Left-Hand Hate KO’d by Love.
I’ve been living in the house of ill repute. I got my diploma from the University of Strange. Somehow Jeff and Allen let me spew about any and all things on this fine site, which BLOWS MY MIND.
Writers who can’t read get a lot of work because they’re rare. Like tall jockeys. Or short NBA centers. I’m RARE. I grew up with gypsies and dancers. I still can’t read but I CAN dance. And hopefully, unlike the Vatican and Penn State, I’m on the right side of child molestation…
After a great and entertaining World Series it’s free agent time! For managers AND players!
The Cubs’ pursuit of Mike Maddux is on and I’m in. In my strange, odd baseball world, I think he’d be a fine choice. I don’t really believe hitting coaches do much, but pitching coaches do. He did some fine work with the Texas Power Rangers staff and got em back to back AL pennants. I never even heard of half their guys but they pitched their tails off. The older brother of legendary Cubs and Braves great Greg Maddux deserves a shot here. He doesn’t want the Red Sox job, doesn’t want to move his family halfway across the country. And after all the drama that has unfolded in Boston’s recent collapse, who can blame him?
With Theo on board, the Cubs are close to becoming respectable. I just hope the supporting brass knows enough to leave him alone so he can do his damn job without interruptions. There were many rumors that Jim Hendry had people in his ear about who to draft and what free agents to sign. THAT CAN’T HAPPEN AGAIN!!
I remember when I got fired from Applebee’s, because I refused to take Mr. Senor Love Daddy off my name tag. DON’T TELL ME HOW TO DO MY JOB!
Hopefully this doesn’t happen to Theo. Even if he doesn’t pick Maddux, I’m sure he’ll Do the Right Thing.
Follow Johanna on Twitter!
Back in April, if you would have told me that our Democratic president would support a federal resolution that would forgo taxing the über rich while opening the door to make major cuts to programs like Social Security, Medicare and Medicaid, I would’ve thought that I’d perhaps gotten a bit too tipsy during happy hour.
But I’m as sober as a Mennonite on Christmas.
Might not be too bad of a deal though really. I mean, back in April, reflecting on the season ending injury to Adam Wainwright, I also thought the Cardinals didn’t have much of a chance to get anywhere in the 2011 postseason — that they might not even get there at all. Add Pujols’ early struggles and several untimely injuries to Holliday, Skip, Punto and Berkman and I thought we really were just on borrowed time.
But John Mozeliak went out and made things happen this past week. He sent Colby (and his dad) packing to bring us Edwin Jackson, Scrabble, Octavio Dotel and Corey Patterson, plugging up some bullpen holes while bringing in a surging starter and a journeymen utility man, TLR’s favorite type of player. Then Mo went out and made shortstop better by bringing in a healthy Rafael Furcal.
The Cardinals went out and took care of business.
Now I know my malleable and oft gloomy colleague, Mr. Allen Krause, would like to think, as he put it, that the Cardinals had a “lack of trade deadline imagination”, but let me assure you: he is blind.
And when it comes to imagination, his beloved Tigers are full of it if they think a 3-12 Doug Fister is something to get excited about.
Hate me. Just don’t hate me ‘cuz I’m right.
One with the birds-on-the-bat forever, being relished with the Medal of Freedom, still the subject of myriad barbershop tall tales.
And one who has a lot of thinking to do.
Regardless, everyone will shut their traps if you just go out and win it all in 2011.
So yeah. Go and… uh… do that.
Don’t hate me ‘cuz I’m right.
If the 13+ year friendship with my gloomy and oft perfunctory colleague, Mr. Allen Krause, has taught me anything, it has taught me that the pipe dreaming, star chasing default drive of my youth would be better served with a hard, double dose of good old fashioned realism.
Because despite my enthusiasm, the reality of the situation is this:
Erin Andrews isn’t going to sit on my lap. Lucy Liu isn’t going to give me a full body massage (with a whip). And Albert Pujols might not be a Cardinal forever.
I hate it.
I hate all of it.
I want what I want ‘cuz I’m human and needy and, from time to time, self-serving. I don’t want to be that way, but sometimes I just can’t help it.
The hard truth right now is that negotiations between the St. Louis front office and Albert Pujols’ representatives aren’t going too well. Or, to be more accurate, they’re not going… at all.
And in times of realistic despair it’s best to take a step back and assess the situation:
What can I, Jeff, the Cardinals fan, do about any of this?
