Results tagged ‘ Albert Pujols ’
Much has changed since the Runnin’ Redbirds met Harvey’s Wallbangers, but make no mistake: this rivalry is taken VERY seriously. And there are some rules.
Somebody’s gonna get thrown at. The Brewers are gonna miss location up and in, the ball is gonna sail over someone’s head. The Cards are gonna get pissed and a Brewer’s gonna get drilled in the back. All part of the game. Bring yer tough suits.
That’s what makes this series special.
Hate me. It’s all good. Just don’t hate me ‘cuz I’m right.
And so in this Podcast brought to you by Lifestyles…
“KEITH, GET A BUCKET!”
After Jeff and Allen dragged Johanna’s almost lifeless body out of the Lollapalooza bullpen, the RSBS crew sat down to smack down on all-things baseball. Joined midway by special guest, Tim Baffoe of The Heckler and AM 670 The Score, everybody gets in on the roller coaster that is Chicago baseball, Tony LaRussa versus the World, Derek Jeter’s legacy and a hypothetical question involving the conflicting theologies of Ian Kinsler and Josh Hamilton.
This is some shizz ya ain’t gonna wanna miss!
And make sure to follow Tim Baffoe (aka the Ten Foot Midget) on Twitter. Dude’s got a lock on sports satire!
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Subscribe via iTunes by clicking *HERE*
*Special thanks to our PodMaster Keith Carmack. Make sure you follow him on Twitter and check out his sweet Undercast. And, also, if you haven’t already, check out the teaser to his film-in-progress and don’t be afraid to help a brotha out!
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Recorded Saturday, August 6, 2011
Back in April, if you would have told me that our Democratic president would support a federal resolution that would forgo taxing the über rich while opening the door to make major cuts to programs like Social Security, Medicare and Medicaid, I would’ve thought that I’d perhaps gotten a bit too tipsy during happy hour.
But I’m as sober as a Mennonite on Christmas.
Might not be too bad of a deal though really. I mean, back in April, reflecting on the season ending injury to Adam Wainwright, I also thought the Cardinals didn’t have much of a chance to get anywhere in the 2011 postseason — that they might not even get there at all. Add Pujols’ early struggles and several untimely injuries to Holliday, Skip, Punto and Berkman and I thought we really were just on borrowed time.
But John Mozeliak went out and made things happen this past week. He sent Colby (and his dad) packing to bring us Edwin Jackson, Scrabble, Octavio Dotel and Corey Patterson, plugging up some bullpen holes while bringing in a surging starter and a journeymen utility man, TLR’s favorite type of player. Then Mo went out and made shortstop better by bringing in a healthy Rafael Furcal.
The Cardinals went out and took care of business.
Now I know my malleable and oft gloomy colleague, Mr. Allen Krause, would like to think, as he put it, that the Cardinals had a “lack of trade deadline imagination”, but let me assure you: he is blind.
And when it comes to imagination, his beloved Tigers are full of it if they think a 3-12 Doug Fister is something to get excited about.
Hate me. Just don’t hate me ‘cuz I’m right.
Jeff, I heard about Pujols… man… are you okay?
Jeff, I heard about Michele Bachmann topping another 2012 poll, is everything cool?
Jeff, I heard one still can’t find Kraftbrau’s Doppelbock on tap anywhere in the Chi. Are you contemplating suicide?
Bein’ down isn’t something I’m unaccustomed to, my friends. And yeah, back in the old days, I would sit and stew, fume and pout, whine and complain about things I could not control. But where is there value in that?
I would rather fight through hardships than lay down and die because of them. The satisfaction of overcoming adversity is like that first sip of a cold adult beverage after work on Friday: earning it makes it taste better. And sometimes, when failure is still the result, knowing I gave my best effort keeps me sane.
But I swear, if I don’t find that Doppelbock on tap somewhere in this city soon, no wall in my apartment is safe.
Hate me all ya want, just don’t hate me ‘cuz I’m right.
