Category Archives: Baseball

Mike and the Mad Dog Fall Down the Memory Hole

January 31, 2008 Matthew Callan

December 18, 2007

So baseball’s Winter Meetings have concluded, and it looks like the Yankees and the Red Sox are about to get in a bidding war for Johan Santana. And of course, we all know that this will end with #57 in pinstripes, taking his place among the pantheon of
great Yankee hurlers: Whitey Ford, Catfish Hunter, Carl Pavano…

Mikey, tell you what, Hank Steinbrenner is playing this perfectly. When you’re negotiating with another GM, the best thing to do is change your mind over and over again, and talk about it publicly all the time. There’s absolutely no way that could backfire and make you look like a spoiled three-year-old.

And the Mets *snicker* say that they’re making a play for Santana, but we all know they don’t have the horses to pull this off. I mean, the Yankees are offering Melky Cabrera, for crying out loud. What Mets prospect could possibly compare to Melky Cabrera?

You’re a thousand percent right, Mikey. The Mets are NOT in the mix here. The only way I see them landing Santana is if the front offices of the Yanks and Sox are destroyed by two separate meteors striking the Earth simultaneously.
Listen, I’ve been talking with Omar Minaya. I talk with important people all the time. And he told me that the Twins are asking for David Wright, Jose Reyes, and Carlos Beltran’s first born son. And even if he agreed to that deal, there’s still NO WAY that package compares to the Yankees’ offer of Ian Kennedy and some guy in the minors whose name escapes me.

January 15, 2008

It’s been pretty quiet in the Hot Stove League, but there’s some rumblings that the Santana sweepstakes could be ending very soon. There’s reports that the Mets have become the favorites to land the lefty, which frankly, I do not believe. I have a LOT of
contacts in the industry, and everyone tells me that the Twins piss on the Mets’ prospects. Literally. I heard Bill Smith sent a jar of his
urine to the New Orleans Zephyrs.

Mikey, the Mets are NOT gonna spend the kind of money it’ll take to sign Johan Santana. We all know Fred Wilpon passed on Vladimir Guerrero, he passed on A-Rod, I’ve heard he wears socks two days in a row so he won’t have to go to the laundromat. Mark it down: they will sign Livan Hernandez and finish in third place.

Santana will be a Yankee, make no mistake. I see him now, starting game 7 of the World Series, taking the hill in front of Rudy Giuliani, Billy Crystal, Regis Philbin, Donald Trump, Lebron James, Kevin Federline…

Things are looking bad for the Mets next year. I don’t see any way they beat out the Phurlies.

The what?

The Phurlies. The Phurladerphio Phurlies.

The Phillies . Jeez, how did you ever get a job talking for a living?

Mikey, I’ve had to do some evil things to get ahead. Black, unspeakable things. But hey, after these commercials, I
yell at an engineer!

January 29, 2008

So now we’re hearing that the Mets have landed Santana, which is something I’ve been saying would happen for weeks now. Naturally, Santana wants to be a Yankee, but the Yanks won’t give up their very special prospects. This is a good move by Brian Cashman, showing financial restraint. This is the NEW Yankees, the GROW FROM WITHIN Yankees. If there’s anything Yankees fans want to see, it’s guys just up from triple-A face Manny Ramirez and David Ortiz.

Excellent point, Mikey. And I tell you one thing: this is only for the money. There is NO WAY Santana wanted to be a Met. I’m sure someone told him Queens is the same thing as the Bronx. He’s from Minnesota, so he has no idea about different boroughs. And maybe he’s colorblind, so he won’t realize the pinstripes on his uniform aren’t navy blue.

Alright, let’s go to the phones. Frank is on the cell phone.

Mike, did you just say that you’ve been saying Santana’s going to the Mets for weeks? Because I listen to the show every day, and I could swear you said as recently as last week that he’d definitely be a Yankee.

Frank Frank Frank Frank Frank Frank Frank Frank Frank Frank Frank Frank Frank Frank Frank Frank Frank Frank Frank Frank Frank Frank Frank Frank

What?!

Frank, let me finish! Frank Frank Frank Frank Frank.
Frank.
Frank.
Frank.
You there, Frank? Frank, I never wrote off the Mets as players in the Santana race. I have been TOUTING them for WEEKS as MAJOR players! If
you think I didn’t say that, you are LOST!

I am positive that you’ve been saying the exact opposite. And Mad Dog, how can you say Santana didn’t want to be a Met when there’s a bunch of different reports that the Mets were his first choice?

Frank, lemme ask you a question: did Paul LoDuca do steroids?

What does that have to do with anything we’re talking about?

Answer the question, Frank! Did Paul LoDuca do steroids?

According to the Mitchell Report, yes, he did.

And you, as a Mets fan, used to root for him, am I right?

Yes, I did.

So how can you sit there on your high horse and tell me not to root for Barry Bonds?

