Tagged: Ty Cobb

Ninemen’s Morris: Napoleon Lajoie is a French Ninny!

Upstart to Cobb Little More Than A Baltimore Chopper

Team Named After Hubristic Canuck

Passerby: “Lajoie’s Kin Helped the Limeys Torch the Library of Congress!”

– – –

Silas red quigley Dear Rumpus-Rouser:

LAJOIE! You seek a
moral standard bearer, and you choose LAJOIE!?

Across the gentle
waves of the republic, there are two creeds that rankle the populous more than
any other, two regimes that chafe the ankles of freedom like Monte- Cristo’s
manacles.  They are, of course, none
other than the French Empire (Marquis de Lafayette excepted!) and the
British Commonwealth (royalist buggery!).  The French Canadian Lajoie manages to
encompass both!

Lajoie, having
illegally jumped leagues in 1901, and then sold by Connie Mack to the Cleveland
Nine, proceeds to win a newsmans raffle and the club winds up nomened with his
prenom!  This crafty Francophile’s
arrogance is matched only by the girth of the president of the republic.  His league-jumping garnered this
double-crosser unable to cross the
Pennsylvania state lines, and veritably forfeiting the
‘Naps’ games to the A’s!

“But hark,” you say,
tremulously caterwauling, “is he not a batsman beyond compare?  Did he not compile a batters-average that
same year of .427?!  And much of that
against the finest orb-slingers of the day, besting even the mighty Three
Finger Mordecai Brown!”

Still your knocking
knees!  His average this year?  Scarcely kissing .325, and his Cleveland Naps
langour at the bottom of the standings, skulking about the sous-sol like the
ghost of Washington Irving.

I brush your charges
aside as a horsefly from a mule’s fetlock. Ty Cobb’s Tigers pistol-whipped
Connie Mack’s White Elephants in four games at the close of August, and now the
American League is chasing their tail.  
The pennant may not yet be stabled, but those boys firmly grip the
reins.

Ty-cobb September sees those
mighty
Michigan maulers sitting prettily atop the table,
with Cobb clubbing .380.  And seek you
long the long ball!?  Cobb leads the
league, walloping more “all-baggers’ than anyone else in the game.  He may hit ten of them!  What be that French Canadian’s count to
date?  Nil!

But the Naps have
produced one a great wonderment this year – the first unassisted triple play,
by Neal Ball, on July 19.  Never seen
before, Ball’s Triumph saw him gather in a liner, step on the second bag, and
apply a tag to the fleet-footed fool from first.  This feat of derring-do will most assuredly
never be replicated, even in a hundred years’ time.

On a sidenote, I wish to thank you, Mr. Thune, for the olive-branch
gifting of the crate of yellow bananellas. 
As you say, they are a delightful taste and texture, evoking an erotic
south seas sustenance.   Perhaps in this
move to purchase the Filipinos our ebullient executive has given an
uncharacteristic boon.


– – –

Written by
Silas ‘Red’ Quigley
Editorial correspondent for the Boston Wax-Intelligencer.  Editor/Publisher of various workers rights
publications, sporting weeklies, and Ladies Garment Journals.  As a youth he was attache to Henry Chadwick (claims to be the
uncredited co-creator of the box score).

For more on the nature of Ninemen’s Morris, please click *HERE*

The Filibuster

holy+cow.jpgA few weeks ago Milton Bradley very publicly decried the racist
comments hurled at him from the bleachers at Wrigley.  But since he
wouldn’t give specifics the press has been having a field day, claiming
he’s making it all up.  It blows my mind how blind they are.  I’m no
fan of Milton’s, but you can’t walk through Wrigleyville without seeing
someone in a “Pujols Mows My Lawn” shirt, or those famous “Horry Kow!”
Fukudome shirts.  I think in this case he’s absolutely right, and the
press would rather continue to crap all over the guy than grudgingly
admit that he has a point.

Ted
Chicago, IL

____________________________________

As much as soccer is the world’s game, baseball is still America’s game. And as games and culture tend to do, it reflects much about a nation’s character. If you watch soccer you know that the Germans play a very methodical game much like the methodical German people. Same goes for the “beautiful game” played by the Brazilians.

But what does this recent statement from Milton Bradley say about the state of our nation? Well, if you paid attention at all during the Presidential race last year, you know that Ted and Milton definitely have a point.

