S is for Strasburg, whose bonus will floor us That's what you get when you roll with Scott Boras I can't say I care - he's not after my money But you can see how the Lerners don't think it's funny
T is for Trees, our fine cherry blossoms The first week of the season, they look pretty awesome But when May rolls around, the view’s gone to potty The trees are all bare, and they look like dead bodies
Thanks to FromOldBooks for the letters, thanks to the Nats for manning up and drafting Strasburg, and also thanks to the Nats for not boring us all with a lot tedious negotiations. Have they even called him yet?
Q is for Quaff (that's a dork word for "drink") The Nats are more fun when you’re too drunk to think Another Q word, one that here fits right in: The Quinine in tonic, which goes with your gin
R is for Reds, where our players come from Pena and Kearns, also Lopez and Dunn We didn't do well, but the Reds are quite testy Since Bodes set them up with a broken Majewski
Thanks to FromOldBooks for the letters, thanks to the Rockies for giving me an excuse to drink, and thanks to those pith helmet-wearing limeys for coming with a drink to express how much they dislike humidity.
O's for the O's, our orange friends up the road Whose owner, it happens, is a godawful toad We've got little to boast when it’s time to get hatin' But as bad as things are, our owner's not Satan
P is for Presidents running around They get your hopes up, but then Teddy falls down It’s a good thing they’re there and a good thing they run It’s the only time Nats fans see something that’s fun
Thanks to FromOldBooks for the letters, thanks to George Washington for being the first president and having the dignity not to reenact sausage races, and special thanks to North Carolina for coming up with the idea of putting vinegar on pork shoulders.
M is for Milledge, aspiring rapper Whose baseball career has gone down the crapper It was bad before, now it’s worse by a bit We sent him to Pittsburgh for a guy who can’t hit
N is for Nick, with his nifty moustaches The baseballs he fields, the baseballs he bashes! Enjoy while you can all his walks and base knocks Since soon he’ll be working for the Boston Red Sox
Thanks to FromOldBooks for the letters, and big ups to me for rewriting the Milledge one on the fly.
I'm going on vacation, so you'll have to wait a week for the resumption of the triumphant Nationals alphabet. I apologize for any weeping and depression that may ensue, but it's not like I can throw off my gauntlets in the middle of a LARP and drop internet rhymes on everyone.
K is for striKeout, which means it’s for Dunn Strike three sailing by him – that’s not very fun As bad as that is, it’s nothing at all To Dunn in the outfield, dropping the ball
L is for Lannan, our top lefty hurler With eyebrows so long he could use a hair curler Batters may be distracted - they must be surprised When they see the sasquatches over his eyes
Thanks to FromOldBooks for the letters and apologies to John Lannan. I just couldn't think of anything for the Lerners. By the way, if I ran a newspaper this would be my Michael Jackson headline: "It Was Thursday - What a Black Day." "Smooth Criminal" is my favorite Michael Jackson song, which I'm gradually realizing is unusual.
I is for Interim, like our GM Will Mike Rizzo stay on the job in the end? I can think of one good reason he'll get the spot: Just not being Jim Bowden counts for a lot
J’s for the Journalists who cover our team The fans thirst for content, and they produce reams The season is long, and it must be a slog It only gets worse: now they have to write blogs
Thanks to FromOldBooks for I, and thanks to Chico Harlan for letting me photograph his iced-out J chain.
G is for Guillen, from back in the day A hot-headed fellow indeed was Jose Bodes brought him in – I don’t think he was kidding – Based on his skillfulness at babysitting
H is Hernandez, my main man Livan Who’s been growing sideways since he has been gone He’s not very good – take a look at his stats But he turns into Maddux when facing the Nats
And here's a special bonus stanza for Nate:
G's for GUZMANIA!, a grievous affliction (What else to call a fat shortstop addiction?) The fandom's so giddy at Nats Triple Play That a guy's got to wonder if they've seen Cristian play
Thanks to FromOldBooks for the letters, the Latin -ictio third declension feminine ending for making the Guzmania part so easy to rhyme, and extra special thanks to puppies for being so cute.
E is for Expos, our Frenchy forebearers Who decamped to the south for a ballpark much fairer Since then they’ve performed with a maladroit touch Je regrette, Montréal, but you ain’t missing much F is for Flores, poached from the Mets Which adds to the long list of that team’s regrets We’ve been waiting around for Jesús to save us But he keeps getting hurt, so we’re stuck with Nieves
Thanks to FromOldBooks for the letters, thanks to me for the dope rhymes, and thanks to the Mets for Jesús Flores.
C is for Cristian(no H in his name) We used to be better when he came up lame He’s now got new eyeballs, new shoulder, new spleen He’s a whole new ballplayer – is he man or machine?
D is for Dibble, with his World Series Ring He played the game; that’s why he’s got the bling If ever you question his statements or hunches It’s cool that you do, but bring own lunches Thanks again to FromOldBooks for the letters.
I think it's time for a little culture around here. Let's begin!
A is for Acta, our soon former boss Every win to his credit, to his debit each loss Add these things up and it’s quite plain to see That he won’t be around by the time we hit Z
B is for Bowden, or Bodes to his pals Dudes love the Segway, leather pants thrill the gals If you ever meet him, he’s surely not bland But check for your watch after shaking his hand
C and D on Monday. Thanks to Liam at FromOldBooks for the letters.
