Yep. We’re sick of seeing his smug mug behind the plate on every pitch too. So in an effort to oust his recurring playoff cameo, we sent our RSBS interns into Angel Stadium with a mega-fortified parabolic microphone to pick up all the juicy sound bytes Mr. Boras let slip during the game.
Here’s what we heard:
“Jesus, look at A-Rod. How’d I let that guy fire me again? That oughtta be my ****ing walking wallet! Mine! My lord, those labrums! Look at those labrums! Best labrums in all of sports!”
– – –
“Forget Teixera… Matt Holliday is worth Babe Ruth like money. How much money did Babe Ruth make again? What?!? $80,000 a year was his best? F*** that, Matt Holliday is so worth Mark Teixera like money.”
– – –
“Why aren’t there gold flakes on this f***ing hot dog? Huh? Who the hell brought me this hot dog without gold f***ing flakes!?!”
– – –
“Jesus Christ, I can’t understand a thing Manny says. How do you say ‘take a goddamn shower for crying out loud’ in Spanish!? Anyone? Anyone?”
– – –
“Holy s***, Alex Rodriguez… maybe I can get teams to think Ivan Rodriguez is actually Alex Rodriguez. Quick trip to the Dominican Republic, grab some stuff from A-Rod’s cousin… shoot up Pudge and BAM! He’s lookin’ like Alex did in that hot Details shoot. Did I just say that? F*** you. Don’t look at me. Watch the game.
– – –
“Ha ha. I just remembered that Adrian Beltre deal.”
– – –
“Why does everyone hate me? Because I’m rich? Because I’m powerful? Because I look like a young Rush Limbaugh? Ha! My bowel movements are worth more than these worthless fans’ entire lives put together and run through a gilding press that I bought with my money. Where the hell is my goddamned organic vodka gimlet!?! Jesus!”
– – –
“Someone remind me to tell Kyle Lohse he has really f***ing made me look bad.”
– – –
“$tra$burg… $tra$burg… $tra$burg…”
– – –
“Jesus, if I were gay, I’d totally do Alex… ha ha, but, y’know, I’d of course make a big deal of it to the press first before opting out at the last second… then, when things calmed down a bit… I’d fire that b****.”
– – –
Now you know, folks. You aren’t surprised, are you?
Hate me ‘cuz I bring it, just don’t hate me ‘cuz I’m right.
In recent weeks, much ado has been made about the ongoing interweb scuffle between bloggers and “real” journalists. From JRod’s mental wanderings on Raul Ibanez to Geoff Baker’s self-serving opus dei to Hugging Harold Reynolds‘ public flaying of Jay Mariotti, everyone seems to be getting in on the controversy — creating it even.
I’m sure JRod is pretty pleased, if for nothing else than for being noticed (albeit harshly). As sports bloggers, isn’t that all we really want? To be noticed?
Apparently, this is the best way to go. Stir up some real crap.
So I’m gonna.
The following are very, very, very TRUE:
- Vegetarian or not, Prince Fielder is fat
- In my “fantasies”, Yadier Molina and Albert Pujols always fan me with palm tree leaves from the side while I… y’know, do my thing
- The color orange is on steroids!!!!
- Rush Limbaugh is also fat… and annoying
- Babe Ruth was only awesome because he had to overcome and compensate for the fact that he had a girl’s last name (and breasts)
- Barack Obama is a smoker. Deal with it, yo!
- Bud Selig is as good at being commissioner of baseball as the Washington Nationals are at being champions of baseball
- I spent a lot of money on Cardinals games during the summer of 1998, in awe of Mark McGwire, realizing that something fishy might be going on, but, like you, didn’t care that much about it ‘cuz it was friggin’ awesome. Like Selig, I too, looked the other way; but I would still make a much better commissioner of baseball than he because this All-Star Game’s “this time it counts” thing is absolutely ridiculous.
- Our earth is flat; gravity is just some bulls*** made up by Communists
- Manny Ramirez is Predator… and a cheater and annoying; but in a few days no one will remember that he got popped for taking a banned substance… and just in case you’re wondering, no, Manny is not fat — just big-haired.
Hate me ‘cuz I’m a fire-starter, just don’t hate me ‘cuz I’m right.
