Results tagged ‘ Adam Wainwright ’
The RSBS Podcast, Episode 14: Ryne Sandberg’s Phlight… and Other Stuff
And so in this Podcast…
…the fullest, rawest, most awe inspiring podcast yet, RSBS convenes as Jeff, Allen, Johanna and special guest Mark Piebenga from Second City all come together for one rip-roarin’ time! Among the topics of conversation (sponsored by Lifestyles and encouraged by Miller Lite) are strains to one’s right glute, burning one’s hand on the hot stove, hiding one’s pain with the NBA… and much, much more!
All to make you smiley face!
Holla!
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For more on Mark’s work on RSBS‘ Ninemen’s Morris series, check out this story then click on the Ninemen’s Morris tag at the bottom for more early 20th century hilarity!
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Subscribe to the RSBS Podcast by clicking *HERE*
Subscribe via iTunes by clicking *HERE*
*Special thanks to our PodMaster Keith Carmack. You can check out Keith’s wicked podcast and his subsequent film projects at Undercard Films. The dude has mad skillz, so you might wanna pay attention. Do it! Now!
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Recorded Wednesday, November 17, 2010
Um… Okay, So Did You Want a Cookie?
Tony LaRussa will be back at the Cardinals’ helm in 2011.
Great.
Seriously.
No, really.
I’m happy about that. I’m just as happy about that as I am happy that I still have all my teeth. And believe me, I like having all my teeth.
But I think I’m in the majority of Cardinals fans who really is over the glamour (if you can call it that) associated with Tony LaRussa. Is he a fantastic manager? Indeed. Is he one of the best ever in the history of the game? You bet. But… Mr. LaRussa, what on earth have you done for me lately?
Not that much. Unless, of course, you consider alienating our number one prospect doing something productive.
Look, y’all, it is not my intent to get all privileged and Yankeefied here, to whine about continued success and be an annoying voice of nag; because I know what it feels like to lose. I’m not seeing this for something it’s not. But let’s face it: a team that features both Albert Pujols and Matt Holliday in the lineup and Chris Carpenter and Adam Wainwright in the starting rotation, must be in the playoffs.
Must.
MUST.
2011 is an all-in year for the Cards. They better throw every dollar, every asset, every rosin bag in to winning the whole damn thing.
Anything less will be a complete failure — and probably the last of TLR’s tenure with St. Louis.
Believe that.
Go ahead. Hate me. I don’t care. Just don’t hate me ‘cuz I’m right.
Peace,
Jeff
The Filibuster
So, it looks like we’ll watch the playoffs from the sidelines this year
since both of our teams decided to nosedive in the second half. Which
teams’ failure is the most discouraging, though, the Tigers or the
Cards?
-Allen
Tigers fan
_______________________________
A clever move from my sinister and oft pejorative colleague, Mr. Allen Krause, inserting himself into the Filibuster box by stuffing it with this one question, over and over and over again. I guess some part of Mr. Krause is looking for sympathy in the wake of yet another disappointing season in Detroit; because anyone with any sort of baseball awareness knows that the greater discouragement between these two teams most assuredly belongs to the St. Louis Cardinals.
Hell, up to a few weeks ago we were all buzzing about how the Cards could just mail it in for the NL Central title. How could they not?!? A team anchored by two of the best pitchers in the game (Wainwright, Carpenter), flanked by serious ROY candidate Jaime Garcia, a solid Jake Westbrook… and I haven’t even gotten to the offense centered around Albert Pujols and Matt Holliday… a team like this… it screams playoffs.
So how is it that they are dead?
Lack of motivation. Sense of entitlement. Clubhouse squabbling. Streakiness. The absence of a clear, dominating, team leader.
Really, that’s what it comes down to.
Meanwhile, the 2010 edition of the Tigers never had a chance to begin with. Outside of Justin Verlander (who struggled early on), their pitching was a complete mess (Dontrelle Willis anyone?). They started two rookies in Austin Jackson and Scott Sizemore… and at the very last minute they signed a less-than-stellar Johnny Damon to… well, to do what, I don’t really know. His non-impact did the talking. Or not. Depending on how you look at it.
