Results tagged ‘ Dodgers ’
Gordon Beckham’s triumphant entrance into Major League Baseball did not come without supreme sacrifice. To make room for the rookie phenom, Chicago White Sox suits were forced to say goodbye to one of their greatest unknown infielder journeymen: Wilson “I Signed with the Braves When I Was 14 Years Old” Betemit.
Like the hopes and dreams of Cub fans during a National League Division Series, so too was Wilson hastily gone from this fair Second City of ourn. And, unfortunate was I, having not had a chance to offer my official farewells to old number 15.
So here I lie my scornful lament, for a better place than this there is not to vent…
No one ever wore Chris Sabo glasses so restless and so sleazy,
Your name is mispronounced, your voice all but groused, and your slide into second makes me queasy.
Traded with Marquez and Nunez for Swisher and K. Teixera,
Your batting average with the White Sox was as dry as the Sahara,
You came from the Dominican, with the attitude of Gilligan, and stats from the dead-ball era.
From the Braves to the Dodgers to the Yanks to the Sox,
To the streets of designated assignment buried deep beneath the rocks,
Remember we cared, remember all that we shared, but in the end you were let go ‘cuz you su<k.
Don’t hate me ‘cuz I’m right.
It’s not often that the fates see fit to dish up a tidbit that hits on everything that makes the RSBS heart tick. So when one of my brothers sent me a link to this story today there was no other option but to bring it to you all. The nomination of a Justice of the Supreme Court is always a momentous occasion but when the judge may have also single-handedly saved baseball, well, that’s more than momentous. Monumental, perhaps?
I think the phrase that really gets me, though, is this one: “she deliberated for just 15 minutes before making a decision that, in the President’s words, ‘saved baseball.'” 15 minutes and she saved baseball? How could you not confirm this person?
Now, I understand that it’s important to step back and review her entire body of work. We don’t need a stealth Clarence Thomas or Alito clone on the bench. And the fact that she’s a Yankee fan is particularly worrisome. But knowing that she might have saved baseball? That’s clutch. That’s Kirk Gibson in the ’88 World Series, that’s what that is.
Now, if Obama can pull this one off and then somehow manage to get the NCAA to replace the BCS with a playoff, I think we might have to start channelling Stephen Colbert and asking, “Obama: great president or the greatest?”
-Photo from NY Times
Long live the US American dream!
First there was “Cuck the Fardinals”.
Then there was “Cardinals take it in their Pujols”(which wittily showed a disenfranchised redbird being sodomized by a Louisville slugger).
And then there was the Cub faithful support of the racist “Horry Cow” featuring an Asian rendition of the late great Harry Caray… all part of the warm 2008 Chicago welcome to Japanese import Kosuke Fukudome.
But like all things, dear readers, even racism gets old. So while the new fad in Wrigleyville attire may be a t-shirt that reads “Pujols Mows My Lawn”, I think it’s time we all grow up and act like adults. First Asians, now Latinos… what’s next? A crack at how Ryan Franklin looks like a neo-Nazi? (He does)
Of course, this sharp razor of racism is double sided. Vendors outside of Busch sell similar duds; in fact, they started the lawn care business with “Zambrano Mows My Lawn”, to which I couldn’t help but ask: how in the world does he have time for that?!?
Yet in all seriousness, this passé barrage of back-and-forth t-shirt warfare is all a bit lame in my opinion. Can’t we just do drive-bys like they do in L.A. and S.F.? Or why not just beat the crap out of each other like Red Sox and Yankees fans?
I boldly volunteer to throw the first punch… but, if I win the fight… you have to mow my lawn.
Don’t hate me ‘cuz I’m right.
Celebrity fans are an important part of sporting life. The Knicks have Spike Lee, Jack Nicholson is a courtside fixture for the Lakers and the Los Angeles Dodgers of Los Angeles are lucky enough to have Alyssa Milano. Who shows up at your games and who roots for you tells you something about a team’s psyche. So, what am I to take from the fact that MC Hammer was not only present at last night’s Tigers game but was also supposed to throw out the first pitch?
