Roger Clemens is not guilty.
Can this be over now?
Of course it can’t. It never will. For now until the end of time we’ll still be talking about the steroid era and those who made it infamous. Clemens is just one of many.
Still, I think it is safe to say his role in the overall picture of the steroid era is a bit larger than the rest. He’s up there alongside Barry, considering his Hall of Fame credentials and repugnant personality.
Before any of this steroid silliness was known, I loved Roger Clemens. He was a beast on the mound — a Nolan Ryan/Bob Gibson throwback. Proud, nasty, BALLSY.
But the Mitchell Report tainted his reputation, whether guilty or not, and Roger then ruined it further himself by being an outspokenly whiny ass. I understand the potential frustration that could come from having a tarnished reputation, but there are ways to handle adversity with class and there are ways to handle it like a jerk.
Clemens took the jerk route.
And undoing what ya done ain’t easily done.
Hate me ‘cuz you can, just don’t hate me ‘cuz I’m right.
There was a time when I thought I would become a painter. I had never painted anything. I was modestly talented at drawing with pencil and paper; but I went to a glitzy art show, which inspired me to buy a basic painting kit and suddenly I had delusions of grandeur.
Except for one little problem: I sucked at painting.
So I quit.
But sometimes, we can’t always quit the things we’re not good at. Carlos Lee is really good at hitting home runs. Playing defense? Not so much. But El Caballo plays for the Houston Astros, in the National League (I know, I know, hello sweet irony), so if he’s gonna hit bombs, he’s gonna have to fiddle around with a glove on his hand too.
For now anyway.
But that’s not all that Carlos is good at. Apparently he’s also quite good at sharing his name. In fact, he has two sons, Carlos and Karlos. He has a daughter named Karla. He also has a brother named… yep, you guessed it, Carlos.
Stick with what you know.
And don’t hate me. ‘Cuz I’m right.
Feel bad about slamming Peavy yet?
But this is baseball. It defies feeling. It defies logic.
The Red Sox and Phillies in last place? The Dodgers and Nats routing? Peavy in control, flashing signs of the old whip-and-kill-em arm action?
Why not? It’s only May. Anything could happen.
Maybe I was a bit harsh on Peavy. Can you blame me? As far as baseballers go, Jake is pretty annoying. And up until this season, all he had really done in a White Sox jersey is yap yap yap with a string of poor performances following those empty words.
I want my pitchers to pitch. Not yap. PITCH.
Jake is finally doing that. Maybe his detached latissimus dorsi is properly attached again. His velocity is back. He’s hitting his spots. Why should a man being paid like a superstar get extra accolades for FINALLY fulfilling his end of the bargain by pitching like a superstar? Isn’t it too late!?!?!?
For my White Sox fan brethren, I am very relieved. Yes, it is early yet, but to see Peavy, Dunn, Rios and *GULP* Gordon Beckham actually perform well makes life on the south side much easier. But again, it is May. There’s plenty of baseball left.
So I won’t douse that crow with Sriracha until I know I absolutely have to eat it.
Hate me. It’s cool. Just don’t hate me ‘cuz I’m right.
Have a topic you want to see us Filibuster? Send us your Filibuster questions by emailing RSBSblog@gmail.com or by commenting below.
In fact, I have to admit: I love Livan Hernandez.
He’s a horse. A nice guy. And without him, there is no Eric Gregg wide-strike zone comedy of errors.
Also, of all the baseball scorecards I have collected over the years, four of them are games he started. He’s the most represented non-Cardinal in my pile and for each game I saw him pitch, he appeared in a different uniform.
Viva los LIVANstros!
No me odies, porque estoy en lo cierto.
“This is what happens when you leave home. You meet… people.”
Men, are you moody? Are you out of shape? Do your testicles feel weird? Of course they do. The Astros are leaving the National League and you miss them already.
Ladies, how are you doing? Are you okay? Is that new Lifestyles vibration machine doing enough to distract you from the tragedy of losing the Astros to the evils of the American League?
I understand. The Astros are packing their bags and their Shetland ponies are moving to the coast of west. From the National League to Africa to Turkey all the way to the American League. Don’t they know they’re moving from the farmhouse to the militia camp? They’re going on a pilgrimage, I guess. But, what I really want to know is…
Who’s gonna clean up all this crap when they leave?
This is a great chance for them to leave cornpone Texas all together and get a new start. Why stay in the Orange Juice Box, with that train and that moat? They might as well have a gator pit in left field complete with a Cloverfield monster. And what’s that weird uphill thing they got in centerfield? And what exactly are the Crawford Boxes? And those odd horsey fans who follow caballo Carlos Lee everywhere he goes… are the buzzy bees coming too? And who’s gonna take over the used book sale Drayton McLane held every year to raise money to bring back Roger Clemens?
Meanwhile, on a much sadder note, because of this whole league switch it looks like I’ll have to sell my timeshare in Houston. I’ll definitely miss the hot southern belles who I would lie to my friends about sleeping with when I was actually spending the weekend watching the Cubs.
Good luck, Asteroids. Good night, my friends. It’s off to the west for thee…
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And so in this Podcast brought to you by Lifestyles…
The RSBS crew celebrates its 30th episode by taking a stroll down podcast memory lane, remembering things that busted our (and hopefully your) guts. AIDS salad and Ron Santo’s memory get rehashed while new memories (like gay ponies v. horsicorns, an iguana named Dudley and how you can cure your foot problems) are created! Jump on board the RSBS crazy train! No stops til you question how you spend your free time!
Don’t forget to getcho Crown Royal and enjoy some happy time!
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Recorded Saturday, November 26, 2011
As one who is acutely aware of the aggravating effects of speaking in unchecked and unvetted absolutes, I must choose my words wisely, especially after witnessing baseball miracle after miracle after miracle. But, judging from the number of cardiac arrests I had in the comforts of my own home last evening, I can honestly say — WITH COMPLETE AND UNSHAKEABLE FAITH — that September 28, 2011 will go down as the greatest single day of regular season baseball games I have ever watched.
Words… ah, these words… not even they can do my feelings justice:
Baseball. It just doesn’t get any better than baseball, my friends.
Don’t hate me ‘cuz I’m right.