Results tagged ‘ GMs ’
It has been well over a month since I first saw this doctored picture of Derek Jeter in a Red Sox uni, created and posted by Homer at We’re Talkin’ Homer, Blue Jays and MLB; but the damaging affects continue to haunt me today.
And I don’t even like the Yankees.
I know Brian Cashman is staying true to his hardline of not negotiating contracts during the season, but as long as Jeter isn’t guaranteed to be a Pinstriper next year, I am going to have to go to sleep each night knowing that the possibility he will be something else in 2011 still exists…
…and for a baseball purist like myself (bring back the wool uniforms, please) that is just unacceptable.
He’s Derek Friggin’ Jeter, Mr. Cashman. Not Posada. Not Mo. Jeter. The dude walks on water… and uses TWO HANDS!
So go ahead and hate me ‘cuz I appear to empathize with Yankees fans (in this situation and this situation only); just don’t hate me ‘cuz I’m right.
Because I am.
On this team, there is no Al Kaline. There is no Kirk Gibson. No Jack Morris, no Trammell, no Whitaker.
Heck, this ain’t even the ultimately disappointing club that was supposed to win the 2006 World Series. No, sir. That squad is now but a bitter memory… and after a series of motor city slips and gaffes including but not limited to Jurrens for Renteria, the brutal rape of their farm system by the merciless Florida Marlins, and a handful of awful contracts best represented by Nate Robertson and Dontrelle Willis, the 2010 Detroit Tigers seem to be more of the weak, purring variety than anything else.
And now that fan favorite Curtis Granderson has been kicked out of the cage, finding fault with this Dave Dombrowski mess is a lot easier than it used to be.
You have Jim Leyland? Yes, and you also have Jim Leyland cut off from nicotine.
You have athlete extraordinaire, Brandon Inge? Yes, and you also have his strikeouts.
You have Johnny Damon? Yes, but you overpaid… and did he come with his wheelchair?
I dunno. It’s not like I hate the Tigers or anything. I mean, I have nothing personal against Detroit save hearing about them ad nauseum via my cantankerous and oft negligent colleague Mr. Allen Krause; but that doesn’t affect my judgment. I simply report the facts, interpreted in my own special way.
And that special way offers this declaration: the Tigers are in for a world of hurt in 2010.
But shhhh. Don’t tell Al. Or Johnny Damon. Or Detroiters, all three or four of them.
And whatever you do, please don’t hate me ‘cuz I’m right.
PS. If you think I offer something like this just to p!ss off RSBS‘ other half, then you are absolutely correct… and almost as diabolically undercutting as I.
If I were stranded on a remote island ten years ago and I just now got back to see Rick Ankiel is playing center field for the Kansas City Royals, I would be thoroughly confused. We all know what a tremendous story Rick Ankiel’s career has been up to this point. So let me be clear: as a Cardinals fan, I fully support Ricky and thank him for all he did in a Cards uniform. I wish him the best of luck.
Yet I cannot help but believe all those concussions did a smidgen more than some serious damage to his psyche.
In his welcoming press conference with the Royals last week, Ankiel mentioned that part of why he wanted to come to Kansas City was because he ‘liked the direction’ the team was going.
And we all know it.
The truth is: Rick Ankiel is happy to be with the Royals because he has a job now when it looked like he might not. I can’t blame the guy. I would do the exact same thing… which may or may not include my liking ‘the direction’ of the team.
Because, let’s face it: this team ain’t goin’ anywhere.
Scott Podsednik. Jason Kendall. Billy Butler. Kyle Farnsworth.
These names do not a champion make.
I think the best summary of the Kansas Royals’ direction, under the keen eye of GM Dayton Moore, is represented by a technical glitch which provided wonderment during the press conference.
Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you the Kansas City Royals: Team of Infinite Regress:
– – –
Tune in Monday and Tuesday of this week. Ninemen’s Morris is baaaaaaaaaaaaack…
Stop. Breathe. Focus.
Now, let’s look at this Matt Holliday signing for what it actually is: John Mozeliak & Co. finally growing a pair and making the St. Louis Cardinals perennial contenders for years to come.
And if you think they made this offer to Holliday without considering the task of signing Albert Pujols after 2011, then you need to be committed… or move to Wrigleyville.
Either way, Holliday is a Cardinal. And Pujols is a Cardinal.
So no more talk about a potential move by one of the big money teams to snatch up Albert and take him away from us in his upcoming free agency. It ain’t gonna happen. He ain’t nobody’s girlfriend but ours.
And I mean “girlfriend” with the utmost respect.
‘Cuz sometimes really bad things happen to girlfriends:
(Image courtesy of Skull Swap)
I had the good fortune of spending this past weekend in South Jersey with some of the hardest of hard core Phillies fans one will ever meet; and I have a barrage of UDIs* to prove it. My host, Bill, CEO of MyTeamRivals.com and co-author of the Phightin’ Phils Phorum has one of the coolest baseball man-caves I have ever seen, touting a full bar alongside every Phillie autograph you could imagine plus stunning memorabilia including a Mickey Mantle signed bat hanging proudly on the wall.