Manny Acta's still the manager, and I think I've figured out why. Obviously, management doesn't think he contributes to winning games. Why else would they let it be known, in their typically loathsome, passive-aggressive manner, that they're going to fire him?
Harper, the Las Vegas high school catcher who was on the cover of Sports Illustrated, will forgo his final two years of high school, get his GED and play community college baseball next year at the College of Southern Nevada. His father, Ron, made the announcement Saturday at a tournament in Oklahoma City...
Harper will turn 17 on Oct. 16, and by finishing high school he will be eligible for the 2010 draft, where he is expected to be the No. 1 pick and command a multimillion-dollar signing bonus.
We've already seen the rewards a team reaps for tanking it for a year. Tank for two years, it turns out, and it just gets better. We can't let Jim Riggleman get in the way of this kind of haul.
Last week,I made fun of Dave Sheinin for defending the Nationals against the charge that they drafted cheap. I don't know if this is an actual controversy - is anyone who doesn't work for the Nats or isn't Dave Sheinin disinclined to believe this? Well, just in case, here's my point made for me:
On Tuesday, the Nationals used their third-round pick -- No. 81 overall -- in the amateur draft to select Trevor Holder, a University of Georgia senior who had a 7-5 record and a 4.48 ERA this year. Holder hadn't been ranked by Baseball America among the top 200 prospects, and even Holder himself didn't think he'd be drafted so high.
Well the Nats must know something everyone else doesn't, right?
But the Nationals, who'd tracked Holder since high school, had five years of information on him and liked what they saw.
Yeah, that's some Scouting! We're getting a leg up on everyone with only the sharpness of our eyes!
The team also liked the idea of signing Holder quickly, and at a discount rate. On Friday, just before moving out of his apartment in Athens, Ga., Holder agreed to his first professional contract, which included a $200,000 bonus; the previous year, pick Nos. 80-82 all signed for between $490,000 and $525,000.
Remember that laughable slapfight the Robs Dibble and Neyer got into earlier this week? R-Dibbs seems to have scrubbed it from his Twitter. It happened June 7, but check it now. On the 6th we get a telegram dispatch from the last good Nats game:
John Lannan CGVs The Mets 21 1st pitch strikes, 1st CG in The Show. Nice job
Then on the 8th we're treated to a stream of random capitalizations.
talking to Andy Larouche of the Pitrates about The Nate McClouth Trade, At 5 o'clock we will have David Price on to talk about the Draft
Where's the beef, Dibble? I mean, if you're going to post for photos like this... ...you can't then turn around and unilaterally squash the beef with a pencil-necked, never-played-the-game former roofer like Rob Neyer.
I'm honestly disappointed.
By the way, if you were going to start a mock Dibble Twitter thingy, could you do any better than this?
Got some cool new shades for the game tomorrow
That's an actual entry. He wrote that himself. What can you say? Dude's unmockable.
Look, I don't know nothing about no draft. I'm just as elated about the start of the Drew Storen Era as the rest of you, but I'm pretty clueless beyond that. That's what this guy does, and let's all be glad he's there.
The story that seems to be coming out of this, though, is that after taking Stephen Strasburg, the Nats went all Chris Rock at the rib place on us.
Above: Chris Rock as Mike Rizzo, weighing his options
Apparently the Nats had promised that they weren't going to be cheap this year. They'd take the best available player. While their actual strategy may well be defensible, that's clearly not what they did. Dave Sheinin over on the Post site tries to make the case for the defense. And fails.
Finally, a word about the Nationals' picks at Nos. 10, 50 and 81 overall: There was a lot of dissatisfaction expressed among commenters on this blog, and elsewhere, about the quality of those picks. Many accused the Nationals of outright lies when they said they took the best players available with those picks.
Well yeah. They didn't take the best players, and they said they would. That's lying, right?
But my view is, when you're facing something as monumental and complex as the Strasburg negotiations, the last thing you need is a bunch of difficult negotiations among your other picks. If the Nationals constructed their draft board out of players they felt would be relatively easy signs, then made their picks based on the best player available on their board, I don't have a problem with that.
Man, what kind of evasive Obi-Wan Kenobi bullshit is this? "You see, when they said 'best players,' they meant 'best players that wouldn't cost any money.' Because of the italics, you see."
What the hell, Dave? You don't work for the Lerners, and that's the only legitimate excuse for this kind of nonsense I can think of.
D.C. Fire Chief Dennis L. Rubin yesterday ordered that all fireworks displays at Washington Nationals games be suspended until a safety review can be conducted, after fireworks debris landed on him as he watched a game, a department spokesman said today.
I don't know about you, but I'm picturing a guy who looks like William Howard Taft in an old-timey fireman hat with his moustache singedand his face strategically charred like he'd been smoking a loaded cigar.
This is not the first assault on our favorite team's right to explode things whenever they want. Back before they'd even played a gam, some pinko "neighborhood commissioner" and another crybaby halfwit who pretended to be scared of Grateful Dead fans tried to stop it. But it didn't work, because this is America, dammit! And America it remains.
The fireworks are coming back for the Washington Nationals, days after debris from some pyrotechnics fell on the local fire chief as he watched a game.
U-S-A! U-S-A!
