Yard Work

Moving Day!

2005-07-28T13:48:00.000-04:00

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Where the Buffalo Wings Roam

2005-07-27T16:35:00.000-04:00

“I dunno, all that red hair – there’s too much anger in this kid,” a scout murmured over my shoulder late one balmy Tampa afternoon, as I sprawled out in a post-speedball rictus across a rack of crumbling bleachers to watch a young hitter from a sun-torched diploma mill called Plant High School stroke doubles into the gap during batting practice. “It’s like watching the guillotine in 1789,” the scout said, “Chop. Chop. Chop. Chop.”

I’d been following the Carter campaign around Florida when Dave Hickey rang me up to tell me about a ball of Scottish fury who was giving high school pitchers across that whole moist, miserable swamp of a state fits, saying I better go watch the kid’s smooth inside-out swing before he wised up to the grind of the minors and went to Gainesville to play football and get a degree in marine biology instead. Dave was in his finding-beauty-in-the-everyday period back then, and I was skeptical. Plus, dragging myself 300 miles up from my hotel on South Beach to watch some kid who wasn’t even shaving yet splatter his old man’s 58-mile-per-hour BP fastballs around wasn’t exactly high on my list of good times. The thing was, despite all that searching, Dave wasn’t wrong about much back then, and he wasn’t wrong about the kid. The kid named Wade Boggs.

Years later, when time had taken some of the fire out of Wade’s red locks (and indeed, had taken most of my hair altogether) I would return to Florida and watch the boy-become-an-elder-statesman stroke his 3,000th hit out over that crushed-velvet prom dress of a field he played on during his last two years as a Tampa Bay Devil Ray. The ball crept over the right-field fence like a spry old burglar making one last score before hopping on his Indian and heading down to the Yucatan, and but for the rows of plastic seats arrayed in its path, it might have kept right on sailing clear over the Gulf and out to those distant Mexican shores – kept on going right out into legend, instead of into the hands of some pissant who probably put it up for sale on eBay. Vultures. At any rate, that homer stands as the most momentous base knock in the Devil Rays’ abbreviated history, and it's unlikely we'll see any similarly magical moments at that soap dish of a stadium again.

Now, Wade is packing up his milestones and entering the Hall, and it's hard to think of any player making the trek Upstate over the past few years that is more deserving. (Also, let's us pause to note that we all have something to be thankful for as Wade travels to Cooperstown wearing Red Sox. I don’t give a good god damn if Tampa was the man’s hometown – and it wasn’t anyway, Wade was from Omaha. There should never be anything called a Devil Ray even remotely near the Hall. Ever. Period.)

Most of you know the in-between parts to his story: Wade hacks his way though the minors like the slow, steady hand of a lumberjack clearing a pine forest, chewing on the New York Penn and the Carolina and the International Leagues like they were just another meal -- a 662-game, 35-course meal. Then one fine day Carney Lansford, old Carney, went down with a bad wheel, and Wade busted up and through at last to Boston, where none other than Sparky Anderson anointed him as “one of the best-looking hitters I’ve ever seen.” (Sparky wasn’t much of one for the gay bars, so you know his meaning was clear.)

Like all Red Sox, Wade made a mark for himself early in the annals of The Rivalry (for good or ill), recording the last out in Dave Righetti’s Independence Day no-hitter in '83. That might well have been the last time that Wade went oh-fer. Batting championships would follow, as would the shared, solitary heartbreak of 1986 and 25 guys in 25 cabs. There was the parallel development of Don Mattingly, Donnie Baseball, who, despite the whining of those sandwiched between the Bronx and the Battery, could never really carry Wade’s jock. Then Wade himself would shamble down south and bring a title to the toilet. I suspect that despite the joy he chose to show those South Bronx minions, Wade probably never felt quite right about riding around on the back of that mounted police, waving to the Big City crowds. There was an ache there, you could see it -- an ache that started stinging when that accursed grounder slithered through Billy Buckner’s spindly, broken-down legs. The ache has eased only on very rare occasions ever since, and then never for long.