The Cubs announced the first Wrigleyville Block Party will be held Friday to Sunday on the west side of the ballpark during the Yankees series. The event is free and features bands, food and drink booths and “interactive” entertainment for families.
Folks, let me be blunt. Unless clogged streets of drunken youths and bands of impatient motorists with horn-happy hands represent the ideal, outside of hosting an actual baseball game, there is very little family-friendly about Wrigleyville. Remember, this the same Wrigleyville where I was assaulted by a blabbering drunk because I was… *gasp*… wearing a pink shirt.
So, curious as to what sort of block party events the Cubs front office planned for the neighborhood, the RSBS interns were sent out on an important reconnaissance mission, and this is what they found:
Pin the Tail on Rats Big as Pigs
In this fun event, lucky participants are encouraged to hunt down Wrigley rats. What they catch, they can keep. Extra points are rewarded for doing it while talking in an exaggerated Ozzie Guillen accent (“rats as beeeg as peeegs”).
The Racist Frozen T-Shirt Game
Pay $10 and you can compete against your peers to see who can put the frozen “Horry Kow” t-shirt the fastest. If anti-Asian ain’t your style, try the “Pujols Mows My Lawn” tee! Fun for the whole family!
Annoying Fan Photo Op
Fork over $25 and you can choose to have your picture taken with world famous Cubs fans Rod Blagojevich, Denise Richards or… Ronnie Woo Woo! Then again, you can also take that $25 and burn it; it’s essentially the same thing.
The Drink Overpriced Horse P!ss Booth
At this funfest, you can drink $7 Old Styles until you a) get sick b) go broke or c) start rooting for the Cardinals!
And finally… the most exciting event of them all…
The Write a Bad Contract Raffle
Participants empty their bank accounts and hand everything over to Jim Hendry, who will then do what he does best: waste money on bad baseball players.
It’s a good thing the Yankees are in town, otherwise Wrigleyville would be a complete mess.
Hate me ‘cuz I kick ‘em when they’re down, just don’t hate me ‘cuz I’m right.
[Lennie] said gently, “George… I ain’t got mine. I musta lost it.” He looked down at the ground in despair.
My dear little Cubs… so cute… so adorable. I just want to pet you and stroke you and love you… and pretty pretty pretty rabbits… DONT MAKE ME RIP YOUR HEAD OFF!!!!!
Pet the rabbit. Pretty rabbit. Snap the rabbit’s neck and do odd things to the stable boy while you’re at it.
This isn’t love. This is obsession.
Why did he give out such terrible contracts? That’s a lot of money for crazy people.
This monstrosity is Hendry’s lasting legacy on a life wasted in futility. Thanks a lot, Jim.
What I would give for some stoicism on this team. There’s no leader from top to bottom of this rotting corpse of a franchise. There will be no Pujols. There will be no Prince.
AA meetings feel like a Las Vegas night club compared to the atmosphere of this dogged out team. I’m going to water seal my deck now and then auto-erotic asphyxiate without touching myself. Too much work. SEX WITH A LAWNMOWER.
After Carlos Zambrano’s latest outburst of craptitude, it’s obvious even the manager can’t do anything about this self imploding behemoth.
And Quade is Bruce Kimm with better hair. “Well I guess they’ll figure it out, and we’ll try and win games and stuff kinda?…” After Z’s comments, Quade said he’d let his teammates deal with it. WOW. He couldn’t control the team’s play at all or improve it, but now it’s obvious he has no control over the players either.
You know what? Just say we stink. Don’t call out your fellow players for throwing the “wrong” pitch. Pitch selection is being questioned? Unbelievable.
“Theriot can’t hit a fastball well.” Except if Marmol throws a better slider, Theriot is out.
“We stinks” [sic] was the only worthwhile and (entertaining) thing Z said.
People who like what Carlos did, hey, are you out of your damn fool minds?!? Its b.s. It might make the fans feel better, but it ain’t gonna do jack.
Z will waive his no trade clause, but it doesn’t matter.
The Cubs’ primed days are over. No farm system. Just beat me sadistically so my brain goes to sleep until the NBA season starts again in… January??? (gahhhhhhh!!!!!)
