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.
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.
Mr. 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.
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.
Sometimes when I get really worked up, you probably forget that I am not just a simple, hateful man. There are many things I appreciate. This is not true about Notre Dame since there is absolutely nothing redeeming about that school and I consider Rudy to be nothing more than Catholic propaganda. But, despite a dogmatic insistence on my hatred of the Yankees, let us consider them for a second.
Growing up in a small town outside of Kalamazoo, MI, I admired Derek Jeter. This wasn’t true of my whole family. My brothers routinely referred to him as “Fila-boy” because for some reason he had an endorsement deal with that shoe company and always wore them. I think their dislike of him has something to do with the leftover animosity those of us who come from German descent have for the Italians totally screwing the pooch in WWII. Seriously guys, you couldn’t even hold on to North Africa? But, even though he was the golden boy and could seem to do no wrong and even though my brothers hated him, I always had a special place in my heart for Jeter.
I don’t know, maybe it’s just me but he always seemed to hustle a little more than the other guys, to work a little harder to prove that he belonged there. Even though he was a Yankee, he didn’t have that same air of entitlement that guys like A-Rod seemed to possess. And maybe that’s just me projecting but when you’re coming from the same area in the middle of nowhere in Michigan, it’s nice to see someone who made it out.
So, I still stand by my guns and there is no way I will ever cheer for the Yankees (unless one of those guns happens to be pressed up against the side of my head). But Derek Jeter? The guy’s a class act. Kalamazoo Central class of 1992, in fact. See, I’m not all bad.
Leave it to my pessimistic and oft paralyzing misanthrope of a colleague, Mr. Krause, to dampen everyone’s Labor Day spirit by mentioning those two words most feared by fans of our national pastime: Baseball Strike.
Chris Carpenter pitched a one-hit, complete game shut out against the Brewers to further solidify the Cardinals’ grips on the NL Central crown and Al wants to talk about a potential baseball strike!?! This malicious posturing is akin to sleeping with your crazy ex-girlfriend on the eve of your wedding.
Why screw with pain?
Yet Mr. Krause has made a lofty name for himself by dropping unfounded speculation. So we’ll just go with it.
And by go with it I mean briefly say that given the collusion and vindictive-laden history of Major League Baseball and its owners, the Player’s Union has got to have the right to strike as a last (albeit catastrophic) resort. While the horrors of the impetuous strike of 1994 continue to wreak havoc on the game (disillusion among fans, PED scandals, destruction of small market teams, etc), the Union would be absolutely insane to go so far again.
But still, the choice must be there for them to have any leverage.
As great as baseball is, it is not responsible for governing a people. It is not responsible for policing our streets, putting out fires, getting people to work. If they wanna strike, they should be able to do so… then watch as our interest in the English Premier League collectively jumps to dramatic new heights.
If it ever came to that — baseball taking itself for granted… again — then I think we all know how serious the alcoholism epidemic will become among Major Leaguers. I know this because my Labor Day (just one day without work) looked a lot like this:
|Tosh.0||Returns Oct. 8th|
Now imagine 750 out-of-work Sidney Ponsons running through the streets of our nation and tell me the Players Union doesn’t know better.
Hate me ‘cuz I walk the walk, just don’t hate me ‘cuz I’m right.
*Cap tip to Tosh.0 on the video.
Well, it seems that once again my erudite co-blogger and myself have found something on which we can agree. As right as the Tigers were to hold the line on the start of their Good Friday game, the Yankees and MLB are wrong in caving to the Yom Kippur lobby.
Now, I understand the concern. As I’ve mentioned before, I lived in NYC and that place is a ghost town on Yom Kippur and Rosh Hashanah. But moving up the start time so a few people can get their fast on? Sorry, no. Even in Saudi Arabia World Cup qualifiers are still taking place despite the fact that it’s smack dab in the middle of the fasting month of Ramadan. If the Saudis aren’t changing that up, maybe MLB should take note.
However, it’s nice that Mr. Lung and myself can agree on something. After all the hyperbolic excesses of the past couple weeks, I find it reassuring that there are still areas where we are sympatico.
But, since it is Labor Day and on this day of rest it is only natural that we should turn to questions of labor, I wonder what his thoughts are on the place of labor and collective bargaining in baseball today. I ask this because there is a law in the Federal government that even though employees may unionize, they do not have the right to strike. Should baseball consider setting up some sort of similar agreement? Since it is America’s past time, shouldn’t it be considered just as essential?
When the Catholic church complained about teams playing/opening their
season on Good Friday, you guys were all over it – “reminding” us all
of the separation of Church and State. So, will we also get a public
reminder of that over the New York Congressman writing to Uncle Bud
complaining about ESPN’s decision to move the Red Sox-Yankees game to
8pm on September 27th and the fact that it started after sundown on Yom
Kippur. MLB & ESPN caved and the game will be played at 1pm and
shown only on ESPN. Is one religious holiday more “holy” then another?
Where is the public outcry? Inquiring minds want to know your opinion.
Despite what they may tell you in church, or temple or mosque or whatever… the founding fathers of our great US American nation had a pretty good sense of how detrimental, confusing and manipulative the institution of the Church could be to the sanctity of the State. Of course, these men were no angels, but they did know enough to make it clear that the two entities should never intersect — one shouldn’t influence the other.
Unfortunately, even after hundreds of years, those pesky little zealots continue to infiltrate where they shouldn’t. They meddle in my schools. They lobby in my government. And now they are sticking their hypocritical hands into my national pastime.
And I don’t like it.