Nothing. I can do absolutely nothing. Sure, I can wait anxiously and dream and hope and yearn… but in the end, I can really do nothing that will have any affect on the outcome.
I can only control myself. No one else. That’s it.
And the most successful, most respected people I have come to know in this life all seem to have a pretty good grasp of that idea — that the only thing you can control is you yourself.
I know this: I was a Cardinal fan before Albert Pujols. And I’ll sure as hell be a Cardinal fan after Albert Pujols, whether his number is retired on the Busch Stadium wall or hanging high at Wrigley Field on a background of Cubbie blue pinstripes.*
So with that admittedly uncalled for bit of uberpessimism, I implore you, fellow Redbird crazies, join me… take a deep breath… and picture a hole at first base. Pretend the baseball gods are drunken a$$h0les and Chris Duncan somehow made it back to the ‘Lou… his Lurchian frame is manning first base. Every. DAY. Yeah. It’s true. Picture it… see it… cry about it for a while (I will)… but know that it won’t be the end of the world… we are the St. Louis Friggin’ Cardinals and our birds-on-the-bat laundry is worth more to me, to you, to the entire city of St. Louis, then one single person. That interlocking “S.T.L.” incorporates a lifetime of emotions. It has always been there for me. Like a good parent, or a best friend, it has never let me down, because it always shows up and it always gives its best.
And if the greatest player I’ve ever laid eyes on can’t be a part of that anymore… then, so be it.
Like any tough breakup, it will hurt like holy hell. And I mean really, really hurt. But… life will go on, time will numb the pain, and something better might even come along.
Otherwise I’m gonna look like a real dick.
Hate me, just don’t hate me ‘cuz I’m right.
*Yes, I vomited. Many, many times after writing that sentence.
Oh my, oh my, oh my. Who coulda thunk it? Who would’ve thought the Yankees’ public image would be so tainted after just one offseason of not signing Cliff Lee, not signing Carl Crawford, not (yet) signing Andy Pettitte and not listening to their GM who was supposedly off courting — *GASP* — Carl Pavano of all people!!!???
Okay. Well, the Yankees have had a bad winter. So what? They’re the Yankees. They’re still among the best; and I’m positive, they will survive.
But just in case they need to run some interference on all the current bad press, I suggest they employ the services of one magnificent Ron Daahl.
Who is Ron Daahl you ask?
Why don’t ya see for yourself:
*Special thanks to the Charles Grodin crew! If you’re ever in the Chi, go see their shows! They will make you pee your pants they’re so funny!
Uh oh. Don’t look now, Evil Empire, but the Yankees probably aren’t going to be successful in Plan B now that the shirt untucking Brewers have jumped in and made a deal for Zack Greinke. And since the only other arm out there not attached to a ticking time bomb (*ahem* Carlos Zambrano) is Carl Pavano, well, that leaves the Yankees… er… in quite an uncomfortable situation.
Ready to entertain creative alternatives to mend their starting rotation holes, Cashman and company have taken to the teeny bopper concert scene. Indeed, a young arm stuck in the sea of puberty is just ready to make his (or her) debut:
More accurate than Joba. And probably a lot less annoying.
I say go for it.
Hate. Me. Just don’t hate me ‘cuz I’m right.
Give up yet?
Let’s see, there’s Maddux, Smoltz, Glavine, Avery and…
You betchya! Move over, Petey, ‘cuz Joe Blanton is about to take his seat on the ultimate bench of irrelevancy!!!
Indeed, as the shock from Ruben Amaro’s impressively aggressive move to recapture the services of Cliff Lee finally wears off, we are all bound to feel the wrath of that stellar Phillies rotation — a rotation that will make National League stomachs churn as violently as a half digested Taco Bell 7-layer burrito after an all-night college kegger where you went home with a chick named Mo.
And then there’s Joe Blanton.
Of course, this is assuming Blanton will even be a Philly once the 2011 season starts. If I were Ruben, I would do everything in my power to unload that salary, then it’d just be a matter of putting a body out on the mound every five days. If said body is able to pitch, that’s a plus. But really, four days out of five, the Phils are gonna be the hardest friggin’ team ON THE PLANET to beat.
Are you paying attention to all this Mr. Mozeliak?
Hate me. I don’t care. Just don’t hate me ‘cuz I’m right.