Simplistic campaigns to hunt down public enemies (like Kony 2012) are all the rage these days. When will you all be launching Selig 2012?
It is no secret that the authors of these pages hold no love for the staunch bureaucratic policies and seemingly never-ending reign of King Bud the Nosepicker. Indeed, we’ve ripped the man’s decisions in every which way and have even gone as far as to say that George W. Bush would make a perfect Commissioner in comparison (no joke here, we really do think Dubya would be perfect for the job). But to compare Bud Selig to the heartless, maniacal, baby-raping mass murderer Joseph Kony? Um… that’s a bit much.
But just a bit.
The good news is, people are getting educated on Kony’s crimes. And they’re doing something about it (unless *this* derails it). However, when it comes to the tyranny of King Bud, we already know about the bevy of shenanigans. There’s just nothing we can do about it.
If I may break from the usual ‘ol crotchety me for a moment, I would like to point out that, in my opinion, the overall state of our national pastime is as good now as it’s ever been. Seriously. If you turn your head from the silliness that is King Bud’s All-Star Game, and if make yourself forget about that whole Ryan Braun cheating thing, and pretend like the overall muscle bulge of the 90s and early aughts was caused by “supplements” that can easily be purchased at your local GNC, then you might conclude that, indeed, baseball’s vibe is very good right now.
The networks are fighting to get in on the expanded playoffs. Parity is slowly squeezing its way into all divisions. And the Pirates still suck!
More than that, people are still paying money to watch Adam Dunn play. Erin Andrews is still showing up in dugouts. And Tampa Bay seems to be in the playoff picture every year now, despite the fact that no one in Tampa Bay seems to care.
But most importantly of all, the St. Louis Cardinals are World Champs!
So for now, I can take a couple more years of bassackwards politickin’ from the usurping Milwaukee millionaire.
But I swear, Brad, if he reigns for more than two more years, you, me, Mr. Krause and the entire baseball universe are taking to the streets with Louisville Sluggers and Molotov cocktails (not to be confused with pet names for Kevin Millar).
Hate me. I don’t care. Just don’t hate me ‘cuz I’m right.
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Dear RSBS Linguistics Dept.,
How the hell do you pronounce Mike Stanton’s new name? Is it “Gee-an-carlo” or “Jon-carlo”? I’m going to keep pronouncing it “Mike”.
Fort Worth, TX
Being a nation of immigrants means that US phone books are full of many sometimes unusual names. Some of my favorites include Christian Okoye, the KC Chiefs’ Nigerian Nightmare; Juan Pierre, who can’t seem to decide if he’s French or Spanish; and, of course, Barack Obama. Unless you’re a modern-day Nativist, like the un-ironically Catholic Newt Gingrich, you realize that this inflow of names, traditions and cultures makes our country a more interesting place.
That makes me wonder how a guy like Stanton got tagged with the name “Mike” in the first place. He was drafted by the Marlins, a team based in south Florida where there is no shortage of hispanic first or last names, out of southern California where the same holds true. So how, in either of those environments, does a guy like Stanton get forced into assuming a name he has never used?
I find it even more interesting that I’m answering this question the day after St. Patrick’s Day as the Irish were undoubtedly one of the primary targets of mid-19th Century Nativism in the US. Part of it was poverty, part of it was religion. But all of it was xenophobic. 150 years later, not only are people with Irish last names found everywhere in the United States, we also dedicate a day to them each year on March 17th.
True, sometimes this influx of last names from all corners of the earth leads to problems. For instance, I’m not really sure how Keith Jackson would handle a name like Ndamukong Suh. But athletes, just like any other American, have the right to use and be called by their real name. Sure, it might get mispronounced from time to time but I think that if the tables were turned and it was any Tom, Dick or Harry arriving in another country, they’d still rather be called by their own name. Hell, sometimes it even works out in your favor. My last name often gets mispronounced as “Cruise,” which leads to getting asked if I’m related to Tom. I just smile, give a non-committal answer and let them keep pronouncing it however they want.
P.S. I’m pretty sure he’ll respond to either pronunciation. I’d just avoid using Mike.
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What’s the best way for me to indulge my twin passions of drinking and anything baseball related before the season starts?
Thank you for putting the ball on the tee, Shaun!