So, Mr. Krause, of course the Cardinals’ 2010 fail remains more epic (as the kids iz sayin’) than your disastrous Detroit Tigers, who are apt to see Jimmy Leyland walk away after the season, so that he can spend more quality time smoking… and… smoking.
But not all hope is lost for the RSBS universe. The Rays and Rangers look like fun teams to root for in the postseason, and let us not forget… Mr. Krause still has a horse in this race:
Hate me ‘cuz I got people who can extract sensitive information, just don’t hate me ‘cuz I’m right.
Peace,
Jeff
***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.
***Pics of Mr. Krause declaring his love for Albert Pujols & Co. also welcome. I have a hunch…
A Filibustering Re-Do
In case you haven’t noticed, dear readers, my extended metaphor-inclined and oft obstinate colleague, Mr. Allen Krause, is absolutely full of shizzle. Horsey dung. Donkey doo. Ya feel me?
Of course you do.
Because Karrie from Chicago asked us: “So who would win in a fight between you two?” and Mr. Krause’s silly reply was nothing more than a futile exercise of imagination consternation.
He said:
“…a fight between me and Jeff ends with two big hits: me hitting him and
him hitting the floor. Boom, ship it!”
Hilarious.
And wrong.
Certainly, I could stand my ground and explain to you that I am smarter, stronger and more charming than Mr. Krause, and that all those attributes would be more than enough to outduel him anywhere, anytime. However, I realize there is no way of proving that save kicking his real @s$. Mr. Krause — silly as he is at times — is still my friend, someone I would feel bad about murdering, so let us turn to some more concrete evidence:
Mr. Krause’s Strat-O-Matic card:
Column 1
2 – Cries
3 – Yells “Mommy!”
4 – Runs away while the theme song to “My Little Pony” plays
5 – Hits self in face, bleeds, spits, passes out
6 – Puts on a dress and calls himself Ellen
7 – Cries, runs away while the theme song to “My Little Pony” plays AND yells “Mommy!”
8 – Dies… but not really
9 – Begs for forgiveness
10 – Sh!ts himself
11 – Puts on lipstick, high heels and sings “Memory” in a pristine falsetto
12 – Takes off his dress, gets on his knees and pleads for mercy…THEN Cries, runs away while the theme song to “My Little Pony” plays AND
yells “Mommy!”
Of course, Column 2 and Column 3 of his Strat-O-Matic card are quite similar, so I will refrain from posting the redundancy that is his inability to equal me in a match of pure brawn.
Just like his 2006 Detroit Tigers, Mr. Krause can’t handle my Wainwright-esque curveballs.
Hate me, Al! Just don’t hate me ‘cuz I’m right!
Peace,
Jeff
RSBS Postseason Awards Show: Part II
With Major League Baseball and various publications handing out their end of the season awards, RSBS has
decided to follow suit. Sure, our prizes may not come with any
financial reward and they may not trigger any clauses in the affected
players’ contracts. But, it is our civic duty. So, without further ado,
we present Part II of our two part Postseason Awards Show. Jeff, take it away.
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Most Prolific Snub:
Adam Wainwright
Come now. No Cy Young Award for the anchoring, go-getting horse of the Cardinals pitching staff? Oh. Okay. Look, I get it. Lincecum is good. He’s really good. But in 2009, Wainwright was better. If you don’t agree with me, well, go get high, eat some Doritos and listen to Beck.
Most Alarming Faux Accusation:
That I had anything to do with the Erin Andrews peep-show tape
Ha ha ha, y’all. Very funny. As soon as news broke that some dude took nudey video of Ms. Andrews while she undressed in front of her hotel boudoir, my phone blew up with texts, tweets, calls and restraining orders. It wasn’t me. I swear. I wish it was… sorta.
Most Consistent Whiner:
Allen Krause
Oh, waa-waa-waa, the Tigers blew the season; waa-waa-waa the Lions are awful; waa-waa-waa I don’t like hockey and Bill Laimbeer slept with my girlfriend. Whatever, dude. Be like those who used to live in Detroit and just leave it… and its sports teams. And know that you’ll never live up to Bill Laimbeer. Don’t you remember that gimp mask?