So, that was the baseball, sure -- but there was also chicken, and lots of it. Jim Rice, who grew up deep enough in the South to be horrified at the very notion of boneless skinless chicken breasts, would dub Wade “Chicken Man,” and the name stuck between Red Sox Nation’s teeth like the skin on a buffalo wing. There was chicken before every game, dished out in exacting specifications of portion and duration, in a parade of poultry not seen in the Bay State since Miles Standish sat down to break bread with the Injuns. Very likely there was at least a thigh or two after the game, as well, if you grasp my meaning. It was the 80s, people, and excess was everywhere. Even if you were on the food stamps.

Chicken wasn’t the only routine that Wade embraced, however. In the field, he would take exactly one hundred and fifty ground balls before a game. No more, no less. He took his batting practice at precisely 5:17 p.m. and ran his sprints at 7:17. (Mercifully, Wade was well along the road to retirement by the time the 7:05 start, a sissified time to start a game anyway, become the national standard. Trains leave the station at 7:05. Men play baseball at 7:30. ) He drew some kind of Buddhist symbol in the dirt every time he went to bat -- or maybe it was Margo Adams’ initials, shit if I know. These were heavy freebasing days for me, and it took an Olympic effort for me to even endorse the occasional check from Jann.

There are plenty of other stories out there about stewardesses and Penthouse and snorting lines off the nubile young posteriors of various Yawkey heiresses. Those, too, were good times, but times perhaps best left at the door of this august chamber, here in the beautiful rolling hills of New York State. Besides, I have probably already gone on too long. I thank you for your patience. We all thank Wade for his ever dependable if quiet greatness.

Hunter S. Thompson is the author of Fear and Loating on the Campaign Trail, among many other books. He died earlier this year at the age of 67.

Where Is the Love for Lima Time?

2005-07-27T10:36:00.000-04:00

The editors of Yard Work should be ashamed of themselves. All this talk about the King of the Tacos – and no Jose Lima?

Maybe you haven't been paying attention to the Kansas City Royals, but as far as tacos go, it's Lima Time, baby! I'm up to 22, third in the league...and no respect from you. Where is the love, E$PN? You are all dogs' hindquarters and should be shot in the street for denying the glory that is Lima Time.

Oliver Perez, one of these so-called "finalists," does not care about becoming King of the Tacos. All he wants to do is trim his little girl beard into ever more elaborate shapes. But me, Jose Lima? I care about tacos.

When I was a young boy growing up in Santiago, I could only dream of a guaranteed job at Taco Bell. I am not like those privileged sissy Americans. Every day I would eat the Quisqueyano food, and think to myself, "What if there was a way to combine grilled chicken, shredded cheese, refried beans, ground beef, and sour cream within a deep-fried double-decker taco shell? What if I could then order cinnamon twists or a Choco-Taco?"

Maybe you should try living in Kansas City, E$PN. These burnt ends – they are not fit for starving livestock or Paul DePodesta. But every day, while I drive to the stadium, I stop at Taco Bell and I return to the dreamland of little Jose, fielding grounders in the modest little cockfighting ring of my father.

To finally retire from baseball and embark upon a career at Taco Bell would be the culmination of a lifelong ambition, E$PN. Have you tried the new CrunchWrap Supreme? It is poetry. Spicy ground beef, melted cheese, lettuce, tomatoes, and sour cream, nestled within the warm embrace of both a soft tortilla and a crunchy tostada shell, all lovingly grilled to create a masterpiece of portable cuisine.

I know a thing or two about itches, E$PN. When you have an itch, you must scratch it. And no soothing unguent can cure me of the fever I feel deep inside - the fever of beisbol, yes, but also the desire to spread the good name of Yum! Brands International far and wide. What must I do? Perhaps I shall enlist my wife to help me write taco-specific new lyrics for a patriotic song to sing at a future Royals game or Taco Bell store opening. Perhaps then the world shall pay attention. Glory, glory, enchirito!

Autry's War Follow-Up: An Interview With Don Delillo

2005-07-26T22:09:00.000-04:00

Editor's Note: The opening chapter to novelist Don Delillo's Underworld might be the greatest thing ever written about the game. And with books such as Libra, which tackled the plot to assassinate Kennedy, under his belt, he was the perfect person to discuss the story's larger implications. Delillo graciously agreed to sit down with Yard Work to talk about it.

