Results tagged ‘ Steroids ’
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.
The next time you begin to entertain the idea that steroids may not make a better baseball player, please remember the curious case of Jason Giambi:
Yeah. That is the same guy. Trust me.
And if you analyze his stats, you will notice a surge in the power department during the years Mr. Giambi was admittedly jivin’ on the juice. Sure, there was some inherent talent there; that’s the only way it works. Put me on some ‘roids and you will just end up with a big, nerdy ogre-man who still can’t hit a slider.
But Jason Giambi? Dear readers, the man has declined.
Despite a serviceable 2008 where a mysteriously magic mustache allowed him to overcome his initial ‘roid-wreck, the 2009 feel-good reunion with the Oakland A’s brought nothing but disappointment — so much so that Billy Beane couldn’t find any use for him at all.
“Uh. Yeah. Uh. If you love something let it go. If it comes back to you it’s yours. If it doesn’t, it never was. Hold me down baby.”
–DMX, Let it Fly
Well, even with all his faults (that vomit inducing .193 batting average in particular) I suppose baseball must love Jason Giambi because the Colorado Rockies just signed him to a minor league deal.
I watched MLB related news and programming all night long and no one even mentioned this.
Because no one cares.
And if no one cares that the Rockies signed Jason Giambi, then absolutely no one will care that the Rockies also signed Russ Ortiz.
Sure, the Rockies may be in the thick of the playoff hunt, but neither one of these acquisitions will factor into any type of potential success. They are both large and looming disappointments — let-downs determined to strike out with the bases loaded, to give up a grand slam, to muff into oblivion.
If I were Giambi, if I were Ortiz, I’d rather spend my time signing some hot chick’s breasts. Duh. At least by doing that you don’t risk humiliating yourself over and over again. (Again, trust me)
Hate me ‘cuz I hate on the dynamically duddy duo of Giambi/Ortiz, just don’t hate me ‘cuz I’m right.
When I lie, people call me a liar. It’s part of this whole
thing I do called “living in the real world.” I’m not saying I lie
all that often but when I do, I expect to get called out on it. However, it
would be kind of nice, just for once, to live in another world. A world where
words don’t necessarily mean what the dictionary says they mean and where I can
spin the events and claim that the usual consequences don’t apply to me. You
too? You want to live in this world? Well, come with me as we tour of a few of
these magical lands.
“I thought they were vitamins.” “Really? It wasn’t just some
sort of magical cream/ointment?” “Sure, I’ve always taken estrogen
hormone therapy. Doesn’t everyone?”
And the list goes on.
Major League Baseball players have a somewhat impressive track record when it
comes to PED prevarications. And the longer this slow leak of names and
offenses takes, the more ridiculous the excuses will become.
However, that’s the beauty of living in a land like this. You never have to
face the truth. You know that MLB is going to slap you with a fine or a
suspension, you either pay it or serve it and then you’re back to doing what
you do best. No silly, not hitting home runs. Finding new ways to beat the
system by masking the drugs you’re taking.
Many, many people live in this fantasy land where nothing is ever quite what it
seems. However, one of the more recent newly minted citizens seems to be
carving out his own space and setting the foundations (or lack thereof) of an
enormous castle built almost entirely on sand.
Now, if you follow politics, you know that John Ensign used to be a
fire-breathing dragon of the Newt Gingrich led Republican Revolution. And he
was so personally affronted by Bill Clinton’s “low morals” in the
Monica Lewinsky affair that he helped push through the president’s impeachment
and urged him to resign since his actions meant he could no longer be an
However, it appears that screwing
the wife of one of your best friends and then having your family pay her hush
money so she won’t talk about it is somehow different. Yes, my friends,
only in this fantastical land can you justify adultery by claiming it’s not the
same thing because you “didn’t perjure yourself.” I wonder how that
excuse would fly for me?
Join me next week as we continue our tour with a couple fantastical lands that
could only spring from one delusional and mildly sociopathic man. That’s
right, next week we visit the mind of Jeffery Lung and I feel it’s only right
that I warn you in advance: It’s not a pretty thing. You might want to make
sure that any young children leave the room.
“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)
I really should be talking about all the seismic events that have shaken the baseball universe over the past few days. New steroids revelations, gigantic trades, even bigger non-trades and it seems like each game has a bit more of an edge. But there’s nothing I can say that hasn’t already been said better by someone else. And that’s why I’m going to talk about a subject less fraught with peril. A subject that is not subject to the nefariousness of political infighting. A subject that is plainly, simply oh so delicious.