I didn’t say a single word about Barry Bonds! But if you don’t believe me about what you guys said last week, go listen to the tapes.

Frank, I promise you that the tapes will say exactly what we’re saying now. At least as soon as our engineers get through with them.

You dare question us? Get this guy off the air! God, what a disgrace! Eddie, you gotta screen these calls better! I’m gonna say some horrible stuff about your wife on the air later!

Folks, here’s what you gotta understand. When we use a word, it means just what we choose it to mean. So when I wrote off the Mets’ chances last week, I meant that they would land Santana. When I said the Yankees would land Santana, I meant that they would keep their prospects.

War is peace! Work is freedom!

We will not be slaves to history, folks. History is a weapon, to be wielded at our command, on our terms.

The Mets are doubleplusungood!

We’ll be right back after this word from the Ministry of Truth.

Baseball, Rocky Rhodes

Rocky Rhodes: The Eternal Bloom of Sour Grapes

January 9, 2008 Matthew Callan

Grant “Rocky” Rhodes is America’s oldest living sportswriter. He first rose to prominence in 1918, when he declared in the Pittsburgh Courier-Picayune that “the Red Sox’ dynastic juggernaut shall never be stopped”. Thanks to an exemption granted by Congress in 1973, he remains the only journalist still allowed to refer to Muhammad Ali as Cassius Clay. His weekly sports column, “The Cat’s Pajamas”, appears in 7000 newspapers nationwide when not bumped for “Love Is” or “This Week in Bridge”. Today, he graces Scratchbomb with his nine decades of sports wisdom to comment on Hall of Fame voting.

Like every other old bastard, I look forward to getting my mail each afternoon. It’s fun to wile away the few hours I have left on this earth flipping through a direct mail appeal from some nut jobs who want to destroy the United Nations. I’m also eagerly awaiting a response to my latest series of threatening letters to Chris Matthews.

But there’s one piece of mail I wait for with baited breath each year, and that’s my annual Baseball Hall of Fame ballot. I treasure my status as a lifetime member of the BBWAA, because this ballot is my chance to make a mark on baseball history. It’s also my chance to totally screw all the players who ever looked at me funny.

That is the greatest thing about this time of year. Any baseball writer who says differently is lying through his teeth, Jack. There’s nothing sweeter than getting that ballot and seeing the name of some schmuck who wouldn’t talk to you after a tough loss, or brushed off your autograph request. To know that his shot at immortality rests in your cold, bitter hands, and to think that you could be the guy to keep him out–if it weren’t for that yearly thrill, I woulda turned on the gas a long time ago.

Of course I’m just kidding, folks. We don’t have our own gas ranges at the Shadywood Assisted Living Facility. Or reliable heat, for that matter. My point is, there ain’t no adrenaline rush like the kind you get from a big fistful of sour grapes.

You know why Gil Hodges never got in the Hall of Fame? Because he once recommended an Italian restaurant in Brooklyn to me, but it turned out to be sub par at best. Why didn’t I vote for Bert Blyleven? Because I knew a guy named Bert in high school, and he once took my best girl down to the drug store for a cherry phosphate. I could never look at Blyleven and not think of that sneaky son of a bitch.

Should a possible Hall of Famer have to suffer for a bad meal, or my teenage frustrations? Well, somebody should!

You know what baseball writers talk about when they get together? It ain’t great games or legendary players. Nope, it’s always a game of can-you-top-this to see who has the pettiest excuse for not voting for someone. My favorite of all time has to be Dick Young. He once told me he didn’t vote for Rod Carew because he once hit a single to tie up a spring training game in the bottom of the ninth. Dick was all set to hit the Early Bird Special at the Steer and Stein, but Rod’s hit meant he had to stay at the game, which didn’t end for another five innings. If there’s one thing you didn’t do, it was get between Dick and a discount meal.

“I’ll never forgive that jerkoff for making me miss $4.99 prime rib,” Dick told me, and he meant it, brother.

Of course, since I haven’t been in a locker room since Watergate, it gets harder and harder to come up with reasons to deny candidates entry with each passing year. Luckily, I can rely on the two sharpest tools in a sportswriter’s arsenal: hate and snap judgment.

Goose Gossage, Rock Raines: Dumb nicknames. No dice. What about the old, dignified nicknames of yesteryear? A solid moniker, like Frank “Excellent Fielder” O’Leary.

Jim Rice: They serve us mashed, unsalted rice every day in this godforsaken place. It tastes like wet socks. Even though it’s the only thing my stomach can digest now, I’m not inclined to vote for anyone named Rice.

Jack Morris: I hated his commercials. Why couldn’t he just eat the cat food his owner gave him? I would never vote for him or the snooty cat in the Sheba ads.

Andre Dawson: The Hall of Fame should not be sullied by a French-sounding name.

