Standing in the check-out line at my local grocer, I scanned the magazine rack hoping to find out if Khloe Kardashian had eaten herself to death or how drunk Jennifer Aniston got in Cabo while still thinking about Brad. Instead, I was subjected to an image I thought I’d blocked out 25 years ago:
Eldra “El” DeBarge.
On the cover of Jet.
Who’s Johnny… she said…
*cue the daydream montage*
I see Bert Blyleven record his 3,000th strikeout…
I see Bob Horner hit four homeruns in one game…
I see Mike Scott no-hit the Giants… the Red Sox come back to win the ALCS after being down 3 games to 1… Ray Knight skip like a schoolgirl on Mookie Wilson’s Bill Buckner nutmeggin’ dribbler…
…and… and, I… I see…
*snaps out of it*
Oh, Youppi… oh, dear, dear Youppi… no!!! It’s not FAIR! It’s not fair that El DeBarge gets a comeback and you don’t… not fair that in 2010 you’re relegated to Montreal hockey duty while El DeBarge gets nominated for a Grammy.
A GRAMMY FOR JEEBUS’ SAKE!!!
And you wonder.
You wonder why I don’t believe in god.
No loving god would subject the altruistic baseball fan to such chronic despair!!!
So hate me ‘cuz I I think El DeBarge topped out in ’86, just don’t hate me ‘cuz I’m right.
Billboards in New York City touted his valiant arrival. Buzzing baseball elite charged that he would revolutionize the Mets. Everyday fans scurried to find a suitable nickname for their new best player they’d never heard of.
It was the Spring of 2004 and if you asked me to speak some Japanese, even I probably would’ve said: Matsui-san. Kazuo Matsui-san.
Because I, too, joined the hype.
But why? Why was the baseball world so enamored with an import player whom no one knew anything about? Why did we allow his persona to be so pumped up with pomp, such expectation, sight unseen?
Indeed, Ichiro Suzuki changed the landscape of Major League Baseball — allowing for the mysteriously effective small-ball game to reinject itself into the big boppin’ steroidfest it had become. His mannerisms, his character, his magnetism — on and off the field — were a throwback to the baseball heroes of old. Marveled by his talent, we the US American public accepted and celebrated Ichiro for resurrecting respect in a league where little remained.
So I get it. I understand why we started to get excited about the Japanese baseball contention.
But, the fact is: for every Ichiro Suzuki there’s a Kosuke Fukudome, a So Taguchi, or worse, a Kaz Matsui. For every Hideo Nomo, a Kei Igawa, Hideki Irabu, Daisuke Matsuzaka.
And while it makes a good headline that the A’s and Twins are going out and bidding top dollar for the rights — yes, just the rights — to negotiate with Hisashi Iwakuma and Tsuyoshi Nishioka respectively, I still can’t help but feel sorry for the failure both are being set up for in the future.
American, Dominican, Venezuelan, Canadian, Japanese… there’s only one Ichiro.
And as proved by Kazuo Matsui’s silent saunter back home this offseason, expecting anything but is a guarantee for disappointment.
Hate me. Whatevs. Just don’t hate me ‘cuz I’m right.
One media-savvy New York minute prepped skipper to go.
And as long as Davey Johnson refuses to come out of retirement and lead the Mets back to respectability, it looks like new GM Alderson and company are gonna have a pretty big decision to make in the very near future. But like always, RSBS is here to help! In fact, we would like to see Mets fans smile every now and then, so we got the interns busy and boy did they come up with some mighty smart suggestions!
He’s a New Yorker. He’s got a lisp (which indicates ability to persevere… and succeed?). He hates smut and could really clean up the place (talkin’ about you, Ollie Perez, you waste of oxygen).
Then again, Rudy is a Yankees fan. So he’s probably a real a$$h0le.
Why not? The world’s greatest all-time distance runner just retired… while in New York! If anyone can endure such pain, such suffering, such mental anguish… oh, wait, he didn’t finish the New York Marathon? See! That’s why he’s perfect! He’ll fit right in with the Metropolitans and their penchant for pre-finish line collapses!
Remember that black cat that ran across the field during the opening night at Citi Field? Uh…. yeah. That was no accident, folks. That was the work of a witch. A non-masturbating, adamant teabagging, scary spell spewing witch. Holla!!!
Dude! Conan RULED New York back in the day… remember? Then he got the big show, moved to L.A. and got canned a few months in. Sounds a lot like Darryl Strawberry, doesn’t it? Yep. The connections are too great to ignore. So don’t.
I know he’s being interviewed for the job… and I know he’s sort of a lame duck skipper… but the man is ORANGE!!! Move over, Mr. Met, Clint and his biohazzard-proof skin are ’bout to back that a$s up right into yo clubhouse!
