To say that we at RSBS aren’t both touched and appalled at the desire for our dear readers to find out how “wemen hit mens’ balls” by perusing our plentiful pages of posts would not only be a mistake — it’d be completely false. In fact, we do care. We want to help in whatever way possible; it’s just that we’re US Americans. We have short attention spans.
This is why I feel the need to address Mr. Krause’s 800 pound gorilla (and no, I am not talking about his sister). For those of you who pay attention, you already know that Mr. Krause not only roots for his lackluster, underachieving, overpaid Tigers, but he is also stringently aligned with the laughingstock of the NFL: the Detroit Lions.
And in case you live in a Cold War era bomb shelter like the one underneath my grandma’s house with all the amenities of a North Korean disco party, you know the Lions are 0-13 with just three games left on their already light schedule. That’s right. No wins. Just losses… and a lot of them. If I didn’t know any better, I would’ve thought that Chris Berman, Shannon Sharpe, Dan Marino, James Brown and every other NFL pregame analyst working the networks yesterday was actually rooting, hoping, wishing that the Lions go on to become the first team ever in the history of the National Football League to not win a single game the entire season.
You can count me in on that wish too.
Because it’s funny.
All joking aside, it is no secret that I love football; but this is a classic example of why baseball, in my humble yet nearly one hundred percent accurate opinion, is a far superior game.
Even the 1899 Cleveland Spiders, holders of the worst record in baseball history, won 20 games to their 134 losses. Twenty times that year they could walk off the field with their heads held high, knowing that — just for a day — they were winners. Likewise, the ’60s era New York Mets (before ’69), as terrible, as awful, as atrocious a team as they were, still won 30 percent of their games. They were never completely void of victory; that tiny taste of winning perhaps propelled them towards their miraculous season of ’69. And of course, who could forget the late-season heroics of the 2003 Detroit Tigers, who in the face of breaking the ’62 Mets’ record for most losses in a season, went on a torrid streak and won five out of their last six games to avoid ultimate infamy.
The key ingredient in all of these poor baseball teams’ legacies is the fact that despite how terrible they all were, they still won some of the time.
But when your season is only sixteen games long the room for error shrinks; and in a game like football, you can forget all about mercy.
Hang in there, Mr. Krause. Don’t cry. Remember, the 1988 Baltimore Orioles started the season 0-21 and even though they finished as winners of 34% of their games, they still had a big fat zero for a considerable, oft uncomfortable amount of time. Put in that perspective, 0-16 doesn’t seem all that bad, eh? Besides, it could be worse, Al: Kyle Farnsworth could be your quarterback.
Don’t hate me ‘cuz I’m right.
New Yorkers flooded the city today as the Cubs played host to the Mets up north and the White Sox welcomed the Evil Empire to the Southside. This sudden influx of visitors was obvious as Mets fans and Yankees fans could be seen throughout the city stealing our cabs, spitting on our trains and jaywalking across major thoroughfares. As a friendly gesture to our northeastern brethren, we Chicagoans went to a lot of trouble to make them feel at home by dumping our garbage in the street, being rude to strangers and talking loudly on our cellphones no matter where we happened to be. It seemed to work quite well. When I came home after work I found a wayward New Yorker sitting on my stoop with a brown paper sacked bottle asking if I wanted to “see a card trick”.
It was a really neat trick.
But after the cacophony of Bronx and Queens accents I heard today, none was more apparent (nor as obnoxiously entertaining) as the world’s biggest Melky Cabrera fan, who somehow found a way to outbroadcast even the infamous Hawk and DJ combo during Comcast Sportsnet’s televising of the Yankees/White Sox matchup this evening. Now, let me just say that I have watched thousands of baseball games on television and never have I seen/heard/touched/loved something quite as mind-blowing as this guy.
I was having my milk and cookies (a baseball ritual for me) and the game was in the 4th inning. Melky Cabrera stepped to the plate to battle against Sox pitcher Jose Contreras. And then, out of nowhere, came the voice of a loud, obnoxious Melky fan — the Melky Man. Suddenly more audible than the commentary of Hawk and DJ, the Melky Man eventually drowned them out all together.
“Melky!” he cried. “Hey, Melky, it’s me!”
Okay. No big deal, right? So some fan got close enough to one of the on-field mics to be heard over the air. Except this guy was loud. Really loud. “Melky! Melky, he’s gonna throw you a fastball!”
“Melky, Melky, watch the forkball this time. The forkball!”
Kerrrrr-plunk. Contreras throws the forkball.
“Another forkball. Watch the forkball!”
Kerrrrr-plunk, Contreras throws the forkball again, Melky pops out.
And then it was over… until…
The 7th inning. Melky came to the plate and we heard: “Melky, I’m back“.
If you watch closely, this time you can see Melky glancing towards the stands behind him when the Melky Man sends his salutations. As if in an effort to thwart another long one-sided Melky Man conversation, Melky swung at the first pitch and knocked a basehit to left.
By the 8th inning, when Melky came to the plate again, milk was shooting out of my nose from my spontaneous outbursts of laughter:
“Melky, sounded like a strike to me, Melky,” said the Melky Man after a swing and a miss.
“Melky, it doesn’t look good, Melky,” said the Melky Man after Cabrera watched a ball go wide of the strike zone.
