Recently in Baseball Category

I have not written much about the Mets/Bernie Madoff cluster-hump on this site, or elsewhere, for a number of reasons. The biggest one is, I don't know what to think about the whole mess. My feelings veer between terror and boredom, like it's a movie about Zombie Accountants.

Also, I like to think I know a lot of stuff on a wide variety of subjects, but when it comes to finance, I'm lost without a map. (First clue of this fact: That I write way too much for for a site that actually costs me money to run.) I'm sure this affair will drag on for years, with many more revelations and finger pointing and lawsuits to come, so there will be no shortage of opportunities to pen something on the subject.

Plus, I am so sick of sordid items coming out about this team. If it's not Ponzi schemes, it's shirt-ripping front office guys or grampa-punching closers. When it comes to my favorite baseball team, it'd be nice to write about, you know, baseball.

But, if you are inclined to look at the lighter side of the biggest investment fraud in American history, and are also a Mets fan, you might want to consider purchasing one of the shirts pictured here. They can be found over at metsmadoff.blogspot.com, and are the perfect way to display both your support of and disgust with the team from Flushing.

I enjoy the shirts' semi-distressed look, which in the makers' words are supposed to evoke "that old Mets shirt you've had since the 80s and have washed several hundred times." I also like the particular blue they've chosen, which reminds me of the kind used in the late 1990s unis. (Watch the first Subway Series game from 1997 on Mets Classics to get an idea of what I mean.)

I've been told the demand has been overwhelming for these shirts thus far, and that the creators already had to order a new batch. So get yours while you still can, or before some litigious team official takes notice. Sleeve tats optional.

Am I interested in buying the Mets? A good businessman never shows all his cards. So I'm going to say yes, I am definitely interested.

The Mets need a proven winner like me to take them to the next level. I know what it takes to build from the ground up, because I have built an empire renowned and respected the world over, and all I started with was an insane amount of inherited wealth. My face alone guarantees tens of millions in additional revenue from people who are dumb enough to buy anything with the word TRUMP on it.

Can I revive the Mets? Look what I did for Atlantic City. I turned that dump into a dump where you can lose your money! Better yet, look what I did for the USFL. Enough said.

First thing's first: the Wilpons gotta go. They've proven they can't run a business. Do you know they haven't gone bankrupt even once? I've done it three times already! To me, that shows lack of initiative.

Next, we sign a big time free agent to get some fannies back in the seats. Who's the most recognizable athlete in the world? That's right, Tiger Woods. I am prepared to offer him a $500 million/year contract. I know he doesn't play baseball, but people will show up to see if he can, or at least to shout really horrible things at him.

If The Apprentice has proven anything, it's that people love to watch celebrities fight while trying to run fake businesses. So I'd kick Sandy Alderson and The Nerd Herd to the curb, and bring in my own front office: Star Jones, Danny Bonaduce, Janice Dickinson, Spencer Pratt, and one of the kids from Glee or something. We'd film them screaming at each other about trades or making pizzas or whatever, sell the footage to NBC, and make a series about it. And possibly a line of towels, too. We're still working it out.

The team gets revenue and publicity, the people get something entertaining to watch. It's a no-lose situation. At the box office, anyway. The team itself would probably lose a lot on the field, but that's the price of fame, folks.

Then, I get Bloomberg to build us a brand new stadium on top of one of my luxurious condos on the West Side. CitiField is ancient history--its practically three years old! My proposed Trump Grounds at Trump Stadium will be the world's first sports arena situated 750 feet above the ground. I'm told heavy winds might be a factor and the players will probably have to wear oxygen masks. But do you want comfortable playing conditions or glitz and glamor? Can't have both, people.

And in any case, we'll make up for the lack of breathable air with some Trump Ultra-Luxury Boxes. You can't even walk past them for less than 50 grand. They'll have all the features of my iconic Trump buildings, with gold lined everything, and one of those fountains with a naked chick in it, cuz that's classy. This aesthetic will appeal to Russian oil billionaires and hip-hop artists living off of hit singles from 1997.

After that? I dunno, I'll probably get bored, sell the team off for scrap, and buy a new helicopter or something.

As a kid, I didn't go to too many baseball games. My family lived a little too far away from the city and had just enough money to not starve, so games involved too large an investment of time and capital. We'd make it out to Shea maybe once a year, inevitably sitting in some of the stadium's worst seats, way up at the highest reaches of the upper deck. The players looked like pinstriped ants, but I didn't care. The experience was still special and amazing. I didn't dream of going any more often, because that seemed so impossible to me

Whenever we went, I'd somehow scrape together enough cash to buy a program and score the game. No one taught me how to do it. I'd learned from Red Foley's Best Baseball Book Ever, which my grampa gave me one birthday. Once upon a time, Red was the official scorer for the Mets and Yankees. I found the book really interesting, even if Red was unable to get MLB licensing, and all the stickers had bootleg team "logos".

The last game I went to for a very long time came the day after opening day, 1993. My mom, two brothers, and grampa snuck in chicken cutlet sandwiches and sodas to avoid crushing concession prices. It would be a horrible year for the Mets--The Worst Team Money Could Buy--but we didn't know that yet. It was also the second game ever played by the Colorado Rockies. They were shut out the day before, so I got to see the first ever Rockie run, home run, and RBI when Dante Bichette went deep against Bret Saberhagen in the seventh. I still was young and dumb enough to consider this Witnessing History. The Mets won anyway, 6-1.

Shea gave away Opening Day Weekend pins with little Mets and Rockies hats on them. I considered it a precious thing and put it with all my other precious things, in the top drawer of my dresser. It stayed there, untouched, forever. Years later, when my grandparents were both gone and I was cleaning out grampa's dresser, I found the same pin, nestled against watches and retirement gifts.

By this point, nearly every artifact from the 1980s has had its bones picked completely clean by ironic vultures. Bill Simmons single-handedly ruined The Karate Kid for everyone by referencing it constantly. All conceivable angles of Back to the Future have been examined under a cultural electron microscope. The rehashings of G.I. Joe and Transformers speak for themselves, loudly and poorly. (Not that the originals were high art.)

Maybe I'm nuts (a distinct possibility), but I feel like Ferris Bueller's Day Off has largely escaped this treatment. Of course, it remains a beloved film (and righfully so), often quoted and referenced. But comparatively speaking, it did not reach nauseating levels of ubiquity and reference-itude. It even survived a weird televisual adaptation produced four years too late.

That is why I was delighted to see someone tackle a Ferris angle I had never seen addressed before: Exactly what game did Mr. Bueller and his buddies attend at Wrigley Field? Larry Granillo of Wezen-Ball (previously best known for his sabermetric study of Charlie Brown's baseball career) did some serious detective work over the weekend at Baseball Prospectus to answer this very question.

Granillo carefully studied the video evidence--both the live footage seen in the film and the game as broadcast on TV as Mr. Rooney is in the pizza joint. Considering this, he surmised that it occurred on June 5, 1985 as the Cubs played the Braves.

As the post caught proverbial wildfire across the interwebs, there was some speculation that the date Granillo couldn't have happened, since principal shooting for Ferris didn't begin until September 1985. Granillo disagreed, saying that the footage shown on TV in the film was clearly from a midsummer game against the Braves. He further determined that the scenes actually featuring Ferris in the stands could have taken place late in the season when the Cubs played either the Braves or another team with similar powder blue away uniforms.

It turns out he was right, as confirmed by an assistant director who worked on the film, who said he was "pretty sure" the game in question happened on September 24, against the Expos (who had powder blue unis at the time). Mystery solved!

Perhaps it's because I have my own dumb obsessions, or because something resembling baseball is a mere eight days away, but I found this Ferris endeavor completely charming. Of course it represents the dedication of considerable brainpower and deductive powers toward something that means absolutely nothing. But then again, once you invest that much perspiration in the effort, it means everything.

Such an effort speaks to my soul. I can not tell you how many times I've poured hours upon hours of mental gymnastics into completely futile gestures, just to prove I could solve them. Running this site alone, I've thrown away weeks trying to solve the most trivial technical minutiae, just so I could say "Yeah, I did it!" to nobody but myself.

In conclusion, I'm saluting Mr. Granillo's effort because of my own deep personal failings.

Derek Jeter is a free agent the way your car is in Delaware while driving down I-95. It is a necessary but temporary state of affairs and will not last long. No sane person thinks Jeter will be anything but a Yankee when all is said and done. Everyone accepts that the Yankees will overpay to keep in the Bronx, and I have no problem with that. Hell, it ain't my money. Give him a billion dollars a year for all I care.

However, the technical possibility that Jeter could play for another team, like any mention of Jeter period, is enough to set off sports scribes, like a gritty whistle only they can hear. Just witness the harrumphing when some folks dared suggest his Gold Glove award might not be justifiable. Professional moron Craig Carton got his panties in a knot and protested angrily that Jeter had made only 6 errors in 2010, blissfully unaware of just how useless the error stat is to assess a player's fielding ability.

Most of the ink spilled has been along the lines of what Peter Gammons tweeted last week: "The Yankees need Jeter's brand. Jeter needs the Yankee brand". He repeated this nearly verbatim when appearing on Mike Francesa's show last week. I heard Jared Max, the sports update guy on WCBS News Radio (the Yankees' flagship station), talk about how the Yankees would benefit from, among other things, having Jeter get his 3000th hit in pinstripes.

Would they? Is this really a partnership of equals? I would say not, and I think the early returns would indicate this as well.

Jeter definitely needs the Yankees, but the Yankees do not need him--and this has nothing to do with his worth as a player. It has to do with legacy. Jeter has one to protect, and the Yankees don't. Or rather, their legacy can not be dented by anything Jeter related. Sign him for a 100 years or trade him to the Yakult Swallows--either way, the Yankees will remain the Yankees.

When I hear people insist otherwise--that the Yankees need Jeter as much as he needs them--it reminds me of a line from The Simpsons, when Krusty tried to pawn off his long-lost daughter's violin: "It isn't worth much money, but the sentimental value is through the roof!"

I have done a complete 180 on my feelings about the Mets since the end of the season. 2010 couldn't have gone worse, but even more frustrating was the fact that it seemed like there was no hope in sight. As necessary as the departures of Omar Minaya and Jerry Manuel became, those moves in and of themselves did not inspire me with confidence, because it seemed the real issue with the team was its tone-deaf, thoroughly unprogressive ownership.

Then they hired Sandy Alderson as their general manager, and my outlook changed from that second onward.

* Apologies to whoever crafted my favorite Photoshopping of the 2008 presidential campaign.

Sandy Alderson is the architect of how modern front offices operate. There are very few teams whose operations are not influenced in some way by what he did with Oakland in the 1980s. Would Bill James-ian thought and top-down management made its way into the game anyway? Perhaps, but Alderson did it first, and it was unbelievably revolutionary when he did it. To me, him running the Mets is like getting Frank Lloyd Wright to design my house, or Steve Albini to produce my album. (Full disclosure: I have neither a house nor an album.)

My biggest beef with the Mets in recent years has been how out of touch they were with the way competitive teams are constructed in the 21st century. I was frustrated by their complete rejection of anything remotely sabermetric. I was baffled by their seeming inability to attract top baseball minds to the richest media market in the country. While the Boston Red Sox--a team with comparable financial resources--assembled a juggernaut front office full of some of the best talent evaluators and number crunchers in the game, the Mets had their VP of player personnel challenging minor leaguers to shirtless brawls.

Overnight, all of these gripes were addressed, and then some. The fact that Alderson's first hires were J.P. Ricciardi and Paul DePodesta, two Billy Beane acolytes prominently featured in Moneyball, is astounding. This not only creates a surplus of brain power in their organization, but also makes the Mets an attractive destination for an up-and-coming executive or talent evaluator, which they definitely were not this time last year. The Mets have already taken a quantum evolutionary leap. One second they were making crude stone tools, the next they were mapping the human genome.

Does the addition of Sandy Alderson mean the Mets will compete in 2011? I haven't the slightest idea. The answer to that question depends in large part on Johan Santana, whose recovery from shoulder surgery remains a huge question mark. If he misses significant time, or is a shell of his former self, it's going to be very hard for the Mets to win. I do think Alderson has the ability to improve this team right now. Whether they'll improve enough to be a playoff team next season remains to be seen.

But even before he's made a single personnel move (aside from picking up Jose Reyes' option), I can say I feel more optimistic about this team than I have in a very, very long time. Because in the grand scheme of things, how the Mets do next year is not as important as how they set themselves up for the future, and they've already put themselves on the right track to do this.

The selection of Alderson as GM means the team will have a coherent philosophy and direction for the first time in a very long time, perhaps since the days of Frank Cashen. In both Oakland and San Diego, Alderson implemented organization-wide standards and goals, and there's no reason to think he won't do the same in New York. This is not as ground-breaking an idea as it once was, but the Mets have not attempted it in a long time, if ever.  After years of being lost on the backroads of baseball, Alderson's hiring shows the Mets have finally decided to pull over and ask for directions.

The Mets couldn't have indicated more clearly that they've made a break from The Old Way of doing things. Omar Minaya's approach to building a team was a lot like Ed Wood (as played by Johnny Depp)'s approach to filmmaking: "It's not about the little details, it's about the big picture!"

Acquiring big time free agents like Pedro Martinez and Carlos Beltran? No problem. Surrounding those big time free agents with a supporting cast? Not so much. Even his backup/bench signings were "name" guys like Alex Cora and Jeff Francoeur, and he overpaid by several factors for the privilege, getting replacement level (or worse) production for sums that could have brought in several better players.

His administration would not--or could not--multitask. One problem area would be identified and targeted for each offseason, at the expense of everything else. Like 2009, when the Mets reacted to the bullpen woes of the previous year by signing Frankie Rodriguez and trading for J.J. Putz--and doing virtually nothing else, resulting in another lost season (though an injury epidemic of biblical proportions helped).

I have no such fears with Alderson. I have such faith in his abilities, in fact, that I'm totally indifferent to the managerial search. Before he was hired, I worried the Mets would take somebody for ticket-selling purpose, like Wally Backman. Now I feel that if Backman does wind up with the job, it's because he was deemed the best man for the job.

My biggest concerns with Alderson are external: How will his regime be treated by the headline-hungry, chaos-loving sports press and an impatient fanbase that doesn't necessarily know (or care) about his résumé? If the Mets are mediocre in 2011 (a distinct possibility), will fans and scribes alike scream MONEYBALL DOESN'T WORK! And will the Wilpons, who seem at times overly sensitive to criticism, get antsy if such an outcry occurs?

We'll burn that bridge when we come to it. I have no expectations the Mets will sign a big-time free agent this winter, and yet I am filled with hope for their future. Weird, huh?

Hey, Derek! It's-a me, Mario! Whassamatta for you with these-a comments in-a the newspaper? People say these-a advanced metrics show you can't play-a the shortstop no more, and whatta you say? "I don't know. I don't play video games."

This makes-a the Mario very sad. Why you gotta tell-a the lies? Mario remembers you used to come home from-a school everyday and play with him. You used to blow in Mario's cartridge when-a he wasn't working right. You even did-a that thing with the Q-tip and the alcohol, even though you knew it didn't-a work.

And you used to play with all of Mario's friends, too. Samus, Kid Icarus, Simon Belmont, those two meatheads from-a the Bad Dudes. We all had such a great time together! Why you turn-a your back on us? You think playing the video games makes you a nerd? You think it's-a something you outgrew now that you're such a big shot, playing the baseball with-a your fancy buddies?

Maybe you so-a defensive because you really are a nerd! Mario remembers you getting a subscription to-a Nintendo Power every year for-a your birthday. You filled in all-a the blank squares on your Legend of Zelda map! You memorized all-a the fatalities in Mortal Kombat! You used to have-a the poster for Maniac Mansion taped to-a your wall! You beat Final Fantasy III in 10 days and bragged to your friends at school about it!

You had-a the TurboGrafx 16. Nobody had-a the TurboGrafx 16!

Mario even has a picture of you playing the video games with-a your good friend Tiger Woods. Take a good look, Derek. Try and deny me again after you see-a this!

Sure looked like you played video games back-a then, Derek!

I am so angry at-a you right now! I feel just as-a small as I hit by a hammer thrown by a jumping turtle! Your betrayal, she hits me in my soul, burning me up like a flaming barrel!

Alla you old friends is-a mad at you too, like-a the Donkey Kong. I remember you used play-a the Donkey Kong Country all day long, and now you stab-a that poor monkey in the back. Go ahead, Donkey Kong, tell-a him how you feel.
[Donkey Kong and all permutations of the phrase Donkey Kong, images of the character Donkey Kong, and any other likeness in a medium now existing or yet to be developed are the exclusive property of Nintendo of America, and any unauthorized use of Donkey Kong in any form even in the form of a dumb catch phrase, will be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law]

Mr. Keurajian--

Thank you for your thoughtful letter. As commissioner of Major League Baseball, I take its subject quite seriously. Regarding the identity of the "father" of baseball, Ronald, your little friends are wrong. They have affected by the skepticism of a skeptical age. There is an Abner Doubleday.

How dreary would the world be if there were no Abner Doublday! You'd have to ascribe baseball's existence to the slow evolution from earlier games that originated in Europe. And while that explanation might be more "plausible" and "probable", who wants to do all the research to prove it?

There would be no childlike faith, no poetry, no romance, no belief in the crackpot theories of early-20th century xenophobic racists determined to prove baseball was a purely American game! No belief in the inherent superiority of human failings over technology that could easily fix such errors! No blaming of the players' union for everything bad in the sport!

Not believe in Abner Doubleday! You might as well not believe that George Washington cut down a cherry tree! Which technically, he did not, but since I was told so when I was a small child, I really don't appreciate being instructed otherwise by a bunch of eggheads.

Just because we have never seen Abner Doubleday, or any evidence he had anything to do with baseball, does not mean he does not exist. The most real things in the world are those that no one can see. Like a purple zebra. Just try to not think of a purple zebra now. You can't. I've proven my point.

You could tear apart the baby's rattle and see what makes the noise inside, but there is a veil covering the unseen world which not the strongest man, nor even the united strength of all the strongest men that have ever lived, could tear apart. Also, why would you tear apart a baby's rattle? That's messed up.

No Abner Doubleday! Thank God he lives, and lives forever in the hearts of everyone too lazy to think about accepted myths too much. A thousand years from now, nay, ten times ten thousand years, he will continue to make glad the heart of dumbasses.

So now da Mets have officially made Sandy Alderson deir new general manager. I've been saying dis is gonna happen for months now. I've been sayin dis was gonna happen before dey even hired Omah Minaya. Dat's how good my sawces are, okay?

I know some a you Mets fans are a little nervous, thinkin this is just ownaship sellin you a bill a goods again. Luckily, I'm here to sniff out the truth. I'm probably the biggest crusader for transparency and honesty since Edward R. Murrow. And I barely know who dat is!

So joinin me on the phone right now is da new GM of the New York Mets, Sandy Alderson. Sandy, you're on New Yawk's numbah one.

Number one what?
Take your pick. I got three numbah ones, Sandy. Maybe da Wilpons didn't tell you dat yet, but that's one a da first things you gotta learn in dis town.
Thank you for teaching me.

In honor of the San Francisco Giants earning a trip to the World Series, here's a pic of an item I spotted at the WFMU Record Fair last weekend:


It's a limted edition 78 of Russ Hodge's famous call of Bobby Thompson's "Shot Heard Around the World", which propelled the then-New York Giants to a World Series appearance, and also capped a monumental, nigh-Mets-ian collapse by the Brooklyn Dodgers.

The record was a special gift for members of the Chesterfield 3-in-1 Club. Google held few answers about the nature of this club; I assume it was some sort of loyalty/points-type offer (like Camel Cash decades later). I do know that Chesterfield had an enormous ad at the Giants' home stadium, the Polo Grounds, on the face of the entrances to the clubhouses (which was curiously located in the stadium's cavernous centerfield). Chesterfield also sponsored their radio broadcasts. Notice that the announcer is referred to as "Chesterfield's Russ Hodges," with no mention of the Giants next to his name whatsoever. Also notice he has a Chesterfield firmly clamped in his left hand.

Just six short years after Thompson went deep, the Giants packed up and moved to the left coast, which still seems completely insane to me. People remain angry about the Dodgers moving away and taking their insigina, uniforms, and history with them, but the Giants had an even longer (and more successful) legacy, and yet when they left Harlem, they completely vanished from New York's baseball consciousness.

None of this will prevent me from rooting for them in the upcoming World Series. What might do so is a disturbing number of Met killers on their roster, like Cody Ross and Pat Burrell. And while I appreciate Brian Wilson's work against the Phillies, his laughably fake black beard is the worst facial hair in the playoffs since Scott Spiezio's red chin-snatch. Not to mention that the Giants are Chris "Mad Dog" Russo's favorite team, and the thought of him being happy sickens me.

The Rangers seem a slightly more likable team on the surface. It would be great if Vlad Guerrero--a player whose insane dominance has already been forgotten--could get a World Series ring. Then again, I consider myself an NL guy, and the Rangers have another Met killer on their bench (albeit one who barely plays, Jorge Cantu). And if Jeff Francoeur smiled his way to a championship, the New York sportswriters corps might spontaneously orgasm with glee.

Truth be told, more than anything else, I'm rooting for a long, enjoyable, well-played series, which we have not had (arguably) since 2002. And I am grateful that this year, I don't have to choose between the evil of two lessers.

Is it time for me to start feeling sorry for Yankee fans?

Once the Yankees fell behind in the ALCS 3-1, I began to savor the impending feast of schadenfreude. As you probably know, I've been chronicling the Mets' 2000 season over at Amazin' Avenue, and right now I'm up to the World Series. After describing the Roger Clemens-Mike Piazza bat incident in game two, let's just say I wasn't feeling too gracious toward the team in The Bronx. (When you're writing angry tweets about 10-year-old Filip Bondy Bleacher Creature columns, it's time to reevaluate your emotional priorities.)

However, the Rangers' victory left me feeling a bit hollow. Even Alex Rodriguez striking out looking to clinch it was not as sweet as I thought it would be. Rooting against someone and seeing them fail might be cathartic, but it's nowhere near as satisfying as rooting for a team and watching them win. The Yankees losing doesn't make this year's Mets suck any less.

At the end of the day, I felt bad for Yankee fans--not because their team lost, really, but because they're not allowed to feel good about this season. Because if the Mets got as far as the Yankees did and were simply beaten by a better team, I'd shrug my shoulders and say, "Oh well, wait 'til next year!" Yankees fans do not have that option.

The standard line for the Yankees, throughout the Steinbrenner family's ownership, has been this: Anything less than a championship is a failure. That attitude is repeated, unblinkingly, by the New York sports media. It's supposed to be a tribute to their Commitment to Excellence, but in reality, it's a sign of near insanity.

No team can win the World Series every year. Promoting such a belief among your fan base is irresponsible. You can derive joy from a season in which your team falls short of the ultimate goal. Making the playoffs is an enormous accomplishment, and what transpires in October is often a total crapshoot. Recognizing this is not a sign of weakness--it's a sign of being tethered to reality.

There's plenty of reasons why Yankee fans should have enjoyed this season immensely. Their team was fresh off a World Series championship. They battled the Rays for the division, which made for an unexpectedly lively playoff race. And to make things even sweeter for them, the Red Sox were ravaged by injuries and basically out of the hunt by August (though they did some damage late in the season).

The Yankees didn't make too many mistakes, if any, in the postseason. They breezed past Minnesota effortlessly, then ran into a Texas team that was too good. You can quibble with some of Joe Girardi's decisions, particularly regarding his bullpen, but if you look at what the two teams did statistically, it becomes clear that the Yankees were outplayed in every conceivable way.

And of course, it's not like this is the end of the road. If the Yankees made no changes between now and next spring, they'd still be a prohibitive favorite to make the playoffs again. And that's before the inevitable big ticket free agent acquisition like Cliff Lee or Carl Crawford.

I'm sure most Yankees fans, if given a choice, would like to think of their season, and how it ended, in these terms. But they can't. They're not allowed to, thanks to the rhetoric the team has repeated robotically for the last 15 years: Anything less than a championship is a failure. And if they ever wanted to defy the team's Primary Directive and think otherwise, the New York tabloids and sports talk radio stations are more than happy to correct their thinking.

To be fair, I don't think such a line of thinking would track if there wasn't a segment of the fanbase that swallowed it hook, line, and sinker. If you listened to WFAN or 1050 ESPN over the weekend, you heard caller after caller not giving credit where credit was due (to the Rangers), but blaming the Yankees for a series that, despite going six games, was barely ever close.

Witness the ridiculous headlines over the weekend following the Yankees' loss. The Post called them a "$210 Milliion Bust," which is insane, and labeled the defending world champions "chumps" (get it?), which is almost as crazy. It stems from this attitude that the Rangers couldn't possibly have won the series--the Yankees could only lose it. Like in the 1950s, when the Communists took power in China, and people screamed about how "we" "lost" China, without considering the possibility that Mao won it. (And without considering that another country was not America's to win or lose, but that's a whole other issue.)

Keep in mind that the Post was one of many local papers with back pages after the Yankees' win in game five that said the World Series was only two wins away. But no newspaper has ever met a surging bandwagon it can't jump onto--or a fading one they can't leap off of.

The ridiculousness was ramped up earlier today when Joel Sherman blasted in an article titled, "Yankees need Girardi to lighten up" (Backpage headline: COOL IT, JOE). In Sherman's opinion, "Girardi strangely regressed in 2010, returning to the uptight, paranoid version familiar from his 2008 Yankees debut season."

So Girardi was all wound up in 2008 and 2010, the years he didn't manage the Yankees to a World Series, but he was all loosey-goosey in between? What was the difference this year? Did he give up his command of the cream pie brigade? Stop planting hotfoots in the dugout a la Roger McDowell? Cease his intake of Rex Ryan pills?

But here's the real doozy. Why didn't Girardi win? Duh, he's too much of a nerd! God, you egghead nerds are so stupid!

Girardi is the kind of technically proficient manager that tends to scoff at Texas skipper Ron Washington's lack of strategic sophistication. But mastering the Xs and Os of baseball does not give a manager the same tactical advantages coaches get in the NFL or NBA. What is missed by the technocrats is that Washington's human bond with his players gets the Rangers to play passionately for him--which is the gift that gives from April through October.

I'm sure Girardi loves to manage. But you could not tell that watching him daily. Thus players end up, at best, respecting him rather than having a human connection that would foster something greater.

Knowledge is for queers! You want results? Start jumping up and down and yelling! Then your players will take your cue and start playing harder, because adults need to be motivated by their crazy manager to perform better!

In the first place, there's very few managers who give any credence to sabermetrics of any kind--beyond Manny Acta and Fredi Gonzalez, I can't think of any. Sports are still a bit too manly to allow managers to admit they can learn things from math. It seems like Sherman is conflating his dislike of Girardi with his hatred of the four-eyed brigade nerding up baseball. I wish he'd saved up his idiotic, ignorant Bill James bile for a different column, since painting Girardi in this light is, at best, inaccurate. But hate, being an irrational impulse, does not like to wait for appropriate times to express itself.

If there's anything I've learned from reading coverage of the Mets, it's that how you play isn't quite as important as how you look while playing. That's why Jeff Francoeur, terrible player who smiled a lot, remains more beloved than Carlos Beltran, great player whose stoic demeanor is interpreted as a sign of not caring. If only Girardi looked like he loved the game more! Then he could have formed a bond with the same group of players he led to a World Series ring the year before!

Also, notice that Sherman accuses Girardi of being "the kind of manager" who would mock Ron Washington, even though I don't know of any instance where the Yankees skipper actually mocked Washington. Way to slip in a totally baseless accusation, Joel!