The state of race relations in this country has not come all that far since the times of the king of the racists, Ty Cobb, or Jackie Robinson’s first foray across the color lines. We may pretty it up these days with Rainbow coalitions and politically correct buzz-words but the fact of the matter is, there has never been an actual, frank discussion about race in this country despite what we’d like to lead ourselves to believe. As much as it pains me to say it, Cubs’ fans are not the problem. They’re nothing more than a symptom of the problem.

It’s not exactly the same thing but this reminds me of being in Wrigleyville a couple years ago late at night. I was walking with a few guys and there had definitely been some drinking going on. As we walked to find a cab, some thin young guy came hurrying down the street toward us and one of the guys in the group jumped at him and then started harassing him, calling him “f@g” this and “f@g” that. This poor guy was scared sh!tless and the rest of us were too stunned to even say anything. Finally someone pulled the guy from our group away and he looked around at us like it was the funniest thing ever. As the guy who had been getting harassed walked away as quickly as possible, the rest of us just stared at this d0uchebag standing there obliviously with a huge grin on his face, all of us still shocked at what had happened.

And again, it’s symptomatic. Racism and homophobia come from the same place and the fact that neither one has ever been dealt with directly in this country means that it will continue to go on. Whether or not someone said what Milton says he heard is not the point. The fact that we really shouldn’t be surprised that it happened is.

-A

Kalamazoo Conspiracy

kalamazoo college logo.jpg“Secrecy, once accepted, becomes an addiction.”
–Edward Teller

Fear not, my dear and trusted readers, for I also feel the sentiment of pain and worry caused by Mr. Krause’s latest right-field reclamation.  While it is common for seedy men in prominent positions of power to manipulate their stances on a particular subject in order to woo the masses, this one goes far and beyond being just a simple cause for alarm. 

One minute Mr. Krause is doling out his undying hatred for the “evil” Yankees; the next he’s praising New York’s golden boy, Derek Jeter (nice work on catching Lou Gehrig, by the way).  And the worst part about it?  He substantiates his softness by claiming the “Kalamazoo” connection.

Fooey.

To get to the heart of this conspiracy, the RSBS interns and I have toiled hard to unlock the mystery of Mr. Krause’s secrecy.  So just go with me here…

Kalamazoo.  While this is the city where Mr. Krause and I first met and became friends, this is also close to the home of a minor league baseball team: the West Michigan Whitecaps, affiliate of the Detroit Tigers.

Tigers.
  This is the team Mr. Krause supposedly loves.  This is the team that was defeated by the St. Louis Cardinals in the 2006 World Series.  This is the team synonymous with backwoods alcoholic racists.  This is the team that lost 119 games in 2003. 

119.
  If you add up the individual digits of this atrocious number, you will get 11.  The word “eleven” has six letters in it, three of them “e”s, eerily akin to the word “seethe”!

Seethe.  If anyone has the ability to foam at the mouth from agitation, it is Mr. Krause.  Some would even call him a shape-shifter — like he showed us in his last video, which proved he has a special place in his heart for Colby Rasmus (and cross-dressing).

Colby Rasmus/Cross-Dressing.
  Only in Mr. Krause’s world does this combination sound like a great way to spend a Friday night.  And Al loves Fridays. 

Fridays.  If you are a woman and you go on a date with Mr. Krause, this is where you will go.  This is Al’s place to spend big.  Pay special attention to his overbearing recommendations of anything and everything from the “Jack Daniel’s Grill” menu.  Al loves him some Jack Daniel’s.

Jack Daniel’s.  This is the only key you need to unlock Mr. Krause’s mind.

derek jeter crying.jpgMr. Krause’s Mind.  Der-ek Je-ter *clap-clap-clap-clap-clap*… Der-ek Je-ter *clap-clap-clap-clap-clap*… Der-ek Je-ter *clap-clap-clap-clap-clap*

Yes, folks, that is what Al was trying to say.

He loves Derek Jeter. 

Unconditionally.

Forever.

And ever.

And if Ozzie Guillen can kiss a dude then I have absolutely no problem with Al lovin’ on Jeet.  Just come out and say it; and don’t blame it on geography.

Hate me ‘cuz I pull back the layers, just don’t hate me ‘cuz I’m right.

