The Horror of the Road

Being on a winning baseball team has its advantages. You get to travel to play in state tournaments, you get to see places that you'd never dream of visiting. You meet fascinating people throughout your travels and play in ballparks that you're sure were designed by the big guy upstairs.
If you can help it, don't ever play for a baseball team that keeps on winning.
A few summers ago, I played for a semi-pro traveling baseball team. We kept winning, and kept hitting the road. Our horror story happens just outside of Saratoga, NY.
The hotel (not naming names) rhymes with Bed Bobbin Finn.
When our team checked in, we were greeted by none other than Elvis Presley himself. Sideburns and sunglasses, he gave each of us a key to our own rooms. Every room had something unique about it.
Room 1 had a high definition television (before HDTV was fashionable), and carried 142 channels. All ESPN. Each channel was three seconds off from the one before it. So if you were watching a highlight on channel 42, and wanted to see a replay, QUICK TURN TO CHANNEL 11!
The next room had a toaster. Room three had a fridge. Room four didn't have a door to the bathroom, but it had five dressers (though the drawers didn't have bottoms). Room five had a nice view, of Room six, because there was a fist sized hole in the wall. Room seven had a washing machine, but no pump to hook up the water. Room eight had two beds and no couch, but room nine had two couches and no bed. There was, believe it or not, a Room 13, and it overlooked the swimming pool, which had numerous un-aquatic animals floating towards the filter.
The next door neighbor lived in a trailer, and owned and routinely operated a 12 gauge shotgun, just to prove that he could.
Our starting pitcher for the first game slept in his truck, because he couldn't figure out where the tree roots in his bedroom were coming from.
Needless to say, as a team, we decided that we all had a great time playing on the same team for the summer, but this would be the end of the line for us.
So, instead of achieving some level of baseball immortality, we decided to end our season the next day, getting blown out of the championship game, 1-0.

A Silent Hell

You have to admit, you knew this was coming.
All those weeks of tormenting the Yankee Fan sitting in the cubicle next to you. All those summer months you sat on top of your perch, looking upon the downtrodden, the Yankee faithful. Peasants looking for a whiff of freedom, just a ray of light, any sign of hope.
Yesterday, as you have for the past week, you lose a little bit more of your throne.
The peasants are rising.
The Mets are failing.
What is happening to your Mets? As you sit silently in your cube/office/car, you catch shrapnel from every angle. The newspaper, the radio, internet, blogs, webcasts, podcasts, and the ever jerky smiling office temp with the neatly pressed Yankee tie.
This is your silent hell.

Willie Randolph is peering out from the left field fence, looking towards the Bronx. What would Joe do, he thinks. How would his mentor fix this flailing franchise. Believe it or not, what Willie learned while wearing Pinstripes will make or break the Mets during their playoff run.

Trust in Veterans: Mike Pelphry and fellow young guns on the Mets roster have offered their arms to aid a sinking bullpen. Torre preaches a trust in veterans, and Randolph will likely do the same. Rejecting the youth's plea to move to the bullpen, Willie doesn't think that "throwing these guys to the wolves" or forcing them in on a situation they are neither comfortable or familiar with, is a good move for the franchise.

Light a Fire: Randolph doesn't seem to be overly critical of his players. Not suggestion to call out underachievers, but Torre has a way of getting his point across to his players through the media (see Mussina, Farnesworth, Matsui).

Don't point fingers: Making a huge deal out of numbers and declines can often rub players the wrong way. So what if Reyes' batting average has slipped to a tune of 40 points since the All-Star game. John Maine, worthy of first half Cy Young Award Contention, has more than doubled his era in the second half. These players are young, and don't need to be beaten over the head with numbers.

For Mets Fans: Keep the hope alive. Invest in a Rally Monkey. Bring Mr. Met to his AA meetings, because there's no way he's a sober ball over the past few weeks. Don't shave until the magic number is down to 1, and keep those champagne bottles on ice.


That jerk in the next cubicle is probably going to ask to borrow them.