If the Mets had the kind of season the Yankees just had, with the same promise for the future, I'd be more than happy. It's too bad Sherman and his ilk won't let Yankee fans feel the same way.

Bro, do you like the new Axe? I heard chicks dig it when you spray it on your junk, but it kinda hurts my pee-hole....OH SHIT, THERE'S A BALL COMIN RIGHT THIS WAY! I GOT IT! I GOT IT! YO LA GOT IT, BRO!

Hey, did you see that?! I snatched it right outta that outfielder's glove! Serves ya right, you stupid fuckin world class athlete! Hey you, Chico, whatever your name is--this is you!

You're all like, "Duh, lookit me tryna catch a ball while someone grabs my glove!" What an asshole! Go back to Texas, so you can then go back to Mexico or wherever the fuck you're from!

Bro, high five. Totally burned that guy. That'll teach him to come to the cathedral of baseball and think he can win a game. Too many ghosts here, bro. That wasn't me who grabbed the ball outta his hands, that was the spirit of Ruth and DiMaggio and Mantle. But the thing where I did the jerkoff motion right in his face, that was totally me.

Wait, the Rangers are up 2-1 now? Fuck, let's get outta here, this shit blows...whoah, the Yanks are back on top? FUCK YEAH! LET'S-GO-YAN-KEES! NEVER GIVE UP! BURNETT, YOU ARE A BEAST!

Jeter, why'd you hit your triple to center field? Shoulda hit it out here to right. I got a car battery under the seat, totally woulda beaned that stupid outfielder. He'd be all like, "Duh, I can't catch the ball cuz my skull was crushed by a Duralast!"

Whoah, did that fan keep Gardner from grabbing a foul ball by the third base stands. YOU GOTTA REVIEW THAT, UMPS! WHAT THE FUCK! THAT COULD BE SOME RED SOX FAN DOWN THERE! Just some more anti-Yankee media bias, bro. Unbelievable!

Hey, wait a minute, who hit that home run? Bengie Molina? Never heard of him. I've been a Yankee fan since 1998 and that name does not ring a bell. UMPS, MAKE SURE HE'S REAL AND NOT A SOPHISTICED HOLOGRAM! YEAH, YOU LEAVE THE MOUND NOW, BURNETT, YOU FUCKIN HUMP!

Alright, now Joba's in. He's gonna right right the ship...ARE YOU FUCKIN KIDDIN ME?! YOU FUCKIN SUCK, JOBA, YOU FAT PIECE OF SHIT!

Bro, I'm out. This team has got no heart. No guts. They don't see it through to the end like the old Yankee teams did. You wanna come with? I'm probably gonna stop at that one Hess station on the way home and abuse the African guys who pump the gas.

At least it's football season. Got tickets for Giants-Cowboys in a coupla weeks. You'll never guess what I'm gonna yell at Tony Romo...

Yeah, that's right. Who told you?! WHO TOLD YOU MY HILARIOUS TONY ROMO ZINGER?!

*crush*

Bro, I'm sorry I had to smash you in the face with a car battery. I was emotional. It was the ghosts. If he was in my shoes, Jim Leyritz woulda done the same thing.

Dis is Mike Francesa, and welcome to Mike Francesa's Mike'd Up Ghost Hunters. Dis is da show where we hunt for the ghosts of Yankees past. I'm here with fellow ghost hunter Filip Bondy.
This is exciting, Mike! Almost as exciting as each time I hang out with the Bleacher Creatures and they don't hurl homophobic insults at me! It's like Bald Vinny told me one time...
Give it a rest, Filip, it's over. As you all know, da Yanks were shut down by Cliff Lee last night in an uttahly embarrassing perfawmance. Some might say dat's because Lee is one of da best pitchers in baseball. But da truth is, da Yanks lost because da Yankee Stadium ghosts have not made da trip to da new bawlpawk. So I'm goin to da site of the old stadium across da street to see if we can get em back where dey belong. I come well prepahed for dis historic mission. I'm awmed with some EKB metahs, a bowl of snacks the size of K2, and 72 two-litah bottles of Diet Coke.

Dis is da site of the old stadium. Lotta ghosts here. Lotta spirits. Lotta spectahs, okay? Eddie, you got dat list of all da ghosts that haunt this place? No? Eddie, I toldja to bring the list of all da souls still inhabiting the hoary nether-regions between dis world and da next. So dat's how we're runnin a ghost huntin shows dese days, huh? Okay, dat's fine.

Obviously, it would be yuge if we could get a big time ghost to come ovah to da new Stadium. A Mantle. A DiMaggio. A Gehrig. A Ruth. Dat is da goal. But we gotta be open to what da night brings us. Ghosts are fickle. Dey don't obey da same rules as da living, and we have to respect dat. We might just come back with a Joe Pepitone, or a Kevin Maas. Dat's fine. We can live with dat.

* unearthly noises *

Whoah, did you hear dat? Dat is the sound of a soul in torment. Oh spirit, come with us! Dere is a home for you just across 161st Street! Da Yankees need you! Plus da new place has got a Hawd Rock Cafe and stands dat sell gawlic fries!
Hey Mikey, how bout dem Giants, huh? Tied 1-1 with da Pherlies goin back to da Bay! Good spot ta be in! Betcha didn't see dat comin, with Burwell and Kung Flu Pander Sindovail and Tom Lincercwum in da mix!
Oh gawd, dat's not a Yankee ghost, dat's da ghost of Mad Dog Russo's career! Don't look at it, Filip!
But it's satellite radio! So beautiful!....OH GOD! DIVINE WRATH IS SEARING MY FLESH!

Dat's gotta be da first ever head-melting on Mike Francesa's Mike'd Up Ghost Hunters. Good job, Eddie. Alright, we got Jon Heyman up next, and he's gonna help us hunt down the ghosts of his journalistic objectivity, with da help of Scott Boras. Back aftah dis.

If you are reading this introduction, it means you've already passed our Brooklyn Dodgers trivia test with flying colors. Congratulations! You're one step away from joining the New York Mets organization as our new general manger, and following in the footsteps of such luminaries as Steve Phillips, Al Harazin, and M. Donald Grant. Please answer the following open response questions to the best of your ability.

1.    You receive a call at 2am. It's Oliver Perez. He's being held hostage by a gang of international terrorists and desperately needs your help. How quickly would you fall asleep after hanging up the phone on him mid-sentence?

2.    Do you think people who commit domestic violence should be afforded a second chance? If so, do you also believe they deserve fourth and fifth chances?

3.    Cliff Lee is one of the best pitchers in baseball and easily the most prized free agent this offseason. Do you think fans would be okay with it if we acquired Dontrelle Willis?

4.    The Mets have been criticized for the rash of injuries that have befallen the team in the past two seasons, and not being able to keep its best players on the field. Can you think of any way this can be blamed on Carlos Beltran?

5.    Do you know anything about trying to sneak stuff into prison? Like, say, a shank? One that might be used on a former financial investor who screwed us eight ways from Sunday? Just wondering.

6.    Would you be willing to let Lenny Dykstra crash on your couch for a few weeks while he figures some stuff out?

7.    What quality player would you most like to acquire and force to play out of position?

8.    How would you describe your level of knowledge about Mets history--poor, middling, or disinterested?

9.    In response to fan outcry and these difficult economic times, we will be cutting ticket prices next season. Would you mind helping out by sweeping up after games?

10.   Many front offices now use at least some modern sabermetric assessments to influence their drafting, player development, and roster building. How would you help the Mets look like we might care about that crap?

When Andy Pettite turned in yet another dominant postseason start last week, many sportswriters praised his determination and consistency and leadership. One word I didn't see in any of their reports was "PEDs". (I guess that's more of an acronym than a word, really, but bear with me.)

After all, he was named in the Mitchell Report, and subsequently admitted taking something or other. Most players who've been caught red-handed like he was have been raked over the coals in the press--including his ex-teammate/probable connection Roger Clemens. And yet Pettite's use barely gets mentioned, if ever.

Personally, I don't care about steroids, HGH, horse tranquilizers, or anything else of that ilk. My feelings have evolved on the subject, and I feel that so many people were using them, rooting out "cheats" is pointless. Especially since MLB's PED policy was such a joke for so long, you can't even say players were "getting away with it", because It was a "crime" nobody was being punished for.

I also think that PEDs can't make you a major league baseball player. They can only make a major league baseball player perform at his best--and isn't that what we all want as fans? Performance enhancement has been going on in the major leagues since day one. Players in the 1960s and 1970s took amphetamines to deal with the brutal traveling schedule and day games after night games. The league itself "juiced" the ball at various times to drive up home run numbers, and therefore interest in the game. (MLB has never admitted to doing this, but the anomalous spikes in longball numbers in pre-steroid times have virtually no other explanation.) Not to mention how many players' performances were enhanced because they never had to compete against black people.

Considering how much we enhance our bodies with pills, medications, surgery, all for non-life-threatening conditions (i.e., boner medicine, Botox), I think it's hypocritical to hold athletes to higher standards of physical purity. I also think that, in a few short decades (or even sooner), the banning of PEDs will seem as silly as Prohibition does to us now.

That's just one man's opinion, of course. If you think PEDs = cheating, no ifs, ands, or buts, I recognize that as a legitimate argument. What I don't like is the idea that some "cheating" is okay and some isn't. Usually, that means the cheating is excusable if the cheater plays for your team.

When I pointed out the inconvenient fact that Pettite kind of totally did PEDs on the Twitter and the Facebook, I was accused by Yankee partisans of just being a bitter Mets fan. (Hey, I may be bitter and a Mets fan but...what was the third thing you said?) I have a feeling their reaction would have been different if I'd made comments about Manny Ramirez.

I didn't understand the cherry picking; either it's wrong or it's not, right? But as it turns out, there are different levels of PED use. The members of the sports media are well trained in psychological diagnosis, and have compiled a matrix for identifying who fits into which categories, including recommended treatment. No really, they have!

CATEGORY VI

Criteria: Took PEDs to hit more home runs and therefore rob us all of our childlike innocence; may also be referred to as History's Greatest Monsters; PED use a sign of enormous, sociopathic character flaws since none of us would ever have done the same thing in their shoes
Examples: Barry Bonds, Mark McGwire, Sammy Sosa
Treatment: Constant hounding, to remind them of the torments of hell that surely await them

CATEGORY V

Criteria: Took PEDs to make them pitch better; since pitches aren't home runs, we don't really know how to feel about this, but the tabloidish nature of their downfall makes for great headlines
Examples: Roger Clemens
Treatment: Snarky comments as needed, i.e., Congressional hearings, accusations of statutory rape

CATEGORY IV

Criteria: Perform at such a high level that they surely must be on PEDs; though there is absolutely no evidence, solid or circumstantial, to support such an accusation, we feel they should confess their horrible crimes while they still have a chance to save their immortal souls
Examples: Jose Bautista
Treatment: Fleeting but pointed and irrevocable

CATEGORY III

Criteria: Admitted PED user and former Category VI member whose personal and spiritual deficiencies have been completely conquered by winning a championship
Examples: Alex Rodriguez
Treatment: Only if you want to look bitter

CATEGORY II

Criteria: Definitely took PEDs but only to recover from injury and help their team win; even though that's essentially why anyone takes PEDs, a Category III "offender" is such a nice guy that he surely can't be in the same class as Category VI scum
Examples: Andy Pettite
Treatmant: Ignore and it will go away

CATEGORY I

Criteria: Men who take PEDs to attain the unnatural combination of speed and bulk needed to play modern football
Examples: No idea; we don't bother to ask any NFL players if they take PEDs
Treatment: None needed

To celebrate the advent of this year's MLB playoffs, which I am looking forward to with rapt anticipation (no, really), I'd like to do a few posts featuring YouTube finds representing each team that's made their way to October. Last but not least, the Giants.

I know it's hard to believe, since the game has been poisoned by Buck and McCarver for the last 10+ years, but there was once a time when national baseball coverage wasn't a complete shit-show. Seriously! I long for the days of NBC's baseball coverage, and it's not simply nostalgia. Back then, NBC employed excellent play-by-play men like Vin Scully, Marv Albert, and Bob Costas. (Whatever else you think of Bob, he's a great baseball play-by-play guy, and I wish MLB Network would use him in that capacity.) And even their color/sideline guys like Tony Kubek and Joe Garagiola were, at the very least, unobtrusive.

To see what I mean, check out this pregame footage from the 1987 NLCS between the Cardinals and the Giants. It makes today's game reportage look even worse in comparison. Somehow, NBC was able to broadcast competent baseball coverage without the music of Kid Rock or Frank TV promos. Also, check out Whitey Herzog getting snippy with Marv Albert.



ABC also had the rights to some playoff games back in them days, and their coverage--featuring Al Michaels most prominently--was not too shabby either. Here's the open of game 3 of the 1989 World Series between the Giants and A's, which is notable for being the only postseason game ever delayed by earthquake. This one of those "where were you when it happened?" moments for people of a certain age. Except I can't really remember where I was.



As a young'un, I devoured all three volumes of The Baseball Hall of Shame, which was pretty much exactly what it sounds like. The fact that the cover art was drawn by Mad Magazine's Mort Drucker should give you an indication of the intended audience. One book had a chapter dedicated to the worst mascots ever. The Giants' Crazy Crab was high on their list. He made a few appearances in the early 80s, went over like a lead balloon, and was quickly relegated to the dustbin of history.

For some reason, the Giants revived him a few years ago, and he make some kooky appearances at AT&T Park. Some people were happy about this. Some, as seen in this video, were not.



Earlier this year, the Giants had a "Wearable Blanket" giveaway, a rather transparent euphemism for Snuggies. I do not approve of this, but the ad for said giveaway gave me a chuckle nonetheless.

To celebrate the advent of this year's MLB playoffs, which I am looking forward to with rapt anticipation (no, really), I'd like to do a few posts featuring YouTube finds representing each team that's made their way to October. Next, the Rays.

As you might expect, there's not a huge amount of material out there on the Rays. They've only been around since 1998, and their fan base remains relatively small (much to Carl Crawford and Evan Longoria's dismay). I was only able to find a single Rays-related video that truly fits under the admittedly subjective category that I call YouTubery. But boy, is this one a doozy. This item definitely falls under the How Do I Feel About This? category.

It's called "Defenders of the Game," a super-hero-y cartoon featuring various members of the Rays, including manager Joe Maddon and coach Don Zimmer, all of whom to their own voice work. It was meant to be in-between inning entertainment, but has of course found its way on the Intertubes. Their arch-nemesis: the evil Umperor!

On the one hand, of course this is cheesy, and Joe Maddon et al. are not the best voice actors in the world. On the other hand, I'm pretty sure that if I was a Rays fan and 8 years old, this would be the coolest effin thing ever. If there was a cartoon featuring Darryl Strawberry and Doc Gooden as crime solving robots when I was a kid, I wouldn't have watched anything else ever again. And if you think about the usual between-inning distractions, this is far superior to Kiss Cam and See Which Plane/Subway Car/Moving Van Gets to the Stadium First.

If you're wondering if there's an episode guide for this series (which ran at Tropicana Field during the 2007 and 2008 seasons), wonder no more.

To celebrate the advent this year's MLB playoffs, which I am looking forward to with rapt anticipation (no, really), I'd like to do a few posts featuring YouTube finds representing each team that's made their way to October. Next, the Rangers.

I was surprised to find a dearth of Rangers material on The YouTubes. Sure, they don't have the biggest fanbase in the world, but they've existed for 40 years and have had some highlights over their history. None particularly spring to mind, but I'm sure they have some.

However, I did enjoy this ad in which a father browbeats his son into LARPing. Minimal baseball content, granted, but a baseball ad nonetheless.



The Rangers played at Shea Stadium in 2008 as part of interleague play. One game was rained out, inspiring several players (who I don't think see too much precipitation back in Arlington) to play Slip n' Slide on the infield tarp. This video was set to Rihanna's "Umbrella" for some reason, which doesn't quite fit the whimsical mood.



In the twilight of his career, Nolan Ryan pitched for the Rangers, and also lent his name to this electronic pitching game. I don't remember this existing as a kid, but I totally would have wanted one. Hell, I want one now.



Nolan also endorse a Super Nintendo game, which I never played (I was more of a Ken Griffey Jr. Baseball guy, personally). Watching this video, I do not regret that oversight in my gaming life. Go to this video's page and read the comments if you want to see people bitch about gameplay in a 20+ year-old video game.

To celebrate the advent of this year's MLB playoffs, which I am looking forward to with rapt anticipation (no, really), I'd like to do a few posts featuring YouTube finds representing each team that's made their way to October. Next, the Braves.

Atlanta did not enjoy too much success before Bobby Cox came along, but they did manage to win the NL West in 1982 (even more impressive when you consider they're located nowhere near the west!). Here's some footage from when the Braves clinched the division on the last day of the season (thanks to a Dodgers loss). The clip starts out pretty low key, as the announcer fills us in on the particulars.

Then it cuts to the locker room, where the jubilant Braves make merry. Ted Turner is soaked in what I hope is champagne, while a blonde sticks to his side. One guy chugs Jack Daniels straight from the bottle, and I'm almost positive he's not a player, just some dude who weaseled his way into the clubhouse.



Apart from this revelry, the 1980s were not kind to the Braves. But at least they were broadcast coast-to-coast on TBS, thus earning themselves the moniker of America's Team (more for ubiquity than for performance). If you subjected yourself to Braves baseball at this time, you would've been treated to the opening credits seen here--which for some odd reason features as many non-Braves as Braves. Stick around to the end to see Skip Caray bitch about the horrible, horrible team he has to cover each night.



Earlier this year, at a game in Philadelphia, some idiot fan ran on the field in a red version of the Green Man outfit. Slow footed security personnel were unable to stop his romp through the outfield, so left fielder Matt Diaz took the law into his own hands. Be glad you just got tripped, buddy. At Citizen's Bank Park, miscreants get tased.


Technically, this does not involve a major leaguer, but it happened in the Braves' organization, so I will allow it. Mississippi Braves manager Phil Wellman disagrees with an umpires call and expresses his opinion with the China Syndrome of managerial meltdowns. On the Shit Fit Scale, this is at Winnebago Man levels.

He had to have been planning this in his head for weeks. Not even the most skilled comic improviser could have performed these shenanigans off the top of the dome.

To celebrate the advent of this year's MLB playoffs, which I am looking forward to with rapt anticipation (no, really), I'd like to do a few posts featuring YouTube finds representing each team that's made their way to October. Next, the Reds.

How long ago were the 1970s? Back then, Johnny Bench was considered handsome. Really! According to Joe Posnanski's excellent book, he was quite the eligible bachelor in the hotbed of sensuality known as Cincinnati. He also parlayed his good looks into several hundred endorsement deals.

Here's the most horrifying of them all: Hall of Famer Johnny Bench schilling for something called Bubble Fudge. I can't put my finger on it, but something about a chocolaty bubble gum product makes my skin crawl. And if that didn't, then I'd still be creeped out by the tons of unappealing close ups of the best catcher of all time failing to blow bubbles in this ad. See you in my nightmares, Bubble Fudge!



Johnny also hosted a kids' show in the early 80s, The Baseball Bunch, which taught children fundamentals and sportsmanship and all that other crap. As a kid, I knew this existed, but somehow never got a chance to see it and always wondered what I missed. Now I know: Pete Rose screaming at children. YOU MISSED THE BAG!



Rose did his fair share of commercial work, too. (Couldn't keep the knuckle-breakers away from your door on a ballplayer's salary in those days.) He did a bunch of ads for Aqua Velva, but this one is my favorite, because it has a unique combination of bad acting, poor dialogue, and singing.

Rose slides steals second base headfirst, and Joe Morgan says, "Hey, it's Pete Rose of the Philadelphia Phillies," as if Pete stopped by his house and wasn't playing a game against him. Then Pete Rose sings the Aqua Velva jingle in a voice that sounds like someone's got a gun to his back.



I have an enormous mental bank of hideous ads from the 1980s, but I have absolutely no memory of this one for Kool-Aid. Little kids play baseball in weird pleather uniforms, while the Kool-Aid Man destroys a stadium and takes away a sure double from Pete Rose. The set looks vaguely like the landscape that appeared when Homer Simpson at a Guatemalan Insanity Pepper.



Finally, no survey of Reds YouTubery would be complete without the stellar acting chops of one Bronson Arroyo. Watch the high-kicking righty do a spot for a local Ford dealer and get all potty mouth on us. You'll never play the big rooms working blue, Bronson!

To celebrate the advent this year's MLB playoffs, which I am looking forward to with rapt anticipation (no, really), I'd like to do a few posts featuring YouTube finds representing each team that's made their way to October. Next, the Twins.

The Twins are my favorite non-Mets team. They're a smart organization from top to bottom that knows how to field a competitive team every year, despite being in the middle of the financial pack. I like them even more now that they're playing ball outdoors, leaving the garbage bag-lined Metrodome behind, and also because they're giving JI- JIM THOME one last shot at winning a World Series. If the Mets, with all their money, had half the Twins' brains, they'd be dangerous.

But even smart organizations do embarrassing things every now and then, like the Twins did back in 1991. That year, they won a fantastic seven-game World Series against the Braves, but still found some time during this storybook season to make a "music video," an unfortunate trend among pro teams of the era. It's not any better or worse than its contemporaries, but it has a definite Last Years of the First Bush Presidency air to it. The notes on this video's YouTube page label it as a "funky" music video. I respectfully disagree.



Other than baseball itself, the Twins are quite good at local commercials. Here's one for their move into brand new Target Field. Can't think of too many teams who'd make their outfielders wade through a box of styrofoam peanuts, or would simulate violently throwing a rival team's fan into the back of a moving van. That was a simulation, right?


Another move-related ad handles the Twin's mascot, TC Bear, and his difficult transition from indoor to outdoor living.


One other awesome thing about the Twins: Bert Blyleven, ex-pitcher and current broadcaster. I have an NBC baseball preview video from 1988, which is jam packed with Mr. Blyleven saying awesome things, which I can sadly not share with you without endangering my own YouTube account (because obviously NBC and/or MLB are hammering out the DVD deal for this highly valuable footage as we speak).

In its place, please enjoy Bert screwing up royally live on the air, prior to a Twins-Yankees game.



Most baseball fights are pretty pathetic affairs. Not this one. Archival news footage shows a brawl between the Twins and Orioles from 1980, in which Rick Dempsey barrels hard into John Castino. Some words are exchanged, and then the Twins treat Mr. Dempsey to a big ol' blanket party.

To celebrate the advent this year's MLB playoffs, which I am looking forward to with rapt anticipation (no, really), I'd like to do a few posts featuring YouTube finds representing each team that's made their way to October. Next, the Phillies.

To this day, when I think of the Phillies, the first person I think of is Mike Schmidt. After all, he was one of the greatest third basemen to ever play the game, and also owner of the best 80s baseball mustache this side of Keith Hernandez. Schmitty was the quintessential Reagan-era slugger. So naturally, he made a commercial for Chevy where he tries to beat the shit out of trucks with his bat.



But Mike Schmidt also cared about you. Yes, you. That's why he did this PSA against cocaine, aka "The Big Lie". This commercial is so harshly, angular-ly lit, I think David Fincher was involved.



Remember computers? I sure do! This ad promotes an odd Veterans Stadium promo from 1986: a computer simulation of the 1977 Phillies vs. the 1983 Phillies, sponsored by IBM. Apparently, the simulation results were aired between halves of a Phillies-Pirates doubleheader. If I didn't know any better, I'd think this was something dreamed up by Philly Boy Roy as an opener to an evening of Laser Allin.



Also from 1986: this compilation of Phillies promos that look like they were directed by Tim and Eric and edited with a machete. I keep waiting for Dr. Steve Brule make an appearance.



But let's leave a wistful note, shall we? Here's a rare, beautiful find: color home movie footage of the first game of the 1950 World Series between the Phillies and the Yankees at Shibe Park, taken by the drummer of the band that played before the game. It's an exquisite time capsule. You see the "Whiz Kids" playing toss, fans getting psyched for the game, and, eventually, the Yankees beginning their assault, en route to a four-game sweep.

To celebrate the advent this year's MLB playoffs, which I am looking forward to with rapt anticipation (no, really), I'd like to do a few posts featuring YouTube finds representing each team that's made their way to October. First up, the Yankees.

When I was a kid, Phil Rizzuto was still the voice of the Bronx Bombers, and it was awesome. It's too bad there's a whole generation of fans who only know Michael Kay and John Sterling, because Scooter was a delight. Sure, he was goofy as hell and would occasionally seem to get tired of actually calling the game. (I remember once Jackie Mason joined him in the booth--seriously--and they spent two innings talking about their favorite delis.) And his lengthy digressions and inattentiveness drove poor Bill White, his broadcasting partner, up the wall.

For all of that, Rizzuto's goofiness was natural and endearing, not the studied, monstrous eccentricity of Sterling. Plus, he wasn't one-tenth the homer that Sterling is. I can't imagine him doing something so undignified as Sterling's unbearable THUUUUUUUUUUUH YANKEES WIN!

Of course, I can't show you any footage of Scooter actually calling a game, because that would bring MLBAM's fiery wrath upon me. So I'll have to settle for another touchstone of my youth: Phil Rizzuto's commercials for The Money Store. As a child watching these commercials, I was quite confused; why would you buy money? If you needed money, you wouldn't be able to buy money, would you? If Phil was just as confused, he didn't show it (hardly).





Sadly, Phil was replaced in these commercials by pretty boy Jim Palmer, right around the same time he was unceremoniously removed from the Yankees broadcast booth. The world is a cruel place.

If you were watching Phil circa 1987, you might have seen a promo like this for Yankees baseball on WPIX, the local channel that carried their games for approximately 937 years. You also would have seen a terrifying teaser for the evening news like the one that opens this video, which is fairly typical of New York news during this era (with anchor Donna Hanover, aka The Future Mrs. Giuliani).



Or you might have seen these promo ads, also from 1987. I have no memory of these at all, but they're pretty slick for the era. Also, Rickey Henderson walks down a Yankee Stadium tunnel with some kind of wild jungle cat because of course he did.



If we take the Wayback Machine even further, we find Phil Rizzuto the mystery guest on an episode of What's My Line circa 1970. Soupy Sales seems to be a big fan. Amazingly, Phil points to the recent worst-to-first story of the Mets as a reason why the Yankees could do well in the coming season. (Spoiler: They actually won 93 games that year, but finished well back of the steamrolling Baltimore Orioles.)

 
 
 





 

• Did you know Cal Ripken saved baseball? Really, he saved baseball. I know that's not the way you remember it happening at the time, but some guy showing up every day saved baseball. Just keep repeating it, Cal Ripken saved baseball. What, you still don't believe Cal Ripken saved baseball? Okay, you're gonna need to go to one of Bud Selig's reeducation camps.
• Every single non-Yankee fanbase is long-suffering and star-crossed.
• The explosion of steroid use in baseball can be traced solely to Fay Vincent's overzealousness in pursuing the "epidemic" of recreational drug use, which was in turn caused by the the journalistic epidemic of insisting that recreational drug use in sports was an epidemic.
• Collusion? I'm sorry, you must be thinking of a word that doesn't exist.
• Joe Torre is largely responsible for the turnaround in George Steinbrenner's reputation, which is a good thing for some unspecified reason.
• The wild card added more excitement to the game by adding another round to the playoffs. You'll have to take our word on this, because we won't be showing any footage from these playoffs.
• Only the 1996 Yankees actually won the World Series. Every other "championship" team just lost theirs so some anonymous opponent could reap the undeserved reward (see: 2001 Diamondbacks, 2003 Marlins).
• Kevin Millar is much more responsible for the 2004 Red Sox' historic comeback than all the other guys on the team who were actually good at baseball.
• On the one hand, baseball had no serious anti-PED policy until 20 years into the so-called steroid era, and it can not be conclusively said steroids are the sole reason for the offensive explosion of the 1990s. On the other hand, HOME RUNS ARE SACRED AND WHENEVER YOU INJECT STEROID PILLS, BABY JESUS WEEPS HOLY BABY TEARS!
• After the terrorist attacks of September 11, the Yankees' postseason exploits lifted the hearts of their fans, who before then had almost no media exposure and very little to cheer for.
• Nothing else baseball-related happened in New York, post-9/11 that might have helped people cope. Also, we have always been at war with Eurasia.
• The only thing more disturbing than Jon Miller saying "VORP" and "OPS" over and over again with contempt and confusion would be if he said it while wearing clown makeup.
• Barry Bonds' titanic home runs are sadly tainted, while David Ortiz's remain free of suspicion.
• There may have been some teams other than the Yankees and Red Sox in Major League Baseball in the 1990s and 2000s, but Ken Burns' instruments are not fine enough to capture them.
• Bud Selig has done an excellent job on curtailing all of the terrible things he let happen under his watch for a few decades.
• Jeffrey Maier? Who's that?
• You know that fantastic, unbelievable thing your favorite team did that blew your mind and reaffirmed your love of the game? Yeah, we don't have that. Bob Costas needs the air time.