So, the draft is tomorrow. Probably you knew this. Here's my prediction: with the #1 pick, the Nats will take Stephen Strasburg. With the #10 pick, they'll take somebody I ain't never heard of. So that's why I'm not all that excited about the draft itself, and that's why I won't be attending the Official Draft Party (It's Cool! Bring a Lunch!). The real excitement comes afterward, and it's not the good kind. I've been trying not to think too much about it, frankly, because a Nats-type screwup this time won't be funny, like typos on jerseys or setting fire marshals on fire.
Speaking of lunches and the necessity of bringing them, Federal Baseball brings further proof of my theory that Rob Dibble prepares himself to commit self-expression on the internet by getting drunk and listening to rap. Following the example of Jay-Z vs. Nas, Game vs. 50 Cent, and N.W.H. vs. the Jam Boys, he's now beefing with ESPN columnist Rob Neyer. Neyer calls Dibble a dumbass, Dibble calls Neyer a roofer - please, guys, squash this beef before someone gets shot! Or before I have to read any more of your weak-ass insults!
In my office, we rely on daily calendars to amuse ourselves because the alternative is me complaining about the Nats all day. I have a baseball calendar, replete with birthdays and impossible trivia questions. One coworker has a trivia calendar - each day brings a new question about geography or history or whatever. It's like Jeopardy for people (like me) who can't stand Alex Trebeck.
They're usually pretty easy, but last week we had a clock-meltingly surreal one. Here it is - let's see if you can figure it out: "Where on the human body is fear of open spaces?" Take your time.
The answer, of course, was "agoraphobia," which successfully answered maybe half the question. It was quite an enigma - was the calendar just messing with us? Was it a dada art experiment? Did it actually think it was right? We don't know and we never will.
In a similar vein, Rob Dibble posted something on the almost always not worth reading MASN website. He's apparently embroiled in one of those fun internet feuds where the participants never name the people they're beefing with. The post itself gives absolutely no indication what the hell he's talking about.
There are some local writers and bloggers that would like to try and twist what I say as to why the Nationals are not playing well. To me thats about as low as you may want to go. My street cred comes from experience, and though I sometimes might not come across as kind and gentle the way some people might think it should, let me try and get you up to speed with MY experience.
This is followed by a series of anecdotes about the Cincinnati Reds, culminating is some incredibly awesome trash talk.
If you want to challenge my street cred, that's cool, but you better bring a lunch because we're going to be here all day.
That's just beautiful. Bring a lunch, snitches, cause Dibble's got the crazy street cred! That's cool, but bring a lunch! Lunch is essential in this endeavor!
I'm not being sarcastic - this is my favorite thing on the Nats-related internet since Chico Harlan's "I hate my job" coming out party. It's not just because "That's cool; bring a lunch" is about to become my stock response to everything. This post also proved that Rob Dibble and I have identical blogging preparation techniques. In case you're wondering - and I should be charging for this kind of expertise - I have a time-tested two part regimen to prepare myself for the rigors of typing on the internet.
Get drunk
Listen to rap
Dibble is clearly replicating or at least approximating my pre-blog routine of Fighting Cock bourbon and Ghostface Killah. How else to explain the incoherence and unironic gangsta talk? I have a drink, and then I think "I work magic at a liquor store" is a deeply meaningful statement. Dibble and I are soul mates in this, and you ought not front on our street cred.
As far as the actual argument goes and as far as I understand it, I'm on Dibble's side. Anderson Hernandez should unquestionably be beaten about the head and neck until he stops thinking about things other than fielding ground balls. Maybe it won't help, but he sure isn't paying attention now, so it couldn't hurt. Where on the human body is fear of getting the hell slapped out of you? Fielding!
You could argue that in the history of the Washington Nationals, Randy St. Claire was the only member of the non-playing part of the team that ever did a damn bit of good for anyone. We've had terrible hitting coaches, bad managers, and worse GMs. We always had a good pitching coach, though.
St. Claire did two remarkable things, remarkable both for their on-field impact and how easy they are to pin down, which is unusual when you're talking about coaches. 2002's Livan Hernandez was a fat failure of a pitcher. He could eat food and he could eat innings, but you didn't want him doing either. In 2003 he joined the Expos, and St. Claire laid hands upon him. By which I mean he messed with his arm angle until Livan became ¡Livan!, a legitimate Cy Young-quality pitcher. As I've lamented before, this amazing transformation and inspirational three year run got less press than that little hobbit Japanese girl pitching a third of an inning in a semi-pro league. That doesn't make it any less awesome.
Later, he fixed Hector Carrasco, the very definition of a journeyman. By teaching him some sort of magical changeup, Carrasco briefly became a really, really good pitcher, bailing the Nats out when they had their annual "We're out of pitchers!" crisis in 2005. Hector very directly credited St. Claire with his turnaround before signed with the Angels.
And . . . that's it. And I guess that's the problem. Two miracles, the thinking probably goes, don't make up for years of lousy pitching, especially this terrible one we're in now, so they fired him. Obviously, it's not all St. Claire's fault. Or even mostly his fault. Maybe it's not his fault at all. I'm guessing, though, that the Nats made some personnel decisions based on the hope that St. Claire could get that third elusive miracle. Daniel Cabrera had lost his fastball - Randy can fix his mechanics! Scott Olsen, after years of violently resisting arrest, can't strike anyone out anymore - Randy will take care of it! Neither happened. They emphatically didn't happen, and that combined with the bullpen's incredible ineptitude combined with the fact that Mike Rizzo needs to get in some firin' practice before he trains his guns on Acta mean that St. Claire's gone. He won't be the last.