Most Laughable Pre-Season Prediction:
That the Cubs would win the World Series
Up until early August of this year, I was still hearing the precocious murmurings of this being the year for the Cubs. Those individuals would say something in defense now but they can’t because their heads are stuck deep in the sand. Milton Bradley. Carlos Zambrano. Alfonso Soriano. One has the mentality of a child. One saves his best game for the Gatorade cooler. One can’t lay off sliders in the dirt. Get over it.
And finally…
Most Disgusting Broadcast Catch Phrase:
Chip Caray
“FISTED!!!”
We at RSBS are at least grateful that we don’t have to deal directly with Chip Caray and his fisting fetish. Well, let me say that I am grateful. I cannot speak for Al on this subject.
Hate me ‘cuz you can, just don’t hate me ‘cuz I’m right.
Peace,
Jeff
Dessert CAN Make You Happy
Dear readers, let us all agree that the game is the game. It’s balls and strikes, it’s first to third, it’s infield shifts and 3-0 green lights. From Baltimore to Fresno to Okinawa to Calgary, baseball is a game. Or rather, baseball is the game.
Yet we follow it for the people.
Without the story lines, Kirk Gibson’s homerun is just another homerun, Derek Jeter’s dive into the third row is just a catch, Adam Wainwright’s curve to get Inge swinging is simply, just a curve. Stories make these plays so momentous, so glorious, so gut wrenching.
We wouldn’t have it any other way.
So you can imagine my excitement at getting to meet Tom Walsh from the Rocky Mountain Way, a fellow baseball blogger with a commitment to the game, to its people, while his journey brought him to Chicago last Monday evening.
I took him to Beiguo, a gem of a Chinese restaurant in my Bridgeport neighborhood where they know me as that “baseball guy”, deep in the heart of the Southside. Hearing Tom’s stories about the fascinating people he has met and the powerful stories they have shared during his cross-country trek following the game reminded me exactly why baseball is the greatest game on earth.
It brings us together.
With baseball as my loyal ally, fellowship with like-minded fans, familiar or strange, is never difficult. Whether you live in Taiwan or Tacoma, we, as baseball people can always share in the power, the memories, the communitas that is the game.
Sure, if you wear your Cubbie blue and I wear my Cardinal red there’s a chance we might argue a bit, disgrace both of our mothers and end up in the hospital, drunk, but in the end, you’ll shake my hand and I’ll shake yours. Because we’re baseball people. And baseball people are the best kind of people.
Full of cumin spiced lamb, Yangzhou fried rice and a keener sense of Todd Helton, I wished Tom well on his journey and as he drove off west I looked down and realized my fortune cookie was unopened. Quickly, I snapped it in two, grabbed the small strip of paper, held it to the light and read:
Peace,
Jeff
(Image courtesy of Tom Walsh)
Bedlam! Yay!
Get ready world, the Second City is about to take second stage (duh, the Cardinals and Tigers are playing) as Ozzie Guillen and his White Sox make their annual vomit inducing trip to that sacred dump on the Northside, Wrigley Field. Emergency rooms from East Chicago to Oak Park, all the way up to Waukegan are expecting a full flow of the black and blued.
The only bad thing about this series is that it’s simply too short — and, for whatever lame reason (to curb unwanted drunken injuries perhaps?) the schedule puts chapter one of the 2009 Crosstown Classic on a Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday rather than stage the regular weekend raucous which often leads to… well, death. Insatiable bloodsuckers like myself will have to find another way…
Still, this will be a memorable occasion. Think Bob Probert with fangs versus Chris Chelios with brass knuckles, both of them drunk enough to do Phyllis Diller in a well lit room. To celebrate the awesome combination of equally bitter/mediocre clubs sharing this fine city, we would like to continue what has become an RSBS tradition, with the sacred presentation of the worst rap song ever made:
“Black and blue, daz wha you gonna be!”
“Oh, yeah? It’s the Crosstown Ri-val-ry!”
No ball game — no matter how poorly played or mismanaged or lackadaisical — could be more embarrassing than that.
Don’t hate me ‘cuz I’m right.