Peace,

Jeff

Ninemen’s Morris: A ‘Nap’-Man rises to defend his Chief! Joy in Lajoie, and all-aboard Taft’s Raft!

alabaster eastman thune.jpg

Nitwittery! 


You,
sir, have undone your intellectual suspenders and dropped your common
sense trow to reveal a posterior so pock-marked with mind-munge, it
almost goes so far as to not even warrant a rebuttal, but rather a
pity-whistle played on Lazarus’ last gummed-up flute!!!

 

How dare you, sir, speak so ill of the President?  And
how dare you, sir, compound your heresy with a trumpeting of some
apparent virtue found in the Christ-abandoned dung-ball indulged by one
Ty Cobb?

 

First — to speak to your treason ‘gainst this fair nation, this journalist
need only offer his own recently penned exercise in pith:

 

“Clean plate, cleaner conscience! Surplus of pounds, Surplus of President!”

 

You harangue our dear leader because of his weight, calling him similarly soft on foreign policy.  While
there is no denying that the aforementioned Taft’s Raft better be
well-built, such ballyhoo and whatnot attacking the man’s actions in
relation to lands beyond the hallowed borders of this nation resolve to
cockamamie in the ears of the simplest of troglodytes!  Here is one very simple counterexample to your nonsense:

 

The man bought the Philippines.

 

philippines.jpg

For
those dear readers who aren’t familiar with this delightful land, the
Philippines are a mystical chain of islands situated abroad, in the
giving waters of the South Pacific Sea.  These islands are known for their cash crops and their sanctimony.  Holiness runs rampant, as evidenced by their previous owners, the Roman Catholic Church.  I have heard nothing but pleasurable reviews of a local vegetable, the “bananalla,” which I have yet to enjoy for myself.

 

Taft
negotiated the purchase of this land from Pope Leo XIII (please hush
the nonagenarian barbs… obviously old age contributed to his lopsided
dealings), and served as governor of the land for a year by three.  How
serves you that for foreign policy!!! This new acquisition serves to
establish our nation as a stern presence in Asia’s left underarm,
virtually guaranteeing that no surprise threat is ever imposed upon us
by any nearby nation (a bite of the thumb to you, Japan!).

 

(It should be noted that the bananalla is a fattening food.  Perhaps that explains our captain’s rounded countenance?)

 

Point being made, on to our beloved game…

 

Cobb?

 

Has the liquor done its wilting?

 

You speak poison with forked tongue!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

 

Using
Cobb as any sort of exemplary model for any sort of proverbial
‘job-well-done’ speaks to not only a general misunderstanding of
competence, but also a general disregard for the plight of man!!!

 

Cobb is a beast.  A walking ape who lost his fur, a salamander grown too big for his swamp.  He
struts about puffing his chest, intimidating all those who crossed his
crooked path with the threat of a spike or, worse yet, a studded
knuckle to temple.  But ultimately… what is the threat?  The Tigers have failed to capitalize on his gaudy numbers, and in the end… what are we really playing for here?  To trumpet Cobb is to trumpet ungracious loss.

 

The ‘Georgia Peach’ say you?  I
prefer to call him the ‘Georgia Thief,’ for the taking of unwarranted
bases is, in this journalist’s opinion, ball-play that isn’t becoming
of even the most common of gentlemen.

 

And so, dear reader, let me turn your attention elsewhere.  Perhaps to an old standby?  Perhaps to a man who plays the shared agreement between two opposing groups of like-minds with a modicum of class?

 

nap lajoie.jpg

Napoleon ‘Nap’ Lajoie. 

 

Connie
Mack’s pride has displayed numbers that make dear Cobb’s corn hop back
onto the stalk, and his demeanor has been that of a dandy sans
foppishness.  His swing reminds me of my first-born’s
first words — a pleasure to watch and even better to hear, and his play
about the infield is the equivalent of your Cobb.  Throw
in a lollipop for the gilded statesman’s son down in box two, and we
have ourselves the wood-wielder of, by and for the people.

 

Dare I suggest that a gamesman’s rivalry is afoot?

 

The ball is in your general vicinity, ne’er-do-well.

 

PS.  Wagner?  We are in agreement.  The man is weak about the knees, and he looks about with the shiftiest of eyes.

– – –

Written by

‘Alabaster’ Eastman Thune
Former editor of the “Follies and Whatnots” section of the Chicago Inter-Ocean. 



Currently unemployed.