Yard Work: How should Sy Hersh's piece change the way we look at baseball?

Don Delillo: In 1955, Ray Kroc opened the first "franchised" McDonald's. In 1955, Elvis Presley became a star. There are histories within histories, connections of the subconscious that follow to the grave or grill. In Europe, Africa, Asia and South America, these strands are connected like telephone wire; those are places unafraid of subtext or the supernatural. But in America, where the distance holds us together, there are never hidden meanings — it's God's way and the highway. That's it.

It has always been American's Americans who have perpetuated its greatest crimes. For love of country and money, they have exploited the cubbyholes of capitalism. And these men know those intricacies because their ancestors — the slave drivers and merchant ship captains and plantation owners — wrote them, and there is a gene passed along those lines whose sole purpose is to manipulate the lower classes. And make no mistake: we are all the lower classes.

YW: Were you surprised to learn that a conspiracy so deep could exist in baseball?

DD: Society is a conspiracy. Marriage is a conspiracy. You can never reveal everything — we are unaware of so much about ourselves. Some are attuned to the unsaid, others only the obvious. To know both is to be an artist, and to be an artist is to be a narcissist. What Freud meant to say but didn't is that there are conspiracies even within the self. The id, ego and superego are in collusion; toward what, we will never know. And death — death is the biggest conspiracy of all. There are infinite dead somewhere, and we like to think of them as omnipresent and omniscient, but what if there is death after death? There is a religion of death, and it worships at gravestones on full moons, when the heavens open their gates and breathe down upon us. It is the religion of life that has ruined us. Its god is greed, and the men who run baseball are its bishops, pastors and rabbis. There can never be surprises, only minor revelations of what was already known.

YW: What impact did Gene Autry's efforts have on the game?

DD: He was a fraud. It was an empire built on the decayed flesh of beasts that he lacked the courage to kill himself. And so he sang ditties about the frontier to reassure our children that they were right to be carnivores, that they should always consume. He wrote capitalism's scores of the 20th century, odes to lust and destruction, two impulses that inevitably draw toward casualty. If it wasn't Autry it would have been someone else: John Wayne, Jim Morrison, Tom Cruise. There will always be another parasite to take that place. It's the one thing capitalism produces with minimal effort, its greatest export.

YW: Should the people involved in this plot who are still in baseball be punished?

DD: By whom? We are all complicit. There are no innocents. We crack peanut shells and stomp our feet. We study the numbers in search of epiphany. We follow the standings as if they judged our own self-worth. New York's greatest economic boom coincided with a remarkable Yankee run — which is responsible for which? There is no purity in baseball. There never was and never will be. "Purity" only exists in America as a consumable quality: drugs, milk, children. Those things are pure, and those are commodities. This is no coincidence.

And who would punish them? The only possible solution would be to somehow extricate money from the entire enterprise — an impossible task for sure. What is left is Little League, skinned knees sliding into home plate and sunflower seeds dotting dugout floors. This is what we want to see when we watch the Major Leagues, but it's a simulacrum of the worst sort, because those Little Leaguers dream of becoming their imitators — not vice versa. We are already being punished. Go Red Sox.

Autry's War (Part Five)

2005-07-26T17:59:00.000-04:00

By Seymour Hersh
Click to read part one
Click to read part two
Click to read part three
Click to read part four
Click to read follow-up interview with Don Delillo

Gene Autry's Cowboy Code:

1. The Cowboy must never shoot first, hit a smaller man, or take unfair advantage.
2. He must never go back on his word, or a trust confided in him.
3. He must always tell the truth.
4. He must be gentle with children, the elderly, and animals.
5. He must not advocate or possess racially or religiously intolerant ideas.
6. He must help people in distress.
7. He must be a good worker.
8. He must keep himself clean in thought, speech, action, and personal habits.
9. He must respect women, parents, and his nation's laws.
10. The Cowboy is a patriot.

