On this Memorial Day — a day set aside to focus our attention and our appreciation for the service men and women who dutifully protect our nation — I would like to point out a similarly constant source of awesome who has quietly made being a south sider something to brag about. His name is Paul Konerko.
“Paulie” (as he is affectionately called by White Sox fans) has done nothing in Chicago but hit 400 homeruns, drive in 1265 runs, hit .284 and carry an OPS of .865, all while flying way under the national radar of the worldwide leader in schlub and other poignant media corporations. Oh you can bet opposing pitchers know who he is, but his public persona is a bit of a mystery. He’s a quiet, reserved guy. He’s not out gallivanting with actresses and pop stars. He isn’t taking his shirt off and posing for GQ. He doesn’t run his mouth to the press, or at umpires, or… at all.
He’s the lunch pail baseballer. He shows up to work, works hard, then quietly goes about his business. He’s the type of player you want your kid to idolize. He’s the guy all the dads wanna hang out with, who all the ladies want to be close to.
He’s Paul Konerko — south side hero, midwest superstar. The quiet, unsung hero.
I tip my cap.
And to all our nation’s heroes, we here at RSBS dutifully salute and thank you for your service.
Happy Memorial Day!
Old defensive liability power hitters who strikeout 150+ times a year and can’t hang in the National League should retire.
And yes, perhaps players should go back to wool uniforms (‘cuz when you’re itchy, you play with an edge).
Verily! The Gospel according to Jeff hath been spoken.
With that, I virtually extend my hand through the interwebs and take that of my calloused and oft misguided colleague, Mr. Krause. Indeed, I accept his dubious (and ultimately self-deprecating) proposal knowing full well that victory is in my near future.
And, since we’ve opened up the Gospel, let it also be known that:
The closer is the most overrated role in baseball.
And Albert Pujols is the only man who could make me gay.
Wait, did I just say that?
Don’t hate me ‘cuz I’m right.
Obviously, dear readers, this year is no exception.
Stumbling home at 4:30 in the morning, it took a good twenty minutes of frustration before I realized I was trying to get inside my neighbor’s building instead of mine. Whoops. No wonder the key wouldn’t work.
Quizzing myself on what actually happened the night before — piecing quipped memories together one by one to reassemble reality — is the basic tenet of any three-day weekend. Like, did the Cardinals’ Todd Wellemeyer really throw six-plus scoreless innings last night? Indeed. Did Nancy Pelosi actually run out of things to say? You betcha. Did I really overhear the following conversation at the bar last night?
Pretentious Woman #1: I had the Pinot. He had the Shiraz.
Pretentious Woman #2: I didn’t know they served wine at the Cell.
Pretentious Woman #1: They do. In our section anyway.
Pretentious Woman #2: I’ll have to try that next time.
Pretentious Woman #1: Yeah, I mean, what else you gonna do? Watch the game? Ha!
Yes, folks, such tragedy is not made up.
You wanna drink wine? Fine. Go ahead. Nothing wrong with that; but I don’t care who you are, the ballpark ain’t no place for wine.
Or maybe I’m still languishing over John C. Reilly’s intriguingly accurate characterization of me at last year’s Memorial Day cookout:
I may be no angel, but I do know that there is a time and place for everything.
Don’t hate me ‘cuz I’m right.