From the 86 years of pure agony credited to the infamous Curse of the Bambino which included tumultuous yet exciting events such as the 1946 World Series, Carlton Fisk’s ’75 bomb, Bill Buckner’s mental lapse and the late-inning heroics of one Aaron “The One-Hit Wonder” Boone, to the most historically shocking comeback in the history of the world in 2004 to overcoming a 3 games to 1 deficit in in the ALCS last year only to sweep the hottest team in baseball on your way to winning it all — again… I have no idea how you do it, Boston — how your heart hasn’t leaped out of your chest and sunk through the floor, how you haven’t become a raging alcoholic nor eaten your children, how you haven’t been diagnosed with a severe case of jitteritis or how you have yet to set fire to the city of New York.
If I were you and I followed a team that knew no other style of play than the “force our fans to writhe and convulse in torment, exasperation and paralytic panic as we may or may not ultimately win this contest but we promise it will be interesting” I would, indeed, be a dead man.
Because, my fellow US Americans, I cannot take such stress. This is why every time Jason Isringhausen came in from the bullpen this season I immediately changed the channel. The pure uncertainty of his aging ability and his austere acuteness for blowing saves was simply too much for me. Often times I thought I would’ve been better off performing the Japanese ritual suicide rite of seppuku than watching him pitch late in a ball game, other times I just rammed my head into a concrete wall until I had the good fortune of sleep.
Dear readers, during the most stressful of times (i.e. close baseball games, first dates, election night) when my palms are sweaty, my brow furled, my pulse raging beyond control, I find myself resorting to the old habits of yesteryear already responsible for killing half of my family: nicotine, alcohol, the CBS Evening News with Katie Couric.
And that scares me.
Luckily for me, I was born in the midwest — far, far away from rickety noreaster accents and wild-hang-by-the-seat-of-your-pants baseball known as the Red Sox Nation.
Win or lose, no one knows drama like a Red Sox fan. And that’s something I do not covet — not one bit.
Don’t hate me ‘cuz I’m right.
This weekend will see the very last game ever at hallowed Yankee Stadium. On this blog you have made it no secret that you are everything anti-Yankees, but even you must feel some sadness in seeing this historical and cultural relic fall to the wrecking ball. Please enlighten us with some of your favorite Yankee Stadium memories; while doing so, try not to shed too many tears.
I only visited Yankee Stadium one time while I living in NYC. I remember it well.
The year was 2006 and the Tigers were lighting up the American League on their magical (but tragically aborted) run to the World Series. A friend of mine got tickets through her company when the Tigers came into town for a series with the Yankees and so I found myself in the Bronx on a weeknight in September. Well, I assume it was September. I don’t really remember all that well. And that was when my magical night began.
First off, I came straight from work so I had my small messenger bag with me. Bad idea. Turns out you’re not allowed to carry anything into Yankee Stadium with you. So instead I had to check it at a bowling alley next door. When I finally got inside, the seats were amazing, right down in a field box along the 1st base line but there was one small problem. Yankee fans. Of course I suppose I should have expected it since I had worn my Tigers hat. But I didn’t realize that I had basically signed up for a couple hours of taunting.
The taunting was bearable up until they hit the point in game where “God Bless America” is sung. Now, I love my country and I always stand for the “Star Spangled Banner.” I could not be more proud to be an American and that’s why I took a job where I could serve my country. But this whole “God Bless America” fad is nothing but a post-9/11 NYC conceit and I’m an atheist to boot so I remained in my seat.
Turns out that this was a bad idea since the taunting then took on a whole new level of awfulness. From that point on, even after the song was finished, I was accused of everything from hating America to being a child rapist. Granted, Yankee fans are known for their boorishness and my experience was actually better than others I have heard about. But after that experience my feelings towards Yankee Stadium are similar to my feelings towards France. It would be a wonderful place if not for the people in it.
So, that’s what I think about Yankee Stadium’s imminent passing into history. The best thing I can say about “The House that Ruth Built” is that at least it’s better than Shea.
It’s official. Joe Biden will be Barack Obama’s running mate for the 2008 presidential election. I’m okay with it. Really. I am.
I only hope that this duo will be reminiscent of the one-two punch of Schilling and Johnson who took it all the way in 2001.
I only hope that this duo will look more like Gehrig and Ruth on the field rather than Gehrig and Ruth off the field.
I only hope that this duo has enough to beat the critics and become the mighty force that Big Papi and Manny Ramirez became in Boston.