Tommy John: What, I’m supposed to vote this guy in because he got some fancy surgery? I’ve had 73 medical procedures performed on my body, and that’s just in the last month. My skin is now held together with only a few pieces of well-placed gaffer’s tape.

Baseball

60 Minutes with Roger Clemens

January 3, 2008 Matthew Callan

Roger Clemens, you insist that you’ve never taken any performance enhancing drugs.

Mike, I would never do anything to endanger my Hall of Fame chances and sadden my millions of adoring fans. Before we cut to this interview, you saw footage of me smiling, holding hands with my loving wife, and playing catch with how ever many kids I have. That footage clearly proves that I’m a good person who would not do bad things.

But you’re accused of doing steroids in a federal affidavit.

I’m accused by Brian McNamee, who is a lying scumbag. No one should believe any words that come out of his mouth. Unless he says, “Roger Clemens is awesome,” because those words are very true.

If McNamee lied to federal prosecutors, he would face serious jail time. Why would he take that risk?

I told you, he’s a scumbag. Scumbags love jail time. Science has proven it. I read it in last month’s Soldier of Fortune .

McNamee was your trainer for many years. You even insisted the Yankees hire him when you were traded from Toronto. So obviously, there was a time when you trusted him.

Mike, sometimes we misplace our trust. I trusted McDonalds when they came out with the McRib. I believed in the McRib. Then without any warning, they took it off the menu. A little piece of me died that day. Although sometimes the wife will get these barbecue sandwiches at Sam’s Club that are almost as good. They come in packages of ten. Sometimes I throw all of them in the microwave at once, pierce the plastic sleeve, and inhale the bounty’s sensuous pork mist…

So you’re saying that McNamee never injected you with anything?

No, I did receive regular injections from him. I was told these injections were a mixture of St. Joseph’s baby aspirin and orange Tang. He said that the combination of ibuprofen and citrus flavor would prevent a build up of lactic acid in my muscles, and also make my pee smell like orange juice. I only began to suspect something was wrong when my nads shrank to the size of Tic-Tacs.

I find it hard to believe that a professional athlete such as yourself would allow himself to be injected with something, yet not know what it is.

Mike, I only took these injections in order to recover from injuries, which makes it totally okay. If I didn’t do everything in my power to pitch my best, I would be letting down my team and its fans, whoever they might be at the time. For some pitchers, this means adhering to a strict workout regimen. Me, I chose to be stabbed in the ass with mysterious fluids.

If these mysterious fluids were really okay, why didn’t you get the injections from a doctor? Why trust them to your trainer, who was not licensed in any form of medical treatment?

Mike, I’m a simple guy. I come from simple people. When I was growing up, my momma taught me that doctors are actually evil trolls in disguise who want to steal your pee-pee and put it in a little jar in their basement. Say what you will about that ol’ folk wisdom, but I still have my pee-pee. Sort of.

What do you say to the people that believe these accusations taint your legacy?

All I can say is, I’m not the only guy who allegedly used “performance enhancing substances”. Did you know Mike Piazza used to come to the batter’s box holding something called a “Louisville Slugger”? And that he actually would hit “home runs” off of me? Does he have a death wish or what? I’m gonna aim a pitch right at his dome. AND THEN I’M GONNA RIP HIS HEAD OFF AND DRINK BLOOD STRAIGHT OUTTA HIS GAPING NECK HOLE!

Roger, your answers to these serious allegations strain credulity, and certainly warrant further questioning.

But I swear I’m telling the truth! Jeez!

Oh, you swear? I’m very sorry. You couldn’t possibly be lying. Please forgive my impertinent queries. Could you sign this baseball card for me?

Hey, Hank Steinbrenner here. Just wanted to let you 60 Minutes viewers know that the Yankees are still in the Johan Santana race. Those deadlines I mentioned during the Winter Meetings were deadlines only for the year 2007. I guess I kept talking after all the reporters left the room during my press conference. I do that sometimes. Anyway, we are totally done dealing with the Twins.

I thought you just said you were back in the race for Santana.

Yes, we are totally not continuing with trade talks, but Santana will be in a Yankees uniform by next week, except I’m okay with our staff as it us, but we like our chances to acquire Santana, that is, he’s not on our radar, but he totally is.

…

See, I’m hoping that my crazy talk will confuse Minnesota so much that they’ll let us have him for Melky Cabrera, Latroy Hawkins, and a picture of Rudy Giuliani in a Yankees hat (unsigned, of course). I also hope this will prevent the MLB head office from slapping me with tampering charges. Although it would be kinda cool if I could be just like Dad and get banned from the game for several years.

I would love to see Johan Santana in pinstripes. AND THEN I WILL FEAST ON THE SPLEEN THAT I’VE CARVED FROM HIS FLESH WITH A RUSTY BOATHOOK!

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A potentially explosive collection of verbal irritants