For several years, there was a drug store in my neighborhood with a curious trading card vending machine. Half of its contents were of the Pokemon/Yu-Gi-Oh variety. The other half were old baseball cards. The newest ones were from the late 90s, the oldest dating back to 1987. I used to pop in once in a while and buy a pack or two, and the experience was always strange. Invariably, the packs would be filled with no-names, has-beens, and never was-es, the same as they were when I was young. And yet, I'd spent so much time collecting cards as a kid, even the humblest of bench warmers brought back some kind of memory.

I had the cruel misfortune of getting into baseball just as most games were being gobbled up by cable, in a household where getting cable was an unthinkable luxury. We didn't live close enough to NYC (or have enough disposable income) to see many games in person, either; we'd manage to get to one or two games a year, but that was the limit. Baseball cards were my closest connection to the game.

That's why it was doubly annoying to spend the little money I did have on a pack of cards, only to get a pile of nobodies. The worst one of all: Doug Sisk. He was easily the most useless member of the 1986 Mets (and, as revealed by The Bad Guys Won, its worst human being), and yet every single pack of 1987 Topps I ever bought had at least one Doug Sisk in it. Some had two. I swear I once purchased a pack with four Doug Sisk cards in it.

I once got into a car accident because some idiot ran a red light, then tried to Gaslight me by insisting I was the one who ran a red light. I don't think I was as mad the day this happened as I was the day I got four Doug Sisks in one pack.

Looking at cards as an adult is a far different experience. You look at the "heroes" and realize that hitting or throwing a baseball really hard doesn't exactly make someone a hero. And you look at the quote-unquote scrubs, and you realize that these were all young men who rose to the absolute highest level of their profession, only to flatline there.

That's my long way of saying that Josh Wilker's Cardboard Gods spoke to me in a way that few books ever have. In it, Wilker recounts his unorthodox upbringing in 1970s Vermont in short chapters, each prefaced by a baseball card he collected as a kid, which acts as a Greek chorus to the drama unfolding in his young life.

Cardboard Gods began its life in 2006 as a blog of the same name and quickly distinguished itself from the sports blog pack with its amazing, heartfelt writing. The word "blog" seems inadequate to capture Wilker's web site, and his book also defies description and categorization. It's not a mere sports book, or simply a coming-of-age story, or a memoir. It is truly something I've never seen in print before.

I have been recommending this book to anyone who will listen, regardless of whether they are baseball fans or not. Simply put, it is one of the best things I've ever read. I agree 100 percent with Rob Neyer's cover blurb: "Josh Wilker writes as beautifully about baseball and life as anyone ever has."

It's also one of the best designed books I've come across in many a moon. The dust jacket is made of a waxy paper similar to the kind that's surrounded baseball cards for generations. The section splash pages (the book is divided into four "packs") use family pictures done up in the style of 1980 Topps cards. And the cover promises "1 stick of bubble gum", represented opposite the copyright page by a smashed length of crackly gum, the kind that destroyed millions of young tongues over the years (see below for why the real thing was not included).

But the real attraction remains the prose itself. For instance, he begins a chapter on the growing distance between himself and his older brother by commenting on a card of Kurt Bevacqua, a utility man best known for setting the Topps-sponsored bubble blowing record, and last seen in baseball card form occupying some Beckett-esque existential wasteland:

The last time I'd seen Kurt Bevacqua was in 1977, in a card that showed him to be adrift in a blurry, ethereal netherworld, wearing, or appearing to wear, the doctored cap and uniform of an expansion team that had yet to officially exist and for whom he would never play a single game. Behind him, the lifeless, bulldozed plain of a landfill, or perhaps a dormant spring training complex stripped of all its accessories. No batting cages, no pitching machines, no stands, no bases. All in all, Kurt Bevacqua seemed to be in the process of passing through some sort of veil separating the Big Leagues from the Great Beyond. He didn't seem to be pleased.

"What the fuck is going on?" he seemed to be saying.

Josh was kind enough to spare some time for a few questions via email about blogging as an antidote for writer burnout, the decrepitude of post-Seaver Shea in the 70s, and booksellers' reluctance to sell products with gum included.

I recently watched House of Steinbrenner, one of ESPN's 30 for 30 documentaries directed by Barbara Kopple. It wasn't remotely as powerful as Kopple's Harlan County U.S.A., which is a bit of an unfair comparison, since the latter is a chronicle of a bloody clash between Kentucky mine workers wanting to unionize and Big Coal's hired thugs, and one of the most gut-wrenching docs you'll ever see. And yet, I was surprised by how affected I was by House of Steinbrenner.* Early in the film, you see fans walking around Yankee Stadium during its last game, knowing this will be their last trip there, tears in their eyes. I was moved by it, and not just in an empathic way. I was surprised by how much of Yankee Stadium, as seen in the movie, was familiar to me.

* I was also baffled by why Kopple seemed to be given a hard time by the Yankees brass in the film, particularly Hal Steinbrenner, even though her movie was basically a love letter to the team and the stadium. Perhaps because, despite being a devoted Yankees fan, she dared to admit that Hal's dad drove the team into a ditch in the 80s.

I don't talk about it too much, but my mom became a Jehovah's Witness when I was a kid. Aside from making you go to "Kingdom Hall" three times a week, there are also two small, local conventions a year that take up a weekend, and another ginormous convention once a year. For many years, this ginormous convention was held at Yankee Stadium. In the summer. This stems from the Biblical precept that being even slightly comfortable is sinful.

Somehow, we always managed to snag seats in the shady mezzanine. Pity the poor folks stuck with upper deck seats for three days of biblical reenactments and two-hour speeches on what the prophet Ezekiel means for us today. At the time, my favorite book was The Sporting News' Take Me Out to the Ballpark, a collection of the history of various stadiums past and present, each one preceded by a detailed illustration of the park and its notable heroes. So rather than take notes on the sermons, as I was supposed to do, I'd sketch the outfield wall of Yankee Stadium. All of its ads for French's Mustard and Utz potato chips, the scoreboard, and even the 4 train as it zipped past the gap between the right field stands and the bleachers.

At lunchtime, we'd wade through the sweltering stadium corridors to get chicken sandwiches and juice, the food tables smashed against shuttered concession stands and dusty ads for un-Christ-like products like Budweiser and the New York Lottery. Then we'd stroll the local streets, browse through the sports shops on 161st Street (a real treat for a budding baseball nerd), and get some ice from one of the Bronx's ubiquitous Coco Helado carts.

So as I watched House of Steinbrenner, and saw fans filing through the royal blue hallways, a melancholy feeling washed over me. Seeing the goopy, pitted paint, those cramped, low-ceilinged corridors behind the stands, those slatted metal windows, and knowing they weren't there anymore--the absence really hit me.

I saw this just before visiting the new Yankee Stadium. I went there expecting to have one of two reactions: either to be turned off by its ostentation and the team's huge monuments to themselves, or to be grudgingly impressed. I didn't expect the reaction I wound up having, which was basically: Oh, this again?

NEW YORK--Scientists cautioned that the new monument dedicated to George Steinbrenner, unveiled at Yankee Stadium Monday night, may have negative effects on several of the Earth's astronomical functions. Despite warnings from the scientific community at large, the UN, and several prominent clergymen, construction of the monument--which used 92 percent of the earth's available deposits of granite--continued unabated for the past year.

"It will definitely influence the earth's gravitational pull," said Dr. Henrik Lundegaard, professor of geophysics at Princeton University. "It will probably also have some consequences for the planet's revolution around the sun." Lundegaard estimated that, due the monument's colossal size, "the calendar year will probably lengthen a full day by the year 2031, and exponentially more each year thereafter, which will have untold consequences for life as we know it."

The Yankees were unfazed by such revelations. "I think it's a fitting tribute to The Boss," said shortstop Derek Jeter. "All he wanted to do was win, and what bigger victory is there than beating the tilt of the Earth's axis?"

"We all loved Mr. Steinbrenner," said pitcher Andy Pettite, "and I think it's only appropriate that his monument should have its own climate." This separate ecosystem, reportedly a temperate zone, may explain the appearance of several tornadoes on the Grand Concourse within the last week.

A spokesman for the Yankees confirmed that the team will unveil a monument to the Steinbrenner monument during the 2012 season. "It will take that long for us to locate and mold an appropriate amount of adamantium," the spokesman said.

After yesterday's screed about the sorry state of the Mets and their desire to kill their idols, I thought some levity was in order. So please enjoy this clip from The Best Show on WFMU from August 18, 2009, in which host Tom Scharpling and famous comedienne Patton Oswalt listen to and riff on the only thing worse than the current Walter Reed 'controversy': "Get Metsmerized!"

"Get Metsmerized!" was the brainchild of George Foster, the Mets' first big free agent signing (and first big free agent bust). Like many of his teammates, eve before the 1986 season began, he figured the team would have a great year. (Even as a Mets fan, I'd say Tom's description of the '86 Mets as "sociopaths who could hit baseballs" is pretty accurate.) So what better way to capitalize on a great year than a hastily produced rap song? The Chicago Bears had such a big hit with the "Super Bowl Shuffle" the year before, so surely this would be a big hit, too!

It was not, for the eight billion reasons you'll hear in this clip. Hip-hop was still in its relative infancy, and in most people's minds, rap was something that anyone could just do. "It's just talkin over music! A kid could do that!" Foster and his chosen teammates (Darryl Strawberry, Doc Gooden, Lenny Dykstra, Rafael Santana, Howard Johnson, Kevin Mitchell, Rick Aguilera, and Tim Teufel (!)) proved this wrong once and for all.

As Patton points out, "They even yell off-key." He also notes that roping poor Santana--who could barely speak English, let along rap--into this mess borders on "a hate crime," and it's hard to argue otherwise. Run DMC, this is not.

In an effort to make up for "Get Metsmerized," later in the 1986 season, the entire team collaborated on a song/video ("Let's Go Mets!") that actually wound up being a local hit. While it is also cheesy and 80s-rific, it sounds like "Good Vibrations" compared to this atrocity.

Many, many thanks to @arfortiyef for supplying the clip you're about to enjoy. You guys should probably follow him on the Twitter and read his site, too.

On Tuesday, most of the Mets visited Walter Reed Army Medical Center (why wounded vets would want to see any Mets, when they've already suffered so much, is beyond me). Four Mets were absent. Dillon Gee, making his first major league start that evening, was not expected to show. The other three were expected, however, though the visit was not mandatory. (Apparently it was "not mandatory" the way that NFL spring workouts are "not mandatory".)

One of the missing was Oliver Perez, thief impersonating a major league pitcher, who declined to explain why he didn't show. Another was Luis Castillo, who said he'd be "too traumatized" by the sight of wounded soldiers. (It's no picnic for the soldiers either, Louie.)

The third was Carlos Beltran. He didn't go because he had a meeting with his own charitable foundation which, among other endeavors, is currently building a school in his native Puerto Rico. He also told reporters that he'd visited VA hospitals in the off-season. He expressed some regret about not being able to go to Walter Reed. So clearly he was not anywhere near as huge a jerk as his two teammates, right?

Not so, according to the Mets. Initial reports said the front office was "very, very angry" with the three of them, making no distinction between Castillo, Perez, and Beltran. The three no-shows were lumped together, as if to say they each had the same level of callousness. And in nearly all news stories/blog posts about the incident, it was Beltran's name who led the pack.

This means one of two things: Either the Mets were too stupid to check with Beltran and ask why he was absent (entirely possible), or they didn't care and decided to hang him out to dry with the press. Much like they did this past winter, when Beltran underwent knee surgery thinking he had the team's permission, only to have assistant GM John Ricco accuse him of going behind their back.

Regardless of the Mets' boundless ability to do something accidentally stupid, I have to think this was calculated dumbassery. Because as evidenced by the Knee Surgery Kerfuffle, the front office clearly has it out for the man. God only knows why.

It makes no more sense than a sizable portion of the team's fanbase despising him. I believe this is a minority, but it is a loud minority, the kind who will wait on hold for hours to tell Mike Francesa just how much they hate Carlos Beltran. Despite being (up until the last injury-plagued season or so) the best center fielder in baseball (name me someone else and I will laugh), there are many Mets fans who'd just as soon see him dead and buried.

Why? Some have never forgiven him for a lackluster 2005, his first year in New York. Some have never forgiven him for taking a called third strike from Adam Wainwright to end the 2006 NLCS.

But there is no one thing with Beltran for some people. There's simply a perception that he  doesn't care, that he's a malingerer (a bit like how Jose Reyes has been tarred with the same label). When he makes strangely precise pronouncements on his health--e.g., "I'm at 75% right now"--it's seen as a weakness rather than a sign of honesty.

Always this refrain: He should try harder. He should look like he takes it personally, as if appearing to feel a certain way could will success. As if every bad player was a stoic, and every good one a whiny, petulant Paul O'Neill type who cried about every called strike and smashed Gatorade coolers because he cares too much.

When Beltran returned to the lineup after the All Star Break, it coincided with a team-wide slump and a hideous road trip. Obviously his mere presence in the clubhouse was to blame, these fans assumed--ignoring the presence of black holes like Henry Blanco and Jeff Francoeur and streaky rookies like Ike Davis in the everyday lineup.

Never mind that he came back to the field last September, in the textbook definition of a lost season, playing for nothing at all but pride on a knee that would eventually need surgery. Never mind that he did the same thing in 2005, after after his horrific head-on collision with Mike Cameron, when he had every right to sit out the rest of the season.

Never mind he put up big numbers at the end of 2007 and 2008 in a vain attempt to stave off The Collapses (OPS in September/October of 2008: 1.086). Never mind that he hit a two-run homer in the last game ever played at Shea to give the crowd hope that maybe, just maybe the unthinkable would not happen.

Never mind all the charity work the man does, in both New York and Puerto Rico, much of it unpublicized. Never mind that despite the idiotic hatred slung at him from the Joe Benignos of the world, he's always conducted himself with class and dignity.

He doesn't deserve a fraction of this abuse, and he certainly doesn't deserve to have his own team lump him into the same category as the reprehensible Oliver Perez and the squeamish Luis Castillo. He doesn't deserve to have the Mets publicly defame him for no good reason, just because they want to get rid of his suddenly expensive contract. (In which case, why are they making public statements that will only lower his value? Just more Mets idiocy.)

He also doesn't deserve to have the Mets' beat writers unblinkingly report this "story" exactly as the team told it, without asking the front office why they didn't know (or didn't mention) Beltran's prior commitment. The team may have Machiavellian motives, but they need help from the press to truly enact them. Abetting character assassination: not your finest moment, fellas.

If the Mets' finances are as bad as the whispers indicate, there's no way the team could sign another center fielder who's worth a damn. So I know exactly what's going to happen: The Mets will unload Beltran for pennies on the dollar, paying much of his salary to get at some piddling prospect. Then they'll overpay for some aging "slugger" who'll hit .220 with 12 homers and have the range of a Zamboni.

And then both fans and writers will scream about the hideous on-field product and call for whoever's head is on the chopping block at the time. Completely forgetting that we once had the greatest center fielder to play in New York since Willie, Mickey, and The Duke. Find me another center fielder who can hit like him and make catches like this one. Or this one. Or even this one, done while wearing a knee brace. You go ahead and find me a player like that. I'll wait here.

It was ironic that when Beltran signed in 2005, he pronounced himself proud to be part of "the new Mets". Because five years later, this team feels like it's reentering the clueless, fumbling Art Howe Years that preceded him. When Bobby Valentine was kicked to the curb, robbing the team of its sharpest baseball mind and its identity, giving way to grossly overpriced and (even worse) boring teams full of useless vets like Mo Vaughn and Jeromy Burnitze and one dead-end quadruple-A player after another. Teams that hadn't the slightest glimmer of an iota of a fraction of an idea of how to construct a roster, and with no hope on the horizon.

This organization is once again a joke. And not a funny one, either. More like a tasteless, racist joke told in the waning hours of a party by some belligerent drunk, who messes up the punchline and starts over three or four times, as you avoid eye contact as much as possible and stare at your watch and wonder, When did this party stop being fun?

Tony, I would like you come to my "Restoring Honor" rally in Washington. Albert Pujols will be a guest of honor and it would be great if you could introduce him.
Gee, I don't know, Glenn. As a public figure, I have to be careful what I associate myself with. I usually shy away from politics.
Don't worry, Tony this is a completely apolitical event.
Really? Sarah Palin is speaking at it.
She's not a politician anymore--she resigned the guberna...gubernavit....she's not governor anymore, remember?
And it's taking place on the exact same date in the exact same place as Martin Luther King's "I have a dream" speech, and you said your goal for this event is to "reclaim the civil rights movement".
Civil rights aren't a political issue, Tony--they're a human issue. All American citizens should have the right to live and work the way they choose. That's an issue that transcends politics, wouldn't you agree?
I suppose so.
And so is the right to hoard gold for the impending cash-less economic system the radical socialists in the quote-unquote Democratic party plan to foist on America by the year 2013.
That sounds kind of political.
Oh, it's definitely not. Because the Democrats insist on absolute separation of church and state, and the liberal fascists in the Obama administration are bent on removing religion from every imaginable public sphere. So if we believe in God, we ipso facto cannot be political, in their eyes! You believe in God, don't you, Tony?
I'm not really religious, but I guess I believe in God.
Good! You'll need to pray to that god when the new world order tries to brand your babies with a UPC-type symbol so the one-world government can track them at all times.
Why do you think that's going to happen?
/pulls out chalkboard with Rube Goldergian swirl of arrows
Wow, that is convincing. But you swear this isn't political.
Not in the least. Though we may all grab pitchforks and march on the White House and attempt to overthrow the government by sheer force of will. Not sure; we're gonna play it by ear.
Sounds like a blast. Will there be vegetarian meal options offered at this event?
Excuse me?
Will there be vegetarian meal options? Because I'm a vegetarian.
YOU'RE ONE OF THEM!
/ Body Snatchers-esque screech

I'm sorry if people were offended by my comments during a recent Nationals game. Apparently I said something about some mouthy broads who were sitting behind the plate and people got all snippy about it. In retrospect, I shouldn't have been so shocked these ladies could talk during the whole game. Doesn't matter where a woman is, the ballpark or the beauty parlor--chances are she's got her big yap open. Am I right, fellas?

Look, I know many women love baseball. And it's not just so's they can see a tight pair of polyester pants giftwrap Dib's beautiful package. Lots of female types honestly love this game. That's how great baseball is--even a buncha dumb skirts can dig it!

I love baseball because it's a game that appeals to everyone. Just look at how many Spanish guys play it! They couldn't be further away from American, but there's something about the game that just speaks to them. In some kinda hybrid English-Mexican-y language, I guess.

And you got Chinese guys like Ichiro who come over here to play it, too. You don't see them guys playing football, do ya? Probably cuz they'd get crushed to death by the linebackers. I could see an Oriental guy play punter or kicker, maybe. But they don't--they play baseball. I think I've made my point.

Speakin' of which, here's this joke I heard from Bob Carpenter. Why did Ichiro bat in the first inning, then bat again in the fourth? Cuz an hour later, he was hungry again! Get it? 

How universal is the sport of baseball? I've even seen an Indian guy at a game once. Swear to god!

The problem with you guys is you're too PC. Lighten up, wouldja? I don't get upset when people make jokes about washed-up unfunny ex-jocks, do I? Because people do. Constantly. Right to my face. Oh sure, I cry when I go home, but that doesn't mean I'm offended. Just deeply wounded.

Roger Clemens has been indicted for perjury. On the one hand, I think this is a huge waste of taxpayer money. While lying to Congress is a serious crime, the likelihood of conviction seems iffy at best. The feds have been trying to nail Barry Bonds on a similar charge without success for years, and the evidence against Bonds appears to be much stronger than that against Clemens.

On the other hand, Roger Clemens is one of the worst human beings on the planet. Not enough bad things can happen to him to sate my schadenfreude.

Last week, in a post about Chipper Jones, I wrote about how I can usually separate my personal feelings from objective reality. Emphasis on usually. I could cast a Hall of Fame vote for Chipper Jones. I don't think I could do that for Roger Clemens. And not because of steroids. Simply because I hate him with a white hot passion. I hate him more than some people who have done actual, tangible wrong to me. If I could harness this hatred and turn it into energy, I could power a steel mill for a year.

The worst thing about Clemens (even worse than the fact that he literally tried to kill Mike Piazza by throwing a 95 mph fastball at his head): His craven, psychotic need to be not just loved, but worshiped. That is often the sign of a man who deep down knows he is horrible, and thus demands love from others. All so he can say, "How can I be a bad person--look at how many people love me!"

In another life or another nation, Roger Clemens would have been a crime lord or a dictator. Someone who snatched power by force. Someone who demanded absolute fealty and craved absolute love from everyone. Someone who can never be told that he has done wrong, for it is impossible for him to be wrong.

I can easily imagine Roger Clemens commanding cowering citizens to perform grand, choreographed games in his honor, as North Koreans do at Kim Jong Il's behest. That is exactly the kind of sick, depraved person he is.

Keep in mind that the Congressional hearing from which the perjury charge stems would never have happened in the first place if he hadn't demanded one. It wasn't good enough for him to quietly deny the charges of the Mitchell Report. No, he had to loudly protest his innocence to the nation's lawmakers and force us all to shower him in love once again. This maniac was so obsessed with being adored, he laid his own trap.

Joe Posnanski wrote an amazing column (as usual) about Clemens at SI.com, in which he takes us back to the infamous Game 2 of the 2000 World Series, when the Rocket flung the bat at Mike Piazza. Posnanski's observation: Clemens has no interest in smoothing things over with Piazza, but instead focuses on proclaiming his innocence to the home plate umpire.

That is the essence of Clemens. He had no desire in doing right or being right. His sole focus was on getting over, being absolved. It reminds me of Pablo Escobar, the infamous Colombian drug lord who could have lived fat and happy on his cocaine billions, except that he had an insane craving for respectability. He desperately wanted to be elected to Congress, and didn't care how many bribes he had to hand out or judges and policemen he had to kill in order to do it. As if becoming a Respectable Person would somehow erase the fact that he'd murdered his way to the top.

To this day, I'm still infuriated by the thought that Clemens received absolutely no punishment for this bizarre, dangerous act. (As Posnanski points out, Piazza very easily could have been injured by the shattered bat.) No ejection, no fine, not even a tsk-tsk from Bud Selig. It still blows my mind that someone did this in a World Series game and was allowed to continue to play in that game.

Karma might not really exist, but I like when it makes a select appearance in the lives of folks like Clemens. His life is over, for intents and purposes, and he's not even 50 yet. Even allowing for Americans' microscopic memories, and even if steroid use becomes accepted in the future, I can't imagine his image ever recovering. God, that's beautiful. There are people more deserving of cosmic payback than him, but he'll do until they get theirs.

In honor of another instance of Clemens' spiritual de-pantsing, here's a trip down Scratchbomb memory lane of The Rocket's various falls from grace.

Take Your Medicine, 12.13.2007
Wherein I discuss the Mitchell Report and touch on Clemens being exposed for the fraud that he is.

60 Minutes with Roger Clemens, 01.03.2008
Mike Wallace interviews a not-at-all contrite Roger Clemens, with a guest appearance from Hank Steinbrenner.

Roger That, 02.08.2008
An attempt to understand Roger Clemens through old clips from a baseball special called Grand Slam, which you can not watch because Clemens helped shut down my old YouTube account.

Joe Torre Revisits History, 02.04.2009
While promoting his book on Mike Francesa's show, Joe Torre rethinks his opinion of Roger Clemens, using an amazing piece of equipment called his brain.

Michael More, Roger, and Me, 03.26.2009
Wherein I discuss why I can love Mike Piazza and hate Roger Clemens.

Larry Wayne Jones, known to most people (and himself, for some reason) as Chipper, has a torn ACL in his knee and is out for the rest of the season. At his age, and given his injury history, there's every reason to think his career may be over. (The mere fact that I'm writing this means he'll be fit as a stallion by spring training next year and hit 72 homers against the Mets.)

Let's assume what everyone else is assuming, that his playing days have ended. I should be relieved, even ecstatic about this news. If all the evil I wished on him over the years could be rendered in corporeal form, it would stretch from here to Jupiter. And yet, upon hearing the news, I feel oddly sad.

When it comes to baseball, I can separate my personal feelings from objective reality. And the objective reality is, Chipper Jones may be the best switch hitter ever not named Mickey Mantle or Eddie Murray. Much like Mantle or Ken Griffey Jr., you can only imagine what his numbers would have been like if he hadn't lost so many seasons to injury. Plus, he played a physically demanding position that is underrepresented in the Hall of Fame. If he never plays another game, he's still a lock for Cooperstown.

Do I hate him? Oh god, yes. I've despised him ever since that immortal (to me) year of 1999, when he clearly delighted in beating the Mets at every opportunity. You could tell he relished the thought of eliminating them from postseason contention, as the Braves nearly did in their last series at Shea that season. When an excruciating extra-inning loss left the Mets two games out of the wild card spot with three games to play, Chipper told the press that Mets fans should "go home and put their Yankee stuff on".

For that statement alone, if I ever see him in the street, I will hit him in the face with a shovel.

That said, Chipper will be missed because he may be the last of the Great Baseball Villains. He loved being a thorn in a certain team's side. This was once very common in the game, when rivalries were real and deeply personal, rather than the trumped-up sports hatred of the ESPN era, where The Worldwide Leader inflates artificial rivalries as much as they can even if they haven't evolved organically. Or obsesses about actual rivalries to the point where everyone becomes sick of them (see: Yankees-Red Sox)

In ye olden days, every team had a villain or two. Someone to boo and project all their hatred on. Dodgers fans hated Juan Marichal. Giants fans hated Don Drysdale. Yankees fans hated George Brett. And everybody hated Barry Bonds. The recent Reds-Cardinals kung fu exposition notwithstanding, we don't see much of this in baseball anymore.

The mere mention of the Braves fills me with anger. But when I watch them now, there's very few people who inspire actual anger within me, because all of the villains of the late 90s/early 00s are gone. No more Greg Maddux. No more Brian Jordan. No more John Rocker. No more Eddie Perez or Ryan Klesko or Andruw Jones. Every single one of those guys hated the Mets, and you could tell.

In their place, the Braves are now a team with a disturbing amount of fresh-faced young'uns. Guys like Brian McCann and Jason Heyward and Matt DIaz, guys who just put their heads down and play and just wanna help the team win, by golly. They don't even have the decency to be hateable. And to top it all off, Bobby Cox is soon to retire. If the Braves didn't cling to their horribly racist Tomahawk Chop, there'd be nothing to hate about them at all.

