The Skip Caray anecdote in this David O’Brien column from the Atlanta Journal-Constitution made me laugh embarrassingly loudly at my desk this afternoon, even after Craig Calcaterra of Shysterball warned his readers how good it was–and pointed out that it was most likely Chip Caray’s finest hour as well.
Enjoy, folks. And rest in peace, Skip.
Last week the Orioles designated former Cub Steve Trachsel for assignment, which means that they have ten days to work out a trade or release him.
However, since it’s Trachsel, they’re going to take fifteen days.
Thank you, folks, thank you. I’ll be here all week . . . and if I were Steve Trachsel, I’d be here two!
I noticed today that around a dozen people had been led to my other blog this weekend by searching for “Jason Giambi thong.” So, steeling myself against the hideous assortment of possible discoveries that flitted through my clearly too-active mind, I plugged those terms into {a popular search engine that may or may not employ Jim} and discovered . . . this.
Apparently Giambi is the owner of a gold lame thong, which he dons when he feels the need for some supernatural help in breaking a slump. But that’s not the worst of it: he also has on occasion lent this thong to teammates who felt a similar need! Derek Jeter and Johnny Damon have both admitted to wearing it. Jeter told the Daily News,
“I had it over my shorts and stuff. I was 0-for-32 and I hit a homer on the first pitch. That’s the only time I’ve ever worn it.”
{Editorial note: wouldn’t you have expected “and stuff” to be in brackets?}
I’ll leave you with a hypothetical question for those Yankee fans out there: is winning worth this? Will you ever be able to sleep again, having pictured Jason Giambi in a gold thong? Would a quiet last-place finish really be so bad?
As pitchers and catchers are finally in camp, rather than hanging out at the Capitol trying to decide exactly how stupid Chris Shays is, I thought I should share the baseball-related dream I had the other night–from which I woke up laughing.
I was at Fenway, following David Letterman around on a videotaped tour, and I learned two things.
First, from where we were standing (in the press box?), I was able for the first time to see why Manny Ramirez is such a bad fielder. Turns out that outside the foul line in left, just off-camera, where you can’t ever see him either live or on the broadcasts, there’s a hobo who’s always standing there badgering Manny for money. And Manny’s too nice to have security get rid of him. Who knew?
Second, there’s a giant apple in a hat just outside the outfield wall. Letterman asked Baseball Related Program Activities Hanger-on (and MLB employee) Dan Rivkin, “So, I know the one at Shea, when it goes up, it’s because the Mets have hit a home run. What does this one mean?”
“Well, Dave,” said Dan. “This one’s about government. When it goes up in the air, everyone in, like, Congress, and the Vice President and President, they all have to resign. And then the 37 Amazing Dudes, who’ve been sitting patiently on the bench for like years and years, they take over.”
That’s when I laughed out loud and woke up. It made a tiny bit more sense in my dream. The 37 Amazing Dudes were presented as if they were just this ordinary group we all knew about.
Let’s play ball.
One of Mitt Romney’s aides badly needs to give him a crash course in baseball.
A few weeks ago, Romney, in attempting to explain a fib that was unusually slimy even for him, he talked about how he saw the Patriots win the World Series. Confident as I am that love of America beats strong in Manny Ramirez’s breast, I don’t think that’s what Romney was talking about.
Then, in the wake of his defeat in Iowa, Romney flashed that TV anchor grin and said,
This is obviously a bit like a baseball game, first inning. Well, it’s a 50-inning ball game. I’m going to keep on battling all the way and anticipate I get the nomination when it’s all said and done.
Please, for the love of our country, couldn’t somebody talk to the guy?
Sports Illustrated has an excerpt from Bill James’s newest Handbook up today, ranking the twenty-five best young players. As always, James is using an arcane, yet probably solid system, but the most important part is his commentary. Like this on one of my favorites, giganto LHP C. C. Sabathia:
I have to tell you, as a baseball fan, I absolutely adore C. C. Sabathia. I always have. I’ve compared all these players to somebody else. It is sacrilege to compare C. C. Sabathia to any other pitcher. He is totally unique. For
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I agree with every damn word. The fact that Sabathia didn’t turn in the lights-out game he was capable of against the fearsome Boston lineup was one of the big disappointments of this postseason. May he get a chance to do it next October.
To kick off the World Series, I’ve got a piece up today at the Poetry Foundation’s site about baseball and poetry. Play ball!
In the weeks after Rod Beck died this summer, I kept thinking I’d write a brief obituary, talking about what a fun player he was to watch, about the way his arm dangled, about the way he got guys out for a couple of seasons there at the end despite having almost nothing left, about the period when he lived in–and welcomed strangers to–a trailer behind the minor-league ballpark that was his home stadium. I never got around to it.
Beck was a favorite, and I missed him when he retired. When he died, no one who knew him had anything but good to say about him as a person and a friend, but it seemed to be quietly assumed that his death had been the result of one of the addictions he had fought throughout his career.
Today, Amy K. Nelson has a piece at ESPN that tells the whole story of Beck’s last years, from the perspective of his friends and family. He comes out of it seeming even nicer and more thoughtful than I expected, but that only makes his death–and what his addiction did to his family–even sadder.
RIP, Shooter.
Early in tonight’s Red Sox-Indians game at Fenway Park, the Fox TV cameras spotted lifelong Sox fan Stephen King reading in the stands. Now, as I’ve admitted before, I read at the ballpark–but only when I’m alone, and only between innings. King, on the other hand, was reading during the game.