I would love to hear Z’s thoughts on other problematic issues like… Paul Revere: “What are you doing running around with that green lantern Paul?” The Japanese nuclear plant issues? “That’s not the concrete pump I would have used.” Health care reform bill? “Yea? Well your death panel sucks.”
The team is in a total free fall. The best thing Tom Ricketts can do is be one of us. But he has pissed it all away by scuttling the true point that the team sucks and injuries aren’t the only problem.
How about hiring a president that knows how to hire a real GM.
Good afternoon, real “Cubs” fan Colonel Ricketts. What’s you’re fricking plan?? It’s impossible to build without a farm. And no money. So… either borrow more money from Daddy Warbucks or do a little research and get a real living person who knows how to run a baseball team.
*I have a screen grab of Carlos Zambrano’s face I wanted to include here as one of the photos; unfortunately I was naked and some/most of me is also in the picture.
Sunday’s second Albert Pujols walk-off dinger against the Cubs in as many days should’ve ignited an in-your-face happy dance of epic proportions. In fact, in my house, it did.
But, when I raced to rub sweet victory in the faces of my Cubs fan friends, most of them could not be reached (they weren’t watching the game) and those who were, simply didn’t care.
It’s only been a few years since the Cubs fielded a decent squad, and as a Cards fan I remember very well the aches and pains of those 2007 and 2008 seasons; but for Cubs fans, I might as well be remembering 1969.
Dear readers, this is not your Yankees/Red Sox rivalry.
And while I love it that we rest high above the Cubbies in the standings, I don’t love that our rivalry has suffered because of it. Gone is the fire, dead is the ribbing. Cubs fans — those who remain — are either fiscally responsible realists staying home, far away from the hoopla, or they’re drunken DePaul freshman who use baseball games as an icebreaker to what will become a long evening of poor decisions.
I almost feel bad about making fun of the Cubs… in the same way that I sometimes feel bad for making fun of Sarah Palin.
It’s not nice to make fun of those who have disabilities.
Hate me, just don’t hate me ‘cuz I’m right.
THAT’S A WHOLE LOT!!!
So after Buster Posey’s devastating injury suffered during a home plate collision with Florida Marlin Scott Cousins Thursday night, I shouldn’t have been so surprised that Olney would come out with some stupidly fandangled approach to squash any potential collision-based injuries.
Ban home plate collisions? What are you talking about, Buster? It was a freak accident. Ban home plate collisions!?!
Why don’t we ban pitching inside too!?!
And we should ban breaking up the double play on a hard slide into second!?!
How about we ban walk-off celebrations and ban beer in the grandstands, JUST FOR FUN!?!
EFF THE WORLD! YOU’RE ON A ROLL, BUSTER!
No one likes to see people get hurt. No one. But guess what: it happens. People get hurt playing baseball all the time. Sometimes they get seriously hurt. It sucks. There’s no denying it.
But that still doesn’t make it okay to go off and make drastic rule changes to the game, just because you and your worldwide leader in smut want blog traffic.
Hate me ‘cuz it ain’t sugarcoated, just don’t hate me ‘cuz I’m right.
PS. Things might be different had you not “broken” that story on Ryan Howard for Pujols a while back. You lost all respect from me — and many other knowledgeable baseball folk, I imagine — after that.
On Sunday, April 10, 2011, I spent 3 hours and 51 minutes running 26.2 miles along the streets of St. Louis, Missouri; and I can honestly say, it changed my life.
We often hear “the marathon” used as a metaphor for myriad events. The baseball season… is a marathon. Every December I look forward to… “A Christmas Story” movie marathon. Life itself… is a marathon. But when we say all of the above, what we are really just saying is that some things take a long, long time to complete.
Let me assure you, the marathon is much more than that.
It’s setting a goal and working towards it.
It’s getting up at the crack of dawn while all your friends are sleeping in.
It’s battling fatigue, slaying freezing temps, conquering blazing sun.
It’s knowing your limits, pushing them, then pushing them again.
