehead? An internal struggle? A wondering, “Why?” Or merely a willingness to abandon all reason? Whatever the case, I had come to the painful revelation that perhaps, when it came right down to it, I was alone in the world.

But it turns out I was wrong.

You see, someone else in New York was a little less than thrilled to see Pennington displaced by Farvil, and that some was Laveranues Coles. And after weeks of silence on the subject, he has finally decided to tell the media all about it.

Coles has said of his relationship with Pennington that it “goes deeper than just football.” That they have a “special” connection. And anyone who knows anything about Coles knows that he is not reckless in declaring any relationship to be “special.”

In 2005, Coles went on Oprah to reveal that he had been sexually molested at gunpoint by his stepfather. His mom worked the night shift, and his stepfather abused him when she was at her job. Not surprisingly, Coles became angry as he moved into adolescence, acting out his rage in ways that often got him in trouble, occasionally with the law. But truth will out. And it did—thanks to an exceptionally perceptive police officer who suspected that there was something underlying Cole’s rebellion. With some persuading, Laveranues eventually opened up to the cop, and his stepfather was finally put away for nine years.

Laveranues was deeply traumatized by the events of his childhood. He went through his life as a loner, confiding in few people. "If I had a problem, I dealt with it internally," he said. "I was in my own little world for a long time." Clearly, it is in Coles’s nature to want to conceal himself, so his decision to go on Oprah is a tribute to his character and bravery. He said that, as a public figure, he felt it was his duty to speak out. "Here I am, a professional athlete, with the opportunity to say something and maybe reach one child that this is happening to, and give him the courage and the strength to come out and say 'this is happening to me and this is wrong.'"

Since his stepfather's arrest, Coles and his mother had never discussed the abuse until the two of them went on the show together. But if anyone was going to get then talking, it was Oprah. I won’t rehash the details for you, but let’s just say, there was a lot of healing. I mean, obviously—Oprah.

Despite the fact that Coles is described as winsome and likable by his teammates, he still has a tendency to keep people at bay. In 2006, he built himself an $8 million dollar home made of concrete, which he described as a “place where he could hunker down.” One got the sense that he was attempting to build a physical fortress—using one of the most impenetrable of all materials—to protect himself. Coles has said, “I try to extract myself from reality.” Considering what he’s been through, and how it has shaped his experience of the world, it’s not so hard to understand.

In Pennington, however, Coles has found a friend in whom he feels he can instill his total confidence. And for a guy like Coles, who has struggled all his life to feel close to people, to trust them, that’s pretty major.

Both Pennington and Coles were drafted to the Jets in 2000, and Coles describes their connection as being instantaneous. "We had it the day we walked through the doors." Tom Cruise and Renee Zellweger ain’t got nothin’ on them. Other than Scientology and, in Renee’s case, the uncanny ability to always look like she just ate a lemon.

Coles went onto say, "We had special chemistry. We never sat and watched film and never really did a lot of things together. We just knew." And when you know, you know. But as someone who was a fan of the Jets for the past several years, reading this, I sort of feel like, well, it actually would have been nice if maybe, just once in a while, you had watched a little film together.

Given the depth of their relationship, you can see why Coles would have been less than thrilled to have Pennington cast aside. And though he would never say so explicitly, one gets the sense that Coles is a little resentful towards the guy who made it happen: F-A-R-V—Farv, Farv, Farv!

In football, it is fairly customary for players to laud their quarterback. And Farvie has gotten nothing short of a royal welcome from his teammates on the Jets. Cotchery, in particular. While Coles has certainly not spoken ill of Farv, focusing most of this week’s comments on Pennington, he did have this to say about Farvil, "I don't have a feel for him and he doesn't have a feel for me. That's one of the things I am going to have to deal with. In the past, I always knew when the ball was coming. Now, you don't really know. It's totally different for me as a player. It is what it is. He's getting adjusted and I'm trying to do what I'm supposed to do." He also added, in reference to Pennington, “To be honest, I would never expect to have the same relationship with anybody that I had with him.”

Now call me crazy, but those sort of sound like the words of someone who is not particularly happy. Someone who has been robbed of something incredibly important and meaningful to him. Someone who, like me, has had his life ruined. By Brett, well, you know his last name.

But that’s not to say that Coles and I are the only ones who are going through it. Fav-ruh himself has had his share of woes since his courageous decision to unretire. (Other than yesterday’s loss to a Brady-less New England.) That, incidentally, as a refresher, was the decision that ruined my life—and Vernie’s. After his fifth practice, Farvil commented, “I wondered this morning what in the heck am I doing.” (Yeah, so do we.) “The answer to the question is: I love to play. I hate to study. At times I hate to practice, but I love to play.”

So, even I have to admit that the guy has it a little rough. You know, having to do all that hard work when all he wants to do is the fun stuff. There’s got to be some well-meaning, nerdy girl out there who is willing to watch his game film for him, no? Even if he fake promises to take her to the prom?

Say It Ain't So, Cano

2008-09-13T12:05:00.000-07:00

Thursday was, as we all know, September 11th. Consequently, a lot of people were preoccupied thinking about, well, September 11th. So, it would have been easy to miss some of the other things that were going on in the world that day. Major stuff. Like the announcement of the radical cutting edge plan to “overhaul” the ailing swing of Robinson Cano.

No, you read that right. So you can just go ahead, sit down, and stop what you’re doing.

The plan is simple. The Yanks are going to send Kevin Long to the Dominican Republic this winter, where he will help Cano with his strike zone discipline and the mechanics of his swing.

I only have one question: How do I get that job?

The way I see it, it’s a win-win for Long. If this strategy proves effective, he is hailed a hero. If not, he can say that Cano was undisciplined, unfocused, and downright impossible to teach. Either way, he gets a winter in the DR out of it. I don’t really see the downside.

Long claims to have high hopes for the venture and has said, "You're going to see a huge difference visually. You'll see less movement, an explosive, compact swing, and you'll probably see more home runs. I think his average will go way up and I think his walks will go way up."

Well, one should hope.

Robbie is currently 6 for his 38 at bats this month. He has an OBP of .295 this season, compared with a career OBP of .333. Not to mention the fact that he has committed a whopping 13 errors this season, often with plays where he looks—how shall I put it?—like he’s giving it a little bit less than 110%. And, well, having just signed that big old contract for $30 million over four years in January, it makes you wonder—now that Robbie got his payday, is he just putting on the uniform, showing up, and going through the motions?

Say it ain’t so, Cano.

Well, Robbie did have something to say, though that wasn’t exactly it. What he said was, “It’s not your business.”

Huh. I must confess that I was a little taken aback by what I perceived to be a direct and personal attack by someone who I had always thought of as a friend. Not my business? Oh, really. Not my business? So that’s how we were going to play this? Well, how about as long as I am the schmuck who buys the tickets, and t-shirts, and bobble heads that pay your salary, it actually kind of is.

And just as my lather was reaching its pinnacle, as I was preparing myself to write the kind of excoriating piece that I felt worthy of his betrayal, I read the rest of the quote. “There is one other good thing. I’m going to know who’s on my side. Who’s my friend; who’s not my friend. Who’s talking behind my back. I’ll remember all that. Because I’m going to go back and be the player I’m supposed to be.”

And that’s when it occurred to me. Robbie isn’t telling us it’s not our business because he doesn’t care about us. He’s telling us it’s not our business because his feelings are hurt. All this talk of friends and being gossiped about behind his back? Well, it’s what you say when you’re feeling wounded. And if wounding Robbie is within our capability, it suggests that—far from being smug and indifferent—Robbie cares deeply about we think. Which would lead me to believe that he probably doesn’t feel too great about his performance this season, with or without the big salary. And as the person who coined the phrase, “To Cano him is to love him,” that makes me feel a whole lot better about the world.

From the very beginning, I always had a special place in my heart for Robbie. He brought to the game a youthful exuberance. The kind of passion for the sport that I really respect. I remember the day he hit his first home run. The camera panned to the dugout and the grin on his face just said it all. Here was a kid who loved baseball. A kid who was living a dream. It was written all over that grin. And I don’t think that kind of sincerity goes away just because you tack a lot of zeros onto the end of a paycheck.

Don’t get me wrong. Just because I happen to like Robbie, it doesn’t mean I’m going to give him a pass on this one. The bottom line is that he hasn’t handled the criticism with the grace and maturity that I have come to expect as the signature of a Torre baby. However, I am inclined to believe that his frustration is earnest and that his struggles are more the results of sloppiness and immaturity than anything else. In a sense, his behavior with the press and off the field reflect the nature of his problems on the field—Robbie, love him though I may, is a little bit of a baby. And it’s time for him to grow up. We’ve walked him through his infancy. So, now, what I would like to see when he emerges from batting camp, is a player who has changed his approach, not only mechanically, but mentally.

What Cano needs from Long is more than just a batting coach—he needs a life coach. Someone to give him encouragement along with that swift kick in the pinstripes he occasionally deserves. Based on what we saw when Robbie was under the tutelage of Larry Bowa, he is the kind of player who really benefits from one-on-one mentorship. And based on what we know from Oprah, a life coach can be just the thing to turn a rookie into a champ.

Will this require Long to go jogging on the beach with Robbie and tackle him in the waves in slow motion at least once alla Apollo Creed in Rocky III? Possibly. But, then, I’m pretty sure that Rocky went on to do some serious damage in the fight against Mr. T, so…you tell me if you think it’s worth it.

And, incidentally, I pity the po’ fool who don’t eat my Coco Crisps.

Putting The Loser Into Lovable Losers

2008-09-10T10:00:00.000-07:00

It’s gonna happen. I must confess, my Wrigley experience almost made me forget how it was that the Cubs had come to earn such a pathetic slogan. It was only a month ago, and yet they played with such confidence, seemed so unstoppable. It’s gonna happen? Well, of course it was gonna happen. One only wondered why they were so embarrassingly desperate to convince us.

Now I remember.