Like Chico Escuela, “Beisol been a bery, bery good to me.”
Without the interwebs and blogging baseball for the last two years, I would have never met Bill. In fact, through writing about my obsession, I have become good friends with so many cool, interesting, like-minded baseball fans that sometimes I just have to pinch myself at how neat it all is — that I could become good friends with people I have never met who live all over the world, from Tokyo to London to New York to L.A. to Denver to Houston to Boston to Philadelphia and everywhere in between.
And on Saturday night, while the Phillie faction was deep into a heated discussion about Ruben Amaro’s sanity, I was drawn to the poor Mr. Met effigy hanging upside down at the end of the bar, and more importantly to the fella sitting in front of it. His name was (still is) Mike. Mike, the lone Mets fan. We got to talking about baseball (what else?) and before long it was revealed that Mike was at Game 6 of the 1986 World Series — perhaps the greatest World Series game ever played.
I explained to Mike how that game (and that World Series) was the key component to my baseball fanaticism going from casual to die-hard at the speed of a first base-side groundball through the wickets. And the St. Louis Cardinals weren’t even involved.
Of course, I was only 7 years old, but I remember the hype, the hoopla, the buzz about the Red Sox finally one game away from a title and the unruly and wildly charming bad boyz from Queens standing in their way. I sat alongside my father and my grandmother, watching every pitch. And as the game approached the bottom of the 9th, I clearly remember thinking that this was finally going to be the Red Sox’ moment, that they would finally reach the top after years of disappointment.
In those days, if the Cardinals weren’t in the World Series, I took my dad’s side in rooting for the National League team, no matter who it was, for according to him, the National League’s was the better game — the way it was supposed to be played.
And I remember, as the Mets’ magic unfolded and Ray Knight crossed home plate to the tune of Vin Scully’s “And the Mets wiiiiiiin it!”, that I, too, went nuts with excitement. I jumped up and down and ran around the house with the type of joy that is best defined by youth — a little boy’s bliss brought on by the simple idea that you can do anything if you work hard and never give up.
At that exact moment I decided that that was what baseball was all about — and that life was a game of baseball: full of drama, full of hope, full of solace, full of emotion.
Mike was there.
He knew what I was talkin’ about.
Anyone who has ever called him or herself a baseball fan knows exactly what we’re talkin’ about.
And that, to me, is power.
So, y’know, don’t hate me. ‘Cuz I’m right.
*UDI = Unidentified Drunken Injury
Major League suits are set to invade US America‘s baseball-less Indianapolis this week… and they all have one singular goal: move that paper.
For those of you dear readers who respond better to visual metaphors, here’s one for ya: John Mozeliak (Ernie), Kermit (Peter Gammons), Cashman and Epstein (the Yip-Yips), and many more are all gittin’ down to ante up:
*Strong language may not be suitable for children unless your kids are related to Busta Rhymes in which case this type of language is as common around the house as naked women and blunts for breakfast*
Don’t hate me ‘cuz I’m right.
Nevermind all that pre-NLCS/ALCS buzz dancing around the internets and such as, the Iraq! Soon we will all have more than our wanted fill of Joe Buck self-righteous proclamations and ear-numbing Chip Carary-isms. For now, let us focus on the larger, more looming and lurid task of finding the Cleveland Indians a new manager. Shall we?
Yep. John Farrell is no longer in the mix. They can’t afford Bobby Valentine. And unfortunately, dear readers, Lou Brown has gone back to selling tires… forever.
That’s why I, along with the fastidious help of our always reliable RSBS interns, have prepared a list of potential managerial candidates for Indians GM Mark Shapiro, whom we all know is too busy lamenting the contract of one Travis “I Ain’t Got It No More” Hafner and the cruel reality of a midge-less postseason.
Mark, here is the shortlist of suggested targets:
Sure, the Big Tuna ain’t no baseball guy; we know that. But he was born to win (and eat… a lot). Besides, just think of what hiring this former Cowboy coach could do for the long neglected and oft polarized relationship between Cowboys and Indians. Mark, it is time to heal these wounds.
Since being shunned and axed by his University of Illinois home (where he was a staple presence for 81 years), the Great Chief doesn’t really have much to do but stay in and get drunk all day. Hey, you can get drunk at the ballpark too, Chief! Plus, having such a standard bearer of Native American tradition might help the Indians solve that whole racist image thing they’ve had goin’ on for… y’know… ever.
Oh, wait. He’s dead. Never mind.
He’s dead too? Sorry.
Whoops. My bad. Okay. No more dead guys of French descent.
Well, then that leaves me with just one more super managerial candidate for Mr. Shapiro and that person is:
Look, if you’re gonna build a bridge to nowhere, ya might as well build it on the Cuyahoga River.
Hate me ‘cuz I’m on point, all the time, just don’t hate me ‘cuz I’m right.