Licking My Wounds

My Lugnuts. My Fantasy Team. My Bastards. You break my heart.
Last week of the season before playoffs and you decide to catch fire.
Too bad we were eliminated from playoff contention five weeks ago.
I should file a restraining order against Nick Swisher, I feel like I'm being abused.
But I love him anyway.
He ruins my fantasy team for the entire season, and just after I write about how there's no way he'll be wearing the Lugnut Cap next season, he has to go and catch on fire.
Three dingers in three days.
How do I justify leaving him now?
Scott Kazmir, you little runt you. I love you to death, but every morning, I flavor my coffee with tears because I can't stand the fact that you're bullpen steals 50+ wins from you every season. You're about as useful to me as a long inning reliever.
But I love him anyway.
Joe Mauer, you represent everything that is good and wonderful with the human race.
Too bad that's not a stat in my league this year.
Last season he's leading the league in batting average. The kid hits and no one can stop him.
Then he puts on a Lugnuts jersey.
But I love him anyway.

Barry Bonds. You're foot is hurting.

You'll never wear a Lugnuts Cap, no matter how many records you break.

You'll never have the opportunity to ruin one of my fantasy baseball season.

I hate you.

For the Love of the Game

There is nothing more pure than this baseball video done by two brothers from Wisconsin. We need to fund raise to get them a better camera.

The Joy and Sadness of Double Standards

I was talking to my girlfriend last night about something that's been bothering me lately. One of my favorite football players happens to be Shawne Merriman (OLB, Chargers). Don't ask me why, I just like him. Last season, Merriman was suspended for using steroids.
Didn't faze me in the least. Kept right on rooting for the man.
Now, Don Mattingly, my favorite baseball player of all time, forever and ever, has never been accused of taking steroids or growth hormone, or any other banned performance enhancing substance. The minute he does, I'll hate him for the rest of my life.
Done. Everything I own of Mattingly will be tarred, feathered, burned, ripped up, mailed back, and shot with a potato gun.
I wonder why that is.
Jayson Stark,ESPN, recently ran an article on the double standard that exists between the Barry Bonds case and the recent light that's been shed on Rick Ankiel.
I for one am guilty of what Stark outlines as "Double Standard #1; The Likeability Test".
In theory, a good journalist is supposed to leave his personal thoughts, beliefs, and opinions checked with his coat at the front door.
That is why I never got passed writing articles for the Quinnipiac University Student Chronicles.
I despise Barry Bonds and everything that he does, eats, watches, showers with, sleeps on, and mails his credit card bills to. There is not one single redeeming quality I can find in the man.
If he was to find a cure for the AIDS crisis, reverse global warming, wipe oil off a baby seal, develop a better mouse trap, and adopt a tribe of aborigines, I would scoff and chalk it up to a media publicity stunt.
Rick Ankiel could wipe out half of the rain forest, and I like many of my American counterparts, would smile and look in awe as he walks by, chainsaw in hand.
I can't figure it out.
Stark lists some possibilities for why this is plaguing me and scores of baseball fans throughout the country, and I think he may be onto something:
He wasn't even a hitter then.
It wasn't a banned substance then.
He had a doctor's prescription.
He was recovering from Tommy John surgery.
He needed it to heal.
He hasn't been accused of any "wrongdoing."
The media is out to get him.
It's not like he's Barry Bonds or something. (Stark; Exposing Our Dirty Double Standards)

Wedding Bells are in the Air!

Tough is the life of Ace of the Future Ian Kennedy. First big league start he tosses a gem. Six strikeouts, five hits, two walks, and an ERA of 1.29. He wins his first major league start against the Tampa Bay Devil Rays, and in the process nets this author's fantasy team a few points in a much needed pitching category.
Kennedy is slated for another big start in the near future as well. No, not the fact that he'll be towing the rubber against the Royals Friday night, rather Kennedy is going to be on another type of incline. An alter.
Or is he?
Kennedy and his fiancee Allison Jaskowiak have an October 6th wedding date planned. Right smack in the middle of the American League playoffs. Granted its an off day, but try explaining to your future wife why Brian Cashman and George Steinbrenner replaced your Best Man and Flower Girl (respectively) at the last minute.
Simple solution, move the wedding back a bit, right?
Wrong.
Kennedy's lovely future battery mate plays college basketball, therefor complicating the picture a bit. The USC Guard/Forward is in her fifth season with the Trojans (the NCAA granted her the extra year) and her season begins November 11th in UC Santa Barbara. (FYI, Kennedy is a USC alum as well).
While everyone begins to speculate whether or not Kennedy will be able to attend his own wedding, (especially after NYY playoff hopes are looking brighter by the minute) none other than Joe Torre provides what has to be 108 Red Stitches quote of the week:

"I didn't get one of the invitations," he said. "We just hope his prospective wife is very understanding."

My question is, do they still need a wedding videographer?

(quotes courtesy of the Associated Press)