Yes, the Cubbies are back to doing what it is that they do best—putting the loser into lovable loser. And I must admit that it’s getting a little bit old. It’s like watching a really, really predictable movie. It’s like that friend who keeps getting back together with her jerk of a boyfriend even though you know it can’t possibly end well. It’s like turning on Nick at Nite to find that they are airing that episode of Taxi where Jim builds Elaine a castle in her living room—again. Well, that’s actually an awesome episode, and I could never really get sick of it. And, come to think if it, they don’t even air Taxi on Nick at Nite anymore. So it’s more like if flipping on Nick at Nite to discover they are rerunning that episode of Fresh Prince of Bel Air where Vivian and Philip go on Soul Train. Sure, it was amazing the first time. But it doesn’t really bear re-watching.

I don’t want to sound heartless. I get that it must suck to suck. I mean, hell the Yankees aren’t exactly the envy of the East this year. And, no, just because the Yanks are down on their luck, I would never dream of saying that I can relate to what it must be like to be a Cubs fan. That would be condescending. I know someone who once had the ridiculous notion that he would go sleep on the street for a few nights so that he could “see what it felt like to be homeless.” For me to say that I could truly relate to the pain of what it was like to be a Cubs fan? It would be kind of like that. But, still, I get that it’s no fun. And I get that it’s not your fault.

That said, it’s still a little tiresome. I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again. You don’t have to be a loser to be lovable. That day that I went to Wrigley? The day DeRosa and Soto hit dingers, John Cusack sang “Take Me Out to The Ballgame,” and all of those Cubs fans won me over with that special brand of adorability that doesn’t exist outside the Midwest? Nobody was a loser that day. Well, nobody except the Nationals.

I am a baseball atheist—a batheist, if you will. I do not believe in fortune, and curses, and predetermined fates for certain teams. If anything, as previously stated, I do believe in collective psychology. And, perhaps, when the players for a certain team start to believe that their team is fated to lose, they may force a particular outcome. But there is no Roberto Clemente in the sky who is willing this to happen to the Cubs. Phil Rizzuto does not declare, “Holy Cow!” and before you know it, despite themselves, the Cubs find that they have lost eight of their last nine games. There is no destiny—only self-determination. Want proof? Take a look at the Chowdas. If after years, and years, and years, and years—well, I’m not going to write it out eighty-six times—they can turn things around and win not one, but two championships, it leaves the Cubs with no excuse.

The Cubs have built an identity around the fact of their loserness. And maybe there is an anxiety there that, if they aren’t the lovable losers, they wont know who they are. Will they even be lovable anymore? But I argue, yes. A thousand times yes. Because, at the rate the Cubs are going, the loser thing, it’s growing less and less lovable by the season. In fact, I’d say the Cubs are about one implosion away from being the loathe-able losers. If the Cubs really want to earn our love, at this point, the best thing they could possibly do is surprise us by winning. The timing is almost too perfect. A hundred years? That's just about as inspirational sports movie as you can get. And everyone knows that everyone loves the winning team in the inspirational sports movie.

So, Soriano, Lee, Soto, Theriot, you march back onto that field, and you show those birds from St. Louis that Cardinals fans take it in the Pujols. I’m sorry. I saw a Cubs fan wearing a shirt that said that one time, and I have been waiting for the opportunity to repeat it. And here I thought I was the only one who liked to make fun of ballplayers who have names that sound like crapelbon. I think someone should make a t-shirt for the Indians that says, “Tigers Fans Give Me Renteria.”

On another note, I have been anxiously awaiting this week’s episode of Project Runway. Now that the Yankees have ruined my September, I have to take solace where I can. I was fantasizing today about how unbelievably amazing it would be to find a way to fuse my love of Project Runway with my love of baseball. Picture this: A close call at the plate. Heidi Klum comes strutting onto the field clad in spiked heels and mini-dress, says smugly in that oh-so-sexy German accent of hers, “In baseball, one play you're safe, the next play you're out. Coco Crisp… You’re out.”

Du Stinkst Coco Crsip. Auf wiedersehen.

Why Do You Build Me Up Pudgey-cup?

2008-09-09T13:33:00.000-07:00

Well, for those of us who thought that the Yanks had lost their will to fight, I guess that last night’s outing against the Angels proved us all wrong. It was the bottom of the sixth. Pudge and Torii Hunter did the bumpty bump during a play at the plate. And, while Hunter claimed it was an accident, Pudge believed it was intentional. So Pudge pushed Hunter. Hunter pushed Pudge. On thing led to another, and before you could say, “The only thing stupider than a mascot is a rally monkey,” the benches had cleared. The tension was incredible. Everyone was all fired up. Raring to go. And then, and then…

And then the Yanks continued to get pounded and ultimately lost the game in a 12-1 decision.

Girardi had this to say about the fight. “It's not something that you want to see happen, but it's emotion. Pudge was showing emotion, and I'm OK with that. Emotion is a good thing. It's baseball.”

Actually, it’s not.

According to the Oxford English Dictionary, emotion is “a strong mental or instinctive feeling such as love or fear.” And, just to do a little refresher, baseball is the thing where you swing the bat at the ball and try to get the guys on your team around the bases. It is the thing, Girardi, that your team is currently not so good at. It does not technically ever involve shoving or punching or physical displays of “emotion.”

Now don’t get me wrong. I like a brawl as much as the next guy. Not so much in real life. In real life, I’m a pacifist. But in real life, I also don’t believe in telling people they suck. Sports is a little bit different from real life. However, just because I like a sports brawl, it doesn’t mean I think that they should be happening willy-nilly for no reason. Correct me if I’m wrong, but isn’t the entire point of beefing in sports to get everyone all pumped up to kick some tush? When the Yanks get into a benches-clearing fracas in the sixth and then go scoreless for the three remaining innings, I don’t call that a display of “emotion.” I call it a useless expenditure of energy.

Let me digress a moment, if I may.

I watched a movie the other night. An Irish film, entitled Once, which some of you may remember as this year’s Oscar winner for Best Original Song. (If you would prefer not to hear the details of the storyline, I advise you to skip this paragraph.) The movie tells the heartwarming tale of an Irish guy and Czech girl, both of whom are hung up on an ex who doesn’t value them. Throughout the course of the film, the boy and the girl discover a shared passion for music, they record a CD, they fall in love. And all’s well that ends well. Except. Except. They never tell each other. They never tell each other, and they get back together with the ex-husband and ex-girlfriend who didn’t appreciate them in the first place. For no good reason. If I had to guess, I would say because someone told John Carney, the filmmaker, that happy endings were not allowed in independent movies. The result of this narrative decision was that I was left with the feeling that the whole experience, the journey, the voyage of their love, had been a total waste of my time. Leaving me to wonder, “Why do you build me up, John Carney-cup, just to let me down?”

And that is much how I felt last night. If you’re going to go to the trouble of getting into a brawl, shouldn’t you just win? Shouldn’t you at least make a stab at a comeback? Score another run? Something?

Meanwhile, back on the Jersey Shore…For those of you haven’t already heard, let me fill you in about Ryan Ward, the pride of New Jersey, who has been using his likeness to Joba Chamberlain as a way to get women to sleep with him. The 29-year-old, who originally hails from Delaware, was recently arrested for the scam and released on $10,000 bail. Poor guy had obviously never heard of JDate, where it's just so darn easy to not get arrested for being a pervert.

Now, the best way to teach this moron a lesson—if indeed a lesson could ever even penetrate the sieve that must be his mind—would be to simply let it lie. And to teach this moron a lesson would probably be in the best interest of society at large—or the women of New Jersey, at the very least. The New York Post, of course, does not have the best interest of society at heart. As evidenced by their penchant for lipstick-wearing pit bulls. And basically every news article they have ever published. Eager as ever to jump on anything remotely tawdry, the Post has decided that, rather than let this story run its natural course, they would find a way to breathe new life into it. They have arranged a meeting between Ryan and Joba. The pitcher is apparently anxious to meet his impersonator, claiming he wants to “know what was going on in his head.”

May I make a suggestion to Joba Chamberlain? (Because the people at the Post could give a crapelbon.) A guy like Ryan Ward—a guy who pretends to be a professional baseball player so that he can laid? A guy who does this and then later jokes about it with the press? A guy who says he would only “probably” never do it again? A guy who now claims to want to parlay his likeness to Chamberlain into a living? (Because we all go to Vegas for the Joba impersonators.) This wouldn’t be a guy who loves attention by any chance, would it? A guy who would be really psyched to be getting as much media as possible out of this whole ridiculous farce? And we want to, what? Reward him by giving him even more press and a private audience with one of the most famous sports figures in New York? Right. That seems fair. Because I don’t get to meet Joba Chamberlain and I didn’t imitate anyone so that I could get laid.

Look, Joba, I’m no expert in male psychology, but if you really want a glimpse into the mind of Ryan Ward, I am going to go ahead and guess that it looks something like this: “I want sex. I want sex. I want sex. I look like a famous person. I want sex. I want sex.” Curiosity piqued?

Oh, right. But I forgot who I was dealing with. Because while Joba may not be a sexual deviant, he can relate to Ward on one level—homeboy loves to make love to the camera. He’d pass up the opportunity to participate in a ridiculous media circus like I’d pass up the opportunity to tell Torii Hunter that his name is misspelled.

Or the opportunity to say You Suck Coco Crisp.

Johan Santana: Regalo de Dios

2008-09-08T19:54:00.000-07:00

Johan Santana.

What comes immediately to mind when one hears that name? Ace pitcher? Two-time Cy Young Award winner by unanimous vote? The guy who, in the final estimation, the Yankees actually could have used more than Kennedy, Hughes, and Melky this year? These are common things to think when one hears mention of Johan Santana. And, yet, none of them are the thoughts that come immediately to my mind.

The thought that comes immediately to my mind is that it’s really bizarre to be named Johan when you come from Venezuela.

I went to the trouble of looking up the name Johan. Just to make sure that I was not somehow laboring under a misapprehension as to its origins. Maybe it was Johann Bach, and not Johan Santana, who had been incongruously named. It turns out that this was not the case. My instinct was correct. As it happens, the name Johan has nothing to do with anything Venezuelan, or even Latin American for that matter. Johan is Finnish, German, and Swedish for John. It is also Hebrew for “gift from God.” It is not Spanish for anything. The Spanish for John is Juan. The Spanish for “gift from God” is “regalo de Dios.” This last bit of information, for the record, is information that came from my brain and not the website from which I gathered my information.