Yep, beer. You can get it at a ballpark. You can sit at home drinking it while watching a ballgame. It’s social, it’s private and it’s not subject to politics. It’s not like the political discourse of a nation is going to suddenly hinge on the idea of four guys sitting around drinking a frosty brewed beverage while there are huge problems like health care staring us in the face. Right? Right?
Seriously man! When did beer become so important in politics? Don’t get me wrong, beer is important. I wouldn’t want to live in a world without beer (a somewhat ironic statement given my current circumstances). But beer as a prop in an oddly inflammatory racial brouhaha? What’s next, baseball getting pulled into a Supreme Court nomination?
Man, I really should just keep my mouth shut.
Well, let’s see, I did Testosterone Propionate, Methyltestosterone, Clomid, Laurabolin, Nolvadex, HGH, Masteril, Agoviron, Ambosex, Chorvlon, L-Thyroxine, Clomid, Euthyrox, Neo-Hombreol, Maxiolin Elixier and a little bit of Testo-Enant and then I watched David Ortiz go yard against the Oakland Athletics.
Athletics? Please. If it ain’t full of Riboxifen it ain’t no athlete.
But who cares anyway? I’m sick of talking about this and I imagine dear readers are too so let’s talk about something a bit more titillating, shall we?
It is no secret that the merits of baseball relevant beauties have long been a popular subject at RSBS. From Erin Andrews to Gong Li (somehow related, trust us) to Kendra Andrews, we and our loyal interns always go for broke. That is why we are happy to announce that the crew at Fantasy Baseball Dugout has launched its 2009 edition of the Hottest Baseball Wives contest.
And don’t hate me ‘cuz I’m right.
(*Images courtesy of Fantasy Baseball Dugout)
The following is an actual, real life conversation (albeit by text messaging) that occurred last night between myself and a fellow baseball nerd (who just so happens to be a lowly Cub fan) prior to the Cardinals/Dodgers game on ESPN — America’s home for Manny-mania and other sensationalized crap.
HIM: Whew! First place finally. I feel so safe. Especially since we can pull off a deal at the break cuz I’m sure hendry has the green light financially……..
ME: Yeah, sure. Don’t get too comfortable
HIM: I was being facetious of course. And anti jinxing at the same time. Have fun with manny and the boyz tonite.
ME: Haha. I know. I’m fluent in sarcasm. Will do. Fertility drugs in hand.
HIM: How would Cards nation handle the inevitable Pujols scandal?
ME: Okay…seriously… Denial. Then anger. Then revolt. Then suicide.
HIM: About what I imagine would happen in the bronx wit DJ. Laughing villainous now. When that happens I’ll put on robin williams beard and tell u its not your fault.
ME: Haha. Might b too late. I may have murdered an entire village by then.
HIM: Like Annakin when he took out the sand people?
ME: Yes. Only worse.
And that is all I have to say about that.
Hate me ‘cuz I preach the Truth: that Jesus hates the Cubs; just don’t hate me ‘cuz I’m right.
Very few pursuits allow for perfection. In bowling, there’s the 300 game but how much of that has to do with luck? Football quarterbacks can post a perfect passer rating but that usually still involves incompletions which is far from perfect in my book. And let’s be honest, when you’re forced to define perfection by a mathematical formula, how perfect is it really? (No offense to any of the mathematicians out there, obviously.)
But in baseball, perfection exists. And when Mark Buehrle hit the mound the other day, we got to see it. There were tense moments and some great plays that made it happen. But it was perfection.
The most amazing thing about perfection is how it’s a snapshot in time. No one is going to achieve perfection over the course of a season. No batter is going to get a hit every time he’s at the plate, no pitcher is going to avoid giving up a hit during every outing. The reason that perfection appeals to us is because it happens so rarely.
Some of this sentiment also plays into the betrayal many have felt at the hands of various players who used PEDs. I still remember the summer when Sosa and McGwire were racing for the home run crown and how astounding it was to watch them rack up those totals. They made the extraordinary ordinary. And when Bonds came along and shattered those records, it almost became mundane. We came to expect these kinds of feats and now we’re disappointed by their absence, a problem similar to what swimming is now facing with the ban on many of the new suit technologies. No one wants to ride in coach after they’ve experienced first class.
But the perfect game stands out because it is one of those things that is still so rare. Clemens may have been juicing and he may have been a dominant pitcher but that never earned him perfection. Nolan Ryan threw seven no-hitters but none of them were perfect. But a guy like David Wells, all 250 plus pounds of him, managed to do it.
Possibly the best part of Buehrle’s perfect game, though, is the time in which it came. This season has been marked so far by Manny’s suspension, A-Rod’s admission and several mediocre divisional races. It’s only fitting that the thing that takes our minds off of the mediocrity and failure……is perfection.