In case you need a refresher, MC Hammer was the chocolate cookie to Vanilla Ice’s white cream in the Oreo that was the early 90’s radio-friendly rap scene. However, while Vanilla decided to try and remake his image and attempt a more hard-core sound, Hammer got busy throwing his money away on amenities like a dishwasher in his bedroom and soon found himself bankrupt and careerless.
Why does this story sound familiar? Oh, right. Because it kind of sounds like the ’08 and ’09 Tigers. $12 million on a broken down Dontrelle Willis? Why not. Similar money for Edgar Renteria? Sure thing.
Unfortunately, I guess it’s fitting that Hammer was supposed to be on hand to witness this team in all it’s glory. It’s probably even more fitting that he didn’t get to throw the first pitch because of a rain delay. But maybe we’ll get lucky. Maybe the Tigers’ pitching staff will look past the bankruptcy and personal failing and reach for something deeper, an anthem to prop up their recently inflated ERA. Three words: Can’t touch this.
Last year I made the mistake of placing my faith in the savior apparent of the Detroit Tigers, a man I lovingly referred to as my big, black baby Jesus. He rewarded my faith by issuing more free passes than a scalper outside a Washington Nationals game. But after some time in the minors and a stint on the DL for an “anxiety disorder,” Dontrelle Willis finally made it back to the big leagues last night. And didn’t do a whole lot to allay our fears.
It’s rare that we see our heroes crumble into dust and then reemerge as a better version of themselves. Al Gore and Andre Agassi are good examples of how that works out at it’s best but, unfortunately, the Dontrelle Willis route is much more common. Something happens, something disappears and suddenly the person is a shell of their former self. It’s like the final episode of Seinfeld. We recognize it as being Seinfeld but its essential Seinfeldness wasn’t there.
That’s why I especially appreciate it, though, when heroes of my childhood reemerge in a better if not stronger form. Sergei Fedorov leads the Red Wings for years and then plays his heart out for the Washington Capitals. Kirk Gibson lays it on the line for the ’84 Tigers and then comes back and provides the spark for the ’88 Dodgers as well. But if I have to choose only one hero who has come back better, stronger and faster, well, I think this video will explain:
Willie Tanner: a poor man’s Eraserhead.
Having barely recovered from my colleague’s audacious yet titillating post from yesterday, which featured the buxom awesomeness of one Erin Andrews, I am sure you can imagine how exhausted I was this afternoon. I was so worn out that I almost didn’t even have the energy to be shocked at the following news stories:
- United Kingdom Bans Michael Savage for Being a Ranting A-Hole
- University of Illinois at Chicago Bans Students from Shaking Hands (thanks a lot, swine flu, how are the kids gonna hook up now?)
- MLB Bans Manny Ramirez for Testing Positive for PEDs
Okay, I admit, that last one isn’t really all that shocking considering the myriad priors of Manny Ramirez buffoonery. Still, to be banned for 50 games? Now that is saying something! Kudos to Major League Baseball for throwing the hammer at a big-time rule-breaker not named J.C. Romero!
While the entire social networking world is going wild over this steroid ban by Tweeting and Facebooking and MySpacing and Moshpitting opinions at lightning speed, let us not lose sight of the fact that there is an awful lot of banning going on in the free world — some warranted (Manny), some not (UIC students).
And like most things trendy, tired and trite, RSBS strives to get in on the action. So here is a short list of things that must be banned in the very near future:
BANNED: Paula Abdul’s Sobriety!!!
Wonder why American Idol ratings are down? You think Adam Lambert and Simon Cowell can carry the show? Ha! Think again, squarepants. Give me a whacked out loopy Paula and I’ll show you some damn ratings!
BANNED: Kyle Farnsworth’s Glasses!!!
They are not helping! A 7.56 ERA? Opponent BA of .314? Somebody get this guy some steroids! Stat!
BANNED: Paying Attention to Rod Blagojevich!!!
Seriously, does anyone really care anymore?
Now that Virgin is revolutionizing space travel, just think of how many asterisks we will need once baseball is being played there! Stop it now while we can!
BANNED: The Yankees’ Ability to Beat the Red Sox!!!
Oh, wait, we already did that.
Don’t hate me ‘cuz I’m right.