But it should not go without saying that the website that I used for reference—www.my-baby-names.com—was an invaluable resource, a veritable well of knowledge. Among the other information that I was able to gather from my visit, it provided me with a list of names that sound like Johan. Names such as Mohan, Rohan, Monohan, and Bohan. The last name, which is supposedly unisex, is not a name I believe to truly exist based on my experience in the world. But according to the site, it is Biblical for “in them.” Ah, yes, one wonders why we don’t hear that one more often.

Now you might think that it’s just silly that this site should offer us information about names that happen to sound like names that interest us. What, you ask, does Mohan have to do with Johan? As it happens, for our friend Johan Santana of the weirdly mismatched first and last names, the answer to that question is everything. Johan is married to a woman named Yasmile, who he has known since he was nine. Adorable. Johan and Yasmile have two daughters. And since you’ll never guess their names, I’m just going to tell you. Jasmily and Jasmine. Get it? Like Yasmile. But not.

Now I can only speak personally, but if I married a guy named—oh, I don’t—let’s say Johan, I would probably shy away from naming our children Rohan and Monohan. In fact, I am going to go so far as to say that I think that for me to do that would even be a little bit weird. The compulsion to name your child after yourself—that’s one thing. It’s not something I would do—Jews tend not to—but it’s something that makes sense to me. But to give children names that sort of approximate the name of one of their parents—enough to where it is obvious but not enough to just have it be the same name—I don’t quite get the thinking. It seems illogical.

This brings us back my original question. Why is Johan Santana named Johan in the first place? I am going to posit that, perhaps it is his confusion about his own name that we see being reflected in his choices about the names for his children.

And, yet, I am open to the possibility that maybe I am just wrong. Because if Johan is a weird name for someone from Latin America—someone with the last name Santana—how come there are two of them? That’s right. I’m talking about Angels pitcher Ervin Santana from the Dominican Republic, whose actual name is Johan. In 2003, when Ervin was still in the minors and Johan was making a name for himself with the Twins, Ervin decided that the big leagues weren’t quite big enough for two pitchers with the same name. Especially when one of those pitchers happened to be a superstar. So, he took it upon himself to change his. To Ervin—just in case you hadn’t really registered that.

Now I have to admit. I sort of think the guy has a point. This is a measured practical reason for which to change your name. A reason that seems unrelated to a need for attention. A reason I can get behind. However, I think that having made this decision, the only logical thing for Ervin to have done would have been to take his middle name—Ramon. Because it’s just weird to make up a new name for no reason. And, yet, this is what Ervin decided to do. OK. Fine. A strange choice. And, yet, he still could have taken advantage of this opportunity and figured out a way to make his name make sense. Like, by picking the name Juan. Or Regalo de Dios. But, Ervin? Really? Santana commented, “I just came up with Ervin. Ervin Santana, that sounds good.”

No, not true. It doesn’t. In fact, I will posit that Ervin Santana actually sounds about as good as Pepe Edelstein.

But this is just my initial line of thinking when I hear the name Johan Santana. Then I usually move on to the stuff that other people think about. And, this brings us to last night’s game against the Phillies. A game which the Mets were able to win in large part because of the contribution of the Hebraic gift of God, otherwise known as Johan Santana.

Last night’s was an extremely important victory in one of the most critical series the Mets will play all month. They did not fare quite as well as they would have liked against the Phils this weekend, but last night’s outing staved off the sweep at the very least. It is a sweep that the Mets could ill have afforded. Not only because, at this point in the season, every game matters. But also because both the players and the fans are still recovering psychologically from last year’s cataclysmic September. A sweep by the Phillies would have been the kind of demoralizing blow that would have been pretty tough to take at this juncture.

Santana pitched 7 and 1/3 innings, allowing only five hits and two runs. All told, Santana has done well by the Mets this year. Better than his win-loss record might reflect, with only 13 in the “W” column and 7 losses. Like Joan Jett, he’s what you’d call a victim of circumstance. And in his case, circumstance boils down to a craptastic bullpen and little run support. The reality of his victimhood is reflected as much through his 2.70 ERA as it is through the fact that everyone on the Mets continues to have undying confidence in him. And while Johan Santana has never pointed the finger at his teammates for their failure to support him, they have all been more than willing to take on the blame. And rightfully so.

But on a night like last night, when all the pieces come together, the Mets get to reap the rewards of their investment in Santana. And Jerry Manuel had this to say of his performance, "Anytime his turn comes around, we feel confident that he can keep us going, or stop us from going the other way."

However, one great pitcher does not a winning team make. And, as established, the Mets have found a way to lose in spite of great outings by Santana. Time and time again. So, if this September is going to be different from the last one, everyone has to contribute. It has to be a team effort. And so far, not everyone seems to be rising to the occasion. True, Beltran is on a seven game hitting streak. True, also, that Delgado is an unstoppable force of run batting in awesomeness that it is hard to imagine anyone ever having booed. However, it is also true that Jose Reyes went 0-13 in the series against the Phils. And that Dee Dubs is batting .167 with a .192 OBP in his last 24 at bats.

Then, of course, we have Wagner. The latest on Wags is that he is going to be out for the remainder of the season. At the very least. I know that this is supposed to fall into the deficit category, but I think that one’s up for debate.

All I know is this; with the Yanks all but out of it, I would like to see at least one New York team representing this October. I am pretty sure I have already made clear to everyone exactly why and how much I hate Halloween. So, I need October baseball.

Speaking of hitting streaks, guess who else is on a bit of a tear these days. Your friend and mine. Covelli Loyce Crisp. He hit big ten tonight in the opener against Tampa Bay. And I bet he just thinks that with this bender of his he will rob me of one of my remaining few joys in life. Fat friggin’ chance, buddy. Post a hit in every game from now until the end of September if you want. See if I care. You want to know why? Because You Suck Coco Crisp.

Futbol Americano y Ocho Hell No

2008-09-07T13:11:00.000-07:00

Viva, Viagra! Oh, I’m sorry. I’m watching football. And the commercials are just so darn catchy.

Yes, it’s that time of year again. Which means what? Well, among other things, it means that I get to watch a whole lot more commercials for erectile dysfunction than usual. By the way, as a side note, I find it intriguing that the baseball games tend to air more of the hair re-growth product commercials whereas the football games tend to focus on the erectile dysfunction. It’s just interesting what you can learn from watching game time advertising. Like, I now know that guys who watch baseball are bald and the ones who watch football can’t get it up. And, based on the advertising I have seen the few times I have been forced to watch the golf channel, those guys should all consider seeking immediate medical assistance.

But in addition to what the beginning of football season promises to do for my repertoire of ad campaign jingles, it also means that we are going to be reunited with a whole lot of old friends. Old friends we all but forgot while we were busy focusing on baseball, tennis and the Olympics. Well, not Fav-ruh. We could never really forget about him. What with all the headlines, cornfield mazes, and text messages. But the other guys? We all know we haven’t stayed in touch quite the way we would have liked. The way we promised we would when the season was over. Even Tom Brady has been conspicuously absent from the pages of US Weekly these days. Probably busy going over plans with the contractors for that house in Malibu. I hear he’s like totally obsessed with getting the bathroom right. But the good news is that friends in professional sports are the really quality friends. You know, the kind you can go months without talking to and it’s as though no time has passed at all.

I know what you’re going to say. Why, really, do we need these guys? Doesn’t baseball provides us with an unending well of material? It’s true; with so many major league players, on any given day, you can always count on someone to break his hand on his bat, or give someone the bird, or get married and present the world with a hand drawn sketch of the wife whose name he refuses to make public. But every once in a while, I think we all can admit to wanting a change of pace. A-Rod is A-Rod, and Manny is Manny, and maybe I’m ready to be hearing about someone else. And while I wish that baseball season would never end, maybe five months into it, I am still ready for some fresh faces—for some different brands of crazy.

It’s true. Most of the football headlines these days have been pretty narrowly focused on the game. We’re not so far into the season yet that players have taken the liberty of distracting us with their antics. So, there has been a lot on the injuries, the matchups and, of course, Fah-Fah-Fah-Fav-ruh and the Jets. You know, the stuff that is arguably more important, though dramatically less entertaining. There was a little bit of feather ruffling when Big Blue played the Redskins. Mathias Kiwanuka apparently took offense to the fact that Chris Samuels was willing to play for a team with such an incredibly racist name. Oh, no. That wasn’t it. That’s just the fight I want someone to have. I guess what Kiwanuka really said was that Samuels got a little down and dirty with a play. The result was a not-so-serious ankle injury for Kiwanuka. Samuels tried feebly to defend himself. Everyone else basically said he was in the wrong. And that was it. Pretty boring. But, like I said, it’s still early.

But there is one story—one story totally unrelated to anything having to do with actual football—that has captured the hearts and minds of football fans everywhere these past few days. Well, it has captured the heart and mind of this football fan, anyway, and I am just going to assume that the rest of them are like me. Except that I don’t have erectile dysfunction, and I would rather frost my tips than leave the house wearing a Styrofoam cheesehead. Bad for both the environment and one’s self-esteem, I would think. But I digress.

The story to which I refer is a story that has to do with a player and his fight to have the football community acknowledge the person who he truly is. And that person is a person who wants to have a Spanish number for a last name. Only not a real Spanish number because, apparently, he doesn’t speak Spanish. However, he wants an approximation of a Spanish number for a last name. So much so that he was wiling to take legal steps to make it happen. But the latest on Chad Ocho Cinco is that, despite his efforts, he was forced to start the season with his old name on his jersey—the boring name. Johnson. Blech. It’s just so…pedestrian.

The NFL made the ruling, claiming, “He has a financial obligation to Reebok, which produces the jerseys available to fans. That has to be resolved before the on-field jersey can be changed.” Hmm…funny because I actually heard that Reebok had already started making jerseys with Johnson’s new name on them. Like, as soon as he had it legally changed. So, people at NFL, is that the real reason? Or do you just hate Spanish Heritage Month? Whatever the case, shockingly, you obviously didn’t read or heed my advice about how to handle Ochenta y Cinco. You may feel like you are winning the battle by making a big deal of this, but you are actually only giving him the attention he so desires. And yet another headline on espn.com.