As devious as it might have been, Autry's secret agreement with the owners of the Cleveland Indians, San Diego Padres and Montreal Expos did not infringe on any of the rules of his beloved Cowboy Code. In fact, Autry often justified the pact with Cowboy Code No. 6, say associates of his from the early '80s.

"At heart, Gene believed his actions to be altruistic," says one former California Angels executive. "When [Major League Baseball] came down hard on him during [the 1981 labor stoppage], Gene was honestly confused. He couldn't understand why anyone would be upset."

But Gene's view was a minority opinion. As St. Louis Cardinals manager Whitey Herzog told reporters around that time, "Before long, you can look for some teams to go bankrupt, like the Minnesota Twins. The Twins and some other clubs just can't afford to compete for salaries the way things are set up. I think the bankruptcies will start in two or three years."

Like many uninformed forecasts, Herzog's was found faulty by the slow march of history, but it's important to recognize the sentiment that prevailed in baseball at the time, just as it did recently with the "contraction" fiasco brought about by current Commissioner Bud Selig. The sky was falling — on everyone but the Angels, Expos, Indians and Padres, that is.

Yet in terms of the Autry pact, the most that ever came out of the 1981 stoppage was a stern talking-to by Commissioner Bowie Kuhn. In July of 1981, Kuhn called Autry, Nick Mileti, Charles Bronfman and Ray Kroc to his office and asked them if they were sharing revenue, which was against baseball rules at the time. All but Autry denied the charge; the Angels owner simply demurred, and somehow he escaped the meeting without answering the question, say sources familiar with the meeting. Short of a long and public investigation that could upset the uneasy peace that was beginning to prevail between players and owners, Kuhn had little recourse, and took the men at their word.

Autry was so shaken by the meeting that he implored the other three owners to nix the agreement. "This has gotten to be too much," he wrote to Mileti several days after the meet. "We have to stop this before it gets out of hand. If that hasn't happened already." While Mileti sympathized with Autry's doubts, he couldn't turn his back on the profits they were making. "I understand, Gene," he wrote in reply, "but there is just so much at steak [sp] here. Without our pact, you'd have to sell the Angels, and I can't allow that to happen." Mileti's letter convinced Autry to remain in the group, but his interest and influence would never be the same.

Ray Kroc, who made untold millions through his McDonald's franchise, responded to the meeting very differently. "[Kohn] has no power over us," he told Mileti according to sources in the Padres front office. "Screw that guy. We do what we want." While Bronfman and Mileti didn't share Kroc's hard-line stance, the restaurateur (to be generous) had made himself the leader of the pact in the wake of the Kuhn meeting. For better or worse, Bronfman and Mileti were hitching their wagons to Kroc.

Over the following two years, Kroc became more and more aggressive about courting new teams to join the pact. He had taken to fondly calling the group "McBaseball" to friends and associates within the Padres organization. As time went on, actual baseball became secondary to "McBaseball," as Kroc approached the game the same way he had the food industry: with strong-arm tactics and a showman's flair.

One owner reluctant to play "McBaseball" remembers how aggressive Kroc could be. "Ray and his people had been calling me over and over," he remembers, "and sending me color TVs, bicycles, even a bunch of French fries. But I just wouldn't budge... Ray got more insistent as time went on, until late one night I get a knock on my door at home. I answer it to find [the owner's team's mascot] hanging from a noose in my front lawn, and the damned San Diego Chicken was setting it on fire. I wanted to call the cops, but I didn't know how far Ray would go."

The rumor mills abound with other stories of Kroc's hostile behavior, but he still managed to rope the Philadelphia Phillies into the cabal in 1983, and was close to bringing in the Baltimore Orioles later that year. But Kroc died in January, 1984, and the deal was left unfinished.

When Kroc's "reign of terror," as a baseball executive called it in a conversation with me, ended, the intimidation tactics stopped overnight. It was once more a gentleman's game, and the Orioles deal was completed in 1984, the Milwaukee Brewers in 1986, the Cincinnati Reds in 1988, the Kansas City Royals in 1989, the Los Angeles Dodgers in 1990, the Detroit Tigers and Pittsburgh Pirates in 1991 and the Colorado Rockies, Florida Marlins and San Francisco Giants in 1993. It was no longer about statistics (though all who entered the pact agreed that they would not allow a pitcher to win twenty games out of respect to Autry, a decision that was calamitous for Orioles pitcher Mike Mussina). It was about money.