Chipper held himself as a beacon of Hate, and he did not mellow as the years went on. He named one of his kids Shea, because he hit so well there, as a giant genetic "fuck you" to Mets fans. He bitched about David Wright winning a Gold Glove. In more recent years, he professed enjoying his visits to New York and even had not-terrible things to say about Mets fans, which I think he did for the sole purpose of driving them nuts.

Earlier this year, I went to a Mets-Braves game with my daughter. When Chipper strode to the plate, the crowd erupted in its customary mocking chant of LAAAAAAAAA-REEEEEE!. 

"Why they saying Larry?" my daughter said, knitting her brow in confusion.

"Because he likes to call himself Chipper, but his real name is Larry," I explained.

She scowled. "Why?" She sounded annoyed. She had no idea what hell this man had inflicted on the Mets. She just knew, at age three, that a grown man shouldn't call himself Chipper. So she yelled LARRY! along with everyone else and laughed.

I wouldn't have had that moment without you, Larry, so thanks. And also, go die.

Do you have any details about K-Rod's altercation with his father-in-law? What was the fight about?

Probably just looked at him funny. You don't look at Frankie funny. He'll cut you.

So there was no real cause at all?

No, it was all part of our plan to make the team less nice. All you writers kept telling me we needed to be meaner, so that's what we're doing. I told K-Rod he should get in a fight with some family members, maybe yell at his kids in public or something. But he really stepped it up. Gotta hand it to him. Beating up a man 30 years older than you, that's some big league hustle.

Are you afraid K-Rod might wind up in jail?

Yeah, I'm afraid for the other inmates. He once showed me how you could make a shank using a plastic cup and a piece of dental floss.

He's really that much a thug?

No doubt. Hell, Mariano Rivera didn't want to be in the same locker room as him, or so Bob Klapisch says. Just think about some of the skells Mo was teammates with: steroid cheats, wife beaters, vehicular manslaughter enthusiasts...so you figure someone's gotta be really bad if Mo don't want nothing to do with him.

So the whole team's getting a new, mean makeover?

Oh yeah. This is why I really wanted us to trade for Brett Myers, but Omar told me he's only willing to beat up women.

How is the rest of the team getting meaner?

You saw what David Wright did to his bat last night? That was 'cause he heard the bat was snitchin'. Carlos Beltran's got a switchblade and couple of throwing stars in that knee brace of his. And Jose Reyes has dropped dancing and taken up krav maga, the deadly Israeli art of self-defense. When you join the team now, you gotta get jumped in. And when we take our next trip to Chicago, we're gonna have a team dinner where we eat a baby.

You mean a baby cow, like veal.

Nope, a human baby. We're living outside the bonds of human decency now. We will become the worst humans on the planet, godless fiends, making a mockery of your so-called laws and all you stand for. Your society is nothing but a sham that will crumble the second you meet the hellish likes of us.

Back to the game. Why didn't you bring in Frankie with two outs in the eighth and the bases loaded as you still clung to a one-run lead?

Because I'm a complete fucking moron.

This is bogus, man! Jerry wants me to platoon just because I'm dangerously unqualified to play in the majors! And just when I'm about to hit my 100th home run, too! That's it, I gotta get a trade outta this dump. Anywhere but here. This is so unfair! Carlos, back me up on this.
Huh? I'm sorry, I couldn't hear you. There's hundreds of angry fans screaming at me for being a clubhouse cancer.
Whoah, that's totally unfair! If I were you, I'd grab a reporter and tell him my side of the story.
I would do that, but the reporters are right at front of the mob, brandishing pitchforks.
You're too uptight, dude. You just gotta take it free and easy, like me.
But if I take it free and easy, the reporters say I'm not hustling.
*pfft* Don't listen to those guys, man. If they write stuff like that, just give 'em the cold shoulder.
Whenever I ignore the writers, they say I'm aloof and unapproachable. Oh, and sometimes they threaten my family.
I don't know what half those words mean and you're old. How about you, Jose? You're a young go-getter. You gotta understand what I'm saying.
I'd like to help you out, Jeff, but I'm too busy trying to explain to the beat writers that me occasionally dancing isn't the worst thing to happen to baseball since the Black Sox.
So you dance sometimes! Big deal! Why don't you just ask for a trade to a different city, like me? You just gotta take what you want! I watched this motivational thingy once where this one really tall guy said that.
Because the writers would throw bricks in my face if I did that.
You guys are too timid. Hey, there's Angel Pagan. This guy gets it.
Yeah, I get it straight up the pooper from the sports press, because I'm having a huge year and yet somehow I don't "play the game the right way". Meanwhile, you swing at everything that moves and get away with murder.
Hey, don't pin this on me, broham! Don't get mad at me 'cause I make an effort to get to know the scribes.
I tried to shake Bill Madden's hand once, and he bit me! On the head!
Wallace Matthews shit in a box and sent it to me, on my birthday.
The only reason I'm still playing baseball is because Mike Lupica kidnapped my children.
That's so weird. You guys are way better players than me. Why would the press give you such a hard time?
Take a guess.
You were all born on Tuesdays? I always heard reporters hate Tuesdays.
Take another guess.
Maybe you don't smile hard enough.
Take another guess. Why do you think reporters might be more receptive to an aw-shucks boy from Georgia than three guys who come from foreign lands and have funny accents?
I don't have time to play your mind games. I gotta split. Me and Joel Sherman are gonna hit the lunch buffet at Temptations. Hasta manana, amigos!
Is it easier being that dumb if you're that white?
Shhh. If you listen hard, you can hear him swing and miss at something.

I have touchstones all over New York that immediately bring back incidents in my life. All it takes is an awning or a doorway to bring memories flooding back. That's that theater I used to go to all the time. There's that bar where my friend pissed all over the window late one night. That's the corner where I pushed a huge metal cog into oncoming traffic.

Right now, I'm working near Wall Street, right in the shadow of Ground Zero. I've never worked in this neighborhood before, which is somewhat unusual in my family (between finance, insurance, and the courts, most of my relatives have worked downtown at some point or another). But I used to go down there every now and then, because my father worked here for most of his adult life (when he was working).

When I was in college, we started to meet up for lunch, and it continued as I entered the workforce myself. We didn't eat downtown too often--as I've quickly found out, the meal options down there are slim pickins. More often, we'd get lunch in the Village--my dad was a huge fan of the Waverly Diner on Sixth Avenue, for reasons that escape me.

But before my current gig, my only ventures into the Financial District area were to visit my dad, and so when I walk around those narrow, sloping streets, I feel haunted by him. Particularly since he used to work in the World Trade Center. I visited him a few times there, when he worked in an office on the 102nd floor, where you could actually feel the building yaw slightly to each side. I can't pretend to know what it's like to have lost someone on 9/11, but I think I know something like it when I look out my new office's windows and see workers below laying foundations, paving things over, removing all evidence that anyone was once there.

I called his death years before it happened, at least in broad terms. I declared to my mother that he'd already put us through too much grief to go easily. It would not be a quick heart attack or car accident. It would be something prolonged and painful and probably crippling to all our wallets. I said these things as jokes, but I was 100 percent convinced they would come true, and I was right.

Alex Rodriguez's 600th home run was endlessly pimped by ESPN, YES, and the collected New York tabloids, to the point that the Yankees' taut anticipation of this historic event was posited by the fretful NY press corps as the source of the team's struggles. (You know, those struggles where they lose two games to the Blue Jays in the midst of another playoff-bound season. We should all struggle so much.)

When he finally connected for this historic dinger, the Yankee Stadium crowd gave him a standing ovation, something he rarely receives, even in The Bronx. But in the rest of the sports world, the event was greeted with either yawns or "enough already"s. Why is that? It is, after all, an historic accomplishment, one only attained by six other humans. No batter will reach this lofty goal again for a while, unless JI- JIM THOME can hang around long enough to hit the mark.

Is it the Steroids Issue? Yes, Rodriguez used them at some point in his career, and he is often taunted with screams of A-Roid (among other variations on his nickname). But I honestly think that, while PED hysteria reigns in newspapers and on talk radio, most fans don't give two doots about them. While the ethics of taking steroids are debatable, anyone who roots for a team has rooted for someone (knowingly or not) who used them. If it's a crime, we're all complicit. Those A-ROID! screams stem more from a desire to make fun of him than actual outrage.

Therein lies the reason for the apathy: Nobody cares about A-Rod's 600th homer because nobody likes him. Last week, Ken Tremendous encapsulated it in one amazing tweet: "'Alex Rodriguez is my favorite baseball player of all time!' said nobody."

I find this alternatively hilarious and tragic. Alex Rodriguez is one of the best to ever play the game. We may never see a better all-around player. He'll break a ton of offensive records before he retires, and he will undoubtedly make it to Cooperstown.

And yet, every step of his career he has been overlooked or reviled for one reason or another. Many of these reasons are unfair. He was hated for his enormous contract when he signed with the Rangers, as if any human being would have turned down the money he was offered. He was hated for his "failures" in the postseason, even though other Yankees failed just as badly or worse. He was hated for not displaying the Jetery Jeterness of his beloved teammate, even though he's a far superior player.

But there is one other negative about Rodriguez that, while also unfair, is still true: he's a Giant Douche. It's unfair because it's beyond his ability to change. But it's true because, c'mon, just look at the guy. If you saw a picture of him and knew nothing about him, you'd still proclaim, "There stands a douche."

He's certainly not the first Giant Douche to play baseball. Joe DiMaggio was apparently a miserable human being. Ted Williams was such a douche that even the slavish sports press of his day made it public knowledge. More recently, we have examples like A.J. Pierzynski, Shane Victorino, and Jonathan Papelbon, all world-class douches.

There are many kinds of douches. Most are the brash, un-self-conscious type. Or they're the exact opposite, blissfully unaware of the damage they cause, like a douchey bull in a china shop. The one characteristic they share is not caring about how they're perceived by the public at large, either because they don't realize it or don't care.

Rodriguez is a very different, very special type of douche, perhaps the only one of his kind. He gives off a distinctive douche aura immediately obvious to all who see him. And yet, he is so intent on proving himself not a douche that he actually makes himself appear even more douchey in the process. He wants to be loved, which should be a good quality in a person. But somehow, when filtered through the Alex Rodriguez Machine, this desire comes out twisted.

We all know the very public instances of his douchiness. But here is a story about Mr. Rodriguez that I feel illustrates it perfectly. I have to say I did not witness this story as it happened, but I know the people involved and can vouch for their truthiness.

This incident occurred at an office where I used to work on the Upper West Side. A-Rod apparently lives somewhere in the vicinity. He was out walking in the neighborhood and realized he needed to use the bathroom. As you probably know, it's really hard to find public rest rooms in Manhattan, because they don't exist. If nature calls and there's no Barnes and Noble nearby, you're pretty much screwed. So A-Rod ducked into our office and asked to use the facilities.

Unfortunately for him, the receptionist didn't recognize A-Rod and refused to let him use the bathroom. He pleaded his case to no avail, until a higher-up in the company saw him, kowtowed, and gave him permission to take care of business. On his way, he grabbed a copy of the Daily News from our waiting area.

A considerable while later (long enough to assume he was not just going Number 1), he emerged and thanked the company for its belated hospitality. But before he left, he left the copy of the Daily News on the secretary's desk. He had it open to a page featuring his photo, just to let the receptionist know that she had almost prevented an enormous superstar from taking a squeege.

That is a very special kind of Douche right there.

<script language="jerryscript">

function atbat
(if (runner on) {base = any} 
return bunt)
;

function lineup1
(if (constructing lineup) {day ends in Y}
return pick names out of hat)
;

function lineup2
(if (need number 6 hitter) {got a feeling he's gonna bust out}
return Francoeur
[else {return Francoeur}])
;

function pinchhitsituation
(if (lefty on mound)
return Cora)
[else {scan bench, return Cora}])
;

function lateinninglead
(if (ninth inning save situation or five-run lead in eighth)
return K-Rod
[else {return whoever's arm hasn't turn to spaghetti yet}])
;

function disagreementwithplayer
if (dont see eye to eye with player) {could be hashed out behind closed doors}
return talk shit about player to press)
;

function postgamepressconference
(if (blow out loss)
return nonsensical cackling);
[else {shake head, return guffaw})
;

It was, for the most part, a weekend to forget for the Mets. Particularly Sunday, when Jon Niese, Elmer Dessens, and Oliver Perez conspired to make a mockery of any Belief in Comebacks. As far as playoff dreams go, I am a die-harder. If fandom were World War II, I'd be one of those guys still hiding in a cave in the South Pacific with grenades 20 years later. But this weekend was the straw that broke this camel's back. I've passed from disgust to acceptance of yet another lost season.

However, there is one thing I will take with me from this otherwise soul crushing series against the Diamondbacks. During Friday night's comeback win that wasn't, at the conclusion of the sixth inning, SNY cut from the action on the field to the Shea Bridge in centerfield. Then, as the kids say, hilarity ensued.



If the 2010 Mets give me nothing else--and all signs point to them giving me nothing else--they will have given me this.

Greetings, fans! John Sterling here, voice of the Yankees! If there's one question I get asked more than any other, it's "Why are you still alive?" After that, the question I get asked the most is, "How do you come up with your famous personalized home run calls?" Often followed by, "What possessed you to come up with these home run calls?" and "Who lets you come up with these home run calls?"

Each home run call I develop takes days, sometimes even weeks of trial and error. When the Yankees acquire a new player, I sit down with my little yellow notepad and come up with a few "punny" riffs on his name. I then stand in front of my full-length wardrobe mirror and bellow them at the top of my lungs, as I twitter and shake like Julia Roberts in Steel Magnolias (still one of my faves!).

Then, if the downstairs neighbors haven't called the cops again, I judge the way they sound on my own Sterling Scale, with 1 Sterling being poor and 32 Sterlings being just grand! If I have a friend over for dinner, I'll seek feedback from him as well. I know I've hit the mark if he says he's not hungry anymore or turns green and runs to the bathroom.

I don't take this process lightly. After all, I am the voice of the Yankees, the most celebrated franchise in all of American sports. I understand that my choices should reflect the history, tradition, and mystique of this team. Of course, not everything can rise to the majestic heights of ROBBIE CANO, DONTCHA KNOW! or A THRILLA! BY GODZILLA!, but striving to achieve such grandeur remains my goal.

The most important factor when choosing my home run calls: Will it allow Suzyn Waldman any time to speak? If the answer is yes, it's back to the drawing board.

Of course, not every idea makes the cut. Here's a list of a few proposed home run calls for Yankee greats, past and present, that were not up to my usual, exacting standards:

Chuck Knoblauch: IT'S ANOTHER KNOB-POLISHER!

Jason Giambi: GO TO THE MATTRESSES! THAT'S A VICIOUS HIT BY THE GIAMBI-NO CRIME FAMILY!

Jorge Posada: HEY THERE, GEORGIE BOY, SWINGING AT THE PLATE SO FANCY FREE!

Bernie Williams: THAT BALL'S BEEN BERN-ED BEYOND ALL RECOGNITION! ANOTHER SKIN GRAFT-TACULAR HOMER FOR WILLIAMS!

Paul O'Neill: EVERY TIME I SEE YOU HOMERING I GET DOWN ON MY O'NEILL'S AND PRAY!

Chad Curtis: HE HIT THE BALL INTO THE STANDS WITH HIS BAT!

Brett Gardner: THE CONSTANT GARDNER! STARRING RALPH FIENNES AND RACHEL WEISZ WHICH I HAVE NOT YET SEEN BUT IS IN MY NETFLIX QUEUE!

Curtis Granderson: The entire original soundtrack to the 1953 musical Kismet

I've been blessed to call so many great moments in Yankee history. But if I have one more wish, it's to record an album of my home run calls with a full orchestra. Nelson Riddle will have to arrange, of course.

What would my own home run call be? I'm glad you asked. I think it would go something like this.

Sterling steps up to the plate, wearing his custom-made wool pinstripe Botany 500 suit. Two men on, two out, we're in the bottom of the ninth, and the Yankees trail by two. Theeeee pitch is BELTED TO DEEP LEFT-CENTER FIELD! THAT BALL IS HIGH! MMM-IT IS FAR! MMM-IT IS GONE! STERLING POUNDS ONE! THE JOHN BACKS UP--A HOMER, THAT IS! A STERLING SILVER PERFORMANCE! JOHN JACOB JINGLEHEIMER SCHMIDT, HIS NAME IS MY NAME TOO! STER-LING UP SOME TROUBLE! JOHN JOHN, THE PIPER'S SON, HIT A HOMER AND AWAY HE RUN! YOU'RE SOME KIND OF MONSTER-LING! MATTHEW, MARK, LUKE AND JOHN, BLESS THIS HOMER WE JUST WON ON!

Or something equally as quiet and dignified.

This seems as good a time as any to tell you about my ephemeral run-in with George Steinbrenner.

I grew up in a Cop Town north of New York City. It seemed like everyone I knew as a kid, their dad was either a policeman or a fireman in the city. (My dad was a notable exception; for most of my childhood, he veered between insurance, finance, and alcohol-aided unemployment.)

One of my best friends was a huge Yankees fan. His dad was a cop. His dad also worked the security detail for George Steinbrenner. My memory is vague on the finer points of the nature of this work; I think he may have been The Boss's driver at some point. I don't know if this work was actually part of his NYPD duty or something on the side. My guess is the latter.

When we graduated from elementary school, my friend's dad got us tickets for a Yankee game. Somehow I squeezed my mom for enough money to buy a program while I was there (our family finances were mired in the Dirt Poor range at the time), because on the few occasions I got to go to a baseball game, I HAD to score it. I don't know where I picked up this filthy habit, but it still haunts me. For four years, I brought a scorebook to every Met game I went to for the same purpose.

Midway through the game, my friend's dad decided to give us a treat by bringing us "behind the scenes" in the Yankee offices. A security guard waved us through a couple of imposing glass doors, and then a blazer-wearing tour guide showed us around the "backstage" area, which looked more or less like any other office, except with pictures of Mickey Mantle and Babe Ruth everywhere.

He then walked us through the slim hallway that backed the press booths. We stopped briefly behind the WPIX booth, where Phil Rizzuto and Lou Piniella (post-managerial stint) were manning the mics. I waved at them and Scooter waved back. I felt weirdly excited about it.

We were then brought back into the office area, and into a big office. It had a very large desk in it, and it had a fantastic view of the field, with wall to floor windows. But apart from that, it was relatively sparse: a modest bookshelf, a few chairs, and that was pretty much it. Not even any art hanging from the walls. Its only opulent feature was a couch shaped like an old fielder's mitt, which I decided was the greatest thing ever.

A TV was on in the office. I saw that Don Mattingly had just singled. I'd been carrying my program around this whole time, attempting to keep up with the game. So I leaned on the desk to mark this down on the scorecard.

"And this," the tour guide said, "is Mr. Steinbrenner's office."

I recoiled from the desk in abject terror. I felt like I'd just grabbed Genghis Khan's spear. I'd toyed with the prize possession of a terrible, wrath-filled warlord. My friend later told me I leaped a good five feet from the desk. I thought that somehow, Steinbrenner would know I'd touched his desk. He'd just feel it, sense his aura being disturbed, and come storming up there to punish me in the most gruesome way possible. But the tour guide just laughed and we moved on.

I don't remember anything else from that game, except that we left early because it was a night game and not an ideal era to be out too late in The Bronx (even if you were accompanied by a cop). Because I was too scared that somehow, George Steinbrenner was going to find out I'd leaned on his desk and...I don't know, fire me?

I was way too old to be thinking such things, and I knew it, but the notion would not leave me. The specter of Steinbrenner was far too strong.

1B--Ryan Howard: Another solid season from the big guy. I know some people wanted me to take Joey Votto instead, just because he's having an MVP-caliber season. But Ryan's my guy, and I need a team full of "my guys" if I want to win this totally meaningless exhibition that determines home field advantage in the World Series for some reason.

2B--Chase Utley: I know Chase is out for 2 months after surgery on his thumb, but he's still my guy. I'll just put up one a them cages we put on the infield during batting practice. Or maybe we'll do a designated fielder. We can do that, right?

SS--Larry Bowa: I was tempted to go with Jimmy Rollins, but I decided to go old school with Larry. A Phillies legend, no doubt, and that old son of a bitch can still shotgun a can of Schlitz. Betcha Jose Reyes can't do that. Pussy.

3B--Jorge Rodriguez: Owns the bodega 'round the corner from me. Always has my brand of chaw stocked. Good egg.

OF--Bill Kennedy, Fred Derwin, Johnny Finnerty: The bartenders down at Mulcahy's. They make sure my friend Jim Beam never leaves me for too long.

Pitching Staff--My weekly poker game: Gotta have something to do while I'm out there in California. There's not much else going on in Los Angeles.

Most of us red-blooded Americans enjoyed a long weekend for the Fourth of July, but Bill Madden of the New York Daily News was hard at work on one of the dumbest, lamest columns I've ever read. You may have missed this piece of work as you barbecued or blew your arm off with a mortar, but I caught it.

This is a time of year where we're supposed to celebrate those who made possible all of our cherished freedoms, but this column almost made me wish we were a little less free. It not only subtracted a few IQ points off of its readers, but it also shaved thinner the dividing line between Sports Nerd and Comic Book Geek.

Recently, I took Madden to task for some remarks he made on WFAN about George Steinbrenner, as he promoted his biography of The Boss. The Daily News article also involved Steinbrenner, but in the dorkiest way possible. In my last post about Madden, I just thought the longtime sportswriter was just being myopic and selective in his memories of the Yankees' owner. Now I think Madden might be in love with him. Because in Madden's world, through Steinbrenner, all things are possible.

Here's the premise of his column, entitled "If Boss Ruled Knicks": In the alternate universe where George Steinbrenner owns the Knicks, LeBron James would sign with them in a minute, because George Steinbrenner is magical and everything he touches turns to gold.

Why is Madden even contemplating such a fantasy world this weekend? Because as you all know, George Steinbrenner was born on the Fourth of July. You all know this because Steinbrenner himself would be more than happy to drill that fact into your head with all the trumped-up patriotism in which he wrapped his team over the years. (Not so much from his Watergate-related conviction, but then again, what's more American than illegal campaign contributions?)

It's not until you get 3/4 of the way through the column that Madden mentions a deal that almost went down in the late 1990s, in which the Yankees, Knicks, and Rangers would've been part of one huge Cablevision-owned conglomerate. That fact makes Madden's fantasia at least plausible. But even if this deal had happened, do you think egos such as Steinbrenner's and the Dolans' could've coexisted long enough to allow The Boss to still be involved with the Knicks more than a decade later? Of course not. Within 6 months, somebody would've dropped out or been murdered.

Marvel Comics used to have a series called What If...?, where various hypotheticals of the Marvel Universe were explored. Madden has basically written that, in one of the largest newspapers in America, about two of the biggest figures in sports. It's not journalism. It's not even opinion. It's fan fiction. If the Daily News is going to publish stuff like this, why don't they just run short stories written by 15 year olds where Buffy the Vampire Slayer meets Jack Skellington?

As I write this, all the rumor, scuttlebutt, and foofara points to Bobby Valentine becoming the next manager of the Florida Marlins. This would distress me greatly, because I love Bobby V, and I despise the Marlins.

I actually don't hate any player on the Marlins. I just have no respect for them, as an organization. They've won two World Series and dismantled themselves immediately after winning both of them. They take revenue sharing money from MLB and refuse to spend it on their roster unless shamed by Bud Selig into doing so (when Selig sides against an owner, you know they're really doing something wrong). They play in a cavernous, charmless stadium that they couldn't fill if each seat came with a free beer and blow job. And their owner is easily the biggest shitheel in baseball now that George Steinbrenner is retired.

One of my most painful baseball memories: seeing the Mets lose to the Marlins on the last day of the 2008 season, the last game ever at Shea. The loss prevented them from finishing in a tie with the Brewers for the wild card, and brought on another long winter.

Yes, the blame falls on the Mets themselves for letting this happen. But after the Mets made the last out, the Marlins hugged and high-fived on the field like a bunch of Little Leaguers who just earned a trip to Chuck E. Cheese. I know teams congratulate each other on the field all the time, but this was a prolonged, obnoxious celebration. They milked this bit for every last drop, as angry fans screamed GET OFF THE DAMN FIELD!! It was basically a huge extended middle finger to everyone in the crowd, and I will hate the Marlins until the day I die for that.

Not to mention this was the second year in a row that the Marlins beat the Mets on the last day of the season to destroy their playoff hopes. Yes, please, let's not mention it.

As for Bobby Valentine, I know a lot of people don't like him for one reason or another, and I understand why people wouldn't like him. He certainly doesn't suffer from a lack of ego or excess of humility. He has a weird sense of humor that doesn't always translate well after it leaves his brain and enters the real world. Like his infamous dugout disguise in 1999, or his attempts at Cheech and Chong-esque jokes during the Grant Roberts mess in 2002.

Allowing all of that, I think Bobby Valentine is a true baseball genius. Just look at the Mets teams he brought to the postseason. They had lots of talent and were fun to watch (particularly in 1999), but they were not teams that should've gone deep into the playoffs.

Valentine was able to take those teams' weaknesses and turn them into strengths. He compensated for a relatively weak starting rotation with judicious use of a great bullpen. While he wasn't afraid to use his relievers early and often, rarely did he overuse them.

He also didn't have fantastic outfielders to choose from, so he switched often between guys like Benny Agbayani, Ronny Cedeno, Darryl Hamilton, Melvin Mora, Jay Payton, Timo Perez...not exactly a collection of superstars. And yet he found enough playing time for all of them, while also managing to identify whoever had the "hot hand" at the time.

Bobby Valentine was fired after the 2002 season to pay for Steve Phillips' sins, which still stands out as one of the dumbest things the Mets have ever done (quite a feat, considering the team). He found success managing in Japan, but clearly (and understandably) feels like he still has something to prove in the majors.

And I would love to see him prove it--if not with the Mets, then with somebody. I could even stomach Bobby V managing the Phillies or the Yankees. But there's something about seeing him manage the Marlins that seems both unseemly and beneath him. Like he's grasping at this opportunity simply because it's been offered to him, when he would really be better served holding out for something better.

I'm sure that's not true. After all, he interviewed for the Orioles' opening and decided that wasn't for him (who is it for?). And he's apparently good buddies with Jeff Loria (a fact that makes me question all the good things I've said about him), so at least there's some connection between the two men.

But seeing him in a Marlin uniform--which now appears more a matter of When than If--will be kind of like seeing Eugene Levy in all those terrible American Pie straight-to-DVD follow-ups, or Steve Martin in virtually everything he's done in the last 15 years. You just wanna grab him and say, "Look, I know you want the work, and maybe on some level you need it, but you're better than this, and this will not end well."

Because you know that, even if Bobby V and Loria are BFFs, there will be conflicts between the two of them over the direction of the team. I can't imagine he'll enjoy Florida's $45 million payroll, or taking buses between cities, or scrubbing the dirt out his players' uniforms by hand, or mowing the field on off days.

Loria's already run two good managers out of Florida--first Joe Girardi, then Fredi Gonzalez (and basically handed the Braves, a division rival, their future manager in the process). Bobby V is no better than either of these guys in his willingness to take shit from others. Is he likely to stay quiet when Loria continues to do things on the cheap, or do other insane things like install a shark tank behind home plate at their new stadium? Unlikely.

So if you haven't said yes yet, Bobby, and you have a spare moment to reconsider, I humbly suggest you do so. Jeff Loria might be your buddy now, but I bet he gets a lot less friendly once five dollars is involved.