Me? I don’t mind. You’re giving me something to write about. All I am saying is that if you let him play the game with the jersey without saying a word, he gets one story out of it, and then it’s over. Now? He gets this story. He gets the story where he makes a big stink out of it. He gets the story where you finally give in and let him do what he wants, which you eventually will. So cut to the chase. Or don’t. It’s not that easy for me to figure out what to write about, and I am glad for the material. Like I said, no one else in the world of the NFL is doing much that’s newsworthy yet.

Foul Or Fair: I'll Be An Effin' Redneck

2008-09-04T10:07:00.001-07:00

"There are probably 800 players in the big leagues," commented A-Rod. "The odds of me being in some controversy are probably 2-1.” The statistical analysis required in order to understand all that is a little bit over my head. However, he is right on one count. When something newsworthy happens in the land of Major League Baseball, one is usually not surprised to discover that A-Rod was involved in one way or another. And something newsworthy certainly happened last night. That something was the implementation of instant replay. For the very first time. And on whose home run ball? That’s right. Frost Tip. I mean, like he said, the odds were 2-1.

In the top of the ninth, A-Rod hit a hard shot down the left field line, which both he and umpire Brian Runge saw as fair. The catcher for the Devils, Dioner Navarro, protested. As did Tampa Bay manager Joe Maddon. The umps agreed that the best way to settle the issue was the not-so-old-fashioned way. Bring it to a replay. After disappearing together for a nail-biting two minutes and fifteen second, during which time they carefully reviewed the footage, they determined that Runge had gotten it right the first time. The ball had been fair. The home run would stick. A-Rod said with some relief, “I was just glad we got the right call.” And I am just glad that A-Rod didn’t have anything to lose sleep over.

But did they get the call right? You see, I watched the replay several times. Just to make sure. In case anyone needed a second opinion. And I’ll be an effin’ redneck if that ball didn’t look just a little left of fair to me. Not that it wasn’t close. But it raises an interesting point. Just because we bring technology into the mix, it does not mean that we eliminate human error. Unfortunately, at this point in time, we still need humans to watch and interpret replays. And if the camera angle doesn’t get it just right—if a ball is still a little close to call—we end up right back where we started. One ump, one call. Or, I guess last night, a group of umps and one call. Like I said, if I had been a part of the two minute and fifteen second deliberation, I would have been inclined to call that ball foul. However, maybe the ability to read the call right is altered ever-so-slightly when you were the one to have made it in the first place. When you are looking at instant replay footage to confirm something you feel you already know rather than to get at the truth.

All I know is this—without the instant replay, A-Rod got robbed of a home run on May 21, a call that did not affect the game’s outcome. With or without instant replay, A-Rod got credited with a home run last night that I don’t believe he necessarily deserved. Again, either way, it would not have affected the game’s outcome. Basically, without the use of instant replay, A-Rod is even-steven on the home run front and the games’ final outcomes are unaltered. When it comes to botched calls, you win some, you lose some, and the odds are 2-1 that it balances out in the end.

In any event, it gives A-Rod something to gossip about with the girls when he’s getting those tips done at the salon. At Frederick Fekkai to be exact. Yes, I have it from a fairly reliable source that it is to the good stylists at F squared that A-Rod owes his frosty tips. So, if you are having trouble making an appointment, you can blame it on A-Rod. He probably stole your slot. (I sometimes even blame him when there is interrupted service on the subway. Because he exists.) However, this information might make you want to rethink your choice of salon anyway. You all have seen his hair, right?

What I will say about A-Rod is that he is continuing to deliver the goods this week, providing us with four more RBIs in last night’s 8-4 victory over the Devs. Rookie Phil Coke also deserves a shout-out for his contribution of two perfect innings. Well pitched, Phil-a-roo. Edwar Ramirez did his part, as well, helping Carl Pavano out of no-out bases loaded jam in the fifth. Despite the fact that he only faced three batters, Ramirez managed to earn himself the win—our third “W” in consecutive games. Here is the trouble. Want to know who else earned their third “W” in a row last night? You guessed it—or you already knew it—the Chowdas. So they remain seven in front of us for the wild card. And the problem is, of course, that we could win every game on our schedule from now until the end of the month, and it won’t matter a lick unless the Chowdas start to lose. A lot. Fortunately, we will see them again before the season is through. Let's just hope it still matters by then.

On a different note, I discovered this week that I think I might have a new favorite sport. Sadly, like both the summer and winter Olympics, it is a sport that only comes around once every four years. But BOY is it ever fun. I am talking about the Republican National Convention. They still haven’t wrapped up the event for the week, but smart money for the gold medal in batshit crazy is on everyone’s favorite lipstick-wearing, hockey-loving, polar bear-hating pit bull. That’s not mean. I am just quoting her. Well, except the part about the polar bears. That was just a deduction based on other things she said. Other competitors for the batshit crazy award, such as Rudy and Huck, have both updated their myspace pages with messages that indicate that they are starting to get a little worried. Ultimately, it is not impossible that it will all come down to a replay. To be honest, I don’t really care who wins. I am just glad that someone is out there telling the truth about the uselessness of community organizing. And I also just think it’s fun to yell, “Drill, baby, drill!”

Mike Mussina: He'd Rather Be At Home

2008-09-03T18:44:00.001-07:00

On one of the many occasions when I went to see the Yanks at the Stadium last season, I happened to find myself sitting in front of a well-known sportscaster. We’ll call him Bob. Anyway, Bob was giving his friends the inside scoop on some of the players—who was cool, easy to talk to, a pain in the pujols. One of his friends inquired about Roger Clemens. Bob told him that Roger Clemens was all but impossible to dislike. The kind of guy with whom you really want to go out and have a beer. Being the busybody that I am, I couldn’t help but snort loudly by way of voicing my disapproval. Apparently, I got my point across because Bob responded by saying, “What? You don’t agree.” I said, “No, I absolutely don’t. Roger Clemens is a fundamentally bad person.” I said this with the confidence of someone who had met Roger Clemens, which of course I had not—Bob undoubtedly had. But I have never shied away from a debate for lack of concrete evidence. And, by the way, I am pretty sure that everything that has happened in the past few months has served to substantiate what was always obvious to me about Clemens. And if you’ve been reading about his son this week, you’ll know that the asshole doesn’t fall far from the tree.

In any event, Bob and I engaged in a bit of a debate about the personalities of the various players. He suggested Giambi would be fun to have a beer with. Again, I disagreed. (Though, the whole flipping bird thing has gotten me thinking that Giambi might actually be a little bit hilarious.) Bob threw out the names of player after player, each of which I rejected on the grounds that they were evidence of Bob’s bad taste in ballplayers. Eventually, he said, “Well, fine, then. If you could sit down for a beer with any player, who would it be?” I paused for a moment, reflected, and responded, “Mike Mussina. Hands down.” He looked at me with awe, shook his head, and said, “You have no idea what you’re talking about.” It’s true. I didn’t. And, yet, I was certain I was right.

On the surface, it might be difficult to deduce that Mike Mussina and I have all that much in common. Moose grew up in Montoursville, Pennsylvania. I grew up in Los Angeles and New York. Moose went to Stanford, and graduated in three years as an Economics major. I went to three different colleges and eventually graduated in eight years as an English major. Moose is a famous professional baseball player. I am a not-famous unpublished novelist with a blog, which has a readership that is small, to say the least, though admittedly elite. I move approximately once every six months. Moose never moves. I have two dogs and three hamsters. Moose has a wife and two kids. I love doing the crossword. Moose…well, Moose also loves doing the crossword. But, you get the point. And, yet, I feel in him a kindred spirit.

I have a mantra. And that mantra is: “I’d rather be at home.” This is particularly true where evening activities are concerned—evening activities that most people tend to think are fun. The words “cocktail party,” “barbecue,” “going out,” “wedding,” “networking opportunity,” “a lot of fun,” “great place to meet people”—these are all watchwords for me. Words that produce in me an unspeakable amount of anxiety. Anxiety I never experience when I am home watching a Yankees games, or Season 4 of House, or reading Edith Wharton.

How does this make me like Moose? You see, despite being a multimillionaire with the option to live anywhere his heart desires in any manner he wants, Moose chooses to keep his permanent residence in Montoursville, Pennsylvania. He chooses to keep his old friends, despite the fact that a player of his talent and stature could be out rubbing elbows with middle-aged pop stars and sleeping with groupies. Whenever he has a day off, he chooses to go home to spend time with his wife and his children rather than bask in the warm glow of his stardom. He chooses to help coach the football team at his old high school during his spare time—spare time that he could be spending at the club or doing nothing on a beach somewhere. I don’t want to speak for Moose, but it sort of sounds like his mantra is more or less the same as mine. When push comes to shove, in a manner of speaking, he would also rather be at home.

In 2004, The Yanks played their opener in Japan. Moose famously took refuge in his room, refusing to come out whenever unnecessary—opting to eat peanut butter and jelly sandwiches rather than branch out and eat sushi. Some might say that it is behavior like this that makes Moose an eccentric. No, not an eccentric as defined by Tim McCarver—the kind of eccentric who sits in Starbucks and writes poetry. I mean the kind of eccentric who is a little unconventional, a little bit different. The kind of eccentric who is rich and famous and still chooses to live in Montoursville, Pennsylvania. The kind of eccentric who travels to Japan and would rather lock himself up in his room than explore.

I happen to be a person who loves to travel, and I can still relate to Moose on this one. The same year that he traveled to Japan for the opener, I spent some time in Cambodia. I was there for several months, during which time I was invited to one of the rural villages to attend a traditional Cambodian wedding. It was a cultural immersion experience unlike any which I had previously experienced. From the beginning of the weekend to the end, I was dragged around from house to house, stared at, touched, made the center of attention in ways that I systematically avoid in my day-to-day existence. (You will remember that I am a person who would rather be at home.) The food at the event was making me completely and utterly sick to my stomach. Had I the means to make myself a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, I would have. I was sharing one big room with all of the other guests at the wedding, but believe me, had hiding in my own room been an option, it is one I would have exercised. So, I did the next best thing—faked a headache and pretended to sleep through the entire wedding reception.