Peace,
Jeff
*Remember, starting tonight, the Cardinals try to put an end to the blasphemy spewed by my Tiger-lovin’ colleague, Mr. Krause, and his incessant yet feeble attempts at revisionist history. You had your Denny McLain, Mr. Krause. We had our Wainwright. Get over it.
**Special shout-out to Tom Walsh from Rocky Mountain Way for taking the time to meet with me on Monday. Good times. Post to come.
***Oh, and a special thank you to Sammy Sosa for making this Crosstown Classic buzz with juicy revelations!
One Down, 29 More Blown Saves to Go…
…and that’s only if the 2009 lackluster beer-league softball team of a Cardinals bullpen wants to equal last year’s pathetic mark.
And let me tell ya, folks, they’re well on their way.
For if Opening Day is any indication as to what we Cardinal fans can expect this season, we are in for a long, painful, vomit-inducing ride.
In fact, I’m still cleaning up the mess I made yesterday.
Thank you, Jason Motte.
But more thanks to you, John Mozeliak, our miserly GM who spent the entire off-season ignoring the Cardinals’ biggest problem: the gaudy, bloody mess of a metastasizing bullpen.
Sure, having a healthy, strong, productive Adam Wainwright and Chris Carpenter in the rotation is great and all. And yes, we will take a lot of leads into the sixth inning; but unless we find a way to get Albert Pujols on the bump for the 7th, 8th and 9th, we are in line to fall apart every single night like Amy Winehouse at an open bar mixer.
In both cases, the result will be the same: lots and lots of puking.
And though I am impressed with Jason Motte’s blazing fastball, it’s not really all that impressive when that’s all he throws (that slider that doesn’t slide doesn’t count). I’m sure Jack Wilson was thinking the same thing when he sat back and ripped that game-winner.
Dear readers, if running a baseball organization was a democracy, the revolution would have long been over by now; and the ominous, towering, domineering statue of John Mozeliak would be lying in ruins.
Don’t hate me ‘cuz I’m right.
Peace,
Jeffy
The Unforgotten
When Chicagoans have lost interest in a political scandal, then it’s safe to say, so has the rest of the country.
Anything wrong with that? Not in my opinion. In a world full of greed, hate, debauchery and Cubs baseball, I find solace knowing that even the tireless spin-doctoring and smoke-screening of Rod Blagojevich eventually falls on the deaf ears of a nation distracted with the task of rebuilding itself.
Blago’s days as governor are as numbered as Joe Morgan is annoying; and soon, he will just be another political coelacanth — a footnote in the oppression and wasted tax-dollars of a people.
Good riddance.
In my fervent bidding adieu, I refuse to let Blago’s self-indulgent, gloomy demise get me down. The older I get, the more I realize how little my brain can actually remember if not trained otherwise; thus, I find it best to replace negativity with post-partisan positivity. So it is, on this four degree Sunday afternoon, with a broken heart and three cups of coffee too many, that I find grace in the baseball-politico memories dearest to me.
Of course, there are always the Joe Carters, the Kirk Gibsons, the Ozzie Smiths… the inauguration of a new hope for my country… those are all givens. Today I focus on the obscure, the seemingly minute, the more poignant personal moments that help me to forget about what an awful place this earth can be sometimes. And so I begin…
Ozzie Guillen Goes to Bobby Jenks
A move he’s made several times, but never as interesting as it was during the 2005 post-season when Ozzie motioned for Jenks by extending his arms out sideways as if to say: “Bring in the fat fella.”
Talking to Carlos Lee Outside Wrigley Field
Having gone hitless against Ted Lilly that night, I was stunned to see a smiling Carlos Lee on the corner of Sheffield and Addison waiting to get on the Astros player’s bus. I approached him — all gargantuan 230 plus pounds of him — and flippantly asked: “Caballo, what happened?”
“Ball move too much, man.”
I’m still laughing at that one.
“Yes We Can” Viral Video
Sure, I admit I’m a sucker for inspirational acts of creativity… this one still gets me.