You see, dear readers, to be frank, I really don’t care if you are religious or not. If you choose to put all your faith in recycled fairy tales that is most definitely your choice, your right. I will not judge you because I don’t really care and I don’t claim to know the answer to any of those questions that religion supposedly answers either. I just know that it isn’t for me. But when it comes to your life, it’s your life and you should be allowed to live it however you want.
But in return for this congenial act of courtesy, I ask that religious folk kindly extend me the same respect. Don’t tell me I’m going to hell. Don’t tell me what I should believe. Don’t stick your nose in my bedroom. Don’t blow up my cities. Don’t tell my kids (speaking for the future) that they have to pray before algebra class. Stay out of my business and I’ll stay out of yours.
And that includes my game.
Just stay out of it. If a game is being played during your ‘holy’ day then don’t go to the game. And don’t complain about it. What’s so hard about that? I don’t complain when you want to say a prayer before dinner. I just let you do it and go about my business. Because I respect your decisions, your choices, your thoughts.
Doesn’t mean I have to believe them or practice them.
New York Congressman Anthony Weiner, the one responsible for sparking this childish debate, said:
religion shouldn’t conflict with rooting for your home team.”
Likewise, Congressman, your religion should not conflict with how I or a baseball team or television network goes about business. Isn’t religion all about sacrifice? Then sacrifice the game. Forget the game. Go do your thing and keep everyone else out of it.
The Tigers didn’t give in to the Catholics in April. They made the right choice.
ESPN and MLB shouldn’t have caved in to the Jewish faith on this matter either; because now they’re forcing me to live my life how they want me to live it… and I ain’t down with that.
King Bud screwed up again.
It’s sorta his m.o.
Hate me ‘cuz I don’t like religion forced down my throat, just don’t hate me ‘cuz — as a baseball fan and as a US American — I’m right.
No matter how much we want to look forward we inevitably end up looking back. Perhaps that explains why the Attorney General is looking into possible charges against CIA officers who went too far with interrogations. Perhaps it’s how we end up with a liveblog of the German invasion of Poland. And perhaps that’s why even RSBS looked 100 years into the past over the last few days.
But sometimes it is helpful to look backwards for understanding the present. Here are a few examples.
Glenn Beck’s Cantankerousness:
One word: Illiteracy
Jeff’s Inability to Find a Woman:
Three words: Dungeons and Dragons
Kyle Farnsworth’s Current Home Somewhere in Missouri:
One word: Crybaby
Oh no. There he goes again. Indeed, dear readers, my errant and oft annoying colleague, Mr. Krause, is in desperate need of some verbal “fire” — the vitriolic, infernal, flesh-eating kind most notably invoked by the devil and his evil minions.
He did the unthinkable.
He threw down the gauntlet.
He insulted Albert Pujols’ mama.
Where does Mr. Krause find all this idle time to waste on shameless maternal attacks? As a Cardinal fan sitting on top of a 10 game lead in the NL Central, I can certainly see where I would have the time from now until October. But Mr. Krause would make better use of his by pondering the pain he will feel once his streaky Tigers get eliminated early on in the ALDS.
Meanwhile, I’m feelin’ pretty damn good… so good that I’d like to just go on a rampage and say:
- Miguel Cabrera’s mama is so ugly, she makes Willie McGee look like a GQ model!
- Carlos Zambrano’s mama is so lazy, she makes Big Z look like a hard worker!
- Ryan Braun’s mama’s teeth glow so yellow, she can almost lead the Brewers out of the darkness of the NL Central! (nah, nothing glows that yellow)
- Manny Ramirez’s mama is so dirty, her batting helmet has a biohazard label on it!
- And, of course, Mr. Krause, yo’ mama is so dumb, she’d probably fall for this lame Glenn Beck advance:
Hate me ‘cuz I come back fivefold, just don’t hate me ‘cuz I’m right.
The beautiful thing about the politics of today and yesterday is that one thing remains the same. No matter whether you’re wrong or right, all you have to do is make some sort of ad hominem attack and it will get you air time.
This has become increasingly true during the normally boring Washington summers when the news channels are just itching for something to break the tedium of the recess. And this year has provided plenty of sparks. Dick Cheney has made himself more accessible than he was during the eight years of Bush’s presidency, emerging on a regular basis to proclaim that Obama is making the country less safe. And everyone seems to be lining up to take a whack at the universal health care plan although it’s interesting to note how many of those people already have insurance.
But I also realized something. Baseball is seriously lacking these same types of attacks. I’m pretty sure I’ve mentioned it before but at this time of the year, when all the races are heating up, where’s the fire? Why aren’t the Giants and Rockies cracking on each others’ mothers? Why aren’t the Rangers poking fun at Pedroia’s size? And why aren’t the Tigers and Twins provoking Ozzie Guillen into even crazier rants?
C’mon people. This is baseball. America’s pastime. And you know what else America is home to? The yo’ mama joke. See the connection? Ok, let’s get on it. I’ll start. Albert Pujols’ mama is so dumb, she thinks a shortstop is when she runs into 7/11 for a hotdog and a Slurpee.
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
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.
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.
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…
Has the liquor done its wilting?
You speak poison with forked tongue!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
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?
Napoleon ‘Nap’ Lajoie.
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.
– – –
‘Alabaster’ Eastman Thune
Former editor of the “Follies and Whatnots” section of the Chicago Inter-Ocean.
“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
For more on the nature of Ninemen’s Morris, please click *HERE*
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
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!
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.
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?!
– – –
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*