Maybe this behavior is indicative of the fact that I, too, am an eccentric. Or maybe it’s just that we have different expectations of our sports figures. It is not at all uncommon for a person to travel for business and retreat to his hotel at night as soon as his work for the day is done. Particularly if it is a trip that he would rather not have taken in the first place. And, for Moose, the trip to Japan was just that kind of trip. He went there to do a job. Period. But, nowadays, to be a professional athlete is not so much a job as it is a way of life. These guys have money, they have fame, they have all kinds of opportunities that we do not. The voyeurs in us want to see them take advantage of that. But Moose defies us all by doing the unthinkable: He treats baseball like it is work. He is deeply invested in what he does while he is doing it. However, when he is not playing or practicing, Mussina clocks out. He goes home.

According to his agent Arn Tellem, “He’s still the same small town guy from Pennsylvania. He has the same friends, is committed to his family, and is dedicated to not letting his professional career get in the way of his home life…And being able to pull that off, I have unbelievable respect and admiration for him.” And so should we. Because it’s hard enough for anyone to strike that balance. For an athlete? It’s all but impossible. And I think because we are unaccustomed to it, we just don’t know how to interpret it. We assume that our athletes should fit a certain profile because so many of them do. But Mike Mussina is ultimately just a quiet guy who lives in a small town in Pennsylvania. And, when he’s not at work, he would rather be at home. If Mike were a fireman, or a stockbroker, or an engineer, we wouldn’t think anything of it. But Moose does sports for a living, which makes it more confusing.

The most striking thing that Tellem had to say about Moose is that he is “true to himself.” Tellem went on to say, “He is probably the most grounded professional athlete that I know.” I admit, this is a little like saying that someone is the classiest player on the Red Sox. However, I am inclined to believe that, with Moose, what you see is what you get. And what you get is a guy who works hard and gets the job done without ever losing sight of the fact that, ultimately, a job is just a job. Even if that job is sports. What you get is a guy who values family above all else. What you get is a guy who loves tractors.

Moose posted yet another win last night. This is not only significant because, these days, every Yankees win is significant. It is significant because it moved Mussina past Eppa Rixey and Bob Feller up to 34th on the all-time win list with 267. More importantly, last night's win constitutes Moose’s 17th of the season. As we all know, he is working his way to 20—a number that has eluded him more times than one. You could say that, in Moose’s pursuit of 20, if it weren’t for bad luck, he wouldn’t have no luck at all. He came close in 1995, with 19. If you will recall, the 1995 season was cut short by the strike. In 1996, he pitched what would have been his 20th win for the Orioles were it not for the fact that Armando Benitez blew the save. Moose is the king of almost, just about, missed it by that much. With four or five chances remaining this season, it is coming down to the wire. Moose, in typical Mussina fashion, seems more focused on winning games for the team than beating his best. When asked about last night’s outing, he responded, “We're just trying to win ballgames any way we can. I'm just trying to contribute on my day, so today was a decent day.” It sure was, Moose. Here’s hoping for three more before the month is through.

As an aside, Bob and I ended our exchange peacefully. We put it together that we had been at the same Bat Mitzvah the previous week. There is no other such revelation that could have so successfully transformed our animosity into good will.

Field Of Favre: If You Build It,They Will Run

2008-09-02T10:09:00.000-07:00

If you build it, they will come. Eventually. Hopefully. Well, once it gets a little bit cooler. Cool enough for the idea of getting lost in a cornfield for who knows how long to seem at least vaguely appealing. Now, I know what you’re going to say. (Don’t I always?) You’re going to say that the idea of getting lost in a cornfield is never appealing. We’ve all seen Children of the Corn. And Signs. Or at least I have because I was a little slow to figure that M. Night Shyamalan was a one-trick pony. In my defense, I did figure it out in time to not see The Village. But the point is that, unless you are a corn farmer, you would likely prefer not to be walking around in a cornfield. You would probably rather spend your spare time doing something more fun, like—oh, I don’t know—having your name legally changed into a Spanish number that isn’t really a number.

But Carlene and Duane Schultz of Eleva, Wisconsin believe that they have found the key to unlocking the door to that special chamber in people’s hearts—the one that accesses their love of corn. How? The Schultzes have gone and created a giant corn maze in the shape of America’s favorite un-unretired sociopathic quarterback who is hell bent on ruining my life. It was meant to be a tribute, on behalf of the people of Wisconsin, to Dr. Farvil and all that he has done for their great state. I am sure you will not be surprised to hear that the Schultzes conceived of the idea before Fav-ruh pulled his recent antics, metaphorically cutting the cheese in the face of all his loyal cheeseheads. But, the Schultzes decided to proceed with the idea nonetheless. Given that the maze is made of corn—rather than paint, or ink, or stone, or some medium that allows for the display of details—the only way that we really know that the football player maze is meant to be a replica of Farvoroni is that the Schultzes told us. Oh, and they also carved his number into it. It’s a good thing, too. Maybe it’s just me, but I think all football player mazes look alike. I hope that doesn’t make me a bigot. The maze could, however, be said to resemble Farviavelli in that it serves as a metaphor for his addled mind. You know, the way you can wander around a maze for hours, getting lost and confused, feeling like nothing makes sense.

Opening day got off to a bit of a slow start, with only about a hundred visitors showing up on Sunday. Carlene isn’t sweating it, though. She is confident that people will flock their way in droves once the weather cools down. What the hell else do people have to do in Wisconsin? Plus, she saw Field of Dreams. And, like they said in the movie, if you build it, they will come. The only difference is that the “it” to which they referred in Field of Dreams was a cornfield that Kevin Costner mowed down to turn into a baseball diamond that somehow magically allowed famous dead ballplayers to come back to life to play baseball together. I am guessing that if you could build a place where people could go see Babe Ruth, Ty Cobb, Lou Gehrig, Ted Williams, Joe DiMaggio, Jackie Robinson, and Grandpa Hank Greenberg, they would come. If, on the off chance, Carlene, you have the capability to build that, do it. A hundred times over, do it. If, for whatever reason, you just opted for the maze instead of the dead, great baseball player ballpark—if you just happened to think it might be more profitable—tear that mofo down. Revise and resubmit. Otherwise, I guess just keep waiting for the cool weather. Or, you could also just be a normal corn farmer. Who farms corn just for eating. I hear there’s a decent market for that these days.

You want to know what I love about the Yankees? The fact that people are still talking about October like it’s within our realm of possibility. And I’m not saying it’s not. I’m just saying that it’s what I love the Yankees. And yesterday’s game served to keep our feeble hopes alive. We are all familiar with the expression, “It doesn’t matter if you win or lose; it’s how you play the game.” Well, there is another, less familiar (because I invented it) but probably more accurate saying that goes, “It doesn’t matter how you play the game; it’s whether you win or lose.” What I mean by that is not, of course, that it doesn’t matter if you cheat or display unsportsmanlike conduct. That matters. What I mean is that, in the end, whether you win by a margin of one or a margin of ten, whether you win with a walk-off salami or a walk-off hit-by-pitch (a Molina specialty), the only thing that shows up in the column is that you won. In other words, close only counts in horseshoes and hand grenades. And yesterday’s game was a perfect example. It was, for all intents and purposes, sort of a travesty. At the end of the third, we were up 11-2; by the end of the fourth, it was 11-9. Our favorite Arubian Knight just couldn’t make an out in the fourth to save his Arubian hide. Ultimately, we went onto win the game 13-9. And, while it wasn’t exactly graceful, it was a win. I figure I am in no position to be picking and choosing how we get them these days.

Brian Bruney deserves some props for allowing only one hit in 1 and 2/3 innings. Also, I feel it only fair to give A-Rod his due for helping us out with four RBIs. So, consider it given. I am nothing if not fair. Nady, Jeter, and Matsui gave us two RBIs a piece—both Jeter’s and Matsui’s came with two outs. The hit support in yesterday’s game was obviously critical. Given the unreliability of our pitching of late, it could continue to be a crucial piece of the postseason pie. For the record, in my fantasy, the postseason pie is blueberry. Nothing against corn, but it’s just not very good in pie.

CC Sabathia: Laboring Under False Hope

2008-09-01T09:00:00.000-07:00

Earlier today, I was waiting in line at a buffet breakfast when I happened to overhear an unfortunate conversation. In my experience, whenever you overhear a conversation, particularly at a breakfast buffet, it is usually unfortunate. The exchange took place between two women who were clearly strangers. One was shamelessly eyeing the pregnant belly of the other. When the first woman eventually got caught, she said, “I’m so sorry to stare. I was just wondering when you were due.” With the weariness and wariness of someone who was due in two weeks, the second woman responded, “Two weeks.” The other woman just about came unhinged, responding with complete and unbridled enthusiasm, “What fun! Oh my GOSH. WHAT FUN!” (Have I mentioned I am currently in Texas?) OK. First of all, there is the fact that, from what I understand, all a baby does for the first few months of his or her infancy is renteria, keep you up all night, and make you feel incompetent. This is not to say we do not love our children; it’s just that that they are not all that much fun right off the bat. However, that is beside the point because I am pretty sure that every expecting mother is a little too focused on another more imminent, more painful event to be thinking much about that. I know I would be.

I have no personal experience with labor, but I have seen enough movies and listened to enough stories to have a pretty good sense that the miracle of childbirth can be described using just about any word but fun. As I mentioned yesterday, I also don’t think it’s fun to deal with the court system. Yet, according to Ocho Cinco, it apparently is. So maybe I am just really out of touch. Maybe I don’t get what fun really is. Or maybe people just throw the word fun around a little too willy nilly.

It isn’t that I don’t think anything is fun. I spend so much time talking about things that I don’t think are fun—court, labor, mascots, Halloween—I fear you may all begin to think I am something of a curmudgeon. So just to prove that isn’t true, I am going to give you an example of something that I think is really fun. Parachuting into the wrong football field before a game. That, in my humble opinion, is the absolute pinnacle of fun. And that is exactly what happened yesterday when the two jumpers scheduled to land in Chapel Hill before the North Carolina game landed eight miles down the road in Duke’s Wallace Wade’s Stadium about an hour before the Blue Devils were scheduled to kickoff. Leslie Nielsen style. So much fun. For the record, if the parachutists had landed where they were supposed to, that wouldn’t have been particularly fun. UNC associate athletics director Rick Steinbacher was deeply embarrassed and apologetic about the gaff. He commented, in response, “In about five years, maybe this will be funny. Right now, I'm just glad no one was hurt.” And, you see, that is just incorrect. We don’t have to wait five years for it to be funny because it’s funny now. Having said that, these parachutists are probably not the guys to hire for a landing at Yankee Stadium. It’s just a little too close to the Bronx Zoo for comfort. And the result of an error like that would probably have ended up being not so fun.