“That was a big swing, Melky,” said the Melky Man after a big cut.
“Melky, the count is one and two, Melky,” said the Melky Man when the count was 1-2.
Like myself, the Melky Man seemed to be really good at pointing out the obvious, pounding redundancies into the ground, and annoying the sh*t out of anyone within earshot. In other words, the Melky Man is a genius and if you go back and watch Melky’s ABs, I guarantee you’ll be snorting milk out of your nose and laughing your ^ss off too.
But what was even more hilarious than the Melky Man himself was CSNS’ complete disregard for its broadcast being hijacked by an outspoken lameball fan in the stands. Is this a common occurrence in New York? If so, I might have to tune in to more YES Network games and pass on the usual Three Stooges marathons.
And hey you, Melky Man, don’t hate me ‘cuz I’m right.
The title to this post is not meant to be directed at Mr. Allen Krause, though it certainly could be, because he most definitely is obnoxious (see his malcontented swipe at the Show-Me-State for more info — or don’t, you’ll be happier if you don’t). Obnoxiousness ad nauseum, in this case, is a perfect summarization of the Cubs faithful who show up game after game to get wasted and occasionally look up to see who’s playing.
I know, I know. Not all Cubs fans are like that — and you’re probably right — but it only takes one to create the illusion that they’re all alike. Marty Brennaman sure got that impression when bleacher bums (*synonym for alcoholics) threw 15 baseballs on to the field after an Adam Dunn homerun yesterday. Whether it’s heaving baseballs, trash (*exclusive video here), beer bottles at Jacque Jones’ head or dashing on to the field in an attempt to destroy Bob Howry, Cub fans are great at getting out of hand.
During the season, I try very hard not to be in Wrigleyville if I don’t have to be when games are going on — unless I’m actually attending the game. When I do go, I make sure to wear layers and pack hardcover books under my shirt (to ward off any stabbing attempts). Two weeks ago I had to be in the neighborhood. I happened to be wearing a pink shirt that day because I look good in pink and I’m proud to say it. I got out of the cab and before I could take two steps towards the curb, some drunken idiot with an Aramis Ramirez jersey gave me a violent push to the chest saying, “Get out of here, F^g.”
Nice. Real nice.
I hope they rename it “Moronville Field”.
Don’t hate me ‘cuz I’m right.
Despite the simple fact that 90% of the entries on this highly contested blog are written by me, let me remind everyone that this is, in theory, a site authored by two different people. Many of you know that Allen Krause, my partner/opponent/evil-twin in this baseball debate, is the blue in Blue State, the tig in Tiger, the dumb in Dumber. We started Red State Blue State because we had a nasty habit of writing extremely wordy and often hateful diatribes back and forth to one another during the baseball season; so we thought: “hey, let’s make the awful things we say available to the public!”
So far so good… at least that’s how I feel because I have actually been writing posts and having a great time doing it. But I gotta tell ya, it’s not as fun pointing out how wrong someone is when that someone disappears for weeks at a time.
I know, I know… but Al works for the Government and he’s extremely busy saving U.S. Americans from the evils of the world so I can focus on more important things like finding out what exactly a gyro-ball is and whether or not I can find Erica Hill‘s address so I can see if she’s really that hot in person. Of course, I was giving Al the benefit of the doubt — until tonight.
You see, I was in my own perfect little world: American Idol was on the television, Cardinals/Rockies game was on one computer, live scoreboards/gametrackers/fantasy stats were on the other. Serene. It really was. Then, I got a text…
“Watching ur girl on american idol rite now”
What!?!? Allen has enough time to watch American Idol but he can’t write a post and respond to the fact that he’s not a real Tigers fan or that his MLB/NFL manager/coach comparison was blasphemous or that he’s just simply retarded?
Look, I love American Idol just as much as the next sensible, 29 year-old, heterosexual, extremely single male. But I also have priorities. I understand the fine art of scheduling. I make time for the things that are important in life: baseball, CNN, Mozart. Al hasn’t been blogging because he’s been out saving the world… he hasn’t been blogging because he’s been oogling my girlfriend! In fact, while I was watching Ramiele do her thang, I was also watching Lohse pitch five scoreless innings against the Rockies. It’s called multi-tasking. I’m a child of divorce. I’m great at it.
So I have no choice but to call Allen out — yet again — on his unacceptable behavior. Readers, I invite you to do the same. Maybe Al will be welcomed back with open arms…
…like… (*cue the cheesy segue)…
How about that! During the Opening Day festivities, one thing that really excited me was listening to Steve Stone’s debut on WSCR The Score’s broadcast of the Chicago White Sox. Finally, Chicago has brought him back for good as he signed a contract to do the color commentating for the Sox full time this year. This is great for Southsiders and anyone who enjoys listening to a game on the radio. Stoney is one of the most informative, uncensored, learned broadcasters in the game. And remember, I am, and always have been, a Cardinals fan. In fact, during my childhood, Stoney was the only redeeming quality of the entire Chicago Cubs organization. He isn’t afraid to say what he thinks — because he’s usually right — and he isn’t arrogant about it. That voice? It’s like buttuh.
And now he will be affiliated with a Chicago team that can actually call themselves winners. Welcome to the Southside, Stoney.
And Al, welcome to my s***list.
I just ask that you don’t hate me ‘cuz I’m right.