As summer follows spring and a blown Nationals lead follows a Nationals lead, so the new pitching coach follows the old. I don't know anything about Steve McCatty, the former AAA coach who's stepping into this thankless role, but what Mike Rizzo is saying about him isn't making me sanguine.
He goes back to the days where pitchers pitched a lot of innings and they were really tough burly guys on the mound, and I think he's gonna bring an edge to the pitching staff, a toughness, and kind of a really tough-minded mindset not only to the starting rotation but to the bullpen guys, too.
This is meaningless to the extent that it makes any damn sense at all. Burly? That's what we're after? If only we had more huskiness, things would be fine. It's those portly pitching staffs that get it done. You need gentlemen of a certain carriage.
Randy, as we all know, is a diligent film-worker and a mechanics-oriented pitching coach. Steve is more of a gut-feel [guy], more of a mental aspect kind of the game, and he's a much more old school pitching coach than I think Randy was. He was kind of the modern guy who worked diligently with films, how to attack hitters and that type of thing.
I fear that this is faulty reasoning. Allow me to summarize: science and hard work didn't do it, so we're going with some witch doctor oogy-boogy bullshit. Well, I guess it can't get any worse.
On Friday I donned native garb and went to walk among the infidel in Baltimore. It was a special occasion - the arrival of Matt Wieters. Maybe you heard something about it.
Once I got accustomed to the weird accents and garish orange garb of the natives, I realized something: I was having approximately a million times more fun than I ever did at a Nats game. Approximately.
It's not because I'm an Orioles fan. I've been to scores of meaningless, indifferently-played O's games that left me with the same "Hey, at least it's baseball" feeling as most Nats games gave me. This time was different, though, because the Orioles are a team on the rise, and their fans are keenly attuned to it.
Wieters didn't do anything, but it didn't matter. There was enough spillover excitement for Nolan Reimold and Luke Scott and Brian Bergeson to carry everyone through Wieters' fruitless at-bats. The fans, their sweat reeking of Old Bay and National Bohemian, were satisfied that their team had good, compelling players and a rotation filled with talented, homegrown pitchers. Perhaps they reflected on the twin masterpieces of the Miguel Tejada and Erik Bedard trades. It also helped that they won.
The good news about the Orioles is hugely magnified because I'm looking up at it. Fans of the even competent teams would scoff. But as a Nationals fan, I couldn't help but envy every single thing I saw, from the pretty ballpark to the 8+ inning pitching performance to the complete lack of a Nat Pack.
Meanwhile, the Nationals have lost . . . what, five or six or ten or fifteen in a row? All to the sound of Josh Willingham bravely throwing himself into outfield walls but forgetting the part where he catches the damn ball? People are now talking openly about poor Manny Acta being led to the altar to appease the bloodthirsty gods of Base Ball. I'm a diehard - I'm still here. But who can blame the casual fan's eyes for drifting Wietersward?
Hoo boy, did we ever get Livaned. I kind of enjoyed it, I have to admit, and I would have enjoyed it even more if the big guy had hit a triple or something. Did you see that crap he was throwing, those slide whistle curveballs? I miss it. It's still real to me, dammit.
I'm not going to enjoy so much losing to Santana, but what can you do? Sometimes the unstoppable force meets the unthreatening, barely noticed object.
I just realized that it's ¡Livan! Night! It's a night of divided loyalties and gelatinous, 80 mph fastballs, and it should be a natinal holiday. I love ¡Livan! so damn much, and it hurts me that he's a Met now. And this time he's going up against my man Craig Stammen, so my loyalties aren't as divided as they usually are on ¡Livan! Night.
I got nothing today. But I tell you who did have something was my main man Livan, who went 3 for 4 with a homer and two doubles. I'm sure you're aware of this, but he's a pitcher. And sure, maybe his pitching wasn't so hot, but some of that was Joey Eischen's fault, and the rest of it you can cram up your ass because Livan rules.
Whatever age ¡Livan! is -- let's say 38 -- he was such a youthful 38 that we all agreed to call him 31, but I guess that's not youthful enough for the movement.
Good times. But now I hope he's awful enough that Stammen gets the win and stays in the rotation forever.
It turns out that the best resource on the internets for information about El Cubano Gordo y Feo is (of all things) Who's Dated Who, a website I'd never heard of until doing a Google search to see if ol' Distinguished Senators figures anywhere in the results for a search for "Livan" (it does not). They get his age wrong - they have 34, when the correct figure is "34" - but there is a downright disturbing wealth of information there. Height, weight, profession, religion ("Christian" - if you want more detail than that, you have to go to another site). You can vote how good a date he is; there is currenly one vote, a 10. I will not deny that it is mine.
Who's ¡Livan! been dating? I hadn't been wondering, but now I know, and there are pictures too. I have not yet voted in the contest to determine "Livan's Best Romance." Other features: commentary on the great man's love life by such internet experts as "MiamiPapi" and "no1diamondback fan"; a list of his eye-opening quotations presented free of encumbering context ("It's hard to beat that team"); and a fairly puzzling "Related Profiles" section. This is totally going in the links if I ever get around to updating them.