In other news, as reported by the AP, “To the Milwaukee Brewers, CC Sabathia pitched the no-hitter that wasn't.” I bet I can guess what you’re thinking: Why is Melanie writing a blog no one reads when people who can’t write sentences that make sense are writing for the AP? The point, however, was that Sabathia all but made it through yesterday’s outing with a no-hitter but for a controversial call that has everyone on the Brewers all up in arms. Sabathia bobbled a soft grounder hit by Andy LaRoche in the fifth, and the official scorer called it a hit. The Brewers felt it was an error, and are enraged that Sabathia should be robbed of a no-hitter on account of a botched call. Sabathia, on the other hand, seems to be taking it in stride. Shrugging his shoulders and saying, “What are you going to do?” I guess the nice thing about having a team that has your back is that you can do that because you know that there is someone out there who is willing to fight your battles for you. It’s a hell of a lot better than raising a stink yourself. When you do, you just sort of look like a jerk. Like James Blake in the Olympics. (Not to say that Fernando Gonzalez didn’t also come out of that one looking like a jerk.) In any event, the Brewers plan to take their grievance all the way to the MLB top brass. They have compiled a DVD of replays. You have to watch it while listening to Dan Hill’s “Sometimes When We Touch” if you really want to capture the mood. We continue down the slippery slope. Today, the replay is only used to dispute REALLY important calls, the instant replay specifically home runs. But I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again: Where do we draw the line?

To return to the original topic of this post, today is Labor Day. Not that kind of labor. It is rather a tribute to the labor movement. A tribute in which we gladly partake, despite the fact that most of us don’t know or care what it’s about. We know enough, which is that we get a three-day weekend out of it. However, the real purpose of this holiday is to celebrate the contribution that workers and the labor movement have made to our great nation. A nation in which ANYONE—a woman, a black man, even just a simple, down home, gun-slinging, oil-rigging, hockey mom—can rise to the top. It is to the labor movement that we owe the two-day weekend, the eight-hour workday, the fair wage. So, let us take a moment to contemplate the real reason we get to stay home from work today. And, in doing so, you need not feel sorry for the players on your favorite teams because they, unlike you, did not get the day off. Despite the fact that they are part of a union, they are not entitled the same privileges as the rest of us. You see, they, unlike you, are earning a really, really unfair wage. So, they are obligated to work today in order to even begin to earn it. The only reason I sort of wish that the Yankees had a day off was that, when they don’t play, they can’t ruin my day by losing.

Ocho En Serio?

2008-08-30T20:19:00.001-07:00

I am going to hit you with some basic math. You know, just to get everyone thinking on their toes. What is thirty multiplied by two plus twenty-five? En Espanol. If your total equals the attention-starved Bengal formerly known as Chad Johnson, you are correct. For those of you who got the answer wrong, let me break down the equation. You see, Cincinnati’s favorite media-whoring wide receiver has gone and changed his last name from Johnson to Ocho Cinco—legally. (Don’t worry, Chad. Your thank you note is on the way.)

Ocho Cinco, for those of you who don’t know, was Johnson’s nickname before it was a waste of Broward County’s time and resources. Unlike most nicknames, it was not one that was given Chad by friends and loved ones. Rather, he concocted it all on his own and tried to force it on the people around him. It is his number. Translated into Spanish. Real clever. He awarded himself the name a couple years back in honor of Spanish Heritage Month. Well, Chad, since you seem to care so much about, you know, Spanish stuff, I thought you would want to know that eighty-five in Spanish is actually ochenta y cinco. Not ocho cinco. Oh, well. It’s just, uh, your legal name.

Not surprisingly, the people around him were not receptive to the nickname. Like I said, nicknames only tend to stick when they are given to us by someone else. They are, in a sense, a gesture of familiarity and intimacy, whether flattering or not. There is Big Papi, who described the creation of his own nickname by saying, “They call me Big Papi. Because I call everyone Papi. And I’m big.” I love a guy who gets to the point. There’s Magic Johnson, who earned his nickname by wowing a sports writer on the basketball court at the young age of fifteen. There is Pudge and, as we have already established, no one chooses that on his own. Then, of course, we have the Chowda for whom this blog is named. It’s true; he made the idiotic mistake of carrying on his asinine and humiliating nickname into adulthood. Evidence of his desperate need to feel special and a part of something. (And, by the way, you suck Coco Crisp.) But, still, it was Great Grandma who actually first conceived of the embarrassing moniker. But to create your own nickname? I am going to go ahead and suggest that it is only something you do when you are really needy and desirous of attention.

If you think I merely speculate, let’s consider Chad Johnson—whose nickname I refuse to acknowledge because that’s what he wants us to do. Since we have known him, he went and got that ridiculous bleached blonde mowhawk, he raced against a thoroughbred, and he socked Cincy’s head coach Marvin Lewis one right in the eye. Sound like someone who needs attention to you?

Marvin Lewis is among those who most despise Chad’s nickname. Not totally surprising. If someone punched me in the eye, I would probably have a hard time objectively analyzing his nickname. And when analyzed objectively, this nickname isn’t really so awesome anyway. Marvin Lewis went and did something crafty, however, when he transformed Ocho Cinco into a title he felt better suited Johnson—Ocho Psycho. (You see, Chad, THAT is a nickname.) Given Lewis’s distaste for the name, you can imagine that he was none too pleased when Johnson, in a desperate effort to get people to acknowledge him and his nickname, went and velcroed it onto his uniform before a game against the Falcons in 2006. A stunt that earned him a $5,000 fine and the disdain of his teammates.

This planted a seed in Johnson’s mind. There had to be a way to get the NFL to authorize him to have that name on his back. Enter the legal system. Not like they have anything better to do. And, according to Johnson, neither does Johnson. One would think that this back breaking effort was the result of some sort of madness bordering on obsession. But when asked about his latest antics, he responded, “Have I ever had a reason for why I do what I do? I'm having fun.”

Well, I am disinclined to believe this answer. Why? Because I know what fun is. And dealing with the court system unnecessarily? Not fun. Ever pay a fine for a ticket, despite the fact that you vowed that you were going to go contest it in court? Sure, you did. And, why? Because court is not fun. Ever try to get out of jury duty? Obviously. Why? Not fun. Every time I have to do anything that is going to require even a little bit of red tape or bureaucracy, I try systematically to avoid it. Why? Because it’s not fun. Therefore, it stands to reason that a sane person would never contrive a reason to legally change his name simply because he was on a quest for fun. I am assuming most people are aware of the existence of bowling and karaoke. So, no, I simply don’t buy that Ochenta y Cinco was putting himself to all of this trouble for kicks.

This brings me back to my original point: Giving yourself a nickname is only something you do if you are really needy and desirous of attention. Not that it is a wonder that Johnson would be that way. Show me someone who needs too much attention, I’ll show you someone who didn’t get enough love in his childhood. Well, I guess Johnson got enough, arguably, but maybe just not from enough people. Certainly not from his father, who has never been a presence in Johnson’s life. His mother was also unable to show Chad much in the love department. Ill-equipped to raise a child, she shipped him off to live with his grandparents in the tough part of Miami. Car jackings and riots tough. So tough, in fact, that his grandfather was murdered when Chad was still a boy. He spent the rest of his youth with his grandmother, Bessie Flowers, to whom he attributes the fact that he ever made it anywhere in life. Even at a young age, Johnson was unruly, defying authority, acting out whenever he had the chance. Lucky for him, Grandma always found a way to rein him in just before he took that last step off the precipice.

Unfortunately, his prowess on the football field proved something of a disservice because it enabled him to slide his way through high school with pretty abysmal grades. His teachers may have thought they were doing him a favor, but really they were just creating an all but insurmountable obstacle when it came time for Chad to apply to college. Granny knew well enough that the only way to keep a boy like Chad out of real trouble was to make sure that he was in one of three places at all times—class, the football field, or bed. It took work, and three years of junior college in Santa Monica, but he eventually made it to Oregon State University. Clearly, however, all Bessie's efforts have not done much to temper Chad’s need to act out. To get us to notice him.

While I sympathize with Chad in the way that I do any of my bad boys, it doesn’t mean I think we should buy into his antics. Not to mention the fact that I find showboating a much more distasteful way to broadcast one’s issues—better to have a good old-fashioned violent outburst. As any parenting book will tell you, there are two kinds of attention we can give our children: negative attention and positive attention. (I am assuming—I have never actually read any parenting books.) When Chad goes and changes his name legally to Ocho Cinco? When he does an interpretive dance at the end zone every time he scores a touch down? When he pulls a Brett Fav-ruh—“I hate the Bengals.” “I want you to trade me.” “I won’t come to minicamp.” “Of course I’m coming to minicamp.” “My ankle hurts.”? All that is what the parenting books would call negative attention.

Based on what I know about parenting, which is nothing, I would guess that the parenting books would encourage us not to feed into this behavior by acknowledging it. If people don’t respond—if Lewis acts likes it’s nothing—then maybe Chad will start to think that he is wasting his energy trying to impress us. I mean, really. All the time he’s invested into getting us to call him Ocho Cinco, he could have solved the energy crisis by now. And if Chad does, in fact, direct his attention towards solving the energy crisis, the parenting books would encourage us to praise him for that. Because that is what you call positive attention. Though, anytime Johnson does anything to earn our praise, it is pretty hard to get a word in edgewise because Johnson usually has plenty to say about it. Still, I propose that this is the approach to take with a guy like this, who is clearly just desperate for our love. And if anyone at the Bengals is reading, it also might not be a bad idea to have Bessie Flowers as a fixture in the clubhouse—as a backup plan.

Seriously. Did I have to write this at ten am if I wanted to be able to say that the Yanks had posted consecutive wins? And with a four-run lead you blow today’s game? Now I’m just starting to think that no one cares but me. Maybe me and Carl Pavano. He pitched like an ace last night. Kind of. He won, anyway. Oh, right. But he also skipped the three previous seasons. So, scratch that; he doesn’t get any points for caring. At least there is good news coming out of one of the five boroughs. Well, not technically one of the five boroughs because it took place in Florida, but it happened to the Mets. In last night’s game against the Marlins, Carlos Beltran—Choke Master-General—hit a game winning salami in the ninth. Just as well it didn’t happen at Shea. That poor apple could not have handled the excitement. Though, I guess it probably would have recovered somewhere around the eighth inning of today's game.