Indeed, drinking and baseball go together like politicians and gibberish, and we here at RSBS are no exception. In fact, if it weren’t for this liberating combination of US American pastimes, there would be no Bleacher Bums, no Pirates fans (how could they survive?), no Miguel Cabrera.
So that is why we are proud to team up with Guinness, one of our favorite beers (Mr. Krause and I co-hosted a Guinness keg party in college, no joke) to set a record for the biggest St. Patrick’s Day party EVER!
The big day is getting closer and closer and we want YOU to be a part of it. Unlike an evening with Mr. Krause, the process is simple and non-invasive. All you have to do is follow THIS LINK, verify you’re 21 years of age or older, then click to “join the party”.
MOST IMPORTANTLY, in the “optional code” box, make sure to enter code “REDS“. For each participant using that code, the good folks at Guinness are going to donate $1 to our charity of choice, the Baseball Tomorrow Fund and its Chicago chapter. That’s right. Your commitment to having a good (and responsible) time translates to more balls, bats, gloves and other baseball equipment for Chicago’s youth.
Now ain’t that a good thang!?!?
So if you haven’t done it yet, go do it! Then sit back, crack open a tall can of Guinness and smile knowing you did something good.
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I feel a little sick to my stomach when I hear about someone getting off on a technicality. Illegal search, improper handling, failure of the arresting officer to read the suspect their rights. The list of possible screw-ups is endless.
But you know what’s even worse than seeing someone get off on a technicality? Watching someone get convicted for a crime they truly didn’t commit.
I’ll be honest, just like all of you, I have no idea whether or not Ryan Braun is guilty. He claims he’s innocent, MLB implies he’s guilty and the fan is left to wonder what the real story is. But whether he’s an innocent charged with a crime he didn’t commit or a ne’er-do-well who got off on a technicality, the fact of the matter is that Braun has been cleared and this story never should have been in the press in the first place. More than that, if Braun was guilty of using PEDs, MLB has no one to blame but itself for his exoneration.
The reason courts and commissions have procedures is so that at the end of the process, you can be absolutely sure that the person was dealt with fairly and deserved the consequences of their actions. Even though it makes me sick when a criminal goes free because a DNA sample was mishandled, you can’t put that on the criminal. It’s the fault of the lab or the officers who did the mishandling.
Same goes for Braun. This isn’t a story about him using PEDs. No, this is a story about MLB screwing up a procedure that was set in place to assure fairness and impartiality inthe judgement. MLB has no right to disagree with the arbitration panel’s findings. If the organization had done their job correctly we’d either just now be finding out that Braun was a cheater or we’d have never heard anything at all.
I don’t like the Braun case. Whether he juiced or not, this story taints him, taints MLB and taints the game. However, instead of attacking Braun, the mob should be pointing their fingers at the only known guilty party, an organization that again and again fails to deal appropriately with the issues it faces. Don’t blame Braun. Blame Bud.
After a grueling off-season training regimen, the Filibuster comes back even bigger and badder then ever next Sunday. Maybe you want to know what the RSBS crew thinks about divisional realignment. Perhaps you’d like to make Allen see red by asking his feelings on pink team caps. Or maybe you’re just wondering why asking Jeff the question “Boxers or briefs” leads him to respond “Depends.” No matter what the query, send it to RSBSBlog@gmail.com and we’ll let you know what we think.
Do you guys drink beer and eat fried chicken and play video games while you’re supposed to be perfecting your craft?
Frankly, Kevin, I’m insulted. That’s like going up to C.C. Sabathia and asking him if he sits around eating Krispy Kremes while he’s supposed to be working on his change-up. Look at the guy! You don’t get a body like that without a healthy serving of lard and/or hydrogenated fats at least twice a day.
The same is true of the RSBS team. We are a well-oiled machine and part of that oil comes from the grease collecting at the bottom of the multiple family size buckets of KFC original recipe chicken that we consume every single day. Sometimes the grease gums up the controllers of the Xbox forlornly attached to the 13-inch TV one of our mothers gave us in 1998 but luckily a splash (accidental or otherwise) of Schlitz or Milwaukee’s Best solves that problem.