I spent most of my weekend in Natstown, just like they're always telling me to - I was there Saturday and Sunday. I'd recommend it, as long as you don't have to get on the Metro afterward. Some observations:
I'm estimating 40% Orioles fans.
Ryan Zimmerman is good at baseball.
The ovation for the troops each day was the only thing the crowd could agree on and the longest anyone seemed interested in anything. It would have gone on for ten minutes on Saturday if the announcer hadn't started yakking about someone coming up to bat.
The presidents race actually is pretty entertaining. I know I'm supposed to be all jaded and from the internet, but what can I say? On Saturday, Teddy had the thing wrapped up until that damn Oriole bird came out of the crowd and tackled him. I wasn't not entertained.
I noticed a report over at Nationals Pride that the Walter Johnson statue has a crack. I checked, and it's true. I can only assume that all three statues are gradually breaking away from their bases, and that they will eventually come to life with malice in their stony hearts. Wielding their poop-covered bats and extra arms as weapons, they will wreak havoc on all around them. Watch out, Ray Knight and Johnny Holliday. Please enjoy the awesome reflection effect, which was totally intentional. Note how the crack cuts right through those Nationals fans, reflecting the heartbreak that we've all experienced since we've started following this team. Who is the mysterious woman reflected in the base of the statue? I don't know, but she looks as though she's pissed that the Orioles lost and she wants to get the hell out of there.
Typical Nats incompetence! I went around to the back of the statue and found another crack.
Apparently Jordan Zimmermann addresses John Lannan as "Eyebrows." If I were ever talking to Lannan, I wouldn't have the stones to say that, but I'd sure as hell be thinking it. Dude looks like a Batman villain's henchman.
I made the mistake of watching the Nats game on Monday night, and I kept thinking of the Dusty Finish.
The Dusty Finish is a professional wrestling booking technique popularized by jive-talking fat man Dusty Rhodes. Basically, you make the crowd think that the good guy has won and maybe even taken the title from the bad guy (usually Ric Flair). Then, some pro-wrestling nonsense happens (double disqualification, whimsical act by an authority figure, etc.) and the decision is reversed. The crowd, having seen its dearest hopes fulfilled and then dashed, went home pissed. It is said that excessive use of the Dusty Finish killed off entire towns for Rhodes' employers. Even people who are willing to pay money to watch dudes pretend to fight will put up with only so much.
Above: Dusty Rhodes says some things about Elvis that probably aren't true, threatens Jerry Lawler with 17 dancing go-go bears
Did you watch that game last night? It was awful. Ross Detwiler, a recent first round draft pick, made his first major league start, and he really looked out of place. By which I mean he threw strikes and didn't suck. I was excited - finally something was going right. How did the team respond to this breath of fresh air? Well, they committed three errors and blew the hell out of a lead that would have given Detwiler the win. Manny Acta did his part as well, foolishly pulling his starter after five innings, six strikeouts, and no walks. His reasoning made me despair.
...if I have to keep a Class AA guy out there because I don't want to go to my big league bullpen, that's really scary.
Yeah, it is scary, and a good manager would adapt that this situation. You know, maximize the strengths and minimize the weaknesses. As soon as Garret Mock walked the first post-Detwiler batter on four pitchers, we all knew what was coming. It was like I thought Kerry Von Erich was finally going to win the belt from that strutting bastard Ric Flair until the ref got knocked out and reality set in.
The Nationals are booking a Dusty Finish every night, and it's killing baseball in this town. Attendance is in the crapper and TV ratings (I assume) are still terrible - people will find other ways to divert themselves. Take, for instance, me. I like baseball a lot more than most people. I'll watch just about anything. But last night when the Pirates scored their thirtieth or fortieth run (I stopped keeping track pretty early into the implosion), I said to myself, "I don't have to watch this shit. I've got better things to do." And I said that last part even though I totally didn't have better things to do - how long would someone who actually did stick around?
Here's a thingabout how much I hate Daniel Cabrera. Well, hate isn't the right word. I mean, it's not like I think he's a bad person because . . . no, wait. Never mind. Hate is the right word, and I do think he's a bad person. It's from last week, but not a damn thing has changed in the interim. There something timeless about Daniel Cabrera sucks articles.
So Tom Boswell has for a while been making arguments that the Nats shouldn't draft Stephen Strasburg. Whatever. Neither I nor anyone else listens to anything Boz has to say - you've got to wonder how a polished, embarrassed journalist like "Chico" Harlan feels about some crusty old sportswriter straight out of central casting intruding on his blog. But anyway, he did it again today by pointing out that it's hard to tell who's going to be a hall of famer. Which is inarguable, really. Whether or not it has anything to do with the situation at hand can be determined by looking at who wrote the damn thing.
The important thing to remember here is that Boswell isn't trying to talk us out of unreasonable, slavering enthusiasm about Strasburg; he's trying to talk himself out of unreasonable, slavering enthusiasm. You know how Boz gets - he's not exactly balanced when it comes to what's been one of his two favorite baseball teams for more than several years.