A Man Of Many Mustaches

2008-08-29T13:25:00.000-07:00

On paper, Giambi is everything I cannot stand in a player. He is tacky and crude. He has that ridiculous mustache, which—let’s face it—only really worked for pitchers in the late 70’s. He speaks freely and publicly about the gold thong to which he attributes his ability to pull out of a slump. He gives people the bird on camera, which is admittedly hilarious, but not exactly in the spirit of Lou Gehrig. He is not in particularly good shape. And, of course, Giambi’s name is practically synonymous with the BALCO scandal. Basically, if you boil Giambi down to his essence, he is a sloppy, meathead, frat boy, undisciplined buffoon. By all rights, I really shouldn’t like him.

And for a long time, I didn’t. All of the characteristics that I felt separated him from the Torre boys—the Riveras, the Posadas, the Jeters—made me lament his addition to our team. The 'roids didn’t do much to help. Yet, somehow, over the years, something has changed. Maybe I’ve just gone soft, but when Giambi gives Kevin Millar the bird in the middle of play, I laugh. And when I read about some disgusting pair of underwear that Giambi has everyone passing around the locker room, I just roll my eyes and think, “The effort at creative thinking is there. If the guy were a little bit smarter, he could probably be doing something more amusing—like sitting in birthday cake.”

This change in attitude came upon me gradually. For a number of reasons. Funnily, the BALCO debacle was the catalyst. I have little patience for juicers because I believe that there are certain rules that exist for a reason. There is the one where drivers have to stop at red lights, the one where people who cook food at restaurants have to wash their hands, and the one where sawed-off shotguns are illegal. These are rules that exist to hold society together. I am sure we can all agree that these are good rules.

For an example that bears closer relation to the steroid rule, let’s discuss the rule where you are only allowed fifteen items or less in the express lane at the grocery store. A few weeks back, while I was in the checkout line at the market, I witnessed a girl as she blatantly spat in the face of this rule. You remember. She had four items—Splenda, heavy cream, ice, and chocolate syrup. I will not repeat for you what was wrong with the assortment of items on her grocery list. However, the main issue is that, while she had only four items, she had a great enough quantity of each of them to make her total number of items add up to thirty. Now, let’s say the express lane is the baseball book of records. And let’s say that the fewer items you have, the more ability you have. It is unfair for someone to waste my time by worming her way into the express lane by using a false measure to determine the number of items in her cart. So, it follows that it is also unfair for someone to get his name into the record books by using a false measure to determine his actual level ability.

To take this analogy a step further, what happens when people start fudging the express lane rule is that it inspires resentment in those who are still waiting in the other line. They, too, start to rationalize reasons for being in the express lane. This one only has sixteen items, this other one is in a major hurry. You get the point. Steroid use begets more steroid use. It makes the playing field uneven and creates the feeling that one has to cheat to compete. For these reasons, I am disinclined to sympathize with a juicer.

That said, Jason Giambi did something that surprised me. He took responsibility for his actions. He took responsibility, and then he apologized. Don’t get me wrong; I was not immediately won over. In fact, when shortly after his public mea culpa, he started striking out his way through the first half of the 2005 season, I was wholly unimpressed. But when Giambi kept his head down, and his mouth shut, and turned things around to become the AL Comeback Player of the Year that season with 32 dingers and 87 RBIs, he showed me something. And he did it despite the chorus of our boos that he heard along the way. As a follow-up, he gave us 37 home runs and 113 RBIs in 2006. All that took a little grit.

In 2007, Giambi gave us a more comprehensive apology for his steroid abuse. It was a supplement to his previous public statement, which some felt was too vague. “I was wrong for using that stuff," he said in an interview with USA Today. "What we should have done a long time ago was stand up—players, ownership, everybody—and said, 'We made a mistake.’” Can I get an “Amen?”

The Commissioner’s Office was less than thrilled with Giambi’s implication that anyone but the individual players involved were somehow to blame for the scandal, but let’s get real. I’m sure we all remember the famous scene from Casablanca when Captain Renault shuts down Rick’s operation, saying with some outrage, “I am shocked—shocked to find gambling going on in this establishment.” Right before he collects his winnings. It reminds me of the MLB front office response to steroids. You see, steroids really emerged as a major part of baseball right around the time that the baseball strike had cast a pall on the sport. Fans were bitter and disillusioned. Some even swore off forever. But then, you want to know what happened? Right around the time players starting using steroids, they also started hitting home runs. A whole heck of a lot of them. And that was fun. Watching Sammy Sosa and Mark McGwire battle it out for the new home run record in 1998? Fun. So fun that, hell, who wanted to hold a grudge over a silly little strike? For a new record of 70 dingers, who wasn’t willing to just let bygones be bygones? And all this worked out pretty well for the owners and the Commish. As Tim McCarver would put it: It is more profitable for the people at MLB if people are watching baseball than if they are not. So, are we really to believe that a steroid epidemic of such massive proportions could have broken out without any top brass in the sport being the wiser?

The people in all of this for whom I have the most respect are, of course, the players who never got involved. I am going to go out on a limb here with some educated guesses and say guys like Mike Mussina, Derek Jeter, Ken Griffey Jr., Mariano Rivera. Players who have proven that you can make it to the express lane without fudging the number of items in your cart.

Then, there are those who, once enmeshed, find a way to handle it with as little grace and integrity as is humanly possible. There is Jose Canseco, who has used his literary prowess and his propensity for squealing into an opportunity to make a buck. Here’s hoping he turns the series into a trilogy. In the meantime, buddy, I’d enroll yourself into the Penguin Books Witness Protection Program.

Then we have, of course, the man, the myth, the brain trust, Rafael Palmeiro. He persuaded us of his innocence in a hearing before the House of Representatives, saying, “Let me start by telling you this: I have never used steroids. Period. I don't know how to say it any more clearly than that. Never. The reference to me in Mr. Canseco's book is absolutely false. I am against the use of steroids. I don't think athletes should use steroids and I don't think our kids should use them.” Sounds pretty darn convincing to me. Unfortunately, Raffy, pee tests speak louder than words. And you failed yours only weeks after wowing us with this State of the Union address.

There are those who don’t deny receiving the injections—they just claim not to have known what was in them. Bonds thought his were flaxseed oil. Because who doesn’t prefer to inject his flaxseed oil? Clemens thought his injections contained lidocaine and Vitamin B12. And he has turned his attempt to prove this to us into nothing short of a circus with video taped rants, and interviews, and secretly recorded phone calls.

Finally, we have the players who fall into another, more sympathetic category. Guys like Pettitte and Giambi, who I do not necessarily commend for their behavior. True, juicing is cheating. And I hold cheating among the gravest of all possible offenses. But we are all fallible, after all. I admire their courage in admitting they were wrong.

This brings us back to Giambi, who has still not quite found a place in my heart. But he has, over the years, managed to crawl his way out of my bad graces and make me willing to even tolerate that mustache, that ridiculous thong talk. It certainly doesn’t hurt that while he may be a thong-wearing, mustachioed doofus, unlike some Yankees I know, Giambi CAN clutch this. Something he’s shown us time and time again. Most recently, he came into last night’s game in the 7^th as a pinch hitter and got us a much needed two-run dinger. He went ahead and capped it off in the 9^th with a walk-off single. This earned as a three-to-two win in what will all but certainly be our last Chowda Series ever in the House That Ruth Built. Even if we continue to tank, if the Yanks keep twisting the knife they have been inching into my heart all month, at least we will be able to say that this series was not a sweep. That the last game of this series was, in fact, a win. For that, we can thank the Giambino. And Moose, who despite a solid outing with two runs and five hits over seven innings, still got a no-decision. His third in four outings. Alas, he remains stuck at sixteen. Let’s hope that he isn’t simply fated to be the player about whom we always said, “Missed it by THAT much.”

With Moose stuck at sixteen and the Yanks stuck at six back, some say it’ll take nothing short of a miracle. But I don’t think it’s going to take a miracle. I just think it’s going to take a whole lot of late season wins—the Yankees specialty. And the will to give the Chowdas the metaphorical bird—to show Coco Crisp just how much he truly sucks. Who’s with me? I know Giambi is. That guy’s psyched to give anyone the bird.

I Just Want People To Know One Thing About Jose Guillen

2008-08-28T13:07:00.000-07:00

In the words of Jose Guillen, "I just want people to know one thing about Jose Guillen. All he wants is to play every day and win." In the words of Melanie Greenberg, “Don’t speak about yourself in the third person.” Unless maybe you’re Bo Jackson. Otherwise, it distracts us from the point you’re trying to make.

Jose Guillen did, indeed, have a point. It was that when he loses his cool, as he is known to do, it’s only because he’s passionate. Because he loves the game. Because he just can’t contain his competitive edge. Because he can’t understand anyone else who feels differently. Except for Tuesday night. That night he just got peeved because a fan called him a bad name and insulted his family. But, usually, it’s the other stuff.

Tuesday’s outburst was not the first of Jose’s public displays of what he would probably call team spirit. There was the time, in 2004, when Guillen was playing for the Angels and Mike Scioscia pulled him from a game for a pinch runner. This so angered Jose that he threw both his helmet and his glove inside the dugout. The team responded by suspending Guillen for the remainder of the season, including the postseason, which did not make Jose particularly happy. He let them know. Not surprisingly, the Angels traded Guillen that November. When Scioscia tried to bury the hatchet with Guillen, he responded by calling Scioscia a “piece of garbage.” Yeah, it’s true; trying to bury the hatchet is pretty trashy.

In 2005, when Jose was with the Nationals, he was plunked by Pedro Martinez. Guillen made a big spectacle of berating his own pitcher, Esteban Loaiza, for his failure to retaliate. Deja vu all over again. The exact same thing had happened the previous year with the Angels. Jose was also known to publicly criticize players for the Nationals for not playing through their injuries. True, he didn’t use any names. But it's not like anyone was unaware of who was injured on the Nationals. So, it would sort of be like if I said, “I find it really frustrating when overpaid players on the Yankees who have frosted tips ground into double plays in late season games.”