He fully redeemed himself later, though. When sideline reporter Chris Myers sat next to him and asked him about being caught reading, King responded:
With baseball, you can read eighteen pages just in the inning breaks. And now that Fox is doing the games, you can read twenty-seven pages because the commercial breaks are longer!
Now if only he’d thought to describe, in bloodcurdling detail, what he thought should happen to Scooter the talking baseball.
Postscript: Too bad the Red Sox weren’t playing the Yankees–Stephen King could have probably written a whole novel about their zombie problem.
{Animated gif of zombie Shelley Duncan by rocketlass.}
With all the necessary apologies to Ring Lardner fans: I couldn’t help myself after reading this story about last night’s Brewers-Reds game.
Friend Al,
Don’t it always seem like when you make a mistake the manager is right there to bawl you out, but when he makes a mistake your the one out there on the field catching the boos? Well you wont believe it but last night thats what happened, only I didnt catch the boos, but only cause we were in Cincinati. But even if wed been home I think the rotten boobirds woulda been so confused they wouldnt know what to think. And it happened in the first inning, and all the other innings was worse, and I got to think its cause of that rotten Ned Yost’s mistake; we just kinda give up.We was in Cinncinati, and I come up to hit with one out and the bases empty. Arroyo’s pitching for the Reds, that skinny longhaired goofball who kicks up that foot like he’s gonna ballerina the ball in there instead of throwin the dam thing. He tries me out with one of them slowwww pitches he’s got, probably calls it a curveball but it aint got no more curve than my tits. I dont even look at it, just step back out the box and wiggle the bat, loose up my shoulders while Blue stands there behind the plate and dont say nothing. Next pitch, he tries the same blamed thing–and the umps gotta be wondering the same thing I am: does he think I’m dumb? That from the ballerina-toe-kick guy. Well now Ive kinda got him where I want him, cause he has to throw me something, maybe that fastball of his that aint no faster bout than the ball used to come bouncing back off the barn door when you and me’d take turns throwin when we was kids. An thats what he goes and throws me, a grade-A meatball, and next thing you know that big lummox of a left fielder’s out there waving his arms around like hes drowning and I’m dusting myself off at second base.
Now it aint no secret that we been having some hard times lately, and I’m standing there at second thinking maybe things is starting to turn around, this the first inning an all. Ryan Brauns up next, and after him the big guy, so somebody’s gonna chase me around them bases, right?
So the first pitch he throws to Braun’s the same blamed pitch he tossed me that I dented that left field wall with. Ryan pops bout four buttons off’n his jersey and durn near turns hisself crosseyed but all he does is bust it foul. I try to wave to him tell him to calm down–hes only twenty-four, don’t hardly have to shave yet, and he aint got the veteran cool I got. But the second pitch he does the same thing, only this time that dope Arroyo’s got smart, and its up around his eyes. Aint nobody ever hit that pitch and aint nobody ever will, cepting maybe Vlad. But Ryan aint one to play wait and see, and maybe he’s right–next pitch is another meatball, pretty for hittin as any you’ll ever see. But all the kid can do is knock it right back to the screen, and I’m still standing down there at second base, starting to get tuckered out from jumpin every which way every time.
And heres where it gets weird and where that cussed manager of our started in to losing us the game. You know me, Al: I aint no baserunner. I know what order to run ’em in, and I do a mean jog around ’em when I park one but I don’t do much else’n that. So when I’m on second and looking down at Leyva down there in the coaching box, I mostly just look make sure he’s there. He aint gonna give me no sign that matters none.
But this time I look over and I tell you, what I saw made my eyes hurt. Leyva’s a-slapping and swiping and tugging at his cap, and I aint no baserunner but I know the sign for a steal when I see it and thats what hes giving me. The goon is tellin me to steal third! I got three steals all year, Al–I aint no base stealer. I aint gonna make third if they let me start out in the third baseman’s pocket. So I look over at coach with a kinda hunkered-down look, squint my eyes at him make sure he knows I know what hes doin. And I’ll be darned if he don’t go through that whole slap swipe tug thing again. Even as I get my lead I know its the dumbest idea in the world, but there it is. Im stealin third.
Like I said, that Arroyo’s got a ballerina leg kick, but he dont use that when there’s guys on, so I got to watch his feet more close, and when he starts to moving I scoot for third base, hoping and prayin that Braun’s gonna park this one so what I know’s going happen aint going happen. I didn’t see where the pitch was–I was too busy watching that damned Encarnacion waiting for me like the ol’ Grim Reaper down third base–but I hear tell it was about a mile outside, and Ryan bout threw his bat into the crowd trying to get it, ’cause he seen me streaking down there like a moron, but he cant get it and the next thing I know I’m as out as out can be and thats the third out.
I get back to the dugout and Leyva and Yost are there jawing at each other. Yost is asking Leyva why he sent me, Leyva’s asking Yost why he told him to send me, and I’m standing there cussing and slapping at the dirt on my uniform. Yost says he wasnt telling Leyva to send me–and here’s where I almost just bout give up and went home, cause this team’s snakebit–he was just scratching away at a mosquito bite, that’s all, didn’t mean nothing by it.
Just scratching away at a mosquito bite, didn’t mean nothing by it. Oh, did I do some cussing then. That blamed mosquito sent me to my certain doom, and I think that’s kinda what finished us of for that game. We went out there an right quick gave up about a hundred runs or so and we were done for the day.
Like I said, Al, I think this teams snakebit. Or mosquito bit. All I knows I’m killing every one of those rotten things I can find in that dugout tomorrow.
Yours truly,
Gabe