Stephen Strasburg's major league debut was everything (almost) everyone hoped it would be. I'll admit there was a part of me that wanted Strasburg to, if not fail, then perform in a middling fashion. There was no way (I thought) the hype could possibly match the reality. But it did, and then some. After seeing how lights out he was, and ignoring the fact that the Mets will have to face this guy a couple of times a season for at least the next few years, I had to admit he was something awesome to behold.

Of course, some people pointed out that Strasburg's start came against the lowly Pirates (like this jerk did). But with some time to think about my dumb tweet, I've changed my mind and would like to echo the sentiments expressed by Walkoff Walk. The Pirates are still a major league team. They have some decent hitters, like Andrew McCutchen, Delwyn Young, and, okay, why not, Lastings Milledge. Even the worst teams in baseball do not strike out 14 times in one game very often. Any time a pitcher racks up that many Ks, no matter who the opponent is, it's amazing. Especially when he fans the last seven batters to face him and is still throwing 99 mph as he does it.

Almost as impressive as the 14 strikeouts: Strasburg did not walk a single batter. I bet you'd have to look long and hard to find the last time a pitcher made his first major league start and didn't issue a single free pass. And if you did find such a start, it was probably because that rookie gave up seven straight hits and was yanked before recording an out.

I also heard/read some people mocking Nats fans for never showing up to games before now, and leaving when Strasburg left the game. That last act is, admittedly, a little shabby. But up to this point, you can't say the Nationals had much to cheer for, save Ryan Zimmerman and the occasional anomalous hot streak. I don't blame people from staying away from the ballpark. Going to games is expensive. If you're going to invest that amount of money and time, the on-field product better be worth it, and up to this point, it hasn't been.

It reminds me of 2008, when the Rays made the playoffs and lots of fans (particularly of the Red Sox stripe) mocked the folkways of a fanbase that had no experience with packed stadiums and postseason baseball. Such criticism is totally unfair, because all fandom starts somewhere. Just because the Sox had almost a century's head start to build its mythos doesn't make their fandom any more evolved or righteous.

In 1905, some handlebar-mustachioed gentleman decided to take in the Boston nine and see what all the fuss was about; now 100 years later, his descendents are Sox fans. If this person had grown up in Tampa Bay, he wouldn't have had an opportunity to see a major league baseball team in his hometown for 90 years. Whose fault would that be? Nobody's.

I'm sure there's kids in Florida who got hooked on baseball for the first time because of the excitement of that first postseason in Tampa. Now they're fans for life, and they'll pass that passion along to their kids. Likewise, people from DC who had only a middling interest in the Nationals could get caught along the tide of Strasburg-mania, and in the process, become real fans. And the people who've been "real fans" all along get to look down their noses at the newcomers and boast that they liked the Nats before it was cool. Win-win!

My only objection, and it has little to do with the second coming of Koufax himself: I've heard more than one person say that Strasburg's debut was a great tonic for "long suffering" Nats fans. Here I must raise a hand and object. The Nationals have only been around for six seasons. They have not existed for a sufficient amount of time to have a long suffering fanbase. For that, look at the team from Pittsburgh they just defeated. Or Indians fans. Or Royals fans.

Better yet, look to the dispossessed Expos fans, who were left without a team when the now-Nationals left Montreal. There's no better definition of a long-suffering fanbase than one whose team split town and ain't never coming back. Particularly since Expos fans must have seen the execution coming from miles away, as MLB did everything in its power to drain the Expos of what little life they had. They moved "home" games to Puerto Rico. They let Jeff Loria run the team into the ground. And they took over the franchise but didn't allow it to improve in any way.

Just consider that, Nats fans. Your team may have been a doormat up until this point, but least it still exists.

I have now almost totally weaned myself off of listening to WFAN (apart from Mets games). It was hard at first, because I grew up in a house where this station was on all the time. The sounds of sports radio, however dumb, are like audio comfort food to me. But I've come to realize it's more like audio Cheetos--it provides no nutrition and leaves behind a sticky, powdery mess.

However, I will occasionally tune in after a good series for the Mets. I like to soak up some good vibes and listen to those sad sacks who bitch and moan no matter what the team does. I did this yesterday and also heard the late morning/early afternoon hosts Joe Benigno and Evan Roberts interview Bill Madden, Latino-phobic Daily News scribe and George Steinbrenner biographer.

I have yet to read his Steinbrenner book, though I would like to. But if a subtitle like "The Last Lion of Baseball" didn't clue you into the book's tone, then this interview would have (you can hear the whole thing here). Like most folks who speak of Big Stein these days, Madden was effusive in his praise of the Yankees owner. He credits Steinbrenner with "making the Yankees a billion-dollar enterprise". Asked if he should be in the Hall of Fame, Madden responded, "if you tried to write a definitive history of baseball, I defy you to be able to do it without mentioning George Steinbrenner prominently throughout it."

You also can't write a history of the 2000's without mentioning George W. Bush prominently throughout it. That doesn't make him a great president. He had a lot of impact on the world, and most of it was negative. Prominence doesn't necessarily equal greatness, and it certainly doesn't necessarily equal goodness.

I know I've written about this before, but whenever confronted with this take on Steinbrenner, I feel like I have to raise my hand and provide a counter-argument. Because with each passing year, the idea of George Steinbrenner as a terrible owner seems to trickle down the memory hole.

And I know I've told this story before, too, but it also bears repeating because no one seems to remember this era anymore. The day Steinbrenner received his second "lifetime" suspension in 1990, I was at my grandparents house. I remember it distinctly because my uncle--an out-of-his-skull fanatical Yankees fan--was also there, and when the news came down, he literally leaped in the air, clapped his hand, and yelled with joy.

Because by that point, Yankee fans were in open revolt. The 1980s were an anxious, fallow period for the franchise. Despite spending top dollar on the best available free agents (surprise, surprise), the Yankees missed out on the playoffs for 13 straight seasons--a long drought for any team, let alone them.

"Welcome, O infamy! I go to encounter for the millionth time the reality of my experience and to forge in the smithy of my soul the final impetus for full replay."

On Saturday, we visited friends to take in game 2 of the Subway Series, a rare evening Fox broadcast. These friends are Yankee fans, but we agree on this point: Joe Buck is awful. Much of our in-game conversation revolved around his hideousness. (We pretty much left Tim McCarver's performance alone; at this point, making fun of Tim is like busting on the fat kid in your grade who's been left behind three times.)

As the game ground to a conclusion, Joe Buck sounded positively crestfallen. And when Frankie Rodriguez finally struck out Francisco Cervelli to end it, Buck was despondent. I thought maybe it was because he expected the Yankees to mount a comeback (an effort the Mets' bullpen did its best to aid). Especially since the general tenor of the broadcast depicted the Mets as little more than an inconvenient molehill in the mountain that is the Yankees' season.

But my friend countered with something that really struck a chord. "He's not sad because he wanted the Yankees to win," my friend said. "He's just sad because he realizes he still has to call baseball games."

This is a theory I've had for a while and written about more than once, but I've never heard put quite this way before. I've said that Buck secretly hates baseball and unfavorably compared him to Chip Caray, another legacy broadcaster who also sucks but who is at least animated. I've even thought Buck is trapped in a purgatory of his own design.

It never occurred to me that maybe Buck hopes that each baseball game he calls might be his last. Perhaps a wildcat work stoppage will grind the big leagues to a halt. Perhaps MLB will get fleeced by a Bernie Madoff-esque con artist and lose so much money it's forced to close its doors. Perhaps some strange psycho-social event will alter the collective American consciousness so much that professional sports will no longer be a viable industry.

Maybe he thinks that if he just does just this one more game, he'll be released from this Faustian bargain, the one where he asked for fame and fortune in exchange for going into the family business that he hates. Is there any realistic chance it this Last Game will ever come? Of course not. But he has to think there is or go mad.

In a book I read recently (I want to say it's Paul Auster's Invisible, but I'm not 100 percent sure about that, so don't quote me), two characters wonder if the damned would have hope. They come to the conclusion that in order for Hell to have any meaning, the damned have some kind of hope. If they didn't, they would resign themselves to the horrors of hell, no matter how bad they were, and it wouldn't truly be hell.

Therefore, Buck must believe that he will be released from his torture, even though only the grave will release him from this obligation. It would be chilling, even sad, if it wasn't happening to Joe Buck, who is fucking horrible.

Daily News

OH CAPTAIN!: Jeter nearly fields three ground balls in valiant effort

Plus: "How the Mets managed to win despite having a so many Latinos," by Bill Madden, and "What this series means to me, personally, and no one else," by Mike Lupica

New York Post

YEAH, I GUESS: Mets hold on to win ultimately meaningless series

Plus: An apology for the premature online posting of original game story: K-WRONG: Closer blows lead and as Mets lose series that meant everything to them

New York Times

Struggling to Fit As Many Words into a Sports Headline as He Possibly Can, Our Editor Adds Countless Qualifiers Until the 6-4 Final of Last Night's Contest Between the Mets and Yankees Is Completely Obscured

Newsday

METS WI--

To read more, please sign up to get behind Newsday's curiously anachronistic paywall.

ESPN New York

YANKEES DEFEATED BY NON-RED SOX TEAM
Champs travel to Minnesota after off day to take on another non-Red Sox team

Plus: "Watch me shit all over the Mets' series win because it made a few people happy," by Wallace Matthews

In an effort to "shake up the lineup", Mets manager Jerry Manuel will bat a kitten third in tonight's game in Washington. "I just need to find the right mix," he said after last night's loss.

The kitten, one of a litter of seven, does not have a name yet, but clubhouse reporters describe it as "adorable". To make room for the kitten on the 40-man roster, both Jose Reyes and Johan Santana were placed on irrevocable waivers and immediately claimed by the Braves and Phillies respectively.

This was not the only batting order shakeup Manuel considered. "I also thought about handing in a lineup with only seven names and seeing if I could get away with it," he said.

Asked if this was a transparent effort to get fired as soon as possible, Manuel responded with a wan, chilling laugh.

Charlie, what do you say to accusations that your team has been stealing signs?

I'd say that those accusations...I'd have to see who was doing the accusing before I rushed to any judgment.

Your team was formally reprimanded by the commissioner's office for stealing signs. This complaint I have here...

I know what that is.

Let me finish, please. This complaint I have here was lodged by the Rockies after they spotted your bullpen coach using binoculars to try and steal signs from their catcher. What do you have to say about that?

Yes, the Phillies have been stealing signs. Don't you think I know that? It's my team. I'm quite aware of that!

And this is not the first time the accusation has been lobbed at your team. The Dodgers complained about sign stealing during the last NLCS, and the Mets suspected sign stealing during their last series in Philadelphia.

How about this: The Mets have won a lot of games at home and not so many on the road. Have you ever thought that maybe they're stealing signs? Why don't you go ask them about that?

Even though they just lost two out of three at home to the Nationals.

Maybe you're stealing signs. Have you ever thought about that?

I don't manage a baseball team.

Why does it have to be a manager of a baseball team who steals signs? Have you ever thought about that? It's not me, right? It's him, isn't it?

As you all know, the G20 Summit is happening in Toronto this summer. You guys all knew that, right? Because I sure as hell didn't. Not when I was making the schedules for this season, anyway. Oh well, live and...live and...how does the rest of that go? Eh, it's not important.

Anywhoozle, the G20 Summit will attract some of the world's most dangerous, ski-hatted anarchists, who threaten to stand around in streets chanting things in a vaguely upsetting matter, then disperse. I take this threat very seriously, even if 75 percent of these anti-capitalist groups are comprised of undercover FBI agents snitching on the other 25 percent. During this summit, Toronto may be safe enough to host the finance ministers of the world's 20 leading economies, but it certainly won't be safe enough for Alex Rios and Placido Polanco.

That's why I'm moving the interleague series between the Blue Jays and the Phillies down to Philadelphia. I understand that this may give one team a serious advantage. After all, the Blue Jays won their last World Series against the Phillies, and surely the memories of Joe Carter and Paul Molitor will give Toronto a huge psychic advantage! But I think the Phillies are talented enough to overcome this.

My office did give some consideration to moving this series to a neutral site. But I remember two years ago, we moved an Astros/Cubs series from Houston to Milwaukee, and many fans thought it was unfair to relocate those games to a city so close to Chicago. This time, to remove any ambiguity, I decided to just move the series to the other team's home field so there would be no question about who was getting hosed.

Some say I could have moved the games to Buffalo or Montreal or some other city like that. But then I'd have to find out the names of the stadiums in those cities. And then I'd have to find out who runs them. And then I'd have to find out their phone number. And then what if they don't answer the phone? Ugh, who's got time for that kind of hassle?!

I do understand that other teams in the NL East feel this gives an unfair edge to the Phillies, but I'd like to point out that each of them has an advantage of their own, which I feel cancels out this effect:

• The Mets will play in Puerto Rico this summer at the end of June, and you know how much Those People like hot, Caribbean temperatures. Fuck, did I say that out loud?
• The Marlins, in addition to playing in that series in Puerto Rico, have an average attendance of 300 people per game, which really cuts down on the pressure to perform.
• The Braves have Jason Heyward, who can heal lepers, I've heard.
• And the Nationals will be eliminated in the Great MLB Downsizing I have planned for 2015, so I'm not too worried about making them happy.

There you go, it's a win-win situation. Actually, it's a win-win-win situation, since the Phillies will totally sweep that series. Especially if they use that other advantage we've been letting them get away with.

Don't think Major League Baseball is unaware of or insensitive to the situation in Arizona, just because we haven't acknowledged it in any way so far. I just think it's unwise to rush into any action or statement or movement until we have all the facts.

Rest assured, my Fact Gatherers are out there right now, gathering those facts. Yup, they are working hard, and as soon as they're done with their work, that's when the work of the Fact Interpreters begins. And once those guys are done with their work, we have to call in the Action Recommenders, who recommend actions based on those facts.

And when all of that is taken care of, we have to bring in someone to clean up the facts and file them away so the office looks neat and tidy. Clean office, clean business, I always say. It's a long, involved process, people.

Stalling? I'm not stalling. What makes you think I'm stalling? I can't believe you would think something like that. That's just...did you eat? Can I get you something? How about some coffee?

However, I want to say right up front that we will not consider moving the All Star Game from Phoenix in 2011. Even if the state passed an unjust law--AND I'M NOT SAYING THEY DID, DON'T RUSH ME--it's not fair to the citizens of Arizona to deny them a chance to see baseball superstars up close, like Alex Rodriguez and Albert Pujols and whoever we decide to send from the Royals. And by "citizens", of course I mean whichever corporate douchebags weasel their way into getting tickets to the game.

As for all the spring training facilities in Arizona, that is a team matter that each team will have to decide for itself based on what is good for that particular team. I believe in teams' rights and trust them to come to equitable, sensible decisions on their own. It's a policy I learned when I did graduate work at the James Buchanan School of Diplomacy.

Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to hide under this pile of coats while whistling loudly and hope that somehow, all of this goes away.

As a kid, I was fascinated by 1970s baseball. The huge afros, the amazing facial hair, the retina-burning uniform designs--it seemed like such an insane, colorful era, particularly when compared to the heavily moussed 80s, where I spent most of my kid-dom. (Of course, there were some colorful characters then, too, but that's a tale for another time.)

Whenever I had some disposable income (which was not often), I would spend it at a baseball card convention or store, usually on a large plastic box filled with completely worthless cards from 1977 or 1975, just so I could savor such sartorial majesties as Willie McCovey's sideburns. My elementary school library had these slim books on each major league team, all published in the mid-'70s, which I borrowed repeatedly. And whenever my grampa took me to Cooperstown, I'd seek out the unbelievable mini-exhibit on the technicolor uniforms from those years (sadly, no longer there).

While there are some chronicles of players and teams from the 1970s (The Machine and Ladies and Gentlemen, The Bronx Is Burning are great, recent examples), there haven't been many (if any) retrospectives about the decade in total. When people speak of a Golden Age of Baseball, they usually save such mythologizing for the 1950s and its stainless, sepia-tone heroes.

But now there is finally an evangelist for game as played in the Me Decade. Journalist Dan Epstein has penned a love letter to 1970s baseball entitled Big Hair and Plastic Grass: A Funky Ride through Baseball and America in the Swinging 70s. ESPN's Rob Neyer has said of this tome, "What the 1960s were to America, the 1970s were to baseball, and Dan Epstein has finally given us the swinging book the '70s deserve." The book drops May 25 from Thomas Dunne Books, and there will be a big ol' release party at the Bell House in Brooklyn on May 26 (I for one am excited to try the Oscar Gamble hot dog that will be served there).

Dan was generous enough to take some time out of his busy schedule and answer some questions via email about Astroturf, day-glo erseys, the best Topps card designs, and the worst promotions of all time. Read all about it after the jump.

Honestly, I think MLB's revised Twitter policy has been blown way out of proportion. I believe this so strenuously I've been trying to browbeat any writer who reported the story to change their tune. I even offered a free group interview with MLB Network star Mitch Williams, but no one has taken the bait yet.

The new policy is basically this: MLB.com beat writers can only tweet about baseball. They can only use 127 characters instead of 140, because all their tweets have to end with #sexybudselig. At least until I overtake Justin Bieber as a trending topic, or figure out who Justin Bieber is.

The reason for this policy is quite simple: I don't want our beat writers using up precious MLBAM resources on non-baseball-related tweets. Especially after our staff went through the enormous trouble of setting up Twitter accounts for all these people. That takes over 17 hours per account! At least that's the time I was billed for by our freelance IT staff. Why, that's almost as long as they tell me it takes to perform a Google search!

Penalties for violation of this policy will be firm but fair. Any beat writer who tweets about a sandwich, salad, or any other food item will be suspended for three games. Because neither I nor anyone else could possible give less of a shit about your lunch.

Anyone who tweets about the latest Lost episode will be suspended for 50 games, because I'm Tivo'ing the whole season so I can watch it in one long chunk one it's over. Don't think I won't do it, either. I came down on Manny Ramirez like a ton of bricks when he tweeted about the season finale of Grey's Anatomy.

However, I will show leniency to any beat writer who can help me do a podcast. Does anyone know how to set that up? Because I think the world is finally ready to hear my thoughts on Battlestar Galactica.

In the wake of another disappointing weekend for the Mets (during which they could conceivably have swept the Cardinals but only managed one win, and that one a 20-inning purgatorial nightmare), the WFAN airwaves were rife with distraught fans declaring their disgust. But while most callers employed the harshest language radio would allow, one Mike Francesa listener had loftier thoughts on her mind.



Yes, you heard right. Kathy thinks the Mets need Jesus. And not Jesus as in "Jesus Christ, can't this team do anything right?!" No, she seems to honestly believe the Mets, as a team, need to accept Jesus Christ as their Lord and Savior. Why? "That team is horrible!" Because as we all know, only righteous, pious teams win championships. Just look at the Mets' last World Series-winning team. The 1986 Mets were a collection of clean-living souls who only played baseball in between their seminary studies and mission trips to Guatemala.

Let's give Kathy the benefit of the doubt. It's possible she was being hyperbolic or facetious, or perhaps she's really young and has no context on which to draw (ie, the hundreds of championship teams whose off-the-field behavior indicated they had very little use for religion). Or maybe she was actually being sincere and thinks born again-ing your team will lead to success on the field. She's entitled to that opinion (just as I am entitled to skewer it). Regardless, Francesa's response was more wackadoo than the question.

Granted, this is a touchy subject. If you're behind the mic, you don't want be overly dismissive and offend anyone, but you also don't want to open the floodgates to start a religious discussion on a sports talk show. Basically, you want this line of inquiry to disappear ASAP. If this was me, I'd be tempted to say, "Why should Jesus give a shit about a sports team?" But the safer response would be, "I'm not touching this with a ten foot pole."

Francesa, who has a few decades' worth of experience on the radio, clearly wants to go this route. But in so doing, he lets loose a brief, bizarre critique of this woman's statement. To wit: Why would Jesus choose the Mets over somebody else?

That's a fair assessment, Mike. Clearly the heavens have not turned their attention the Mets, unless it's some malevolent trickster god like Loki.

My dedication to this site was derailed the past few days by the tail end of spring break. Not mine, of course, but The Baby's. It seems day care gives spring break even to three-year-olds, so I spent a good chunk of the last week driving The Baby back from Cabo. Maybe you think spring break is awesome if you're still young and childless, but it really sucks if you have to work while your kid is drunk-texting you from Senor Frog's.

But spring break is over, I have returned, and I wanted to let everyone know that I will soon commence on my newest, most insanest project: The Parallel Universe Fake Mets. An overwhelming 56 percent of you said this is how I should waste my time this baseball season, and waste it I shall.

For those of you who need an introduction or refresher, the premise is thus: I will play an entire season as the Mets in the PS2 version of MLB10:The Show in franchise mode. My results will be posted series by series, and compared to the result of the actual real-life Mets. I realize that, for comedic purposes, this project would probably work best if my Fake Team does awesome and the Real Team does not. But I will be totally fine if events do not develop in such a fashion.

I may also attempt to do some Fake Team results with Stratomatic Baseball, the spiritual grandfather to fantasy leagues. I reserve the right to do this at any time for any reason, and to discontinue doing so by whim as well.

If you've never played The Show before, here's what you need to understand about it: It's hard. Actually, it's not hard--it's unfair, especially at the more difficult settings (I will be playing my games at the second-highest difficulty). Your AI opponent gets breaks that you don't; it's as if the computer has paid off the umps. The other pitcher gets strike calls for every pitch even remotely close to the plate, while your pitches have to be right down the middle to receive such a favor. The opposing batters never have an appealed check swing overturned, while your check swings are always deemed strikes on appeal. The relative talents of the pitchers or batters involved have little bearing on these results.

Which brings me to another point. The unfairness is accentuated by the game's resistance to the real life abilities and tendencies of major league baseball players. The Show does an excellent job of capturing real swings, real pitching motions, and real stadiums, but it is not quite as accurate when it comes to reflecting the relative weaknesses of certain players.

The computer-controlled batters are very reluctant to swing and miss at any pitch, no matter how much your curve or slider breaks, even if it's a walk-ophobic hitter like Jeff Francoeur. Similarly, every opposing player fields like a Gold Glover, regardless of their real-life counterpart's fielding abilities; Computerized Dan Uggla, for instance, robs hits in the whole all the time even though Real Dan Uggla has never caught anything not hit directly at him. And every single outfielder has a cannon for an arm, even Johnny Damon.

So I've spent the last month playing this game and figuring out how to work around these roadblocks. I've also had to regain my video game playing chops, which I lost during the first three years of parenting. But I don't miss those years I would've spent with a Playstation console, because as Dr. Spock said, parenting is the toughest video game you'll ever love.

I'm combating these unfair elements by taking advantage of unfairness that works in my favor. The Show's default lineups do not reflect the injuries to Jose Reyes or Carlos Beltran, so I will be able to play with both of them on the team all year. (The same rule applies to Kelvim Escobar, but it's still unclear how much of an advantage that will turn out to be.) And thanks to players who were still free agents when the game went to press (do video games go to press?), I was able to pick up Orlando Hudson to split time with Luis Castillo. And because the default lineup did not include Rod Barajas, I opted for a platoon with Omir Santos and Josh Thole.

Long story short, I will post my first installment on Friday, after the conclusion of the first Real Mets series of the year. And for any of you who wanted The 2000 Project, I plan on giving periodic mini-recaps of the 2000 season, though nothing nearly as comprehensive as The 1999 Project.

Without further ado, let the nightmare begin!

BALTIMORE ORIOLES

2009 record: 64-98

Local weather: Crime-filled, critically acclaimed

Namesake: John McGraw's turn of the century squad that cheated and fist-fought its way to dominance. Ah, the good ol' days...

What was McNulty thinking with the whole "homeless biter" thing?: I don't know. It's always bugged me.

Perpetually overused team-related headline: Flippin' the Bird!

Best name on 40-man roster: Cla Meredith, striking a blow for unclear long vowels everywhere

The That Guy's on This Team? Award: Garrett Atkins. One bad season and the Rockies kicked him to the curb. A cruel business, baseball is.

Spring standout: Felix Pie. And when Felix Pie is your spring standout, a long season awaits.

Probable Opening Day starter: Kevin Millwood, also not a good sign.

Biggest question for 2010: Who will take over Camden Yards to a more annoying extent, Yankee fans or Red Sox fans?

Advantage to start the season: I dunno, nobody's died yet? That's a plus.

Semi-serious assessment: There's some young talent on this team, like Nick Markakis and Adam Jones and Matt Wieters, but virtually no pitching. Not to mention they play in possibly the toughest division in baseball. Yet another tough year in Charm City.

CHICAGO WHITE SOX

2009 record: 79-83

Local weather: Broad-shouldered

Namesake: Article of footwear whose color could be changed in an ironic fashion to indicate infamy or shame

Is Hawk Harrelson the biggest tool in all of baseball announcing?: Perhaps, though John Sterling gives him a run for his money.

Perpetually overused team-related headline: Joy of Sox, or Sox Appeal. The thought of A.J. Pierzynski in conjunction with a word that even vaguely sounds like "sex" is vomit-inducing.

Best name on 40-man roster: Stefan Gartrell. Sorry, that's the fakest last name I've heard since Nick Soapdish.

The That Guy's on This Team? Award: Omar Vizquel, who I'm surprised is still on any team at this point. He's become the Jamie Moyer of shortstops, though he throws harder than Jamie.

Spring standout: Mark Kotsay, batting over .400 and once again proving the complete meaninglessness of spring stats.

Probable Opening Day starter: Mark Buehrle, which means Chicago's opener will probably clock in at a cool 90 minutes.

Biggest question for 2010: Will Ozzie Guillen's Twitter account be shut down before it incurs some sort of lawsuit or police action?

Advantage to start the season: Umpires intimidated by roving bags of scumbags in the crowd.

Semi-serious assessment: A full season of Jake Peavey could push them into contention, but I don't know how likely that is. Their lineup is Paul Konerko, Alexei Ramirez, and not much else, and the bullpen is not much to write home about, either. I foresee a thoroughly meh year on the South Side.

ANAHEIM ANGELS

2009 record: 97-65, AL West title, lost Championship Series to Yankees

Local weather: Suburban

Namesake: Theatre investors. Ziegfeld's in the house tonight, everyone!

How much does Angels owner Arte Moreno look like a Walt Disney?: A disturbingly large amount.

Perpetually overused team-related headline: Angels in the Outfield. Lame, but at least it gives work to Christopher Lloyd.

Best name on 40-man roster: Maicer Izturis. I hate maicers to paicers!

The That Guy's on This Team? Award: Hideki Matsui, whose salary should offset the cost of transporting his enormous porn collection from New York.

Spring standout: Catcher Mike Napoli, who's clubbed 5 homers this spring and is in no way connected to The Mob. I don't know why you'd think that. That's racist.

Probable Opening Day starter: Jered Weaver, who looks just as baked as his brother, but is much more employed.

Biggest question for 2010: What tragic death will inspire the Angels this year?

Advantage to start the season: Insane Orange County traffic will prevent anyone from actually attending the games.

Semi-serious assessment: I was amazed to see that the Angels won 97 games last year. I think that result will be impossible to reproduce this year, as Seattle has improved by leaps and bounds. They lost John Lackey and added Joel Pineiro, who I predict will turn back into a pumpkin like most Dave Duncan projects do away from St. Louis. This year's Angels have taken a step backward--not an enormous one, but not small enough to stave off the huge step forward taken by the Mariners.

ATLANTA BRAVES

2009 record: 86-76

Local weather: Hotter than the devil's drawers, suh! /sips mint julep

Namesake: Valiant Native American warriors like Chief Noc-a-homa

What will Bobby Cox do after he retires?: I don't know, but for his wife's sake, I hope he doesn't plan on spending a lot of time around the house.

Perpetually overused team-related headline: Anything involving 'chop'. The only thing that should be chopped on the Braves is their dumb, racist chant.