Will Biden being Biden become the hottest new catchphrase of 2008? While my hopes against that happening remain high, I would be a liar if I didn’t admit my anxiety that Biden may demand a trade at the very last minute.
Hold on to your seats, folks, dear readers, my fellow US Americans…
We’re just gettin’ started.
Don’t hate me ‘cuz I’m right.
With the imminent advent of a new football season, it’s time for RSBS to explore areas where a brown, oblong ball and a small, white ball overlap. The basics are pretty clear in that they both include a ball and two opposing teams but beyond that, there really isn’t that much they have in common. Maybe the silly tight pants? However, there is one area where they bear a striking resemblance.
Baseball today subscribes to the adage that you can’t win without a dominant closer. He can be a finesse guy, he can be an overpowering guy but he has to be able to shut down the other team for somewhere between 1 or more innings at the end of a game. This ranks them right up there in the same category as field goal kickers.
Now, before you start complaining, I fully recognize that both field goal kickers and closers are gifted with incredible physical talents. There’s no way I could kick a 50 yard field goal. In fact, there’s no way I could kick a 15 yard field goal. Similarly, I probably can’t throw a baseball more than 60 miles an hour, much less hit that tiny little strikezone.
But that doesn’t change the fact that both kickers and closers are specialty guys who come in for very specific tasks that have evolved with their respective games. And the rewards for these thankless jobs are relatively miniscule. Except on rare occasions, their best hope is just to remain invisible while attempting to succeed. Because when they fail, you can be sure their picture will be splashed across the front of the sports section (or the front page of various blogs).
Closers come from different backgrounds, sometimes converted starters who just can’t handle the innings anymore or guys with funky deliveries who can’t last outside of 25 pitches. And kickers tend to be guys who got kicked off the soccer team in high school or who were just too small to play any other position. Seriously, can you imagine Martin Grammatica playing wide receiver? He’d die, simple as that.
I suppose everything in life these days is heading towards more specialization and it’s rare that you find a renaissance man who can perform more than one task (unlike the ubermensch pictured here). But it’s kind of a shame that guys like Carlos Zambrano and Micah Owings are more the exception than the rule.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m no purist and I have no desire for things to go back to the days of Babe Ruth or Bronko Nagurski. If you think players get injured a lot now, just imagine if they had to do double duty. But, I think we can shed a single tear for the end of an era before we except our new, super-specialized overlords.
Yes, dear readers, our venerable GW Bush came out yesterday and enlightened us with what has really been going on with the continuously slumping economy. Folks, it had nothing to do with poor management at home, questionable foreign policies nor an ever widening gap between Red and Blue US American ideologies. No.
“Wall Street got drunk.”
— G.W. Bush
Thank the gods. I was a tad bit worried there as I watched gas prices in Chicago soar to $4.50 a gallon. I was just slightly disturbed when I spent $40 bucks at CVS and all I bought were paper towels, crossword puzzles and American Pie: Band Camp on DVD. And I was a tad nervous when the doctor told me he could remove the lesions if only I put on a blonde wig, some heels and called him “Daddy”.
But thankfully, none of that was a result of a gummed-up government overrun by lobbyists and big oil. No. Wall Street has just been boozin’ a bit… and that, dear readers, is certainly understandable.
Because nothin’ says America like a good old buzz.
I certainly am not immune from this. In fact, by perusing the plentiful posts here at RSBS one could rightfully gather that we (Allen and I) are a bunch of drunks ourselves. It’s true! We are not ashamed!
US America is a country built on the boozing backgrounds of Europeans, Asians, Africans — all drunks! Like baseball and apple pie, an everlasting state of drunkenness is simply the American way; Wall Street could not hide for long.
In light of this new information, let us follow the President’s lead:
Every good drunk needs his drunken hero and baseball has always provided plenty. From Babe Ruth to Ty Cobb to Josh Hamilton, the grandest game on earth has never stopped producing inebriated icons. Jim Edmonds was mine until he switched sides, but I’ve included his picture here still because of the pleasant company he keeps while out on the town. Nowadays, I look to the boozing comeback of Sidney Ponson for inspiration… what a story. And Rondell White. He wasn’t named in the Mitchell Report because of his weakness for Tanqueray and tonics *wink, wink* but the man was a leader in the party scene.