“Alabaster” is known for coining the popular quip:  “An Irishman and
his whiskey are like the Father Sky and his Sun – you are guaranteed
that the latter will show up in the former each day of God’s blessed
week.”

For more on the nature of Ninemen’s Morris, please click *HERE*


Ninemen’s Morris: New column enlivens politico-diatribe with concurrent Base-ball imbroglios!

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silas red quigley.jpg

To begin, a warm welcome, reader, you of discerning taste
and eye, to the maiden voyage of Ninemen’s Morris, a clear voice rising
above the innumerable newsman’s clanging gongs. 
Here you shall encounter cogent commentary on the politic of the day,
juxtaposed with tantalizing tid-bits from this season in the national
past-time.  In our first column, we turn
our attention to a crucial topic: this first year of a fledgling
presidency. 

 

What is this brand of nouveau dandyism practiced by the
current administration?  The cloying
pretense of free trade and thinly-veiled cronyism only further illustrates
their disconnectitude from the American main. 
I cannot abide his minced words and Nancy-boy intellectual caterwauling.  In a fearful harbinger, in June it was this
johnny-come-lately’s duty to throw out the first pitch for a clash of titans at
Griffiths Park.  Our gastropod of a new
president was seen to fling the sphere short of home plate by many a yard, all
the more length his atrophied limb would aspire! 

 

Taft First Pitch.jpg

This is the leader of our fair republic?  Please! 
A finer metaphor for his soft-lipped foreign policy and his craven
crumbling in the crucible of overseas conflicts I could not conceive.  Endure this so-called Dollar Diplomacy?  I would sooner have my shins sluiced by the
sharpened spikes of the Georgia Peach, Tyrus Cobb!

 

On the diamond, an historic battle is shaping up clearly in
this season, a pas-de-deux between the elegiac behemoth, Johanus Wagner, and
that aforementioned centerfield hit-smith. 
The Detroit man’s vitriol is well known (to quote one sporting
columnist, “he would climb a mountain to punch an echo.”)  It may well be that the echo in greatest need
of punching is that crafty and classical shortstop from Pittsburg.  A study in contrasts, these two men play in
styles so differing they could be two separate sports. 

 

Roosevelt Taft Cartoon.jpg

An equal contrast comes current in the governance of our new
president, as opposed to his predecessor. 
Where Roosevelt was a man of action, and given to a spiking style (does
his big stick not slightly resemble Ty Cobb’s Louisville Slugger?), Taft is a
soft, gentlemanly sort, of a disposition more to demure than vociferate.  Already his rhetoric against the Trusts
brings to mind the gentle way of the Dutchman Honus Wagner, a man far more
likely to even the playing field with a kind word than to spike the unwary
second baseman’s leg on a steal.  (Though
on pace to steal over 700 bases in his career he may well be, I query still,
where the teeth?!  Where the threat?!)

 

As we tread unwillingly into the end of our summertime, and
the autumnal pennant race begins its inexorable warm-up, we shall watch with
interest the progress of these titans, 
and pray for as hardy a disposition in the capital.  Though he spoke of his profession, it could
just as easily be the office of the president that Cobb referenced when heard
to say, “it is a grown up game for grown up men.  It is no pink tea.  Mollycoddles better stay out.” 

 

Hear you that, elephantine executive?!

– – –

Written by
Silas ‘Red’ Quigley
Editorial correspondent for the Boston Wax-Intelligencer.  Editor/Publisher of various workers rights
publications, sporting weeklies, and Ladies Garment Journals.  As a youth he was attache to Henry Chadwick (claims to be the
uncredited co-creator of the box score).

For more on the nature of Ninemen’s Morris, please click *HERE*

The Filibuster

Players across the sports spectrum seem to be feeling their oats the
past couple weeks. The Lakers-Rockets NBA series has turned into a
brawl and baseball has seen several ejections and suspensions handed
down over the last several days. Are we seeing the effects of over (or
under) officiating or are players really more on edge these days?

–Allen
__________________________________________

ryan_ventura.jpgMy unwieldy colleague and line straddling co-author, Mr. Krause, the spin-doctor extraordinaire, has done it again, folks.  Surprise, surprise.  He just doesn’t get it.

Suspensions, brawls, warnings, headhunters, beanballs, ejections… these are all integral tenets of the sports we love.  Without them, the stakes would be as dramatic as an afternoon pinochle tournament at your local retirement home (and even those can turn violent without  proper supervision).