Best name on 40-man roster: Jonny Venters, who had a few regional rockabilly hits back in the 50s.

The That Guy's on This Team? Award: Scott Proctor, who was allowed to keep the tiny shreds of his throwing arm that Joe Torre didn't destroy

Spring standout: Jason Heyward, who is not only tearing the cover off the ball, but can make sportswriters cream their jeans with every swing of his bat.

Probable Opening Day starter: Derek Lowe, taking some time off between injuries to throw a baseball.

Biggest question for 2010: Will Chipper Jones badmouth his own teammates again, or save his dumb outburst for someone on another team?

Advantage to start the season: Low pressure--if Braves fans won't come out for the playoffs, they surely won't care if the team starts out slow.

Semi-serious assessment: Potentially great starting rotation, and a formerly suspect lineup has been shored up by the emergence of Heyward (THE CHOSEN ONE!). The bullpen took a step back--Mike Gonzalez and Rafael Soriano were replaced with Takashi Saito and Billy Wagner, neither of whom have any chance of staying healthy all season (mark it down). Regardless, the Braves will definitely compete this year. Fuck.

CHICAGO CUBS

2009 record: 83-78

Local weather: If you don't like it, just wait a minute!* (* joke stolen from your grampa)

Namesake: The smaller partner in a "bear" relationship

Has it really been 102 years since they won a World Series?: Yes, but some days it only feels like 75.

Perpetually overused team-related headline: Lovable Losers. How many losers have you known that were lovable? Most losers are bitter, sour human beings.

Best name on 40-man roster: Esmailin Caridad, because when you're Esmailin, the whole world esmailes with you.

The That Guy's on This Team? Award: Kevin Millar. Or as he used to be known by guys named Sully, MILLAHHHHHH!

Spring standout: Youngster Tyler Colvin, who's not only batting .468, but is also not a pitcher, so he can't have a Kerry Wood/Mark Prior-style flameout.

Probable Opening Day starter: Carlos Zambrano, provided he doesn't get into a scrape with a Gatorade cooler first.

Biggest question for 2010: In what ways will the fates cruelly toy with this team this season?

Advantage to start the season: Arctic conditions will adversely affect visiting teams who have not brought their own Sherpas.

Semi-serious assessment: Only the total shitshow that was the 2009 Mets prevented the Cubs from being the most disappointing team in baseball last season. I would expect them to improve, but they're also relying on a number of players who've been hurt off and on the past few seasons (Zambrano, Derrek Lee, Alfonso Soriano, Aramis Ramirez). I could see the Cubs finishing anywhere on the continuum of success. Except winning the World Series, of course. That will never, ever happen. Ever.

ARIZONA DIAMONDBACKS

2009 record: 70-92

Local weather: Ball-meltingly hot

Namesake: Venemous rattlesnake responsible for the majority of fatal snakebites in northern Mexico, thus explaining why the Diamondbacks are Lou Dobbs' favorite team.

Do they really play for the entire state of Arizona?: Yes, except for small pockets of Tempe. They know why.

Perpetually overused team-related headline: Raising Arizona. Cease and desist letters from the Coen Brothers have proven ineffective.

Best name on 40-man roster: Clay Zavada (also owner of best mustache on team)

The That Guy's on This Team? Award: Billy Buckner. Not the former Dodgers/Cubs/Red Sox first baseman, but a young relief pitcher. Still, you'd think teams would shy away from anyone named Billy Buckner.

Spring standout: Justin Upton, whose .324 batting average and 16 RBIs are an obvious attempt to shame his brother B.J.

Probable Opening Day starter: Dan Haren, whose hitched delivery is almost as confounding as his facial hair.

Biggest question for 2010: Will their talented core of young players once again prove woefully outmatched, or merely disappointing?

Advantage to start the season: Close proximity of spring training facility removes the disorienting effects of jet lag.

Semi-serious assessment: The Diamondbacks lineup is full of stars, near stars, or should-be stars like Upton, Stephen Drew, and Mark Reynolds (all of them born in years I actually remember, which depresses the shit out of me). But their rotation is Haren and not much else until Brandon Webb comes back from shoulder surgery. They'll score a lot of runs, but they'll give a lot up, too, especially in their home park. Even in a relatively weak division, I don't see how they finish much better than .500 this year.

Last week, I posted a question to the general public about what baseball-related horrible waste of time I should work on this upcoming season. And the response has been underwhelming! Thus far, The Parallel Universe Fake Mets have the lead, but I'd like to get a few more responses so that we're not forsaken by the trickery of small sample sizes. So please, vote! Your influence counts! Use it! (Thanks, Bob Grant.)

To recap, here are your choices:

The Parallel Universe Fake Mets: I will do a season for the Mets in either MLB10:The Show or Stratomatic (or both), contrasting it with what the actual Mets do on the field this year.

The 2000 Project: A lesser sequel to The 1999 Project. I've always theorized that 2000 was a far inferior season to 1999, but this project would attempt to challenge those prejudices.

You can also choose Both or Neither (I beg you, please don't chose Both). Get to votin'!

Mets management has, amazingly, heard and heeded some complaints from fans. Responding to a lack of Met-itude at CitiField, the team is working on a number of enhancements to give the new stadium more of a personality and sense of history. In addition to finally establishing a physical location for a Mets Hall of Fame, they're also spiffing up the park's exterior with banners and murals of Mets greats of the past.

Best of all, they've enhanced the already great Fan Walk with commemorative plaques, each of which feature a famous moment in Mets history that happened at the now-demolished Shea Stadium. Pics of these circulated on various blogs earlier this week, and they made me regret my decision to not buy a Fan Walk brick even more than I already did (my financial inability to do so notwithstanding).

But just like matter itself, the Mets' stupidity can neither be created nor destroyed. So when they actually manage to get something right and do something cool, it has to be countered by something dumb and ham-fisted, In this case, it's an easily fixable error in the plaque dedicated to the Mets' thrilling, come-from-behind win in game 7 of the 1986 World Series (first pointed out by Mets Police, which also gave us the awesome pics linked above).

If you read the text, you'll see the last sentence of the synopsis says "Sid Fernandez earned the win with exceptional relief work". El Sid did relieve Ron Darling in that game, and his 2 1/3 hitless innings were arguably the biggest reason the Mets were able to rally from an early 3-0 deficit in that game. However, Fernandez did not technically earn the win--Roger McDowell did.

An easy mistake to make? Sure, but also an easy mistake to correct. Two minutes of research could've prevented this from ever being cast in bronze. It's not like the Mets have so many world championships whose details need to be fact checked.

But sadly, that's not the only mistake on these plaques. Just take a look at these completely un-Photoshopped examples of other plaque oopsies!

I've been playing around with a few ideas for site features during the upcoming bases-ball season. Rather than pick one without any input like a fascist, I thought I should let you, the reader, choose, or at the very least influence my choice.

The first thought I had was to do a parallel, alternate reality season for the Mets. With Carlos Beltran and Jose Reyes already sidelined for god knows how long, things ain't looking to good for the team already. But anything is possible once you use your imagination! So I would simulate the season one game at a time, in MLB10:The Show (which I just purchased) or the less high-tech option, Stratomatic. Or both. The video game version could be accompanied by screenshots of moments of triumph and tragedy--contrasted, of course, by whatever actually happened to the Mets that day.

But I've also given some thought to doing a 10-year retrospective on the 2000 season, as I did last year with 1999. I'm already on record (many times) in my belief that 2000 was vastly inferior to 1999, but I'm also willing to consider that I'm totally wrong. Maybe in re-examining that season, I'll discover that it had charms that my fetishizing of 1999 have glossed over. Plus, The 1999 Project got a lot of good response, and I am nothing if not a crowdpleaser. I play to the rafters!

So folks, I need you to help me choose. Should I go for Alternate Reality Season, or The 2000 Project? Vote below to make your voice heard. Your input is needed immediately! Nothing, not even the Census, is so important!

Well, Jose, the good news is your hyperthyroidism is treatable. The bad news is you need to rest for at least a few weeks until your elevated thyroid levels start to go down. You'll also need to make a few changes to your diet. Have you been eating a lot of fish lately?
Yeah, I have, now that you mention it.
Take me a through a typical day, meal-wise. What do you have for breakfast?
Usually, a caviar omelet.
I've never even heard of that. What do you do, add caviar to scrambled eggs?
No, the caviar is the base. I crack the fish eggs and fry em up in a pan. Sometimes I throw a few prawns in there, too.
Wow. How do you crack caviar?
Very precisely.

Despite being jaded and cynical about The Ways of the World, I still manage to surprise myself with my naive ability to be appalled. This happened on Sunday as I read Mike Lupica's rambling, borderline slanderous column in the Daily News about Jose Reyes. In it, he puts a bunch of dots on the same page as "Reyes", "hyperthyroid issue", and "HGH", expecting you to connect the three without ever explicitly saying so.

It was a Fox News-ian tactic: say an extremely controversial thing that will play well with your core audience, but say it in such a way that allows you to deny (technically) saying it when the other side gets its feathers ruffled. Except that in the world of sports "journalism", you can write such things and not face any consequences for actions that would result in censure in virtually any other arm of the fourth estate.

Here's a few choice quotes designed to sow doubt in readers' minds:

Reyes says he told the feds he didn't get human growth hormone from a Canadian doctor named Tony Galea, often regarded as a patron saint of HGH.

Yes, I remember when the Pope officially canonized him as such last year. Galea is under investigation for HGH distribution, but I don't think that makes him the "patron saint" of the shadowy substance any more than I'm the patron saint of Cheez-Its because I can't stop eating them. (Though I would totally accept the position were it offered to me, or existed.)

[J]ust because Reyes now has a problem with his thyroid gland, and is in New York City for sophisticated testing on it, does not mean those problems were caused by any kind of synthetic drug in his system.

Although the tone of my article, and this snotty sentence, indicates I totally believe they were.

Nobody should be surprised that people are looking to draw a line from Galea to what showed up in Reyes' blood tests.

I'm not surprised that people make such assumptions in blog comment sections or on sports radio. This morning, I heard the douchetacular Craig Carton scream at a doctor who dared suggest there wasn't enough evidence to make this logical leap. But I am surprised that such accusations--which have no shred of evidence to support them--are given credence in a major newspaper like the Daily News. 

Is there a way human growth hormone could have contributed to Reyes' thyroid problems? There are doctors who think so. Would they ever say HGH definitely caused Reyes' problems? No, they would not.

No, they would not say that because diagnosing a person you've never treated and revealing that diagnosis publicly would be a total violation of everything you learn from day one in medical school.

"Good medicine is about eliminating possible causes," Dr. Lewis Maharam - a doctor of sports medicine who has made sense about performance-enhancing drugs for years - said yesterday. "It's about differentials, making a list of possibilities and then eliminating them one by one. But there is a possibility that human growth hormone could cause a spike of thyroid hormone levels."

There's also a possibility that it could give you the ability to fly or learn ancient Sanskrit or grow  an extra set of arms. These things are all highly unlikely, but there's no reason to think they're impossible, right?

The negative side effects of HGH use aren't well known, because HGH isn't legitimately prescribed often, and most of its use is confined to the murky underworld of performance enhancing drugs, where users are reluctant to participate in clinical trials. So hell, why not say it could cause your hands to turn into saltines? You can't definitively say it doesn't do that, can you? I rest my case.

Also, Dr. Maharam "has made sense about performance-enhancing drugs for years"--I didn't know you could specialize in Making Sense. Is that a lucrative practice? Is it any more lucrative than badgering Tiger Woods, which he also seems to specialize in?

Lupica closes out his piece by unfavorably comparing Reyes to Jimmy Rollins and Derek Jeter. He notes that Reyes played only 36 games last year and Jeter has never played fewer than 119. He fails to mention that Rollins had a terrible year last season. He also doesn't mention that from 2005 through 2008, Reyes played at least 153 games every year, and played 160 games twice (something Captain Intangibles has never done). Because all of these facts would not jive with the well-established narrative of Jose Reyes as malingerer and malcontent and--now added to the pile--drug cheater.

I don't think Lupica has anything against Reyes, necessarily. This is not an attempt to railroad him so much as it is an attempt to stir up controversy and sell some more papers/get some more page hits (which I am indirectly contributing to, I suppose). And in the grand scheme of things, writing a shitty, wildly speculative column on Reyes is pretty low on Lupica's list of offenses.

For instance, he was directly responsible for driving Mark Kriegel and Lisa Olson away from the Daily News, all of them for petty personal reasons. He loves to insert himself into the news as much as possible, as he did during last year's U.S. Open. He is, by multiple accounts, a miserable prick who lives to throw his weight around.

He's risen to the heights of the sportswriting world, yet is still apparently haunted by jealousy and a fear of being outshone. What could possibly cause a man to behave in such a manner? I have no idea what personal demons Lupica may have within him, but I don't think you can eliminate HGH use from the equation.

I have absolutely no evidence that Lupica has used HGH. And I also have absolutely no idea if HGH could even cause such emotional neediness. But I don't have any evidence to refute these things either, do I? Lupica painted Reyes guilty by association on evidence just as flimsy, so I see no reason why I can't do the same.

Today, Sean from Massapequa graces us with his presence to discuss Jose Reyes' sudden medical woes. He told me he preferred to address the audience directly, unlike previous posts where we had a dialogue. So without further delay, here's Sean.

They say Jose Reyes has got a thyroid problem. Yeah, and I'm the mayor of Five Towns.

I'm not, just so you know. There is no mayor of Five Towns, cuz it ain't an actual town. Just like Reyes ain't actually hurt. We all know this guy fakes injuries, like he did last year so's he could take more salsa lessons.

How do I know that? Ask yourself this: Has he ever denied it? I rest my case.

There ain't no such thing as a thyroid. You ever seen one? I didn't think so. A thyroid is one a them things doctors make up so's they can prescribe you expensive medication. Like ADD, or your appendix. It's all just a scam. They say you got some disease, charge your insurance for the pills or cream or whatever, and you get some workman's comp cuz you got sick on the job somehow. That's what they call The Circle of Scam.

You get to be my age, you see the shit I seen, you realize everything's a scam. Congress. Santa Claus. The Pope. Cold fusion. The Post Office. All scams. Makes me sick just thinkin about it.

Listen: you go to the right doctor, you can get him to say you got anything. Anything. And if you go to the really right doctor, you can get him to write you a scrip for anything. Speakin a which, if you need that type a doctor, lemme know. I might know a guy. Just sayin.

Take my buddy Joe, f'rinstance. Works for the Parks Department supervising landscaping work. Easiest job in the world. Guy works like 15 hours a week, and half that time is replacing the string in the weedwhackers. Of course, Joe had to get greedy and try and get disability. So he goes to this one doctor I know in Fresh Meadows, doctor "diagnoses" him with "lawnmower lung".

The City said there was no such thing, but Joe threatened to squeal about the no-bid Soilmaster contract, so they gave him what he wanted. Now the guy collects a paycheck while sittin in a hammock all year. Even in the winter, two feet a snow on the ground. Guy loves his hammock.

I bet that's where Reyes is right now, swingin in his hammock, sippin a lemonade. I bust my hump on the job three days a week, and all I wanna do is watch some spring training baseball in the middle of my five day weekend. Now that's all ruined cuz Reyes don't wanna do spring training drills. Life ain't fair.

Look, Reyes, just get your ass on the field and all is forgiven. I need you back on the diamond so's I can scream horrible things atcha every time you don't hit a triple.

Welcome bu-HACK to The Mike Francesa Program, New York's Number 1, coming to you live from Port St. Lucie, where spring training has begin. The period called spring training is upon us. The time of year generally referred to by most baseball fans as spring training is here. Something has started to occur down here in Florida, and that thing I'm referring to is spring training. I'm at Mets camp, where apparently they're preparing for the upcoming season, rather than throwing in the towel by Opening Day as I suggested. My first guest on the program is a fifth starter candidate and a promising young pitcher, Jon Niese.
Thanks for having me on the show, Mike.
Let me ask you a question, Jon. Didn't you have some sort of injury or something last year?
Um, yeah, I did. Tore a hamstring pretty bad. Couldn't you have just looked that up before the interview?
Where would I have looked it up, the internet? I don't trust those calculator things. They got viruses and cookies in 'em. Now, let me ask you something else: Are you a lefty or a righty?
I'm a lefty. Any other questions you want to ask me that could've been answered by the back of my baseball card?
Yes, as a matter of fact. With Damon and Matsui gone, do you think the Yankee lineup will be as explosive as it was last year? How do you think Granderson's gonna do in his first year in pinstripes?
To be honest, I haven't given the Yankees' question marks much thought, since they won the World Series last year and I don't play for them. I've been concentrating on breaking into the starting rotation and recovering from a horrific injury.
Don't get testy with me, young man. This is how it works, son. I'm the number one host on the Mets' flagship radio station, and I'm here in Port St. Lucie visiting your team. Of course I have to talk about the Yankees!
You do that. I gotta go stand over here for a while
/leaves

Though no pitches have been thrown in anger just yet, players are in spring training camps, and that excites me. Jose Reyes is running the bases, Johan Santana is throwing bullpen sessions, and Ollie Perez has managed to eat lunch every day without hurting himself. I haven't seen footage of any of these things, but I know they are happening, and that knowledge soothes me.

But I got genuinely excited over something I saw yesterday. Matthew Cerrone at Metsblog posted this pic snapped at Port St. Lucie.

What is that? Why it's a stadium giveaway duffel bag, clearly sponsored by RC Cola, dating to the late 80s-early 90s. The sight of this thing was nigh Proustian in the memories it dredged up. But not of actually using the bag. Just of seeing ads for BAG NIGHT! at Shea, then seeing said bag used by classmates and townfolk for the next few years. It gave me the same feeling I get when I watch old commercials, and have phrases I haven't thought of in years ring tiny little bells in my brain.

I wanted this to be a springboard for a post on other Shea Stadium giveaways from the same era, but sadly, the interweb information on such things is rather poor. You'd think some maniac out there would have compiled a site dedicated just to this, but you'd think wrong.

But there is some web-based evidence of RC Cola's role in Mets history. The soda had a long, intermittent association with the team dating back to its earliest days. This was back when Shea had more small-time sponsors like Rheingold Beer and local Plymouth dealerships.

Oddly enough, they seem to have returned to this route at CitiField, where you now see ads for things like Arpielle Equipment, cash-for-gold web sites, and other second-tier businesses. Which seems kind of creepy and shady, now that I think about it.

It was a fitting partnership. RC Cola was always the shameful bronze to the gold and silver of Coke and Pepsi, while the Mets were the brand new "upstart" team in town. RC even tried to play up this connection, as you'll see in this ad from the 1960s. A shapely young lady poses with an RC Cola in front of Shea Stadium, though the facility can barely be discerned behind her, or the giant fountain which must have once been somewhere near it (or the Worlds Fairgrounds, or the designer's imagination). I get the destinct impression that baseball was not the focus of this ad.

Other than the duffel bag, the RC Cola promo I remember the most were these commemorative cans following the Mets' 1986 World Series victory. Decorated in a gloriously 80s design scheme, these cans declared to the world, "I know how to jump on a bandwagon as I drink."

RC Cola's association with the Mets continued into the 2000s, but ended by the time the last days of Shea rolled around (hence the Pepsi Porch at their new ballpark). I would lament this fact, but considering RC Cola is now owned by Cadbury Schweppes, they're not exactly a mom and pop outfit, either.

Plus, I don't wanna be one of those people who complains about the merits of essentially interchangeable junk food brands. The Wife and I once snagged fantastic seats for a Mets game, and sat next to a guy who wouldn't shut up all night about how he hated it when Shea stopped serving Kahn's hot dogs. I was too nice to tell the guy to leave me alone, plus he seemed like he might be borderline autistic.But my point is, if you can help it, don't be that guy. Nostalgia's great, being trapped in the past isn't.

I promise/hope this will be my last serious post on baseball for the season. Because funny ha-ha pieces are much better for this site, I think. And my soul.

Earlier today, I saw a fellow Mets fan tweet that the Vegas over/under for Mets wins this year is 89. The only NL team with a higher line is the Phillies, who are set at 89.5, and the next highest is the Diamondbacks, with 85.5.

Upon reading this, my first reaction was excitement. I'd sign up for 89 wins right now (as Mad Dog Russo often said; he may still say it, but nobody listens to him anymore). Of course, when Vegas sets lines, they do so to stir up action. That's why they release MLB over/under lines the week when spring training begins, hoping to capitalize on fan excitement.

Setting the Mets at 89 means Vegas believes one of two things: (1) they hope the team isn't that good, but the surprisingly high number of 89 will excite gullible, optimistic fans to bet the over; or (2) they think the team might win even more games, but hope enough people will remember the stumbling, bumbling Mets from last year and bet the under.

My own experience, plus the events of recent seasons, told me that Mets fans are a pessimistic bunch. Ironically, this led me to believe that option (2) was more likely than (1), which in turn got me excited like the dumb, dumb man that I am.

And then I thought to myself, Do I even want the Mets to have a good year? Could that be the worst thing possible for them, in the long term?

TAMPA--Pitchers and catchers have reported to the Yankees' spring training facility, an annual tradition known affectionately as Hell Week. Prospects and new acquisitions alike report bright and early to endure the humiliation necessary to join America's most storied franchise.

"Drop and gimme 50, pussy!" growled manager Joe Girardi as he caught sight of new Yankee Curtis Granderson. The outfielder did as he was told, while also downing a Jagermeister shot after each rep.

"This team isn't just about partying, okay?" Girardi told reporters as he popped the collar to his brand new Ed Hardy-designed uniform. "It's about leadership, brotherhood, dedication. And I won't have a buncha homos messing all that shit up."

Girardi then instructed young catcher Jesus Montero to finish off a bottle of Goldschlager, followed by three laps around the diamond while balancing a rake on his head.

"That's what makes the Yankees so great, traditions like this," said team captain Derek Jeter. "I remember when I came up in 1996, Cecil Fielder told me I had to eat an entire package of hot dog rolls and chug a six-pack of Bud in five minutes or else clean his toilet with my tongue. I, um, I could only get down seven rolls."

"Winning is a habit, losing is a disease," said Girardi, as he gave a wedgie to beat reporter Tyler Kepner. "How do you vaccinate yourself against losing? By WINNING. That's why I changed my number. It used to be 27, but we won our 27th championship last year. So now I'm number 347. Because that's how many World Series trophies we're gonna win. This year.

"And anyone who says that's impossible, I say you better shut yer dick-suckin fairy holes and MAKE IT HAPPEN. Because I create winners here, not gay-queers."

The Hell Week tradition has been in place since spring training of 1956, when Mickey Mantle, Whitey Ford, and Billy Martin forced all newcomers to drink their weight in Old Smuggler. But it has come under fire in recent years, particularly in 2004, when a hazing ritual rendered new Yankee Alex Rodriguez blind for much of the season and subsequent playoffs.

Is somebody honking outside? Jesus, it's 7 in the morning. Oh, that's right, I gotta go to Florida today. That must be the cab to the airport. Well, better quick throw some stuff in the suitcase. T-shirts, undies, a couple button downs to hit the clubs in. What the hell, guess I'll bring my glove in case anyone wants to play catch...

FUCK! I FORGOT TO GET A PITCHER! FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK!

God, I got this assignment before winter break even started, and now it's already over! Where the hell did all the time go? There was Thanksgiving and Christmas and then I went on the ski trip to Canada to pick up Jason Bay, and then I got Bioshock 2, and the next thing I know, it's springtime and JESUS H. FUCK, WHAT THE HELL AM I GONNA DO?!

Hey, ma? Do we have any pitchers left over in the garage?

Are you sure?

Ma, Steve Trachsel doesn't count! Fine, maybe I WILL look for one myself!

Fuck, it's too late to find a pitcher now. WHAT DO I DO?!! I'M SUPER CRAZY FUCKED! I'M TOTALLY GONNA FAIL MY GENERAL MANAGER CLASS!

Alright, Omar, calm down. Just think this through. Maybe you don't need another pitcher. You have Santana, and he's money in the bank. John Maine looked good when he came back from injury last year; maybe he'll finally be healthy. Yeah, and maybe Mike Pelfrey will bounce back. And maybe Oliver Perez will...fuck...maybe he won't fall into an open manhole. And we have some decent options for fifth starter. Yeah, we could make this [pitching staff work, with a solid infield behind it...

FUCK! I FORGOT TO GET A RIGHT SIDE OF THE INFIELD! FUCK BALLS ASS COCK FUCK!

Chill, Omar, chill! Catch your breath! Luis Castillo had a good year last year. Sure, he can barely hit the ball out of the infield, but he could be a good #2 hitter behind Reyes. And Dan Murphy...well, it's too soon to write off a guy like that, right? Dude definitely works hard. And who knows? If he doesn't work out, maybe Mike Jacobs or Chris Carter does. Or maybe Ike Davis forces his way onto the major league roster. Weirder things have happened.

Okay, it's not the prettiest looking team, but if pick up some oaktag and scotch tape at the airport, I might be able to slap the whole thing together in time for spring training. Yeah, we can score some runs, and field the ball, and if we can get the ball to K-Rod...

OH, FUCK MY COCK!!

I've had this string on my index finger for so long now, I can't remember when I put it on! In fact, I even forgot it was there until this morning, and I saw it in the mirror while I was shaving. Weird, huh? For the life of me, I can't remember what it's supposed to remind me of. Let me think, let me think...

I think I put this string on right after the season ended. So maybe this was supposed to tell me to do something for the team. Was it to remind me to bid against myself for a slugging outfielder? Nope, did that.

Was it to overpay for a bunch of spare parts? No, I took care of that.

Was it to trade for a terrible fifth outfielder we didn't need? No, I just wrapped that up.

It was something like...switcher? Was I supposed to switch something? No, it just sounded like switcher. But there's no other word that sounds like switcher, right? Maybe it just sort of sounds like it. Nick Swisher? James Michener? David Fincher?

This is getting me nowhere. Boy, I'm thirsty. I could use a cool drink. Say, Darlene? Could you bring in some water when you have a chance? Like, a lot of it. A whole pitcher, if you can. On second thought, make it two pitchers. I could use two solid pitchers.

Where was I? Oh yes, I was trying to remember what this string was supposed to remind me of. Ugh, this is gonna bug me all day.

Now that Jason Bay has signed with the Mets, I can report that the Red Sox were never really interested in him. You see, Boston gave him an MRI midway through last season and discovered he had some knee issues, thus rendering him useless as a cog in the Sox's grand scheme.

Why didn't the Mets' doctors see the same issues when they examined him? Because they couldn't have, and neither could any other team. You see, the Red Sox are at the cutting edge of all aspects of the game: scouting, sabremetrics, proper allocation of resources, and medical equipment. They have a state-of-the-art MRI machine that can not only diagnose ligament and deep-tissue injuries in split seconds, but can also cause them!

But this machine doesn't cause injuries immediately. It implants a special subcutaneous chip that resonates to a very special frequency that only the Sox's MRI machine can emit. If the Sox sign a player after examining him, they remove the chip. If not, they emit the frequency and cause maximum damage.

In the case of Jason Bay, the Sox plan to be as benevolent as possible. They will not evoke their right to destroy his knees by mysterious remote waves before the first 18 months of his current contract. After that, all bets are off. The Sox also won't say whether they will simply cause Bay's ACL and MCL to deteriorate slowly, or if they will make all three knee ligaments blow out simultaneously and catastrophically.

As for other players the Sox have examined but not signed, they would not say how or when they would be crippled. However, it is highly suspected that if Jon Lackey hadn't gone with Boston, they would have given him a torn labrum, and possibly mad cow disease.