Just kidding. Blogging is a grueling slog through the minefield that is humanity but it’s a slog we happily undertake for you, the reader, on a daily basis. Slogging, however, shouldn’t be entered into lightly. It’s a process, one that often begins with hours of painful research trying to come up with the perfect photo of the current Miss USA:
Or the ideal angle at which to view Ines Sainz:
Sure, it may look easy but there exists the rare occasion when the results more closely resemble the feces streaked walls of the primate cage at your local zoo. That doesn’t mean we didn’t try, though. Also, as a side note, who’s to say that design by defecation doesn’t constitute art?
The fact of the matter, Kevin, is that we’re here day in and day out to bring you a product that requires our full attention and a respect for our audience that belies any sort of orgy of fast food gluttony or the occasional video game bender. What we’re doing is too important to not take care of ourselves. And now that I have fully made my point, I feel vindicated in finishing the cold beer I cracked open while sitting down to write this. Hey, it’s only one out of three. That’s not so bad.
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*The Filibuster will be taking its regular offseason hiatus starting next Sunday. Don’t worry, it will be back in time for Spring Training 2012, so keep a lookout! In the meantime, please enjoy our offhanded satire and scantily clad womenz who will take its place on Sundays during the Fall/Winter. Thank you to all who have written in!
Tigers are in! One of you has to be pretty happy about that.
As we dressed for my brother’s wedding on Friday, he couldn’t stop sweating. Part of it was the uncommonly hot October in Michigan. And obviously a big part of it was the fact that he was getting married in just a couple hours. However, as we relived the previous night’s Tigers’ game while getting ready (you know, the one where the Tigers beat the Yankees in a Game 5 for the ages), he mentioned how he had been sweating just as much during the final third of the game and that his heart had been pounding just as hard. This, from a man getting married in three hours.
I couldn’t blame him, though. I spent the better part of the seventh and eighth innings looking away on every pitch out of fear that I might jinx things. And when Benoit walked in a run with the bases loaded, I was sure my worst dreams were about to come true. Sure, he got out of it but things didn’t get any better when Valverde faced A-Rod with two outs in the ninth. It seemed like one of those legendary Yankee moments where a maligned slugger breaks out of his slump and sends a fastball into the upper deck.
But not this time. Instead, Valverde danced because mighty A-Rod had struck out. And I finally breathed. I took a second, composed myself and walked down the hall in the hotel to knock on the door of my parents’ room. My dad fumbled with the chain but when he finally opened the door, we both had these stupid grins on our faces.
The Tigers may have dropped the first game at Texas last night and Verlander may not have been his usual stellar self but that stupid grin hasn’t gone away. I want the Tigers to beat the Rangers. I want them to go on and win the World Series. But knocking the Yankees out of the playoffs? That’s going to feel pretty good for awhile. Yeah, I guess you could say I’m pretty happy about that.
Holy crap. September 28, 2011. Has there ever been a better day of baseball?
South Bend, IN
One of the greatest aspects of our hallowed national pastime is that every day has the potential to bring greatness. You might see a no hitter. You might see a triple play. You might see four homeruns in one game by the same player.
In fact, just this season I witnessed Derek Jeter collect five hits in a game. TWICE. I saw Justin Upton hit a broken bat homerun. I saw Mariano Rivera become the undisputed king of the save.
I also saw back-t0-back bunt basehits to start off a game. I saw Shelley Duncan have the defensive game of his life by making three nearly identical amazing grabs in left to rob the Rangers. And I saw Adam Dunn get a base hit off a lefty.
Magic. Baseball has it. And some days it has it more than others.
I would put September 28, 2011 in that category for sure, because on that day FOUR games provided unparallelled magical endings, nearly simultaneously.
But I also can’t think of September 28th without thinking about 2007 Game 163 or the 2008 Game 163 or the 2009 Game 163!!! In fact, I still consider that 2009 Tigers v. Twins contest to be the most jaw-dropping game I have ever witnessed with my own two eyes. Clearly, when we reach the end of September and regular season games carry the weight of sending teams on to capture even more glory, the potential for being among the best is like a batting practice fastball.
Right down central.
In the end though, what qualifies as the “best day in baseball” is obviously relative. For me, I can’t seem to get past October 27, 2006.
Don’t hate me ‘cuz I’m right.
**Have a topic you want to see us Filibuster? Interested to know why Mr. Krause walks with an odd limp? Send us your Filibuster questions by emailing firstname.lastname@example.org or by commenting below.