Anyway,here's something I wrote about the pert, supple back end of the Nationals' pitching rotation. I gotta admit, I like this one. It's short, it's light on "facts" and "analysis" and all that other crap that internet baseball writing has made me so tired of, and it employs a hell of sophisticated literary device where I'm talking about one thing but I make it sound like I'm talking about something else. What is that thing? Here's a hint: it rhymes with ass.
The Washington Examiner came wrapped in a Nats ad this morning. I usually pay it no more mind than I do the Epoch Times or the Washington Blade or any other of the free newspapers or sub-newspapers that beg for my commuting attention, but I grabbed it today.
It was nothing but an ad - I had hoped for some Nats content to distract me from my Wodehouse, but nothing doing. Still, ads can be instructive. Let's see what the team is dangling out there as lures to pull in the pigeons.
Front page: Zimmerman throwing, racing presidents, an utterly indifferent peroxide blonde in a short skirt and a warmup jacket clapping with all the enthusiasm of a Lerner signing a check. Seriously, I cannot overemphasize how bored this woman looks.
Inside: some gremlin-looking kid holding a sign demanding a curley [sic] W for its 9th birthday, Screech prancing, a Los Nacionales t-shirt you get for going on Friday, and Adam Dunn bearing a bat and that stubble that makes him look like a hood from a 1930s cartoon strip.
Well if that doesn't make you want to get your red and make it your pastime and change your mailing address to Natstown, USA, then nothing will! I mean, that blonde looks very nearly almost interested! It's good enough for me, at least - I'll be there tomorrow. Unfortunately, it's a day too soon for me to get a Los Nacionales t-shirt, but I'll still get to see Albert Pujols beat the infierno out of our culos.
I wrote something about pitch counts, particularly as they relate to Stephen Strasburg. Are links not showing up for you? They just look like normal text? I have complained about that.
I was thinking about this, in an ill-formed kind of way: is there an analogue in any other sport to pitchers' arm injuries? Is there a body part that routinely fails just as a result of an athlete doing his job? I guess soccer players have a lot of leg problems, but that seems to be from people regularly diving cleat-first into them. Plus they're faking half the time.
I don't know. Concussions in boxing, maybe? That's from getting hit, but that's half the job description. Do beach volleyball players get really bad sunburns? Do mixed martial artists start getting a little too used to having a sweaty man in combat panties on top of them? I don't know. Just thinking out loud here.
Did you ever notice that when the Nats make any kind of splash among the general baseball fan population, it's for something bad? Of course you have. Well it happened again recently, when Sports Illustrated's Tim Marchman put up something that's practically indistinguishable from my last ten or so posts, except for the lack of swears and kitten pictures.
Here's the difference, though: look at Tim Marchman. That's a face bent on finding censure. Stern, unforgiving. Now look at me (I'm below the poop arm). Note the pronounced joviality, the willingness to assume the very best, the comforting beigeness of the hair.
What this means is that when Marchman finds something to complain about, you can more or less dismiss it. It's like a positive review of Thunderbird from a wino. When I, on the other hand, find fault, it's an occasion to sit up and take notice. I'm not going to complain about just anything, as it obviously goes against my cheerful manner.
Therefore, you should all go check out my extended critique of the statues of the Elder Gods they plopped down in front of the ballpark. It features my own exclusive photography, endless use of the inherently amusing word "poop," and a full, uncensored look at that cheery face of mine.
Well, that was just awful. Just completely, thoroughly, unjokeaboutably awful. Joking about that game would be like cracking wise at a funeral.
Speaking of which, I think it's time for a Manny Acta Getting Shitcanned Watch. Whether or not it's his fault, this team cannot catch baseballs, and it's gotten so bad that every announcer we've got (with the intermittent exception of Sunny Bob Carpenter) is all but calling for Manny's head. If this keeps up ("this" meaning "not just losing but playing like our shoelaces are tied together"), it's going to happen soon.
One thing about Bob Carpenter: when Elijah Dukes avoided that fly ball in center like it was a court order, allowing two runs to score and shattering Daniel Cabrera's porcelain self-confidence, this was the exchange in the booth, more or less. (WARNING: I went ahead and wrote out all the swears that Dibble was thinking but didn't say because he's a broadcast professional.) Dukes dodged that fly ball like it was a court order! Two runs score! Oh for fuck's sake! What the ballsack is going on here? Yeah, that was pretty bad. BUT DAVID WRIGHT IS ONLY ON SECOND BASE! I mean, why can't any of these dumb motherfuckers catch a fucking ball? Or hit a batter in the head, for that matter. DAVID WRIGHT SHOULD BE ON THIRD BASE! WHY DOES HE NOT HUSTLE? Yeah, whatever. Catch the ball, dipshits. This isn't fucking Mario Bros. You don't lose a life if it touches you. DAVID WRIGHT IS THE SUCKIEST SUCK THAT EVER SUCKED!
It wasn't that Sunny Bob ignored the mistake. He briefly acknowledged it and then moved on to more homer-friendly topics. Dibble is growing on me precisely because he doesn't want to sweep that kind of stuff under the rug - he's just as mad as you are.
I watched the whole game last night, and at the end of it, I was pleased. "I say, old man," I said to myself, realizing as I did so that I'd been reading P.G. Wodehouse again, "that was a diverting three hours. Time to polish off the last fourth of this fifth and totter off to bed." Obedient as ever to the instructions of my internal monologue, I did so.