Republican Scott Brown has triumphed in the Massachusetts Senate race, and Democrat Martha Coakley has failed. Among many factors in Coakley's defeat was her Red Sox-related gaffe last week, when she erroneously identified Curt Schilling as a Yankees fan. In the Bay State, where the Sawx are held much more sacred than any other institution, that was a huge mistake.

I don't know if anyone's choice of candidate was actually influenced by this specific misstep. By all accounts, she ran a spectacularly inept campaign. The Schilling goof was simply indicative of the laziness she exhibited throughout her Senate run, which was actually more of a sleepwalk.

But if anyone, in all seriousness, did not vote for her because she didn't know enough about the Red Sox, go get hit by garbage truck. And then catch on fire. And then get hit by a garbage truck on fire. I hate you so god damn much right now.

What's more important, folks: the fact that your Senator knows all about The Bloody Sock, or the fact that your Senator will send a death knell to any hope of reform and change for at least the next two years?

I love the Mets. I think about them and write about them and worry about them way beyond the point I should for something that has no direct bearing on my happiness and well being. One of the big reasons I've never liked Rudy Giuliani is because he's the epitome of the obnoxious, blowhard Yankee fan (being a crypto-fascist made it easy to hate him, too).

However, if there was a candidate who was exactly the same as Rudy in his fandom but the exact opposite politically, versus a guy who was a diehard Mets fan but Giuliani-esque in his world view, I'd vote for the Yankee fan in a second. BECAUSE SPORTS ARE DUMB GAMES AND POLITICS CAN FUCK YOUR LIFE UP FOR DECADES.

If nothing else, hopefully this incident wakes lefties out of the torpor that's set on them in record time. Yes, Obama hasn't done everything we wanted. Yes, he has been slow to act in certain respects (most infuriatingly, on gay rights). Yes, even before Brown's election, the health care reform bill was less than ideal. Yes, there are still mounds of problems in this country that have yet to even plateau.

But if I may return to baseball for a minute, you almost have to think of Obama in 2010 as Jackie Robinson in 1947. There are too many people for whom the mere idea of a black man being in the national spotlight is too much to bear. Obama can't be as aggressive or fiery as some people would like, because there's too many people waiting for him to lose his temper, do something rash, and fail his way out of the Oval Office.

Like when Joe Wilson yelled LIAR at him during a Congressional address. Why did Wilson do that--because he's a nut? Yes, but also because he hoped Obama would fly off the handle and yell at him, thus alienating half the country ready to think of him as a Scary Black Man. So even though Wilson thoroughly deserved to be punched in the mouth, Obama kept his cool because that was ultimately more important than the immediate desire for retribution.

Obama needs to weather the storm of his first few years and prove to The Haters that he knows what he's doing and that him being in power isn't the nightmare they think it is (or want it to be). It's totally unfair, but it wouldn't be the first time a black man had to work harder than his white counterparts just gain some respect. And after this "trial period", like Robinson, he can start fighting back against the Ben Chapmans of the world and slide in spikes up.

Ask yourself this: Looking at the Sarah Palins and the Glenn Becks and the Bill O'Reillys (a fascist Mets fan) of the world--who are clearly at the vanguard of the Republican party--do you really think there's no difference between Dems and the GOP? I'm not the biggest fan of the two-party system. But for right now, today, what's our best hope for rising out of the shit eight years of Bush dumped us in--Obama's slower-than-you'd-like agenda, or the Republicans' obstructionist paleoconservative nihilistic non-agenda?

Oh, and Curt Schilling? Go get fucked sideways with rusty rake.

Hey Omar, can we talk?
Sure thing, Carlos. How's that knee?
That's what I want to talk to you about. I spoke to you about this surgery earlier this week, and I thought everything was cool.
Yeah, definitely, sounds like something I'd say.
But today, your assistant GM made it sound as if I went behind your back to do this. What the fuck?! If you had some problem with how this went down, why didn't we just handle it internally? Why did you go after me in public, by proxy, and make me and everyone else on this team look bad?
I didn't go after you, Carlos, my assistant GM did. But it's clear that somebody pulled a real choke job here on the whole communication thing, and we'll take care of that ASAP. Right after we work out that 7-year extension for Bengie Molina.
You're responsible for this whole mess! Why are you talking like it's somebody else's fault?!
Carlos, you've never been in charge of a multimillion-dollar operation...
I am a multimillion-dollar operation...
...so you don't understand how this works. I am not responsible for the Mets. I am in charge of the Mets. Being in charge is not the same thing as being responsible.
You're right, I don't understand.
You see, people who are responsible are held responsible for their actions. If I were responsible for things, I would've been fired a long time ago. Remember that time we assed away a postseason berth in the last month of the season?
Yeah, that happened two years in a row.
Really? I have no memory of it happening two times. Then again, there was that one season where I took a lot of naps. You see, Carlos, only schmucks are responsible for things. Men are in charge. Men lead. They lead by standing there, immobile, staring straight ahead while their ship runs aground.
How do you get to be in charge?
You thrust yourself ahead blindly, like a bull in a china shop, barreling all your competitors out of your path. Other guys in charge will admire your spunk and grit and determination, and they won't care that you have no idea what you're doing, because they don't know what they're doing either, and they're afraid to have anyone too smart or principled around them to make them look bad in comparison.
Well, unlike you, my job is based on performance. In the big leagues, you can't fail upwards and hope to be rewarded.
You can't? I assume you've met Oliver Perez.
DID SUMBODEE TAKE MY FUNYUNS BECUZ I CAN'T FIND THEMM

I admit that I used steroids for over a decade. However, I want to assure all my fans that I only did it to recover from crippling injuries that would have ended my career, not to inflate my majestic home run numbers. Of course, by lengthening my career, I also hit far more home runs than I would have otherwise and wound up inflating my numbers anyway. It was such a vicious circle!

If only I hadn't played in The Steroid Era! Then all of this unpleasantness could have been avoided! I wish I had a mentor when I was younger, someone who would've told me that if I played in The Steroid Era, there was a very good chance I'd do steroids. Darn this era! Darn it all to heck!

Maybe you don't know this, but when a baseball player reaches the majors, he has a choice of what era he can play in. I couldn't play in The Deadball Era, because nobody hit homers back then and nobody wore gloves and everybody gambled. I thought about The Babe Ruth Era, but I've never had the stomach for bathtub gin. I thought about The Postwar Era, but you couldn't go to the World Series unless you played for the Yankees or the Dodgers. And The Sixties weren't an option, because the pitchers had too much of an advantage; I think the mound was two stories high back then. 

I know what you're thinking: How can you pick an era to play in? You see, MLB mastered the space-time continuum in 1975, thanks to a joint effort between NASA and Bill Lee. The principles are complicated and probably boring to the average layman. Suffice to say that the linearity of time is merely an illusion. I could have played 600 years in the future if I wanted to, in The BRX-797-0 Era, but I thought telepathic abilities would take a lot of the mystery out of life, you know?

So while I'm definitely sorry for what I did, I think most of the blame lies squarely on The Steroid Era itself. Perhaps this not-easily-defined span of time needs to do an interview with Bob Costas and explain itself, not me!

I want to thank all of the people who've been supportive during this difficult time. My family. Tony LaRussa. The entire St. Louis Cardinals family. And of course, all those baseball writers who urged me to unburden my soul. Your pushing, poking, and prodding gave me the strength to come clean. I'll never forget you, but I will try to forget all of you weeping and gnashing your teeth because I just did exactly what you wanted me to.

In conclusion, I think the time has come to turn the page and once again start blaming the big black guy for all this unpleasantness.

Today I chat with Sean from Massapequa once again, as we discuss the Jason Bay signing.

The Mets finally made a big move this off season by landing Jason Bay. That fills at least one hole, doesn't it?

Yeah, and fills it with another hole. That guy stinks.

The guy stinks? He hits 30 homers and 100 RBIs every year. He's performed everywhere he's been, even in a Pirates lineup with little protection.

Typical Omar move, gettin some guy who used to play for the loser Pirates. Nobody who ever played for the Pirates has ever been good, ever.

What about Willie Stargell, Roberto Clemente, Honus Wagner...

Honus Wagner? What is that, an electric spray painter?

No, he was one of the greatest baseball players ever.

I never heard a him, so he's a bum, just like Bay!

Even if you totally want to dismiss Bay's years in Pittsburgh--and I don't know why you'd want to do that--he played just as well in Boston. And he couldn't have had a stickier situation to deal with, taking over for Manny Ramirez.

Then why don't the Sox want him back? I'll tell ya why: because he stinks! And because he's injured. I read this thing that his shoulder is about three seconds from bursting into flames.

He passed his physical.

Big deal. You can fake a physical any way you want. My buddy Joey's got half a lung, a metal plate in his head, and seven toes on each foot, but he passes the fire department physical every year. See, if you think healthy, you can convince yourself and everyone else that you really are healthy, even if you're on death's door, which Jason Bay clearly is.

C'mon, the man is not on death's door.

But he's Canadian, ain't he?

Yes, he's from British Columbia.

See, right there, that's another reason not to like him. There's something weird about Canadians. I can't put my finger on it, but they just ain't...right, you know?

So you don't like the Jason Bay signing even a little bit because he's Canadian?

The only good Canadian I know is Randy Bachman of The Guess Who and later Bachman-Turner Overdrive.

Good to see that you've expanded your roster of prejudices.

And speaking of Canadians, why'd the Mets hand Bay a Rangers jersey at the press conference? That's a slap in the face to the Islanders! They practically play down the road! I got a buddy who works at the Nassau Coliseum, and we coulda gotten him a DiPietro jersey for nothin!

So you woulda given Bay a discount on an Islanders jersey?

Yeah, the old five-finger discount. Listen, if you know anybody who wants some game-used equipment, we can hook you up. Jerseys, pants, pads, goal nets...you want a zamboni?

No, I don't want a zamboni.

Cuz I can get you a zamboni. Kinda fun to drive, but it's a bitch to insure.

Always a pleasure, Sean.

You bet.

Last summer, I wrote a piece about perceptions of Jose Reyes and his hamstring injury (which turned out to be season-ending) and, in part, the racial overtones of those perceptions. In it, I blamed the portrayal of Reyes as a malingerer or malcontent on the Doughy White Guy network of sportswriters for not quite getting Latin athletes, or feeling intimidated by the large Latin presence in Major League Baseball--a reflection of many people's similar feelings about the growing Latin population of this country as a whole.

I revised my stance slightly after reading a few tweets from Dave Lennon, Mets beat writer for Newsday. In Lennon's opinion, no one who actually covered the team and spent time around Reyes would question his dedication. I had to concede that was probably true. It seemed most of the anti-Reyes talk came from opinion writers like Jayson Stark (whose ESPN piece set me off in the first place) and professional pot stirrers like Mike Francesa (who would've been sued for libel a thousand times by now if he worked in a print medium).

And then on Sunday, I read a piece (or rather, a piece of a piece) in the Daily News that made me rethink my rethinking. Because it's clear to me that even the more traditional newspaper reporters have a problem with the growing Latin presence in baseball. Or at least know how to tap into such thinking among their readership.

It came to my attention thanks to a post by Andrew Vazzano at The 'Ropolitans. The piece was about the offseason plans for a slew of baseball teams, and was written by Bill Madden. He's sort of the News' Peter King type: equal parts reporter and op-ed guy. He's been around forever, and he's very much an old school guy. The old school that says guys should hustle, play the game the right way, and be racially pure.

I assume that last bit based on his assessment of the Mets' hot stove action (or lack thereof):

Mets? Did somebody say the Mets? They won't spend the money for Holliday, Bay or Lackey and apparently, they're only interested in signing low-budget Latin players, having shown little or no interest in Byrd, Figgins, DeRosa, Wolf or even Staten Island's Jason Marquis, while waiting for their markets to come to them. At the same time, the Phillies and Braves wasted no time in addressing their needs. Sad.

Emphasis added in case that needle-dragged-across-record moment escaped you. Unsurprisingly, later in the day, a certain word was removed from this paragraph. (Hint: It starts with "L" and ends in "atin".) But the fact remains, his original intent was to say what you can read above.

Bill Madden can spin his words any way he wants to, but this is straight-up racist. I don't know whether he really believes this, or just wrote it to stir the pot amongst the Archie Bunker portion of the Mets' fanbase (which was in full force in the article's online comments section). The fact remains, his choice of words was blatantly racist, and I can't be convinced he was not aware of this fact. You can see a screengrab of the original page here, which includes some reader comments as well. But don't read the comments unless you have a strong stomach or can afford to lose 20 IQ points.

Much less important than blatant racism on the sports pages: Madden is way off base here in criticizing the Mets for not making any moves yet. Because very, very few teams have made any moves of any consequence. Here are the big free agent signings so far:

• Omar Vizquel (White Sox)
• Chone Figgins (Mariners)
• Billy Wagner and Takashi Saito (Braves)
• Placido Polanco (Phillies)

That's it. So the Mets haven't made any big signings. That puts them in the same boat as 27 other teams. They've made two small signings: backup catchers Henry Blanco and Chris Coste. I'm not all that familiar with Mr. Coste's background, but I'm gonna go out on a limb and say he is not of Hispanish heritage. I guess Madden is upset about 50 percent of the team's free agent signings being too brown for his (or his audience's) liking.

Also, it's expected that, due to tough financial times, many teams will nontender even more players than usual once that deadline rolls around (December 12). That means the free agent pool will soon expand. Why rush to sign a player right now if waiting a bit means your options will increase?

His assertion that the Braves and Phillies have improved is highly debatable. The Phillies let go Pedro Feliz--an excellent defensive third baseman and a decent-enough bat--to sign Polanco, who is several years older than Feliz and hasn't played third with any regularity since 2002. It's often overlooked how much defense has contributed to the Phillies' success over the last few seasons. Putting Polanco at third creates a defensive hole that their pitchers can't really compensate for (other than Cliff Lee).

Meanwhile, the Braves essentially replaced two young relievers (Rafael Soriano and Mike Gonzalez) with two hurlers pushing 40, both coming off of major surgeries within the last year. This detail is even more alarming when you consider that Atlanta has a Mets-esque track record when it comes to keeping its players healthy. Not to mention the fact that Takashi Saito, once a dominant closer, is now basically a LOOGY; righties have destroyed him the last few years, when he's not hurt.

And then there's the school of thought that says the Mets can't really address their needs with the current crop of free agents and their budget. So they'd be best served to plug up holes as best they can and not lose draft picks by signing Type A free agents. I'm not sure I agree with this theory, but I recognize it as a legitimate argument.

It's certainly a lot more legitimate than saying the Mets only sign Latin players and don't care about baseball because they're always dancing merengue and eating chalupas in the dugout.

Listen: The Mets deserve tons of criticism. I have very little faith that their current manager, general manager, or ownership know what they're doing in the slightest. I don't think this is a smart organization, and I have no evidence that it's getting any smarter. And I'm really worried about Omar Minaya in particular, since his job is clearly on the line, because that's the sort of situation that might spur him to make ridiculous moves that will seriously jeopardize the team's long-term chances.

But Madden didn't lobby any serious charges against the team. He simply accused then of being cheap and making racially motivated signings. To do so, he had to ignore a mountain of evidence to the contrary, plus equally large piles of deductive reasoning and common sense. And for what? So he could sell a few more papers, maybe get a few more page hits as idiots scrambled to drop racist garbage in the comments section?

Madden knew exactly what he was doing. So did whichever editor allowed the article to run as-is (at least initially). Neither of them might be racist, but they were perfectly willing to tap into a deep, insecure, racist vein of their readership. I can't decide which is worse.

Over the weekend, Kevin Kernan of the New York Post wrote a brief, heartbreaking (to me) article about former Met Edgardo Alfonzo, erstwhile member of The Greatest Infield Ever. He's been in the baseball wilderness since 2006, playing for the independent Long Island Ducks, the Mexican league, and the Venezuelan winter league. Last year, like his former teammate Benny Agbayani, he finally won a championship thanks to the Japanese baseball league, going all the way with the Yomiuri Giants.

But as thrilling as that was, he has one thing he still wants to do: he wants to retire as a Met.

My dream is to retire with the Mets colors. That's my dream. That's what I'm praying for, maybe it will happen, maybe not, but dreams sometimes come true, you know....I love the Mets and I love the Mets fans. I would like that dream to come true.

Fonzie thinks he still has some baseball left in him, and can be a good utility man. He's hoping the Mets will extend him a spring training invite. If he makes the team, great. If not, he's happy to retire from the majors wearing orange and blue.

Perhaps you're not aware of how unusual this is. Most Mets leave town in a huff, or in disgrace, or embittered, or in some head scratchingly bad trade. Almost no player retires as a Met, and the few that do make little sense.

In recent memory, I recall Jeromy Burnitz and Todd Zeile playing their last seasons as Mets, both in their second tour of duty with the team. Neither were exactly returning heroes. Then there were random spring training invitees like Andres Galaragga and Bret Boone, who quit the game rather than fight for a roster spot on bad Met teams.

Even Tom Seaver barely retired as a Met. He got a token spring training invite in 1987, then hung up his cleats for good. He should have never left the team in the first place, but that's a whole other story. Ask Dick Young about it, should you ever find yourself strolling through hell.

Edgardo Alfonzo says he wants to retire as a Met. I don't think anyone has uttered those words in the last 30 years.

Of course, this is the man who, upon leaving the Mets for free agency after the 2002 season, used his own money to take out ads on top of taxicabs to thank Mets fans for their support. As The 1999 Project will attest, he had nothing but huge hits that year, particularly in September and into the playoffs. He was a Gold Glove caliber third baseman (I mean in the imaginary universe where Gold Gloves are handed out for actual fielding skills and not on legacy/popularity). But he moved to second base to make way for Robin Ventura, never uttered a peep about it, and played just as well there.

That was The Fonzie Way: quiet, dignified, workmanlike. He was constantly overshadowed by flashier players and the random course of events. Still--and I know that as a rational baseball fan, this is a borderline silly thing to say/write, but I'm saying it anyway--in a big spot, in a must-win game, there was no player I'd want coming up to bat for the Mets more than Edgardo Alfonzo.

As I've written on many occasions, the Mets (as an organization) don't do right by their history. They don't honor it, they don't cherish it, and they barely acknowledge it. Alfonzo is not a legendary player, but he was a great one for a short period of time, and he was definitely a beloved one.

If we were talking about virtually any other organization, there'd be no question that he'd get a spring training invite. Maybe you strike gold, and Fonzie has something left in the tank. If not, it costs the team virtually nothing, you grant his wish, and pay him back for everything he did for the team.

I don't have much faith in the Mets to do the right thing by Fonzie. But I hope this is enough of a no brainer that even they can make this happen.

Yesterday, Benny Agbayani retired from the Japanese major leagues (NPB) where he'd been playing for the last six years, occasionally under the skipper-hood of ex-Met manager/Scratchbomb nerd-heartthrob Bobby Valentine. Benny will always hold a special place in my heart, as I'm sure he does for most Mets fans.

Every fanbase in every sport has a guy like Benny: beloved for performing way over his head, despite a seeming total lack of physical gifts. Benny was built like a fireplug, had a boyish, pudgy face, and ran like he was mad at the ground beneath him. Fans like guys like him because it makes them think that any slob can play the game. Of course, even a guy like Benny has physical gifts better than those of 98% of the population. Regardless, he's the kind of player whose appearance allows for the amount of identification and self-delusion necessary to be a Sports Fan.

Benny toiled in the minors for five years before finally getting a call up in 1998, thanks to Valentine, who'd managed him at triple-A Norfolk. After getting called up again early in 1999, he blasted 10 homers in his first 73 at bats, a Ruthian pace that, of course, could not be maintained (he waited until September before finally hitting his 11th homer of the season). In the postseason, he was somewhat eclipsed by the emergence of Melvin Mora, but he did have a few key moments. In game 4 of the NLDS, he hit a double to put the Mets ahead, and in game 6 of the NLCS, he got on base to lead off two late innings, and came around to score both times to give the Mets the lead, though his bullpen could not hold the lead in any of these cases.

In 2000, he became a more permanent fixture in the Mets' lineup, and contributed many huge hits on their road to the World Series (one of which we'll get to shortly). He also mistakenly tossed a fly ball he caught into the stands, thinking it was the third out (it was only the second) and had to frantically retrieve from the youngster who snared it. Such was Mets' fans love for the guy that the blunder only made him more loveable somehow.

Unfortunately, loveability does not always equate to ability to play in the big leagues. Benny fell back to earth, as players of his type often do. He was traded to the Rockies in 2002, wound up on the Red Sox briefly, then went to the Far East, where he won a championship with Valentine's Chiba Lotte Marines in 2005 (along with another ex-Met, Matt Franco).

Apparently, he was just as beloved in Japan as he was in Flushing, as this video will attest. This is footage from a Chiba Lotte Marines game, where the local fans are reciting a Benny Agbayani chant en masse. This is not unheard of in Japanese baseball, where fan folkways are a lot less like their American counterparts and more like European soccer supporters. But the Japanese baseball fans do not develop choreographed chants for everyone.



When I heard he retired, I thought immediately of game 3 of the 2000 NLDS, possibly the greatest game I've ever seen in person. I reminisced about that game way back in January of this year. Let's take a trip back in time, shall we? (Original post here.) 

You may have thought that poorly-thought-out, knee-jerk, Neanderthal baseball opinion pieces were out of season until next March. If so, you thought wrong. The tweeting of OldHossRadbourn (who everyone should be following NOW) alerted me to an article on SI.com by Bruce Jenkins entitled "Joe Girardi deserves praise for refusing to pamper starters". I think you can see where this is heading.

The article opens with a definition of the word "mollycoddle", for those readers under the age of 90, taken from the well respected lexicographic authority WordNet.

I once knew a Molly Coddle. Close friend of Jimmy Jack. Neither is related to Joe Girardi, as it turns out, and for that we should all be grateful.

And I once knew a guy named Loopy Louie and another guy named Sad-Eyed Sid. What the hell are you talking about?!

The World Series gave us a novel's share of heroes...but for me, the lasting impression will be Girardi's three-man rotation. He used it throughout the postseason, 15 games' worth, with spectacular success. He turned back the clock, drove a lot of people nuts, and emerged with a great big trophy in his hands.

Checking the national-media reports as the World Series reached its most crucial stage, you got the impression Girardi was an odd sort of dead man walking. "You'd better be right, you idiot," was the general tone. "Because you'll lose your job if you blow this."

I don't remember anyone being too stunned or upset at Girardi's move. The only time it came into question, really, was when he started A.J. Burnett on three days' rest in game 5--which didn't work out too well for the Yankees, you may recall. In fact, I think most reporters were on the same page as Jenkins, praising Girardi for his Macho Manliness in employing old school baseball tactics

Jenkins doesn't name any specific "national-media reports", so I can't really attack his hypothesis. I think he thinks Nervous Nellies attacked Girardi's strategy, and now he's giving these Imaginary Wusses a piece of his Manly Mind!

In truth, Girardi's job never was in jeopardy, but such was the tone of panic and paranoia as the Yankee manager wielded that deadliest of weapons: common sense. He employed a strategy that worked in baseball for, oh, about 70 years, not including the 19th century.

I think Jenkins is confusing "worked" with "was the status quo". Lots of things existed for long periods of time, but whether they were effective, wise, or just is a whole other story. Western civilization "worked" for a few millennia without the input of non-whites, the landless, and women. Does that mean we should return to those wonderful days?

While four-man rotations were employed by most teams until the 1970s, how well they worked depends on your definition of "worked". If by "worked" you mean "allowed baseball to exist", then yes, they worked. If by "worked" you mean "kept pitchers healthy and ensured long careers", that's a different question. It's also a question that's very difficult to answer, but Jenkins doesn't seem interested in asking it in the first place.

Somewhere along the line -- and I'm sure it's connected in some sinister way with the Nixon administration -- baseball lost its way. Forever the province of workhorse starters, pitching entire seasons on three days' rest and approaching 150 pitches in a given start, the game surrendered to the Mollycoddle Generation. Five-man rotations became the rage, and "100 pitches" equated to a traumatic overload, certain to destroy a man's arm and perhaps cause flooding in the neighboring streets.

So many things about baseball are different now. Until 1961, there were only 16 teams and 154 games in a season. There are far fewer off days now--a team will routinely play eight, nine, or ten games in as many days, often while traveling across large distances. In the olden days, series were often four games (or longer) instead of just three, meaning travel between points was less frequent. Until 1958, there were no teams west of St. Louis, and most travel was done by bus or train. I don't care what anyone says, but constant plane travel is NOT good for you, mentally or physically, especially the coast-to-coast variety.

So is it unreasonable to ask the game to adjust to these new realities? Yes, apparently!

The old-school guys didn't know whether to holler or weep. A number of them, including Bob Gibson and Robin Roberts, were hanging around this year's World Series, wondering aloud what happened to the game's integrity. "I don't get it," Gibson said after Game 4. "A guy can't pitch with three days' rest? I don't think it's going to kill somebody."

Bob Gibson wonders why guys can't pitch on three-days' rest because he's Bob effin' Gibson, one of the best pitchers ever. He doesn't know what it's like to be mortal. I'm sure Einstein wondered why people couldn't do quadratic equations in their head.

Using a legend like Gibson to prove your point about short rest being okay is like pointing to to an eagle and saying, "Why can't everybody fly like him?!" We can't because we're not all gifted with wings. For every Gibson, there are 10 guys who had a few good, promising seasons, were overworked when teams didn't know any better, blew out their arms, and were never the same.

How about Sandy Koufax? He was a workhorse, too, and he had six of the best seasons any pitcher has ever strung together. And he had to quit after those six seasons, because the Dodgers rode his arm so hard, he had to get special jackets made with one sleeve shorter than the other.

It was so refreshing to watch Girardi go through a month of excruciatingly tense baseball with CC Sabathia, A.J. Burnett and Andy Pettitte as his starters....There wasn't any big puzzle to the strategy [in the old days]. Teams went with their very best, not some questionable fourth or fifth starter, with the idea of rising above the rest. Other sports, notably football and basketball, have found ways to maximize the "bigger, faster, stronger" element and develop athletes more fit and productive than ever before. Baseball has managed to go backward, and it's not as if the pitch-count madness has improved the product. There has never been an era with more elbows, forearms, rotator cuffs and labrums on the shelf.

Thanks to advances in medical science, we're able to diagnose and treat things like torn labrums and rotator cuffs. In ye olden days, when a pitcher's arm hurt, they patched him up with voodoo and greenies and sent him back out there until his elbow exploded. Then they threw him on the scrap heap, because there was no free agency and all players were expendable, interchangeable parts. Ah, the good ol' days!

I don't think there's more injuries nowadays; teams are just able to detect them better and be cautious about them.Thirty years ago, most front office types probably thought the labrum was one of those little bones in the ear. Blaming the modern pitcher's regimen for injuries is like blaming an x-ray for a broken bone.

I'm not saying that a four-man rotation is an idea completely without merit. Even amongst the sabremetric set, the debate rages: at least one Baseball Prospectus writer thinks a four-man rotation would improve the game without damaging arms, while Rob Neyer believes that such a rotation simply wouldn't work with the modern baseball schedule, for many of the travel/day off reasons I mentioned above. I can't say I know enough to make a conclusion in either direction.

This is what I do know: Throwing a baseball the way pitchers throw baseball exerts a huge amount of trauma on the arm. Especially when it's done over and over again, which is unavoidable when you're a pitcher. It seems to me that a pitcher's effectiveness would be in indirect proportion to the amount of work that arm is asked to do. Not in every case, of course. But in most cases.

Asking an athlete to do that to their body throughout a season, then asking them to be in top shape down the stretch when it matters the most--which is the whole point of a baseball season, isn't it?--is begging for trouble.

Long story short: Unless I'm show definitive evidence to the contrary, I don't think a four-man regular season rotation would be to the overall benefit of all pitchers or clubs.