Hate me ‘cuz it’s Tuesday, just don’t hate me ‘cuz I’m right.
Jeff and Allen have been very busy
all season long and with the playoffs in full swing, they thought it
might be nice to bring in some relief writers. Today their friend from
college, Frank, gives us his take on the playoffs.
In fact, I don’t even want to talk about it. It’s bad enough that the Mets completely s**t the bed this season. I don’t want to hear about the f*****g Yankees and the no east coast finale. Actually, I don’t even want to talk to you at all right now. You know why? Because you’re an enema. No, you’re my enema…
….Shut up, dude. Of course I know what I said. No, I didn’t mean to say enemy. I meant enema. You know, like your continued existence cleanses my colon.
Seriously, though. I’m not even sure I know where San Francisco is. Is that down in the Village or something? If you want to be straight about things, the Giants are technically a New York team anyway. I guess it would be weird to have the baseball Giants and football Giants in the same town but who cares? And what the hell is in Texas? Nothing I want to see, that’s for sure.
You know what is in Texas that I did enjoy seeing, though? The f*****g Cowboys getting stomped by the Giants. Baseball season is done, bro. It’s football time now. F**k Texas. F**k San Francisco. And you know what, f**k you, too, bro….
…Nah, man, I’m just kidding. I love you, bro. We’re cool. Give me a hug.
there’s a good chance we’ll have an all east coast World Series. Don’t
you get sick of watching the same teams over and over?
Achtung, dear readers! Once again, Larry presents us with a classic case of can’t-live-with-’em-can’t-live-without-em-itis — a taxing condition so prevalent that it has infected the hearts and minds of rural and metro US Americans left of the east coast for over a century!
Yankees, Red Sox, Yankees, Red Sox, Mets, Phillies, Yankees, Red Sox… bla bla bla…
Yes, it’s annoying. I know. Except that this year it’s not Yankees, Red Sox, Yankees, Red Sox bla bla bla.
It’s the Rays! It’s the Braves! And no Red Sox!
what if the Yankees are in there? And the Phillies. Hell, the
Phillies are the best team in baseball right now. Post season
no-hitters? Crushing offense? Isn’t that what we want?
all biased pride aside, do you remember how many people were watching
the 2006 World Series that featured two historic midwestern teams? What
about the 2002 pairing of two California clubs? Or how about the
mostly-forgotten 1997 classic featuring your very own Tribe?
People (the same collective “people” who seem to think Armageddon
is “great film”) don’t remember, because people (the same “people” who
define NASCAR as an actual sport) don’t care; and people (yes, the same
“people” who consider McDonald’s to be authentic American cuisine) don’t
care, because no one has told them that they should care.
Which brings us to the main culprit: a centralized power of all-things media, also known as mind control, rooted in New York.
tecnocratic ways not yet fully understood, New York has convinced we
the people that if New York isn’t involved, then it’s not worth caring
about. So, naturally, our press reflects that.
No east coast clubs? Fine. No glitz. No pomp. Barely a modicum of circumstance.
Personally, I’m okay with that. Because such buzz, it breeds emotion. Gets people talking. Forces people to care.
And for a sport lovingly labeled as our national pastime — one that has
had plenty of public relations gaffes threaten its integrity over the
last few decades — caring about the game is all that really matters.
most non east coast elite, I have no love for the headline-hoggin’ high
profile teams that tend to bandwagon in October; but I know that their
existence is nothing but good for the game.
We need the Yankees. We need the Red Sox.
The post season needs the east coast elite.
Because US America needs an enemy.
Don’t hate me ‘cuz I’m right.
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Desperate times call for desperate measures. When you’re the long-serving president of a country and your re-election chances aren’t looking so good, you just pass a couple laws, tweak the electoral system slightly and then sit back and watch as the votes start rolling in. Except for when they don’t, like what happened this past weekend in Venezuela.
Now, we love our Venezuelans over here at RSBS, especially when they come in the form of Ozzie Guillen or Miguel Cabrera. And we really love the neverending stream of inspiration Senor Chavez sends our way. But Chavez had better put his game face on or the Bolivarian revolution might go the way of Bolivar himself (He’s dead, in case you were wondering).
But this sense of desperation hasn’t limited itself to just Venezuela. A similar aura of dread has definitely enveloped the Mets’ locker room and front office. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if we just popped on the ol’ television here for a second and found out something new:
Well, I guess that about says it all. And if any of our loyal readers need help polishing up their resumes before making a run at a position with the Mets….or the presidency of Venezuela…..feel free to send them our way and we’ll take a look. It’s what we do.