I slept the innocent, dreamless sleep of a baseball fan who'd seen a fine pitching duel, a closely-contested 1-0 contest that pushed both teams to their limits. Both sides, I was sure, had walked away with their moral fiber more fibrous and with a healthy respect for their foes.
But that's drunk talk. I woke up to face several unpleasant realities: it felt as though I had been entrusted with the safe-keeping of an unusually valuable wad of cotton balls and had kept them safe from burglars in my mouth; work (damn the concept!) meant that I couldn't resort to my usual practice of staying in bed and crying meekly for Wendy's; and, worst of all, the Nationals walked in the winning run.
What kind of pitching duel ends like that? This wasn't the well-struck dinger or the crafty squeeze bunt - this was rank incompetence. There's nothing more humiliating - baseball-wise - than walking in a run.
The tightly-played, narrowly-won pitching duel is one of baseball's sweetest delights and most time-honored treasures. And the Nats screwed it up, as they screw up everything: trades, free agency, statues of legendary players, jerseys, drafting, the Dominican Republic, text messaging, giving the game situation on radio broadcasts, hitting coaching, everything.
At least I figured out a remedy, based on my 24-hour mood swing: DRINK. Drink and never let yourself sober up.
So I was reading Chico Harlan's latest chat on the Washington Post site. I always check those things out since Harlan's embarrassment is palpable, and I really like the way embarrassment feels. It's warm and kind of spongy, and it leaves your hands smelling a bit like tar.
There was some discussion of Manny Acta's handling of Jordan Zimmermann during the young fellow's unwatched debut. With two men on in the sixth, and with Zimmmermannn having thrown just 72 pitches, Acta pinch hit for him - which was a good idea - with Alex Cintron - which was not. The issue was addressed in the chat.
Alexandria, Va.: Why is Cintron the go-to pinch hitter with Kearns and Willingham on the bench? Cintron repeatedly got the nod in the big spots over the weekend and last night. And he delivered like you'd expect a backup utility middle infielder.
Chico Harlan (mood: embarrassed): It was the sixth inning. It's OK to save your better pinch hitters for the latter innings. (Willingham, by the way, was starting LF last night, but Kearns was indeed available to PH.) But there's no problem is using a guy like Cintron in that spot. Plus, I believe Lowe was still pitching at the time. Kearns is 2-for-17 lifetime against DL.
This is utter tactical nonsense, right? The point of pinch-hitting in that situation is to blow the game open; to make it, as "Chico" himself mentioned earlier in the chat, 5-2 rather than 3-2. If it works, you won't need your better pinch hitters later, and it's a lot more likely to work with Kearns than with Cintron. But I don't need to explain this to you - "It's OK to save your better pinch hitters" is obviously moronic and requires no commentary. These aren't the higher Stengelian functions we're dealing with.
But why am I making fun of the sportswriter who defended the bad move rather than the manager who made it, other than to make fun of the sportswriter for hating his job? I guess it's because I don't want to see Acta fired just yet.
The "Natinals" incident has taught something about myself: I am steel. Maybe I'm wrong, but I'm guessing that a fan of a better team would be pretty upset about that, or at least amused. I am neither. It is as nothing. Years of constant humiliation have made me immune, and I'm betting you're the same way.
Yes, dear reader, embarrassment to us is like water off a duck's back. Our team makes headlines only for metaphorically peeing itself in front of the whole class? Well to us that's like a blown save to Joel Hanrahan or fatherhood to Elijah Dukes - not a big deal, happens every day.
So . . . I got to admit: I don't have a big finish here. I just wrote this so I could make that Dukes joke. I think it was worth it. There is a thing that I wrote, by the way.
I ambled down to Nationals Park on Saturday to make it my pastime and get my red on and whatnot, and you could not have asked for a better day. As long as you ignore the on the field happenings, of course. I was favorably impressed: the staff was almost too friendly, the place is quite nice when it's only half full, it was a pretty good game for eight innings.
One of my reasons for making a stop in Natstown was to get some personal, non-copyrighted photos of those horrendous, seemingly poo-covered statues they've just added. I did that, but I did not let my photo-taking rest with that mission accomplished. Please enjoy the sights of the first half hour of a day at the ballpark. I'm not a huge fan of the park from an aesthetic standpoint (I'm even less of one from an ascetic standpoint), but this is pretty cool. The sweet sounds of the Obscure Nationals Jazz Ensemble! I don't know who these guys are, but they made some interesting jersey selections. Which is more likely: 1) They did this on purpose, just as I would have done, as a gag? or 2) The Nats just gave them some jerseys they found in a crate in the basement? I wonder if the guitarist knows that Levale Speigner's a golem. Ray Knight and Johnny Holliday! I don't know how they do their job with yokels like me this close to them. Shortly after this, Knight stood for the entirety of the national anthem, which I thought was nice. Unattended snacks! The ceremonial first pitch, delivered by a guy from IHOP. Probably because of his ground-breaking work in the field of hash browns. Portait of the Artist as a Young Man Standing in Front of Walter Johnson who has Poop Shooting from his Shoulder Socket. American, 2009 Artist: Ryan Moore, b. 1977 And here's the ferocious kitten who guards both my towels and my gin. I pay her in kind, but she's not interested in the gin.