Personally, I could care less about what the Los Angeles Lakers of Los Angeles are fighting about with the Houston Rockets (those are basketball teams, right?).  But perennial crybaby and major league fire-starter Milton Bradley?  Foot-in-mouth Bobby Jenks?  Two-packs-a-day Jimmy Leyland?

Now that’s what I’m talkin’ about!

Indeed, the cast of characters may change from year to year, but the subtle game of intimidating your opponent and firing up your team with guts, fists and butt-busting fastballs hasn’t.  Ty Cobb anyone?

No matter what the era, baseball players have always found a harmonious balance of edge and competitiveness.  When your livelihood is on the line, you bet you’re gonna go out and stand up for yourself.  Those who don’t… well, they end up like Mr. Krause, pushing pencils and checking email forty times a day.

Now I don’t propose an increase to the level of violence on the field; but hell, don’t peel it back.  I need that respite of poorly timed right hooks (see Shields v. Crisp, 2008), knee-buckling vengeance (see Bradley v. The World, 2007) and knuckles-to-skull contact (see Ryan v. Ventura, 1993).  Anyone who says he/she doesn’t is a liar.

Baseball does not suffer from under or over officiating.  It’s doing just fine the way it is.  Fights, ejections, suspensions… they’re all just a part of the game.  When it becomes bedlam…

… well, then we might have to reevaluate.

Until then, just keep on hating me.  But don’t hate me ‘cuz I’m right.

Peace,

Jeffy

***SEND US YOUR FILIBUSTERS****

Something on your mind?  Want to see Jeff and Al sweat (separately, not together, eww)?  Think you got a real stumper?  Send us your Filibuster question(s) by commenting or emailing them to us at kraulung@gmail.com. 

***Pictures of hot chicks also welcome.

Racism’s Rainbow

ty_cobb.jpgTy Cobb could not play baseball today. Oh, maybe he had the skills and the guts to succeed but you wouldn’t find him in the majors. There’s one simple reason for this. Bigtime sports depend on marketing and it’s really hard to market a racist ^sshole. Just look at John Rocker. Say the wrong thing to the wrong person and soon enough you’re signing baseball cards at convention centers instead of trotting in from the bullpen.

Now, it hasn’t always been this way and the fact that a guy like Ty Cobb is in the Hall of Fame shows that sometimes those lesser angels of our nature don’t disqualify you from everything in life. But in the last few years, as baseball and other sports have become more dependent on the revenue generated by the family friendly aspects of the game, it has become rarer and rarer to see someone go off and really call it like they see it. That’s why I want to remind us all of some of the more glaring instances in a segment I like to call: Holy Sh!t! Did he really just say that?

Gary Sheffield:
sheffield.jpgI begin with my hometown Tigers and an homage to our recently departed designated hitter. Now, Sheff has been a fount of inspired insanity over the years and everyone knows about his comments regarding Latino players. He also famously said that Derek Jeter wasn’t “All the way black.” But the genius of Sheff can only truly be summed up in his response to a question about fathering two children before he was old enough to vote: “That was part of my plan. I didn’t want to be the typical athlete who’s single all his career.” Sheff shows that racism comes in a rainbow of colors.

John Rocker:
Rocker_Alicia.jpgQuite possibly the biggest homophobe and xenophobe to emerge from baseball since Ty Cobb, Rocker once remarked, “The biggest thing I don’t like about New York are the
foreigners … You can walk an entire block in Times Square and not
hear anybody speaking English
.”
Even his annual apologies provided nonstop fun. Only Rocker could manage to understate the severity of a situation by starting out “My comments concerning persons afflicted with AIDS as
well as various minority groups have left people wondering if I am a
racist.” However, he also manages to retain the power to confound his critics and proved it once again by taking up with the beautiful Alicia. You stay classy, John Rocker!

Norm MacDonald:
However, nothing quite tops this video of Norm Coleman hosting the Espy’s a decade ago. Do yourself a favor. Even if you can’t quite sit through the entire eight and a half minutes, fast forward to the 7:53 minute mark and prepare to be amazed by the absolute sadistic ruthlessness with which he builds up Charles Woodson and then cuts him off at the ankles. It ain’t pretty but it gets him a spot on RSBS:

Happy Saturday!

-A