Fast forward to his time with the Royals. Since joining the team, he has cursed out his teammates and referred to them as a bunch of "babies," cursed out his fan base, saying he could care less what they think of him, and had to be physically restrained from going at it with pitching coach Bob McLure. I assume cursing was involved in that incident as well. And probably no middle finger for comic relief. Then there was Tuesday night, when Guillen was, again, physically restrained in order to prevent him from attacking a fan who was heckling him.

Guillen claims that his outbursts can all be chalked up to an insatiable desire for victory. That so great is his need to win that he becomes frustrated when he sees other people who are not giving it their all. The problem is that sometimes Guillen’s actions are inconsistent with his supposed competitive edge. For example, if Guillen was so in love with winning, wouldn’t he be disciplined enough to have laid off the Fribbles and not shown up to Spring Training, by his own estimate, twenty to thirty pounds overweight? There is nothing wrong with having a little extra junk in your trunk if you are not getting paid $12 million dollars a year to be a professional athlete. But, seriously. Come on. Jose Guillen literally has nothing to do all winter besides drink protein shakes and do pilates. So, if Jose Guillen is going to be the guy who yells at all the other guys for not trying hard enough, not being invested enough, shouldn’t he also be the guy who shows up to Spring Training in peak physical condition?

Then of, course, there is the fact that Guillen famously fails to run out his ground balls. This makes me suspicious of his allegedly competitive nature. Wouldn’t someone with his theoretical yen to win always be running out every ground ball no matter what?

Jose Guillen will be the first to tell you that Jose Guillen is a gamer. Jose Guillen plays through injuries and, consequently, cannot understand the guys who don’t. Jose Guillen claims that it is evidence that they simply are not invested enough. But I would make another argument. You see, Jose Guillen hasn’t had such a great season, which is why fans keep saying things that make him respond so, uh, passionately. And the reason that keeps cropping up for Jose Guillen’s not-so-hot performance is—surprise, surprise—an injury. I wonder if Jose Guillen ever considered the possibility that it actually wasn’t best for his team for him to have suffered through a leg injury for months rather than take the necessary time on the DL to address it. Jeter showed us just earlier this year that sometimes the best thing you can do for an injury is rest it. He showed us right around the same time that A-Rod showed us that sometimes the worst thing you can do it play through it. Don’t get me wrong. It’s not that there are some guys—guys who fake injuries for seasons and seasons whose names I won’t mention—who don’t need to start playing through the “pain” a little. But Jose falls into another category.

I do not believe his desire to play through his pain is evidence of his need to serve his team. What I do think is that if his team is going to win, he wants his fair share of the credit. That is the reason he got so angry about Scioscia pulling him for a pinch runner. But a manager does not make decisions in order to soothe the overly fragile ego of a temperamental player. A manager makes decisions based on what is best for the team. A player who truly has his team's welfare at heart will respect those decisions.

Finally, it cannot go unsaid that Jose Guillen is reported to have purchased a large supply of performance enhancing drugs last year when he was playing for Oakland. To be shipped directly to the Coliseum. (Good thinking, Jose Guillen.) This shows me that Jose Guillen is not truly a competitor. Real competitors don't cheat. In my humble opinion. Moreover, it shows me that he does not actually respect the sport about which he claims to care so passionately. It makes it hard to take him seriously when he tell us that the root of his problem is that he cares too much.

It seems to me that Jose Guillen only cares about one thing: Jose Guillen. He cares when Jose Guillen gets hit by a pitch. He cares when Jose Guillen gets pulled from games. He cares when Jose Guillen gets insulted by fans. All of this stuff about Jose Guillen being invested in the team, in winning? Honestly? I think Jose Guillen is just a hothead who is looking for a reason to yell.

On another note, I would like to take a moment to acknowledge my hamster Sadie, who passed away yesterday. Sadie was born on July 28, 2006 to Tomi and Wolfgang. She is survived by sister Jolene, brothers Fitzwilliam and Felix, nieces and nephews Cyrus, Augustin, Mackenzie, and Rose of Sharon, and great nieces and nephews Cristóbal, Alonzo, Su Lin and Max. (Do not be alarmed. Not all of these hamster live with me.) Sadie will be remembered for her curiosity, her exceptional interest in people, and her ability to fit a really large number of seeds into her mouth. She was truly an extraordinary hamster. Rest in peace, Sadie.

A-Rod: Can't Clutch This

2008-08-27T15:40:00.000-07:00

A-Rod. Allegedly the greatest player in baseball. Twelve-time All-Star and three-time winner of the AL MVP. Youngest player to ever join the 500 home run club. Number fourteen on the active career hits list. And, yet, despite all this, when he’s the guy to come up to bat in the seventh inning of a critical game against the Chowdas when we’re down by three and the bases are loaded with one out, I’m not even considering the possibility of a grand slam. Nothing against A-Rod, but in that situation, you’re hoping for a walk, hit by pitch, base hit, bunt single, strike out, fielder’s choice, pop fly, pinch hitter, whatever—you’re just praying he doesn’t ground into a double play. You’ve heard me sing that song before. However, one can’t help but wonder why it is we feel this way if A-Rod is, in fact, the greatest player in baseball.

The short answer to that question is that A-Rod doesn’t perform well in the clutch. You’ve also heard that song before. It’s the reason so many people, present company included, give him such a hard time. But A-Rod has a different take, speculating that the real explanation for people’s criticism is jealousy—the other green monster—with maybe just a hint of racism. In an interview with Sports Illustrated, he commented, "When people write [bad things] about me, I don't know if it's [because] I'm good-looking, I'm biracial, I make the most money, I play on the most popular team."

Well, A-Rod, it’s true; those frosted tips and eerily glossy cat eyes may be somebody’s defintion of good-looking, but David Wright is also someone’s definition of good-looking. No one seems particularly eager to find fault with him. And, true, you’re biracial, but so is Derek Jeter. And, uh, ever heard of a little someone named Tiger Woods? Talk about a cornucopia of multiracial fun. People are just gaga over him. So, I’m just going to go ahead and eliminate that possibility on the grounds that it’s preposterous. As you mentioned, you do get paid more than anyone in baseball, and I’ll give you that as one possible reason why people find you so despicable. But I will also assert that that is less about being the highest paid player in baseball than it is about being the most overpaid player in baseball. Big difference. Finally, the fact that you play on the most popular team? Please. Sure, there are those who resent the Bombers. But I don’t hear them running around town slinging insults at Mariano Rivera or Hideki Matsui. And you said it yourself—the Yankees are POPULAR. That means, by definition, that people like them. That lots of people like them. Those of us who do are prepared to rally behind their players. Apparently, all of them but you.

So, A-Rod, now that I’ve successfully poked a hole through your theory about why people love to razz you, I’m going to go back to mine, which is that you stink in the clutch. This year, you’re batting a measly .246 with runners in scoring position. You’re 1-for-10 with bases loaded. Not to mention the fact that you’ve grounded into nine double plays this month alone. Sure, you helped us get to the postseason last year, but look what you did when we finally got there? And dare I even mention the horrifying displays of stinkiness that occurred in the postseasons of 2005 and 2006? You’ve shown us time, and time, and time again that, when it really matters, we can’t count on you to perform. Last night was proof perfect. It was, as I think we all know, all but a must-win game for the Yanks, and what did you do? You went 0-for-5—grounding into two double plays—and gave us a throwing error.

And, yet, there are other numbers to consider—numbers that confuse the issue. A-Rod is batting .308 this season with twenty-eight long balls and seventy-eight RBIs. It’s sometimes hard to understand what appears to be an inexplicable inconsistency between those numbers and what I’m seeing when I watch him take the plate. When I look at his career stats, his season stats, it is impossible not to acknowledge just how good he is. But, as I already said, when we need the hit at the critical juncture in the critical game, he’s not the guy I believe will be able to get it for us. Again I ask: Why is that? Is it truly possible that a player with his numbers really never comes through when we need him? Or do I choose to focus on his failures rather than his successes because it suits my needs?

Not surprisingly, A-Rod has strong feelings on the subject. In another moving attempt to earn our respect and vindicate himself in the eyes of the baseball-viewing public, he commented, “I could care less.” Sorry. That’s not the part that relates to what I’m saying. That’s just the part where he’s pulling on my heart strings. He went onto say, “I've done a lot of special things in this game, and for none of that to be considered clutch, it's an injustice. I don't take anything personally; I enjoy it, it motivates me and I think it's comical. I think [for] anyone that drives in over 130 runs numerous times in his career, it's impossible not to be clutch.” Unlike the other thing he said, it almost sounds like it makes sense, so do we have to accept it as the truth?

I’m afraid I’m going to have to say no. And I’ll tell you why. Remember all that stuff I said before about him batting. 246 with runners in scoring position? Remember his nine GIDPs in a month? Remember the sub-.200 postseasons? That’s why.

A-Rod is truly an anomaly. He is not a case of a player who has talent but fails to recognize his potential. A-Rod gets results. He has the numbers to prove his worth. What he does that’s extraordinary is somehow manage to maximize his own potential without ever maximizing his team’s. And it is a feat that I find impossible to explain. I don’t even know if A-Rod himself could explain it. But who knows? Maybe Kabbalah will reveal to him how he is able to perform so well while every team he touches turns to Crapelbon. Or, maybe, it’s like he says. He could care less.

While we’re on the subject of last night’s game, Mike Bauman of mlb.com had this to say about our friend Covelli’s performance: “The Red Sox were also opportunistic. A high point in this area occurred in a three-run fifth inning, when center fielder Coco Crisp scored from second on a mere infield hit. Crisp alertly kept coming as Jeff Bailey beat out a grounder to third, while Yankees first baseman Jason Giambi held the ball. It was a display of alertness on Crisp's part, and a show of bewilderment on the part of Giambi.” Anyone else get the sense that Coco did a good job being alert? Is it just me, or is that like the saddest baseball compliment you could ever get? It sounds sort of like the kind of compliment you give to someone who sucks, right? Well, Coco Crisp, on behalf of all (one) of us at “You Suck Coco Crisp,” way to be alert. However, and I’m sure you won’t be surprised to hear this, but notwithstanding your level of alertness, You Suck Coco Crisp.