Brian Anderson’s Catch
Picture it, October 1, 2008… a one game playoff between the White Sox and Twins to crown the AL Central winner, and a Jim Thome homerun is all that separates the two when we reach the top of the ninth and two outs. A sharp flare streamlines to right center field, in comes Brian Anderson… instant party on the Southside.
Bill Clinton on Carroll Quigley, DNC 1992
As a young, impressionable, questioning 12 year-old, this quote pushed me in to politics… to stay.
Adam Wainwright’s Curveball
Whether it was striking out Carlos Beltran looking or Brandon Inge swinging, I’ve never seen a more devastating hook — ever.
Barack Obama’s 2004 DNC Keynote Address
I thought a change was a comin’… didn’t know it was going to take so long, but it got me revved up nonetheless.
Yadier Molina Hitting .304 in 2008
After the rocket homerun he hit off Aaron Heilman to beat the Mets in the 2006 NLCS, Molina became my indisputable hero. To see him blossom into a true hitter in conjunction with his unrivaled defensive skills just makes me want to hug the guy any chance I get. Yadi, you out there, pal? Let’s hook that up.
Grandma Lois Talking Baseball
May she rest in peace, my beloved grandmother was talking Cardinals baseball like no other 84 year-old I knew. Before the 2004 season, she told me: “It’d be nice to see Edmonds and Rolen have really good years.” She died on April 20, 2004; Jimmy and Scott both put up career numbers and vied for the MVP. I know she’s still smiling about that one.
Post 9/11 Baseball in New York
I’d be hard pressed to find a more inspiring, more electric, more communal surge of patriotic energy and overall bipartisan goodwill towards all through the greatest game on earth than what took place in New York City that fall.
I still get goosebumps just thinking of it.
Don’t hate me ‘cuz I’m right.
Peace,
Jeffy
A Child Is Born: The Cubs/Cards Debate
Whoo wee! The Democratic National Convention is in full stride! How about that Michelle Obama speech!?! Smart lady; but she didn’t say anything I (a card carrying Dem) hadn’t already heard, so I’m going to skip the commentary all together (just for today) and get right to what’s going on:
I’m an uncle!
Again, yes, my sisters are having kids like crazy. But let me tell you, dear readers, this child’s birth has much more at stake than usual. Depending on how you look at it, the impact of my young nephew’s entry into the world is paramount. You see, Caleb Ryan (that’s his name) is the son of my sister (a devout Cardinal fan) and my brother-in-law (a die hard Cub fan). Indeed, Caleb Ryan’s fandom future is of the utmost concern.
If he is to be a Cubs fan, he will offend his mother (not to mention me and the rest of our big, bad, Cardinal family).
If he is to be a Cardinals fan, he will offend his father (who could easily take me in a fight, not to mention the rest of his Cubby crew family who could also probably take me in a fight — each of them, one by one, until the end of time).
Caleb’s choice will not be easy. An entire genetic line awaits his decision. And so I cringe at what I feel is already the inevitable.
For his father is a Cubs fan and the father has the most influence in this decision, right?
My sister, though devoted in her Cardinal Nation following, still probably couldn’t name anyone on the team except Albert Pujols (because he’s Pujols) and Adam Wainwright (because according to her, he’s “super cute”).
On the other hand, my brother-in-law is a force of baseball trivia — a man who knows the game (and his team) inside and out — one who probably would never allow the birds-on-the-bat to be displayed across his young son’s chest.
After much consideration, I have come to the conclusion that I am, at last, okay with that. Because if my sister and her husband have proven anything during their four year marriage, it is that their relationship is the ultimate paragon of compromise: they give and take, stretch and lean, move in tandem up-and-down and side-to-side, always staying in tune with one another through thick and thin (and any other cheesy cliche you can think of). To put it in perspective, folks, their license plate reads: CUBNLS.
For this, they have my highest respect. So too does their child: Caleb Ryan.
As you can see, this kid is so cute that even if he decides he’d rather root for the Northsiders regardless of how sick it might make me, he will always have my heart.
And that, dear readers, until the end of time will always be worth more than any game, any city, any rivalry — ever.
I know it’s asking a lot of my new nephew, but I sure hope he doesn’t hate me… at least not ‘cuz I’m right.
Peace,
Jeffy
Red State Blue State
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