It’s glowing when people ask you why you’re so positive about life.
It’s metaphorizing your life, making up for past mistakes, proving you’re not a nobody.
It’s throwing the hammer down on negativity.
It’s getting a song stuck in your head that… just… won’t… stop.
It’s rewarding yourself with a big, fat, juicy burger every Sunday.
It’s asking yourself “I paid to do this????” only to realize, “Hell yeah I paid to do this!!!!”
It’s thanking strangers who hand you Gatorade and oranges and Vasoline (not always in that order).
It’s being aware of your surroundings, taking in the sights, the smells, the cowbells.
It’s being extraordinary…
It’s being inspired…
It’s being an inspiration.
But most of all, it’s feeling like death only to discover just how alive you really are.
Don’t hate me ‘cuz I’m right.
*PS, To the lovely, smiling woman who held up a sign shortly before Mile 3 that read “If you don’t finish, Albert Pujols will sign with the Cubs”… well, I want you to know that around the 22 mile marker, when I just about wanted to die, I thought about that sign and I finished that damn race for you. MUAH!
If you could spend the day with any non-Cardinal baseball player
currently playing in the majors, who would it be and what would you do?
Is it just me or am I constantly being set up by my friends and dear readers to expound on my favorite baseballers in a way that encourages embracing a certain, subtly disclosed homoerotic undertone?
Or, maybe I’m just reading too much into it.
Okay, Melissa, so you take away my number one and two options by canceling out the Cards; but let me assure you, the number three spot is also a no-brainer. For me, anyway. Of course, you may be shocked to hear it but for this hypothetical man-crush date (is it a man-crush date or did I make that part up too?) I’m going with the one, the only:
Stephen James Strasburg.
Here’s how our
date day will go…
9 a.m. Workout
I pick Stephen up and we head to the Nats’ training facility. I am Stephen’s shadow. I do very little talking and a whole lot of observing. I don’t wanna make this strange for the 22 year old phenom, so I just go with the flow. I know Stephen is out for the season, recovering from Tommy John surgery, but a man’s still gotta stay in shape and I wanna know how he does it. (Also, when no one is looking, I coat Nyjer Morgan’s supportive equipment with government grade Tiger Balm.)
12 p.m. Lunch
We eat a healthy, protein-packed lunch that will fire our fast twitch muscle fibers so we recover faster, to become stronger. I now start asking questions, overly aware of how annoying I can be when given free reign to discuss all-things baseball. Eventually, these questions lead to hitter preparation science, so off we go to…
2 p.m. Video Room
I want to get inside the head of Stephen Strasburg. So I present to him a reel of the Major League’s best hitters: Albert Pujols, Adrian Gonzalez, Joey Votto. I want to know how he is going to approach them. I want to see him point out their holes. Stephen, of course, is as calculated as he is modest, and he ain’t givin’ up too many secrets.
3 p.m. Practice Field [For this part, let us forget that Stephen can't pitch right now, shall we?]
Luckily, I brought along my catcher’s equipment from high school (it all still fits!), including my over sized mitt. I take my place behind the plate and ask Stephen to go easy on me. In high school I think the fastest fastball I ever caught was in the 70 mph range. After three Strasburg change-ups, I lose all feeling in my catching hand. But this is Stephen Friggin’ Strasburg, so I man up, take the pain and ask for more. Watching his yacker yack and his fastball bite, wow… just, wow.
5 p.m. My Crib
All my best friends (Mr. Krause, Johanna Mahmud, Yadier Molina) come over to my place. We got beer. We got wings. We got pizza. We also got a big screen HD TV showing the very first Strasmas ever: June 8, 2010 — the greatest single regular season game that didn’t mean anything, ever played, in the history of my universe. Ever. We watch in amazement as Stephen talks us through each at-bat, each pitch, each hair raising moment.
After three plus hours of pizza, wings, beer and Strasmas in my very own living room, I am finally able to sit back on my couch, relax, and wait to die.
It’s been a splendid day.
Life is good.
Don’t hate me.
‘Cuz I’m right.
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