It’s recently occurred to me that Albert [Pujols] is on pace to challenge Maris’
single season HR mark. If he does this he becomes the first player NOT
implicated in steroids or other PED’s to do so. Should baseball make a
bigger deal out of this? I kind of doubt MLB would (it would look like
they were admitting Bonds and Sosa’s and McGwire’s big home run years
were illegitimate), but baseball fans should be rejoicing in what has
quietly become a potentially historic season.
As arrogant and scapegoating as MLB’s front offices are, we would be much better off betting our 401k’s that Sarah Palin will become the next president than we would on MLB making any mention of this highly inconvenient fact. But that does not mean we, the fans, and other knowledgeable folks can’t start stirring up some serious crap.
And who shall be our leader in this sanctimonious crusade?
For those of you who tuned into the MLB Network on Thursday night to watch the Mets get blown out by the Dodgers, you already know what I’m talking about. For the rest of you, let me fill you in…
Inspired by the overhyped drama of Manny’s first series in New York after his embarrassing steroid reveal, Bob Costas came out to his colleague Jim Kaat and declared that McGwire’s record, Bonds’ record and the rest of those monumentally tainted blips of prestige could be thrown out and dismissed entirely by any Joe Fan — any human being capable of understanding how marred the game had become during the ‘steroid era’ — and that according to such logical folks, Roger Maris’ 61 and Hank Aaron’s 755 still stood as the true records — the unclouded, inarguable, uncontested homerun records of Major League Baseball.
MLB won’t ever tell you anything like that.
Bob Costas will.
Is it fair to knock Major League Baseball for doing what is really the only logical thing they can do given the circumstances? No. Probably not.
But fair is a relative concept — one no one (including me, I admit) had the balls to contest when guys like Ivan Rodriguez and Rafael Palmeiro and Paul Lo Duca were raking dingers like I chug Bud Light on the weekends.
Still, as a lowly MLBlogger, I adhere to my spawning necessity to stir up a bunch of crap for no good reason, hoping someone will actually take notice, even if I do contradict my own penned tirades from time to time.
But, Ted, let me tell ya, I’m rejoicing, man. And in my world, Roger Maris is at the top (except for that one moment back in ’98 when McGwire took Steve Trachsel deep at Busch II) and Hank Aaron is tops too because I simply cannot stand Barry Bonds, his runaway forehead, or his smug crybaby I’m-the-victim routine.
I’m a US American! It’s in my blood to flip-flop; it’s in yours too and you know it.
So go ahead and hate me ‘cuz I’m a greasy s***talker, just don’t hate me ‘cuz I’m right.
***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 firstname.lastname@example.org.
***Pictures of a scantily clad Courtney Cox circa 1998 also welcome.
In recent weeks, much ado has been made about the ongoing interweb scuffle between bloggers and “real” journalists. From JRod’s mental wanderings on Raul Ibanez to Geoff Baker’s self-serving opus dei to Hugging Harold Reynolds‘ public flaying of Jay Mariotti, everyone seems to be getting in on the controversy — creating it even.
I’m sure JRod is pretty pleased, if for nothing else than for being noticed (albeit harshly). As sports bloggers, isn’t that all we really want? To be noticed?
Apparently, this is the best way to go. Stir up some real crap.
So I’m gonna.
The following are very, very, very TRUE:
- Vegetarian or not, Prince Fielder is fat
- In my “fantasies”, Yadier Molina and Albert Pujols always fan me with palm tree leaves from the side while I… y’know, do my thing
- The color orange is on steroids!!!!
- Rush Limbaugh is also fat… and annoying
- Babe Ruth was only awesome because he had to overcome and compensate for the fact that he had a girl’s last name (and breasts)
- Barack Obama is a smoker. Deal with it, yo!
- Bud Selig is as good at being commissioner of baseball as the Washington Nationals are at being champions of baseball
- I spent a lot of money on Cardinals games during the summer of 1998, in awe of Mark McGwire, realizing that something fishy might be going on, but, like you, didn’t care that much about it ‘cuz it was friggin’ awesome. Like Selig, I too, looked the other way; but I would still make a much better commissioner of baseball than he because this All-Star Game’s “this time it counts” thing is absolutely ridiculous.
- Our earth is flat; gravity is just some bulls*** made up by Communists
- Manny Ramirez is Predator… and a cheater and annoying; but in a few days no one will remember that he got popped for taking a banned substance… and just in case you’re wondering, no, Manny is not fat — just big-haired.
Hate me ‘cuz I’m a fire-starter, just don’t hate me ‘cuz I’m right.