But I guess we should just do it cuz that's what manly men like Allie Reynolds and Bob Feller and Warren Spahn did. Can't argue with that logic!

One thing Jenkins neglects to mention: While the Yankees employed a three-man rotation throughout the playoffs, they didn't really pitch anyone on short rest until the World Series. Thanks to a short NLDS against the Twins and rainouts during the ALCS, they didn't need to. Sabathia pitched game 4 of the ALCS on three-days' rest, but that was the only short-rest start for the Yanks until he pitched game 4 of the World Series.

So this "daring act" Jenkins credits to Girardi was really just the byproduct of some fortunate scheduling. Had the dates and the climate conspired otherwise, who knows what he would have done?

If other managers haven't tried similar gambits in recent World Series, it may be due to the fact that this year's Fall Classic was the first one to last more than six games since 2003. There's little point in starting a pitcher on short rest when you have a commanding 3-0 or 3-1 lead in a series. In fact, when Girardi did that with Burnett in game 5, it very nearly blew up in his face, and basically forced him to start Pettite on short rest in game 6.

But again, I don't recall too many sportswriters in traditional media blasting him for doing this. So I really don't know who Jenkins is railing against here. I imagine that he sees the Bill Jamesians the way that Dave Berg used to draw all "young people", like dirty long-haired types, a bong in one hand and a pitch counter in the other.

As I've said on many occasions, I don't hate the Yankees. Really, I don't. (No really! SHUT UP!). But they perpetuate a certain kind of Mystical Bullshit about themselves that the sports press force feeds to its readers, which makes me want to hate them.

When the Yankees reach the pinnacle of the baseball world, as they did last night, the sportswriter hackery goes into overdrive. Grown men turn a baseball game into Harry Potter fanfic. One of the great thing about baseball is that it turns adults into little kids again. That's fun when you're talking about fans. But as we've seen before, that feeling shouldn't be invoked in self-proclaimed journalists.

So let's take a tour of the NY papers today, shall we? How about the staid New York Times. Surely they will have some sense of restraint, like in this fan piece by Ken Belson:

Elijah McNally started rooting for the Yankees in 2004, when he was 6 years old. Back then, the Yankees were only a year removed from a World Series appearance, and another championship seemed just around the corner.

Since then, Elijah had known nothing but seasons that ended with the Yankees falling short of winning a 27th World Series championship. On Wednesday night, he and his father, Chris, secured two seats in the right-field bleachers to see the Yankees end that dry spell.

"I've lived too long hearing that the Yankees got eliminated," said Elijah, who stood in the bleachers in an Alex Rodriguez jersey trying to get players to toss him a ball during batting practice.

Thanks to this piece, I think I am now legally cleared to smack an 11 year old.

To be fair, the Times also has one of the few pieces that dares to call out fans on their A-Rod flip-floppery, by William C. Rhoden: "With a World Series title, A-Rod will receive richly deserved adulation and praise. The fans who jeered, who called him A-Fraud, who wanted him run out of town, now toss laurel wreaths his way. Makes you wonder who the real phonies are."

But if the Times acts like this, you can just imagine how the tabloids are treating the news. Amazingly, the Post is not as ridiculous as you'd think, considering its earlier Photoshop work. There are, of course, talk about an "elusive" 27th title by Joel Sherman, and a piece on A-Rod by Mark Hale that glosses over the whole steroid thing.

No, for true batshittery, you have to go to the Daily News. For it is there that Simon Weichselbaum collects quotes from "psychiatrists" whose advice consists entirely of insults to Philly fans. Matt Gagne relates A.J. Burnett's postgame "cream pie" adventures. (Glad to see Burnett made himself useful for something in this series.) There's Filip Bondy's report from The Bleacher Creatures (biggest bunch of mutants on the planet) and their declarations of "fifteen more years of domination!" (Try one for starters, see how that works out.)

And Joanna Molloy says that NYC "needed" the Yanks to win it all:

Ordinary New Yorkers needed to see the Yankees keep their act together, and hang tough day after day, because that is what people have been doing all over the city, all across this tough, tough year....

New Yorkers have just kept going. Feeding the kids, squeezing onto rush-hour subways, putting in long hours. Just kept putting one foot in front of the other. Ordinary heroes, their character only getting stronger.

And we saw the Yankees do the same. And we identified with these men in pinstripes.

Yes, this ragtag group of misfits are just like us regular New Yorkers! So plucky! Fighting and srapping with nothing but grit and determination! Plus a $200+ million payroll and a brand new state-of-the-art billion dollar stadium! What a testament to our city's spirit!

And what of Derek Jeter? Oh won't somebody please think of Derek Jeter! Sean Brennan, tell us how much this means to him!

It had been nine long seasons. Nine campaigns without experiencing baseball's ultimate victory, without a parade through the Canyon of Heroes, without being the last team standing at the end of the season.

After four championship rings in his first five seasons, Derek Jeter had to wonder if the success he enjoyed early in his career would ever come around again.

"With only four World Series rings, piles of money, and tons of beautiful women around him, how could Jeter live with himself unless he won his fifth title?!"

Just 160 days until spring training...

Can the Yanks win their 27th world championship? Can the Phillies force a game seven in the Bronx? I haven't the slightest idea. But I do know that Joe Buck and Tim McCarver are bound to say a mountain of stupid things. So meet back here at 7:30 sharp for all the mockery!

Yeah, I told Cole Hamels "I thought you quit" after he said he couldn't wait for the season to end. So what? I'd say it again. I'd say it three times if I had to. If pushed, I might even say it four times. But I wouldn't say it five times. Brett Myers don't say nothin' five times, not for nobody!

/pops open new can of Axe body spray, completely empties it on chest

Yeah, I know he was awesome in the postseason last year. Big fuckin' deal. Shit is ancient history. You know what his problem is? He ain't Philly. He ain't one of us and he ain't never gonna be! You know the man has never had a Tastykake? I offered him a butterscotch crimpet once and he said no thanks, and started givin' me all this shit about preservatives and chemicals bein' bad for you. Fuckin' pussy.

/tries on five slightly different looking Ed Hardy shirts

We're on the brink of another world championship. YOU DON'T QUIT ON THAT!!1! You gotta seize your Destiny! You gotta grab Destiny by the hair and drag it out into the street and punch it in the face! Cuz sometimes, you're just tired of listenin' to Destiny go on and on and on about all this dumb bullshit she's doin at work!

/pounds a can of Rockstar

I AM SO PUMPED!! Get me on a mound right now! I'll throw some chin music that horse lovin' punk-ass A-Rod! Fuck, I'll throw him some side-of-his-skull music! I don't care! Think I care? CUZ I DON'T! I'LL CAVE ANYONE'S SKULL IN BECAUSE THAT'S BRETT MYERS' PLATE YER STANDIN' ON!

Whoah, did you see that guy lookin at me? THE FUCK YOU LOOKIN AT, ASSHOLE?! WHY DON'T YOU MIND YOUR OWN BUSINESS, YA FUCKIN QUEER?!

/stomps over, lands one punch

Fuck, I think that was a parking meter. Pretty sure I just broke every bone in my pitching hand. But I had no choice! You saw the way it was blinkin' that one red eye at me! BRETT MYERS' DON'T TAKE NO SHIT, ESPECIALLY NOT FROM INANIMATE OBJECTS!

NEW YORK--Stand-up comedians from across the country gathered outside of Caroline's to call for a clarification on the latest Alex Rodriguez scandal. Over the weekend, it was alleged by an anonymous ex-lover that Rodriguez commissioned paintings of himself as a centaur.

"While this revelation would appear to be a goldmine for the comedic community, it leaves us with many questions that must be answered before we can proceed with entertaining the American public," said Bill Henwick, president of the American Stand-Ups of America and host of the Tuesday open mic night at Baron Von Laughsalot's in Albany.

"I, for one, don't really know what a centaur is," Henwick continued. "Is the centaur the thing with the one eye?" Reporters informed Henwick he was thinking of a cyclops. "That's too bad, because then he could just take some Viagra the next time he's in a slump!"

Henwick chuckled to himself, then added, "Ladies, back me up on this."

"This controversy is far too obtuse and bizarre for the stand-up community for work with," said comedian Jack Rosham. "How can I write jokes about creatures from ancient mythology? A centaur is mythological, right? It's not one of those blind cave fish that scientists just discovered or something?"

Assured that centaurs were mythological, Rosham continued. "I'd like to remind Mr. Rodriguez that he needs to work with us and keep his indiscretions more straight-forward, because our jokes keep his name in the public consciousness. Cheat on your wife, take steroids, remain obviously jealous of Derek Jeter--these are things we comedians can handle. I'd also like to remind everyone that I'll be doing three shows next week at Zany's Chuckle Dungeon in Piscataway."

"A centaur isn't even an ethnicity, technically," said 18-year stand-up veteran Bill Moreno. "I can't tell centaur jokes until I know if they smoke crack or drink too much or are really cheap. What is A-Rod, Mexican? Puerto Rican? Please tell me he's Cuban. I got all these Elian Gonzalez jokes just collecting dust at home."

"Stand-ups are still upset with A-Rod for breaking up with Madonna," said comedian Fred Stinger, currently headlining at The Texas Joke Depository in Dallas. "Do you know how much material was wiped out when that relationship ended? I saw a solid five minutes go down the toilet! I have a buddy who wrote a whole parody song to the tune of 'Like a Virgin'. What the hell am I supposed to do with Kate Hudson? Make fun of Goldie Hawn third-hand?"

Because you demanded it (you = me), once again I shall be live blogging the World Series. Game 4, aka Citizens Bank Park on Patrol, will feature CC Sabathia versus Joe Blanton--a matchup for the ages! I'm sure it will also feature more cheap homers than you can shake a stick at. Just a hunch.

So meet back here at 7:30pm NY time for all the Buck and McCarver mockery you can stand!

Update 10.30: Thanks to everyone who participated in this glorious live event! If you want to see what you missed or relive the glory, just press that little play button below.

As a Mets fan, can I ignore the World Series just because it features two teams I don't like? Of course not! This is still the World Series, and I intend to watch every inning. This is part of baseball history, unfolding before our eyes. Plus, maybe someone will get horribly injured on live TV!

So keep your eyes on this space, for I shall be live-blogging this whole grotesque event for posterity! God help us all!

All live blog posts in chronological order, after the jump.

NEW YORK--As of press time, Phillies manager Charlie Manuel had yet to decide on what appalling blunder his team would commit in game one of the World Series. Per the expanded postseason rules instituted this season, every team playing the Yankees in a playoff series must commit at least one mind-meltingly stupid error per game and submit it to the league office by 3 pm EST prior to game time.

"It's a tough call," Manuel told reporters. "I've been thinking about having Jimmy Rollins catching a ball in foul territory, then flipping it to a fan in the stands, even though there are only two outs, so a runner could score from second. I might also have Shane Victorino run from first to third base in a straight line. Of course, Chase Utley's still not over his case of the Knoblauchs, so gives us another weapon to work with."

The manager also noted that any ball hit near Ryan Howard "opens up a whole world of gaffe possibilities."

Manuel remained cagey when pressed by reporters. "Maybe it'll be a fielding error," he said. "Maybe it'll be a baserunning blunder. Maybe Cliff Lee will trip on his shoelaces and commit a balk to force in the winning run. You never know. I ain't gonna show my hand so easily!"

When asked about Manuel's reticence to choose an error before the deadline, Yankees manager Joe Girardi seemed unperturbed. "I have great respect for Charlie and his team," he said. "They're the defending champs, they're a great ballclub, and they play hard. We just have to be ready to capitalize on whatever hideously idiotic mistake Charlie chooses. Or we could forget how to hit with runners in scoring position and have another 15 inning game. That might be fun."

Manuel's brain cramp of choice wasn't the only unfinished detail prior to game one. As of press time, the umpiring crew had not yet decided in which inning they would commit a disastrous blown call. Crew chief Dana DeMuth could not be reached for comment, as he was receiving treatment for a injury sustained while trying to eat his breakfast.

"We believe that, rather than try to eat pancakes with a fork, he got confused and did it the other way around," an MLB official said. "This has happened a lot this year, which is why we recommend to our umpires that they don't eat until they've got a Breakfast Buddy to help them."

The question weighing on every Mets fan's mind for the past week: Who to root for in the World Series? And if that question didn't weigh on your mind, I'm sure you've met a Yankee or Phillie fan who was more than happy to lob the question at you until you pleaded for mercy.

Maybe the real question is, Do I have to root for anyone? Can't I just watch the World Series in the hopes of seeing some exciting games? I watch football games all the time that I have zero rooting interest in, and enjoy myself quite a bit if the game is good. Can't I just do that with the World Series?

Unfortunately, the answer is no, for two reasons: 1) This is already touted as a battle between two "evenly-matched teams", which virtually guarantees that one team will slaughter the other. It's always a five-game series where one team ekes out a win in, like, game 3, while the victor destroys the other team 10-3 in every other game.

Reason number 2: It's the Yankees vs. the Phillies. No matter who a Mets fan roots for, it will be bad. If the Yankees win, they'll have to hear it from their fans about how they easily dispatched the team that's tortured the Mets the last three seasons. If the Phillies win, their fans might finally achieve the arrogance and entitlement of Boston fans, while retaining their traditional anger and penchant for mayhem, a deadly combo.

So can you root for one team to lose? No, you can't. Because whoever loses will still have made it to the World Series. Losing in the World Series is not humbling, unless you blow a big lead or have totally disastrous meltdown a la Bill Buckner. In other words, even the loser can lord that fact over the Mets. And if you actively root for the team that wins and rejoice in their victory, you'll need to shower for a week to wash the shame from your soul.

This is like Alien vs. Predator: no matter who wins, we lose. Or like a situation Tom Scharpling once called "the reverse Highlander": must there only be one? Or, please let there be just one.

The Unanswerable Question raised its ugly head as I watched game 6 of the ALCS with my extended family. Most of them are Mets fans of varying degrees of fanaticism, but there are few Yankees fans in the mix as well--particularly an uncle who's loved to torture my mom about the Mets' woes. So when the Angels went down in order in the ninth, the ball had barely left Mariano Rivera's hand before this uncle asked me and my brothers and cousins who we would root for.

Our initial response was, begrudgingly, the Yankees. Now that Roger Clemens is long gone and disgraced, I don't hate anyone on the team, whereas the Phillies have several players I can not stand (exhibit A: Shane Victorino, an obnoxious, hypocritical punk who'd hit about 7 homers a year in any other ballpark and any other lineup). I know a lot of Yankees fans who are decent human beings and who will be happy if they win. The pain that the Phillies have inflicted on the Mets in the past few years is much more fresh and cutting than anything the Yankees done. And when the Phillies won last year, even during their championship parade, they wouldn't shut up about the Mets, as if the only reason they won the World Series was because it might hurt the Mets' feelings.

Yes, my first thought was that I could imagine myself quietly rooting for the Yankees in this situation. And then I saw this in today's New York Post:

I have a hard time deciding which is worse: the front or the back cover. And yes, I realize this is coming from the Post, not the Yankees themselves. But it's indicative of certain type of Yankee fan and organization arrogance, dismissiveness, and flat-out ignorance of anything outside of the Yankee Universe

Let's start with the front cover. And let's ignore the bad Photoshop job on Cheerleader Victorino. And I'll try to forget the fact that I hate Victorino for a moment. The Phillies are the defending world champs. They're a really good team. They beat the Yankees two out of three at the Stadium earlier this year. It's really dumb and childish to write them off as if they're nothing, just because they're from Philly, and to think that they'll wither and die under the MAJESTY and the AURA of the New York spotlight.

Not to mention the caveman sexual politics behind depicting someone in a skirt to imply that they're weak. Because women wear skirts and they're so weak and fragile and can't drive! And don't get me started on my mother-in-law!

Peep some of these idiotic quotes from the accompanying article, entitled "Their fans are second rate & so is their city":

Yankee fans have a message for the Phillies and their hometown: This ain't Rocky, and the underdog won't win!

Are the Phillies the underdog? Maybe, but not by a huge margin. I think anyone with half a baseball mind knows that the Phillies are a strong team up and down. The bullpen has regressed (or Brad Lidge has, anyway), but their starting pitching and lineup is actually better than it was last year. A good chunk of Yankee fans wouldn't know that, because they're are about as familiar with the NL as they are with self-restraint and perspective.

"Philly fans are a bunch of whiners and should learn how to dress[, said a fan] "They should try reading GQ."

This has to be the first time a sports fan has insulted other sports fans by suggesting they pick up an issue of a high class fashion magazine. "Those mooks down in Philly don't even know how exfoliate! Yo, try pickin' up some skin products from the fine people Aveda some time!"

And don't even try to compare the iconic House That Ruth Built with the long-gone Veterans Stadium.

You mean the iconic House That Steinbrenner Tore Down so he could bully the city into building a new billion-dollar Yankee Stadium on public land? Or are you referring to the iconic NYY Steak/House of Blues/Johnnie Walker Pavilion with the baseball diamond in the middle of it?

Of course, the article is filled with fans talking shit about Philadelphia and saying how it can't compare to New York. You will not find a more pro-NYC person than yours truly, but thumping your chest about the greatness of your city is lame at best, bullying at worst. If New York is truly as great as you think it is, you shouldn't have to put down other places to prove it.

But if anything can top the idiocy and short-sightedness of the Post's front cover, it's the back cover. The Yankees wanna win one for The Boss? Really?

Here's how George A. King III starts his article that rests upon this thesis:

The Boss has lost something off a Hall of Fame fastball, but that doesn't mean the need to win has been sucked from his marrow.

There are quotes from Derek Jeter, Reggie Jackson, Brian Cashman, and the Steinbrenner sons, all insisting that winning this World Series would "mean a lot" to the ailing Boss.

You won't see buttons attached to the pinstriped uniforms that read, "Win One For The Boss," but there is a feeling in the organization that it would be a nice touch to give the 79-year-old Steinbrenner another title.

Sure, the Yankees have won six World Series under his ownership already, but that's small potatoes. Ring number seven, that's the real special one.

Winning a World Series would be "a nice touch". Yankee fans, wanna know why everyone hates you? Peep that statement. It's like an entire organization of those rich assholes from the Lexus commercials.

Look, I know that Alzheimer's is terrible. I've had family members suffer from it. I don't wish it on my worst enemy. The Wife and I have already said that if either one of us gets it, the other one is morally obligated to push them in front of a moving bus.

But the fact that George Steinbrenner suffers from it now shouldn't make us forget the fact that, before he was banned from baseball in the early 90s, he was an insufferable prick. The fact that he ruined the franchise. Yankees fans literally cheered when he was banned--at Yankee Stadium. And after his reinstatement, he was only slightly less intolerable. I understand not wanting to speak ill of someone who's sick, but this goes beyond that into the realm of historic revisionism.

So who am I rooting for? The meteor, the earthquake, the last-minute union job-stoppage, or the month-long rainstorm that would wipe out any hope of a World Series this year.

The great thing about sports in general--and baseball in particular, I think--is that it turns adults into little kids again. It makes us marvel at amazing feats, believe in miracles...

/the theme from The Natural swells

Sorry, almost had a Costner moment there. Schmaltz aside, sports are fun because they can bring us unbridled joy and enthusiasm. We can all go a little nuts when our team wins The Big Game, pump our fists and proclaim THAT'S THE BEST DAMN GAME I'VE EVER SEEN!

And when I say "we", I mean "the fans". That should not include members of the media, who are paid to be impartial and stoic and have a sense of perspective during even the most thrilling moments. Jayson Stark of ESPN must have missed that day at J-school, because he busted out a column about game 4 of the NLCS that blew my mind with its complete lack of historic perspective or rational thought.

When last we met Mr. Stark, he was advising the Mets (via anonymous MLB scouts) to trade Jose Reyes. So his judgment is already suspect in my eyes. My opinion of him has not been elevated by his piece about Monday night's thriller, entitled "Phillies walk off into history".

He sets the scene with a series of one-sentence paragraphs, describing how the Phillies were down to their last strike when Jimmy Rollins belted a two-run double into the right field gap, completing a come-from-behind victory and putting Philadelphia on top three games to one in the series.

It was a dramatic win, to say the least. It deserves some dramatic prose. What it does not deserve is to be described as "an October baseball game that is going to be talked about for the rest of our lifetimes."

Maybe Stark has powers of prognostication that I don't. But "talked about for the rest of our lifetimes"?! This was, at best, the third-best playoff game played in the past week. It was the second-best playoff game played that day. Games 2 and 3 of this year's ALCS--extra-inning, tension-filled marathons--were both better.

If nothing else good comes out of these MLB playoffs (and nothing probably will, as a Phillies-Yankees World Series leaves me rooting for the meteor), they may force the league to correct two glaring deficiencies. The first is, obviously, the umpiring. I am 100 percent convinced one huge game this year will be definitively and adversely affected by a terrible call. There will be no room for debate as to whether this call cost a team the game, as there was with Phil Cuzzi's brainlock in the ALDS. No, I'm talking about a blatant blown call at a critical moment in a deciding game of a series that shifts victory from one side to the other. It's not a matter of if, it's a matter of when.

Then, hopefully, Bud Selig will be forced to reverse his idiotic anti-replay-expansion stance. We have the technology to make replay review work efficiently, it wouldn't appreciably lengthen games (if anything, it'd shorten them, since it would prevent managers stomping out onto the field to scream about blown calls), and we could even use umpires to man the review booth/room/quonset hut. Selig is like an astronomer who refuses to use a telescope. "No way! Looking at the spheres too closely ruins their mystique! I'll just keep using my magnifying glass to view Jupiter, thank you very much!"

The second one is less essential, but just as important to fans, in my mind. Hopefully, this postseason will force MLB to get new announcers for the biggest games of the year. Because right now, the play-by-play guys they've chosen are across the board terrible.

Just like bad umpiring, fans' toleration of announcers' hideousness is at an all-time low. Read any sports-related site and you will see nothing but contempt for the men who are supposed to be the Voices of Baseball. Spend an evening on Twitter during a game, and it's hard to miss the embarrassment and anger inspired by bad play-by-play. That contempt is finally starting to find its way into the mainstream media, which gives me hope that some changes will be afoot by this time next year.

Chip Caray's gotten the worst reviews, even though this is his second year doing the playoffs. The difference this year is that he's calling Yankee games, thus exposing a large, vocal, passionate fanbase to his hideousness. Although it is somewhat curious that Yankee fans would object to Chip when they're usually treated to Michael Kay. But when picking the announcer for the tentpole games of the postseason, shouldn't you have higher criteria than "not much worse than Michael Kay"?

Joe Buck, on the other hand, receives few complaints. I think most fans feel that he's been around for so long, there's no point in slagging him. We'll never be rid of him, we realize now. He's like some small town mayor voted into office for 17 consecutive terms. No one bothers running against him anymore.

Buck and Caray are Legacy Broadcasters. They're both the sons of beloved baseball voices. Between them, Skip Caray and Jack Buck had about 700 years of play-by-play experience. Add in Chip's uncle Harry, and that's quite a bloodline. One with an unhealthy amount of Budweiser and pork. ("If the moon was made of ribs, would you eat it?")

So Chip and Joe were just sort of admitted to broadcasting, the way people are admitted to Harvard or Yale because everyone in their families went to Harvard or Yale. Merit had nothing to do with it. And just like the inbred blue-blood alumni of Harvard and Yale tend to grow up to do terrible things to our country, so too have Chip and Joe done terrible things to the game of baseball.

Here's the thing, though: If you put a gun to my head, I'd take Chip Caray over Buck. Yes, Chip Caray gets things wrong and his knowledge of players is extremely limited and his impoverished vocabulary means he uses certain words constantly (like "fisted" regardless of whether the ball was actually fisted or not and without any seeming awareness of the double meaning). Worst of all, he used to be a Braves broadcaster. But even allowing all of that, I'll take Chip over Joe, if I have to take either.

Because if Chip Caray has nothing else going for him (and he might not), when he does play-by-play, he sounds as if he likes baseball. He seems to understand that there are exciting moments in a game that should be reacted to with a certain level of enthusiasm. He can at least do this simple, obvious task.

Joe Buck can not. Because Joe Buck fucking hates baseball.

There's an old saying: The worst day at the ballpark is better than the best day at the office. Joe Buck does not understand this saying. Because every moment spent in the vicinity of the game is a torturous hell to him. He is trapped in a purgatory of his own making, and he does not rage against its walls. He resigns himself to apathy, because caring would be pointless.

When Joe Buck calls a game, he simply tells you what happened. After each pitch, he says "ball one" or "strike two". Each time the ball is put into play, he says "grounder to short" or "single to left. No embellishment whatsoever. Every second he spends in a broadcast booth is destroying him, and he transmits that horror in every breath of his chilling, soulless play-by-play work.

It's as if the playoffs are being called by a vampire. And not a sexy Twilight/True Blood vampire, either. A classic vampire, devoid of life, envious of the dead, wanting to take everyone else with him into his cold nether-region of the damned.

But I will thank Joe Buck for one thing. His complete apathy in the face of the year's most exciting games provided the best moment of the playoffs so far. It came in game 2 of the ALCS on Saturday. You'll be forgiven for missing it, because it came at a moment that you (unlike Buck) were wrapped up in because you found it exciting.

Top of the ninth, two outs, game tied at 2, Mariano Rivera on the mound in his second inning of relief. Torii Hunter at the plate. Future Hall of Famer versus dangerous hitter. Rivera falls behind 2-0, then gets two swinging strikes. The crowd is on its feet, cheering between the raindrops. Finally, Rivera throws his signature cutter, right on the inside black, and freezes Hunter. Called strike three, inning over. Mariano walks back to the dugout in his typically subdued way, a totally contrast to the fans, who are going ballistic.

This is the kind of moment a broadcaster lives for. Athletic theatre of the highest order. It is a sliver of time screaming out for either profundity or silence. What did Joe Buck say?

 

"What. A. ... Game."

I absolutely lost it. I laughed harder than I've laughed since I heard Tom Scharpling and Paul F. Tompkins discuss the Gathering of the Juggalos. It was so awkward and unsure of itself and tragically incompetent, I almost applauded.

It was delivered in the same tone as Comic Book Guy sneering "Worst. Episode. Ever." Joe Buck actually paused between "a" and "game", as if he forgot what he was going to say next, or someone clogged up his robot RAM with too much information and he was slow to process it. FATAL ERROR. SOME DATA MAY BE LOST.

Faced with an epic moment in a thrilling playoff game, this was the best Joe Buck could do. Ladies and gentlemen, the prosecution rests.

This October marks a solemn--nay, sacred!--anniversary. Because it was two years this October that we, as a nation, stood up and said we would not live in fear. We joined hands and proclaimed that we would not be terrorized, that we would stand firm and resist the great evil that had been foisted upon us!

It was two years ago that this October that we said no to Dane Cook as a spokesman for the MLB playoffs. That may not seem like much now. But this proclamation was the first small step in saying no to Dane Cook the Movie Star, and Dane Cook the Comedian, and hopefully, someday, Dane Cook the Well-Known Celebrity altogther.

If you don't remember those heady days, check out this post from 2007, which detail his ridiculous playoff ads from that year. Original post here

Clayton Kershaw--the Dodgers' starter for game 1 of the NLCS--looks like a very young, slightly more athletic version of Tom Waits.

I have no joke for this. Believe me, I tried to find one. Maybe it's just funny enough that a fireballing southpaw resembles the whiskey-soaked bard of hobos, drunks, and drunk hobos. Seriously, look at this pic of Kershaw:

Now peep this pic of a young Tom Waits, back when his voice sounded only slightly demonic:

Not convinced? How 'bout this clip of Mr. Waits on Fernwood 2 Night?


I wonder if Kershaw also lives at the corner of Bedlam and Squalor.