This weekend we saw a series pitting the team with the best record in
the league against the team with the worst record. At what point in the
season do you think we’ll see this again and which teams will take part
the next time around?
As long as the Washington Nationals continue to be a baseball franchise (sorta), you can be quite sure that this scenario will pop up once again. Will they be playing the MLB best Cardinals next time? The Dodgers? The Blue Jays in June during interleague play?
The truth is: I have absolutely no clue.
Because so far nothing this season has been on my radar: that the Cardinals’ piecemeal bullpen could hold itself together through April… that the Blue Jays would find a way to win in the AL East… that no one wants Pedro Martinez…
But in the end, one thing will always remain certain: The Washington Nationals are a national joke.
After some hardcore number-crunching analysis, one might conclude that their suckage is rooted in their inherent identity crisis:
- Are we the Expos?
- Are we the Senators who are now the Twins?
- Are we the Nationals who were the Expos?
- Are we the other Senators who are now the Rangers?
Or perhaps it stems from their dizzying closet of uniform combinations:
Dear readers, I could go in a million different directions with that snafu of a baseball bodega — none of them good — but I will save you (and myself) from the certain discomfort and unpleasant visualization it would cause.
Whatever the reason for the Nationals’ lack of success, I must admit how sad it was for me — as a baseball fan — to see such a beautiful ballpark only a quarter full for a Friday night game. It was disappointing too that there were more Cardinal fans in attendance than Nats fans and that the loudest cheers I heard all weekend were in response to the Capitals vs. Penguins playoff hockey game — the favorable D.C. score of which was posted on the jumbotron in between innings, thus rousing Washingtonians into a fervent coup d’etat aimed towards building a bigger hockey arena while at the same time finding a more thirsty suitor for the oh-so-lowly Nats, all of their prior nicknames, logos and dysfunctional sausages.
So far, no takers.
Don’t hate me ‘cuz I’m right.
(Senators Sausages image courtesy of Wonkette)
(Uniform image courtesy of Wikipedia)
Welcome to the club, Arlen!
Folks, this is a big deal.
a Cardinal fan rooting for the Cubs, a Red Sox fan pledging allegiance
to the Evil Empire, a Dodgers fan embracing Barry Bonds while chanting
As crazy and fantastical as those scenarios seem,
longtime Republican (albeit a moderate one as he opposed Clinton’s
impeachment and didn’t get along with Dubya so well) has done just that
by crossing back over the visible division line to find his rightful spot among US Americans who pine to progress, lean to logic, veer to victory.
No more filibustering power for the GOP?
You betchya! Guess from now on those smattering political diatribes of malcontent will be reserved for Fox News and the Vatican.
while this obvious jockeying crossover amuses me like Gary Sheffield’s
defensive capabilities, in all honesty, I hope it does not become a
trend. I mean, besides needing a multi-party system with checks and
balances, I am afraid that without Republicans, I would not have any
material to rouse fuming arguments on this site, family reunions or bathroom walls.
Let’s face it: we Cardinal fans could not survive without the
incessant, whiny yappings of hopeless Cub fans every year. As much as
we hate to admit it, ours is a symbiotic relationship built on mutual
antipathy, fundamental dislike and drunken slander — all for the love
of the game.
Dear readers, before making such a monumental switch, remember to chickity-check yo self before you wreck yo self ‘cuz wavering loyalties are, ultimately, bad for yo health.
Don’t hate me ‘cuz I’m right.
(Specter image courtesy of the US Government)
(Cardinals/Cubs image courtesy of Deadspin)
They say lightning never strikes the same place twice; but when it comes to the self-loving oft incoherent Twitter musings of one Coco Crisp, it strikes just about every hour. Don’t believe me? See for yourself:
i dont know how i
did it but i slept from 1am til 2pm and the last thing i remember b4 i
woke was winning a horse race and i was the jokey
any of yaw’ll out there know bout dreams… let me know what that means.
Well, Coco, I am certainly no psychiatrist. Nor do I claim to have actual dream interpretation abilities. But my contemporaries do consider me to be the lone Freudian voice in a world of mother-loving MLBloggers, so let me try to help as best I can.
