January is a difficult month for me. Gone are the holidays that distracted me from my baseball-less existence. The cold and dark days serve only as a reminder that the 162 game grind is still far away. And key free agents still don’t have a home!
I enjoy football. I really do. Nothing gets me through the winter quite like watching grown men beat the hell out of each other over an oblong pigskin. But three of the four playoff games this past weekend were over before the fourth quarter even started!
And yes, Derek Rose and the Chicago Bulls certainly know how to take me HIGH-UH; but on Saturday night — when I really needed them to get me through the weekend — the game was over before the second half.
THERE IS NO CLOCK IN BASEBALL.
And where there is no clock, there is only the potential for glory. In baseball, there is no garbage time.
Hate me. Fine. Just don’t hate me ‘cuz I’m right.
Continuing with the end-of-year holiday tradition here at RSBS, it’s time to separate myself from my imaginary girlfriend (NSFW) and ask the interns to lock my office door so I can get down to the meaty reflection of what was the RSBS year 2011. Additionally, I must begin the sad, fiery purge of Albert Pujols memorabilia. For those of you who went to public schools, you know that maintaining a fire within a small, confined room may cause ill-fated side effects, so before I start to look like Bert the chimney sweep, let me get to it…
First of all, no year would be a good year without you, the dear RSBS reader. THANK YOU, for your readership. THANK YOU for your emails, your tweets, your comments, Facebook shares and FingerTagging! And THANK YOU for continuing to make writing about the baseball-politico world a treat for us every single day.
Like my riveting and oft rousing colleague, Mr. Krause, I too have been very impressed with our special correspondents. For me, nothing says sweet Miggy-I-Love-You quite like Mark Piebenga’s His Game Is Like Waves. It presented Miguel Cabrera in a new light — that of teacher, and, considering how much Mark has taught me about what life should be about, I continue to find its lesson fitting (and helpful!).
And though I often refer to Mr. Johanna Mahmud as “the man who introduced me to the glories of the Deftones” and “the guy who schooled me on the NBA and proved why I should be madly in love with Derek Rose”, I still have room to refer to him as “the guy who writes Setting the Mahmud“! Dude puts the “tit” in titillating with every piece. The last article he wrote was inspiring, if only because he found a way to get a naked Yu Darvish, an ugly sweater wearing
Johnny Matt Damon and a crying Paula Deen all in one place; but, like Al, I have to admit that there’s real brilliance in his Theo-fied Arthurisms. Still, I’m a sucker for equating dead people to the performances of Adam Dunn and Miguel Tejada. Good work, good sir.
Meanwhile, no year-end applause would be complete without a nod to my longtime friend and confidant, Mr. Allen Krause. Known for his cynical twists on the political establishment and undying love of all things Detroit Tigers, it has been a pleasure to write on his wing. Sometimes he’s so “on” that he finds literary genius in imagery. Indeed, that endearing Krausian wit is often highlighted by rational thought. Sometimes it points out the un-fact-checked obvious, other times it gets serious, with a real call for responsibility. And, just in case you think Mr. Krause’s Libertarian-bashing makes him a soulless, automated Obamatron, this reflective piece will convince you otherwise.
But when it comes to knockin’ ’em outta the interwebs park, I have to kowtow to the RSBS Presents series. The brainchild of Mr. Krause, RSBS Presents has enlightened us on the finer points of fandom and how to stay classy while reminding us that, ultimately, positivity has upside during times of turmoil. But the best of them all was learning how to score a Republican. And here I thought it involved finding Jesus and quoting Alex P. Keaton.
Happy Christmas, Merry Hanukkah and long live King Kwanzaa!
Lebron to the Heat?? Wouldn’t this be the equivalent of Strasburg
playing a few seasons in DC and then heading to Marlins? I know you
guys must have some opinion on this so let’s hear it.
You are right, Hal. Basketball isn’t my thing. Sure, I’ll check in come the playoffs; but the last time I paid attention to a whole NBA season start to finish was… well, never.
Fear not. I got an NBA expert to help us out.
But before I get to that, let me just say what I am qualified to say and that is: NO! It would NOT be the equivalent of Strasburg going to the Marlins. How does Strasburg even factor into this? LeBron is… y’know, the best. Strasburg is… pretty good (in but a handful of games).
A better metaphor would be Albert Pujols looking like this one day:
Again, fear not. The above ain’t ever gonna happen. If it does, I promise you I will murder everyone… in the world.
Now, for a keen, informative breakdown of the LeBron James free agent fiasco, we turn to RSBS‘ resident NBA apologist, Johanna Mahmud (you know him — a bit too well perhaps — from the RSBS Podcast extravaganzas), who assures us that the one who really gets hurt in this whole mess is Delonte West. Who’s momma is he gonna sleep with now? Zydrunas Ilgauskas’s? Please, lord, no.
When asked for his opinion on the matter for this Filibuster, Johanna broke it down for us in short quips of bursting genius:
“If bron goes to heat, and faces kobe in finals and kobe defeats the chimera. i’m kobe fan for life. watch out m.j.”
“i love when giadas fake friends show up to try the fake food her chefs slave over.”
“my rash cleared up!!!!!”
“d rose. d rose d rose. ….would never do what happened thursday night. the bulls/heat games this season will be UNBELIEVABLE…”
So yeah… that’s how we feel about the LeBron James/Miami Heat situation. Johanna’s part of the crew. And we’re having what he’s having… like, now.
Hate us ‘cuz it’s always beer thirty here, just don’t hate us ‘cuz we’re right!
(Albert image courtesy of Hardball Talk)