Prior to the 2009 season, one would not be in error by labeling me a bonafide St. Louis Cardinal Hiney Bird. Having not really addressed our bullpen woes of 2008, I seriously didn’t think the Redbirds had a chance at achieving anything this season.
Obviously, I was wrong. And I’ve apologized for that.
I did, however, look forward to an exciting new edition of my neighborhood Chicago White Sox. And, yes folks, it does happen (albeit rarely): I was wrong… again.
But I have to go out on a limb and defend Kenny Williams from Chicago Tribune reporter Phil Rogers who blamed much of the White Sox’s 2009 downfall on the trades of Nick Swisher and Javier Vazquez.
To quote the Hawk: “That’s just B.S.! B.S.! That’s just B.S.!”
Nick Swisher’s 2008 stint with the Sox was abysmal at best. He underachieved in every category except rambunctiousness per game. He was a shackle on the Sox’s youth movement and rumor had it that he was more interested in picking up chicks in the Viagra Triangle than he was picking up runners in scoring position.
Javi Vazquez never looked comfortable in the Chi. Sure he’d get ya lots of strikeouts, but he also gave up a bunch of runs; and with Gavin Floyd and John Danks on the horizon of being dominating starters, it made sense to move Javi (and his paycheck) to make more room.
But sometimes things don’t always work out (see Sarah Palin’s “political” career). The ’09 White Sox have wallowed in mediocrity while the Cardinals are set to win the NL Central Division crown.
You see, dear readers, baseball is so captivating, so riveting, so followable because there is no such thing as a sure thing. So to all you Hiney Birds (me included) here’s a lesson from possibly the world’s worst broadcaster:
Don’t hate me ‘cuz I’m right.
And so it goes that the world’s de facto millionaire man-child, Milton Bradley, sees his season end prematurely — stopped cold by the Chicago Cubs’ general manager Jim Hendry. Or so we are led to think…
After the tumultuous inaugural season Bradley had with the eternally ill-fated Cubbies, isn’t it possible that Milton simply quit on his own and Hendry & Co. were left to cover up what would otherwise be the Major League scandal of the year? At this point, I am willing to believe anything; which is why we put our loyal interns to the test — to uncover the hidden meaning in Hendry’s public statement, to discover what’s really going on, to report the Truth.
Dear readers, here are the results — the top ten reasons why Milton Bradley’s season came to an abrupt and early end:
10. Wanted to give lifetime minor leaguer Bobby Scales a shot at breaking the .250 mark
9. There is only room for ONE colossal fail per team and Alfonso Soriano has a pretty good beat on it
8. Admitted to being an avid reader of the Chicago Sun-Times
7. Suffering from an acute torn mental labrum
6. Decided to dedicate more time to establishing universal health care
5. With the NFL season under way, wanted to pass the “Chicago Public Relations Disaster” moniker on to a more accomplished, more deserving, more disappointing (and prettier?) candidate in Jay Cutler
4. Made secret promise to self that if he succeeded in beating Jacque Jones as the most hated right fielder in the history of the Chicago Cubs he would pack up and go home, satisfied, with $10 million more in his wallet
3. Worried his name might leak as Candidate Number 3 in Rod Blagojevich’s pay-to-play federal investigation
2. Adamant about having the Ricketts Family rename his team: The Chicago Uncle Toms
And the number one reason why Milton Bradley’s season came to an abrupt and early end:
1. He’s just… a whiny… little… bee-otch
Don’t hate me ‘cuz I’m right.
“I don’t know nothin’ about nothin’, and I can prove it.”
— Ed “Butch” Panczko, ruthless Chicago gangster
It is the year 2009, dear readers, and I would think that by now, every single one of us has seen enough cop dramas on television to know that you never, ever, ever tell on yourself. You just don’t do it. Big Papi knows this. So does Roger Clemens. Why is it then that the Chicago White Sox — who reside not far from the famed warehouse district were body after lifeless body went to disappear forever — do not understand this golden rule of foul play?
First we watched as Bobby Jenks told the whole world that he purposely threw at Ian Kinsler — which netted him a $750 fine and a watchful eye from MLB brass — and now we have Ozzie Guillen himself blabbing to anyone who will listen that he’s out to bean anyone whom he suspects of throwing at his guys. What next? Kenny Williams owns up to jaywalking? Check.
Look, it’s one thing to protect your team and head-hunt in retaliation. Hell, in this game, it’s expected! But to openly admit that you are going to throw at people, to announce to everyone that you intend on hurting someone, to alert the league that you’re going to send a message… well, that is just plain irresponsible. And dumb.
Yep. Tell a story. Do the opposite. Leave ’em guessin’.
That, my friends, is the Chicago way.
Even political nimrod figurehead Rod Blagojevich knows this.
And he’s a Cubs fan.
What’s your excuse, White Sox?
Hate me ‘cuz I put it out there, just don’t hate me ‘cuz I’m right.
(*Ozzie Guillen’s grill image courtesy of Da Bronx Bombers)