When that one game exposes a rudimentary flaw that I have been gripin’ about for over three years now, then that’s when trouble starts. That’s when walls in my apartment become punch-holed and that’s when my neighbors consider burning me at the stake for my insane bouts of baseball rapture.
Ryan Franklin… brother… I love ya… and I know you only blew two saves last year, but you ain’t a closer.
Pitching to contact is fine if you’re Derek Lowe. It’s fine if you’re a starter. Heck, it’s fine if you’re guaranteed that the batted balls are going straight into someone’s glove. But in the 9th inning, with a one run lead… I don’t want ANYONE ON BASE. NO ONE.
Ya hear me?
When I bring a guy in to close a game, I want someone with firepower, someone with strikeout potential… someone who throws GAS, someone with a wicked slider, someone with an impossible-to-hit cutter.
Think Mo Rivera. Think Dennis Eckersely. Think Neftali Feliz.
The closer’s job is to come in and close the game, not to let ’em hit it and hope your defense saves you.
The best way to close a game is to miss the hitters’ bats. And Ryan Franklin has a real hard time doin’ that.
Now, for more on this, let us turn to our junior RSBS correspondents:
And so in this Podcast…
Jeff and his sCrUBS fan nemesis pal, Johanna Mahmud, get back in the studio and throw down on the art of being right! Among the titillating topics of discussion: mispronouncing dominance [Doc Halladay] and futility [John Grabow], Brandon Phillips’ wings, a wild war of words over Albert Pujols, the Lou Piniella Mailbag and much, much more.
– – –
to the RSBS Podcast by clicking *HERE*
via iTunes by clicking *HERE*
thanks to Keith Carmack — our engineer, director, editor and
all-around sound guru. He always knows when the Hawks are (or aren’t) gonna get donged.
Recorded Monday, May 31, Memorial Day 2010
While you and I spend our time wondering when the Phillies bullpen will
next self destruct or why there aren’t as many green M&Ms as there
are brown, or how long it will take Glenn Beck to realize we’re laughing at him, not with him, there are some people in the world (scientists and such as) who pass the time by making ground breaking discoveries, actually furthering the intellect of the human mind.
Move over Lucy. Make way for Ardi.
That’s right. Australopithecus afarensis,
an extinct hominid (most commonly known as Lucy), who was once thought
to be our oldest common ancestor, now must take a backseat to the most
recently proclaimed elder of bipedalism: Ardipithecus (or Ardi for short).
Like it or not, this is a big deal because Ardi is a million years older than Lucy! Consider her the
cougar of the archaeological bar scene. And with her discovery, the
entire evolutionary map of modern day humans and just exactly where we came
from, how we evolved, what we once were, has been totally rewritten.
It is no longer safe to say we share a common ancestor with
chimpanzees. More likely than not, we came from Ardi and whoever (or
whatever) came before her. Her construction is rare, odd, striking: a
bipedal creature with an opposable big toe; an animal that walks
upright on land but acts as a quadruped in its arboreal environment,
Ardi is the corner border in a 5 gazillion trillion piece puzzle that
is the evolutionary road to modern day humans.
We’re starting to know where we came from.
Yet the only plausible explanation science can come up with for where the
ugly flop-sweat of a man known as Vicente Padilla came from is this
thing from the Clash of the Titans:
Hate me ‘cuz I don’t pull punches, just don’t hate me ‘cuz I’m right.
**Special thanks to Jason Russell for the pic and assist. You can follow him on Twitter at @JasonrussellUT
As the 2009 regular season comes to a close, so too do the pains suffered by most Major League clubs (unless you’re the Phillies, of course, who will have to endure a flat bullpen through at least three playoff games) and no team has bled out more publicly than the New York Mets.
I haven’t said a whole lot about the Mets’ woes because, well, everybody else has done quite an adequate job of ripping them apart, feasting on their mishaps, devouring their disastrous misfortune.
Then I found a futon.
On the interwebs.
Ladies and gentlemen, your 2009 New York Mets (played by an inanimate metal futon frame shot with a hand held digital camera):
Yep. It’s broke.
Either just leave it there, dead on the ground, or start all over again fresh with a new, shiny, expensive futon that can take a beaning or two. Put a great big kiddie helmet on it if ya like. I’m cool with that.
Don’t hate me ‘cuz I’m right.
“Yeah, maybe he [Brad Lidge] is not having a stellar season but after what he did last year, the guy deserves a little bit of a break… He’s not really any sort of appropriate object for scorn.”
— Allen Krause
Uh oh. Dear readers, there he goes again.
Indeed, with the above statement, my always venomous and sometimes sneaky colleague across the aisle, Mr. Allen Krause, not only managed to embarrass himself with more tired slandering, but he also succeeded in alienating his entire base: people who love the game of baseball.
Believe me, those people in Philadelphia ain’t too happy about the lackluster performances of one Brad Lidge.
And with a Major League leading 8 blown saves this season, who would be?
Lidge should not be an object for scorn, Mr. Krause? Let me tell you something. Your recent absence from my watchful eye and the overall sanctity of RSBS‘ loyal readers has caused you to forget the most important fact of them all: this is US America!!!
And US America is not some sicko socialist regime where everyone can expect to be treated equally regardless of class. This is not some soft ego-massaging utopia where the Kevin Greggs and Brad Lidges of the world are as praiseworthy as the Mariano Riveras and Joe Nathans. No, this is not some machinated system of social stability, Mr. Krause. This is not some communal crackpot of communist theory. This is not some lewd egalitarian fantasyland where everyone should expect to be taken care of if they get sick and need health care… don’t you know how hard it is for doctors to live their lives with just one Bentley in the garage rather than three!?!
If you can’t succeed on your own, you deserve to be punished!
Whether we’re talking about Brad Lidge or Kevin Gregg or Jesus himself… it doesn’t matter: if you suck, prepare for your roast.
‘Cuz that’s just how life is when you’re free.
Hate me ‘cuz I’m fluent in sarcasm and smarmy as hell, just don’t hate me ‘cuz I’m right.
At the end of last week’s thrilling Filibuster, I asked (as usual) for more dear reader questions… and — if possible — pictures of journeyman screw-up Sidney Ponson not under the influence.
Hilarious, I know.
Hilarious because, indeed, it was just a throw-away quip… a nonsensical one-off… a friggin’ jape.
But boy was I surprised when our inbox actually received a picture of Sidney which shows him to be in complete control of his own cognizance.
Special thanks to Mary Retallick (pictured right, whom you can often find on Gateway Redbirds Forum) for sending this to our attention… and special, special thanks to you, Mary, for sending it with the subject line: Picture of Sidney Ponson sober.
‘Cuz that is funny.
Not only do you “get it”, you also got us, making us full-fledged believers in other mythical creatures like Bigfoot, Skunk Ape and a well-spoken G.W. Bush.
And to a man (that’s you, Sidney) more accustomed to hearing the words “designated for assignment” than “we would like to offer you a contract extension”, this post is most assuredly a sign of better things to come.
Yeah. You got me. I’m totally lying.
Don’t hate me ‘cuz I’m right, Sidney.