I think I'm going to the game on Saturday - I'll be the guy in the pink Nats cap with his head in his hands. But there's point in mentioning that, since I'm probably going to be only person there. Right? I'm also going to get some pictures of those nightmare statues, which must have been designed by Nyarlathotep, accompanied by the piping of two amorphous idiot flute-players.
See, that right there is why I like the Internet: all the info you need about Nyarlathotep, the Crawling Chaos, is right there on Wikipedia.
Incidentally,I wrote a thing. It's a thing full of delightful nostalgia, and you're sure to enjoy it. Have a couple drinks first just to make sure, though.
Do you like beer? Go to Denver! As I was strolling the ten blocks from my parking space to Coors Field, every third building was a brewpub. And, based on my limited sampling, a damn good brewpub. There was a even a distillery in there, which I like to think evolved Pokemon-style from a particularly accomplished brewery.
Like this pretty much, except replace "ABRA" with "brewpub" and "KADABRA" with "distillery."
Here's my report from the Rockies home opener: It's just like going to Camden Yard except that things that would be orange in Baltimore are purple. And there's more beer. There you go.
Anyway, I return to find that the Nationals are just awful. But I've reserved that kind of content for over here, where you should go right now. Also, I notice that no one gave me a suggestion on what to call my pieces over there. Don't feel too guilty, though, because it's not too late. Come on, people - I obviously can't come with a name. Help a brother out.
Is "Friends of the Nationals Zoo" too long? Too stupid? Will people not understand the learned allusion and think that I'm referring to the Yankees or Ol' Dirty Bastard? Give til it hurts, dear readers.
Right, so the Nats are lousy. But that is an ephemeral concern. The true Nats fan has his eyes on the future, on the generations to come. Maybe we're terrible now, but we're leaving a foundation for posterity, just as our Founding Fathers shot at Englishmen so we wouldn't have to put up with the Queen's bullshit.
Let's have a look at our latest contribution to the embiggening of baseball in the nation's capital.
WHAT IN THE FUCKING FUCK IS THAT?! I'll have more on this later - see the previous sentence for a preview.
It's the second game of the season, and Rob Dibble is already apologizing for being repetitive before he talks about throwing at heads again. I guess we should congratulate him for his self awareness.
Others who should apologize:
Lastings Milledge for fielding his position about as well as he raps.
The Marlins for kicking the shit out of us in such a predictable, unimaginative fashion.
Holy crap, did you see the ump eat it on that pitch right down the middle to Kearns? Even Homeboy Bob Carpenter was outraged.
Oh, and speaking of which, is Carpenter completely full of crap on those homers to left field being mere flyballs elsewhere? Or not?
This is going to be one of approximately ten games over the course of the season that I'm going to be around for the end of, so I'm really paying attention. Starting . . . now! I missed the first three innings.
I LOVE the new road jerseys. I wonder why the Nats and the Orioles decided at the same time to do that right.
I'm good luck: I tuned in just in time for Guzman's single, and now we have a couple runs.
I'm enjoying the emerging narrative around Julian Tavarez: that he's a total dick who throws at people just because he can, but he's our total dick who throws at people just because he can.
Over on MASN1, Sabathia just got booed by a de facto home crowd.
And now I'm not good luck anymore.
I knew Bonifacio would turn out to be a player. Dammit. Lastings Milledge in center is going to be fun. Anyone miss Brandon Watson?
Josh Bard to went to frigging Cherry Creek High School? I have a new least favorite Nat. Fuck Cherry Creek. Smoky Hill 4 Life.
Rob Dibble is going to spend 162 games (plus spring training) advocating chin music, isn't he? I'm not saying he's wrong, but mix it up a little.
This rad, danceable simile just came to me: I miss Don Sutton . . . like the deserts miss the rain.
They probably should have gotten Nolasco out of there. Just sayin'.
It doesn't matter that he's a completely run of the mill hitter: Zimmerman's in there for his defense.
The first Dibble comment I liked, on Bonifacio: "He's hitting 1.000 right now. In two weeks he'll be hitting .220."
So it's gonna be like that, is it? Well get used to Hanley doing that to us, if you aren't already.
OK, so my wife is sitting here playing with a cat and not paying particular attention to the game. I present a transcription: Bob Carpenter: "And at the end of the seventh, the Nats are down 12-5." Wife: *SNORT* Wife: "Sorry." Cat: "Meow."
And finally, in case you were wondering when the Future was finally going to get here, wait no more. Here is a video of this very post performed by me in a butcher's apron, with commentary by my biggest fan, Australian Ben Franklin. I'm not kidding when I say: this is the best thing on this miserable blog since I called Dayn Perry an asshole.
Well, tomorrow's the afternoon, but whatever. This is going to the best one yet! I can feel it.
Seriously, though, it very well could be the best season since the first one (over/under on how long it'll take the Nats to break .500? Anyone?). While that's not a particularly high bar to leap, anything north of "watchable" will be a mood-changing improvement.
S is for Strasburg, whose bonus will floor us
T is for Trees, our fine cherry blossoms
Dukes dodged that fly ball like it was a court order! Two runs score!
Oh for fuck's sake! What the ballsack is going on here?
Ray Knight and Johnny Holliday! I don't know how they do their job with yokels like me this close to them. Shortly after this, Knight stood for the entirety of the national anthem, which I thought was nice.