You seem to be perplexed by your mastery of slumber, Coco. I concur, sleeping for 13 hours straight is serious business. I completely understand your bafflement. I slept for 13 hours once during my college days and while from that experience my first inclination is to warn you about dangers of binge drinking, I think that, in your case, you’re just lazy. So set an alarm next time. You’ll be good to go. I promise.
Now, if the last thing you remember “b4” you “woke” was winning a horse race, well, gee, Coco… that’s great! Congratulations! Honestly, I believe this was your own mind’s ominous foretelling of the brilliant pitching performance later delivered by your perennially underachieving teammate Brian Bannister. You see, you have powers, Coco. Use them. Don’t abuse them. If you feel like you’re going to get a good pitch to hit, you probably are, so make sure you swing away. Follow your telepathic signs.
Of course, this brings us to the most troubling portion of your experience, Coco. Sure, you won the race, but in the end, you were the “jokey”. Man, let me tell ya: I’ve been down that road too and we both know it ain’t no fun. No way. To basque in the glory of triumph, to feel the ecstasy of victory, only to realize that you are indeed the “jokey” — the one everyone is laughing at — whew. Man, let’s just be honest, Coco, that su<ks. And I can’t help you.
But maybe some of “yaw’ll” (a puzzling, elongated abbreviation created by Coco himself, used to represent the shortened “ya’ll” as in “you all” but taking the time to type out one extra letter) can.
Like Coco’s pal, Barry Zito perhaps, who after somehow ditching his dead-arm persona actually managed to throw seven innings of scoreless baseball yesterday! Following his surprising performance, Zito had this to tweet:
F__k yeah baby! Let’s take this show on the road.
Sitting in my hotel in AZ, just ate best cab cakes ever at Cheesecake… You all are great, thanks for the nice comments…
Really wanna kill these D backs this weekend and go into Dodger series with momentum..
3 hrs sleep…
should have partied. Traces of adrenaline still in body, gonna go for a
walk before the mercury hits triples digits in AZ
F__k yeah, Barry! I, too, am quite fond of “cab cakes”… they’re much tastier than urinal cakes and besides, they tend to be both sweet and savory! And of course, there’s nothing quite like killing D’backs to get momentum going into Dodger stadium. I mean, think of how scared the Dodgers will be knowing you just killed an entire baseball team! I was wrong about you, Barry. You aren’t a softy; you’re a hard^ss.
But Barry, just be careful. Those aren’t traces of adrenaline in your body; those are traces of Hilary Duff and Alyssa Milano.
The itch. Tough to cure. You know this.
Don’t hate me ‘cuz I’m right.
I have been punched in the back of the head. I have been called a f^g. I have been kicked in the legs while relieving myself in the men’s room in between innings.
I have been told my mother will rot in hell. I have had beer thrown on me. I have been spit on.
So it is certainly no surprise to me that a bunch of Wrigleyville yahoos placed a severed goat head atop the infamously scary Harry Caray statue on the corner of Sheffield and Addison yesterday.
The curse of the billy goat — still haunting the not-so-friendly-if-you-wear-Cardinal-red confines — lives on, dear readers; and apparently, people still take it seriously. Very seriously.
They take it so seriously that they are willing to act like bigger a-holes than they are already perceived to be.
But such is life as a “lovable loser”, I suppose.
Impressed was I last year, before the National League Division Series, when the Cubs went for a more subtle approach to ending their poor luck: praying to God. After the Greek Orthodox Reverend Father spread holy water throughout the clubhouse, Ryan Dempster responded by quickly walking seven batters; and the Cubs went on to lose three straight lackluster games to the Los Angeles (perhaps Holy) Dodgers.
Guess God don’t like no posers, ya’ll.
I was just thinking, Cub fans: perhaps ye should combine thy wasted efforts into one successful go-for-all. Call on Bishop Tom Burns and his iconic regimental mascot (a goat no less) to bless thy dump of a field in that oh-so-vigilante neighborhood and ask him to pray for your forgiveness — for all thy slander-slinging, grudge-grovelling and curse-coveting.
Couldn’t hurt, right?
Well… nah… I just realized, when your fan base is more known for this…
…than winning baseball games, you really don’t have a prayer, do you?
Don’t hate me ‘cuz I’m right.