If I were making $126 million over seven years for a team that invested its future in me assuming I would be the one to anchor its pitching staff, I think I would probably focus on being a good pitcher.
But if it’s Barry Zito in that position — which it is — apparently none of that is important.
Dear readers, welcome to Zito’s World: a super hip fantasyland where losing 30 games in two seasons with a 4.84 ERA is worth every penny of that $126 million; a place where winning games in April is never a priority; an imaginative mirage where baseball meets Hollywood starlet meets aspiring rock star meets absolute shock that people would be just a wee bit vocal about his seemingly laissez faire attitude.
Look, there is no question that I have been a staunch critic of Mr. Zito. Yes, I suggested his 2007 and 2008 pitching woes were rooted in his unprofessional preoccupation with movie star female companionship. Yes, I coined the phrase “Zito Happens”. Yes, I poked fun at his childish, uncensored Tweets which made him look foolish — pining for “cab cakes”.
But none of that seems to warrant the fact that Barry Zito — the millionaire pitcher who up to this point hasn’t done a very good job of making good on that Scott Boras super-contract — blocked me from his Twitter account.
Juvenile as his actions are, I still cannot help but chuckle. I mean, here I am lowly Joe Six-Pack, unpaid aspiring writer, committed MLBlogger and informed baseball fanatic, trying to get seen, be heard, find a voice…. and Barry Zito does me the grandiose favor of reading what I write and hating it enough to block me from his 10,000 plus following.
Now, I understand that being a multi-millionaire, playing the greatest game on earth for a living and personifying the American dream is probably really hard on the soul, Barry, but come on, don’t you think you deserve it? Just a little bit maybe? Yeah. Yeah, you do.
Man up, Barry. Get over yourself. Do your job and people like me will have no choice but to shut up.
Until then, you will remain back-page fodder for the masses.
Don’t hate me ‘cuz I’m right.
P.S. Barry may have blocked me from following him on Twitter, but I can still access his Tweets and laugh because they look like they’re written by a 12 year old as they tend to focus on the importance of Radiohead, farting in the shower and men layering with scarves. Nice work, Barry. Nice work.
P.S.S. Despite the aforementioned aggravation I am experiencing from Zito’s actions, I am still living a good life, visiting Washington D.C., hanging out with one of my best friends and co-author Allen, ready to see the Cardinals play the Nats tonight and tomorrow afternoon. Heading over to the White House now. Pics/Story to follow.
They say lightning never strikes the same place twice; but when it comes to the self-loving oft incoherent Twitter musings of one Coco Crisp, it strikes just about every hour. Don’t believe me? See for yourself:
i dont know how i
did it but i slept from 1am til 2pm and the last thing i remember b4 i
woke was winning a horse race and i was the jokey
any of yaw’ll out there know bout dreams… let me know what that means.
Well, Coco, I am certainly no psychiatrist. Nor do I claim to have actual dream interpretation abilities. But my contemporaries do consider me to be the lone Freudian voice in a world of mother-loving MLBloggers, so let me try to help as best I can.
You seem to be perplexed by your mastery of slumber, Coco. I concur, sleeping for 13 hours straight is serious business. I completely understand your bafflement. I slept for 13 hours once during my college days and while from that experience my first inclination is to warn you about dangers of binge drinking, I think that, in your case, you’re just lazy. So set an alarm next time. You’ll be good to go. I promise.
Now, if the last thing you remember “b4” you “woke” was winning a horse race, well, gee, Coco… that’s great! Congratulations! Honestly, I believe this was your own mind’s ominous foretelling of the brilliant pitching performance later delivered by your perennially underachieving teammate Brian Bannister. You see, you have powers, Coco. Use them. Don’t abuse them. If you feel like you’re going to get a good pitch to hit, you probably are, so make sure you swing away. Follow your telepathic signs.
Of course, this brings us to the most troubling portion of your experience, Coco. Sure, you won the race, but in the end, you were the “jokey”. Man, let me tell ya: I’ve been down that road too and we both know it ain’t no fun. No way. To basque in the glory of triumph, to feel the ecstasy of victory, only to realize that you are indeed the “jokey” — the one everyone is laughing at — whew. Man, let’s just be honest, Coco, that su<ks. And I can’t help you.
But maybe some of “yaw’ll” (a puzzling, elongated abbreviation created by Coco himself, used to represent the shortened “ya’ll” as in “you all” but taking the time to type out one extra letter) can.
Like Coco’s pal, Barry Zito perhaps, who after somehow ditching his dead-arm persona actually managed to throw seven innings of scoreless baseball yesterday! Following his surprising performance, Zito had this to tweet:
F__k yeah baby! Let’s take this show on the road.
Sitting in my hotel in AZ, just ate best cab cakes ever at Cheesecake… You all are great, thanks for the nice comments…
Really wanna kill these D backs this weekend and go into Dodger series with momentum..
3 hrs sleep…
should have partied. Traces of adrenaline still in body, gonna go for a
walk before the mercury hits triples digits in AZ
F__k yeah, Barry! I, too, am quite fond of “cab cakes”… they’re much tastier than urinal cakes and besides, they tend to be both sweet and savory! And of course, there’s nothing quite like killing D’backs to get momentum going into Dodger stadium. I mean, think of how scared the Dodgers will be knowing you just killed an entire baseball team! I was wrong about you, Barry. You aren’t a softy; you’re a hard^ss.
But Barry, just be careful. Those aren’t traces of adrenaline in your body; those are traces of Hilary Duff and Alyssa Milano.
The itch. Tough to cure. You know this.
Don’t hate me ‘cuz I’m right.