In 1994, Major League Baseball went on strike. At baseball's helm was acting Commissioner Bud Selig, the longtime owner of the Milwaukee Brewers, who had joined the Autry pact in 1986. Selig had been a proponent of a salary cap in the '80s, and made it his mission as commissioner to bring it into being. Yet members of the cabal were staunchly opposed because Selig's proposal would bring about league-wide revenue sharing, thereby ending the biggest advantage the group enjoyed. The two sides reached an impasse, putting the players and fans squarely in the middle. But when Selig threatened to go public with the group's entire history, they finally backed down. With that, the strike was over and Autry's war was lost.

Four years later, Gene Autry would die, on October 2, 1998. He was buried a hero, an All-American Cowboy. Four years after his death, his beloved Angels would win their first World Series title — and without a twenty-game winner either.

After the strike ended, the members of Autry's pact scattered to the winds like the former Soviet Union territories. The bond that they once held was gone. But at Autry's funeral, they gathered again to reflect on his life and their group, which had consumed his last thirty years. Never again, they each vowed, would one of their hurlers win twenty games. Autry would win after all.

Seymour Hersh, a regular contributor to The New Yorker, is a Pulitzer Prize-winning journalist and author of several best-selling books.

Rank Index -- NL West

2005-07-26T10:46:00.000-04:00

Good afternoon sports fans, and welcome to another edition of the Rank Index right here at Yard Work. We're heading into the home stretch of the 2005 season: a time when pennant races heat up and the games really start to count. With the trade deadline just around the corner, it's time to think about the Yankees, Red Sox, and all the other teams who are gunning for the playoffs. So let's take a closer look at one of baseball's most intruiging and competitive divisions -- the NL West.

NL WEST

San Diego Padres -- As long as Jake Peavy continues working his magic on the mound, with Brian Giles and Ryan Klesko slamming balls out of NL ballparks, the Padres remain the team to beat in the West. They've proven that they're the class of the division by holding off the Diamondbacks and Dodgers for most of the season, and until they're dethroned, they earn top grade. A+

Arizona Diamondbacks -- They've shown remarkable character in 2005 by rebounding from 110 losses to pennant contender in only one year. Only fourteen seasons ago, the Braves accomplished the exact same feat -- and they haven't finished out of first place ever since! Could this be an omen of things to come for the 2001 World Champs? A

Los Angeles Dodgers -- After winning the division in 2004, they added former MVP Jeff Kent and 2004 playoff hero Derek Lowe. They haven't let injuries to Eric Gagne and J.D. Drew get them down, and with Brad Penny and taco king Jeff Weaver filling out the rotation, the Dodgers can be counted on for big things down the stretch. Plus, you can never, ever, underestimate a defending champ. A

San Francisco Giants -- Despite a season of turmoil, with superstars Barry Bonds and Jason Schmidt missing significant playing time due to injuries, the Giants are a mere 1.5 games behind defending champs Los Angeles. The Giants find a way to be in the thick of things every year, and with one of the smartest managers in the game in Felipe Alou, expect to see the Giants causing trouble in the NL West this September. A

Colorado Rockies -- Clint Barmes was looking like a shoo-in for Rookie of the Year before his tragic staircase injury. Nonetheless, things are looking up for the Rockies thanks to the resurgence of Todd Helton and the inspired pitching of young Jeff Francis. Imagine the hang time that newcomer Eric Byrnes will get on his diving catches in the thin air of Denver! A-.

AJ Burnett -- He's the name on everybody's lips, and has been for weeks. Even the Dodgers don't have the glitz to compete with the Hollywood-esque exposure that Burnett has received from fans, players, and managers throughout the game of baseball. The Giants might be able to upstage him if Bonds were to return this season, but barring that, it's top grades all the way for Burnett's meteoric rise. A+

Kabir's Korner: The Paradox of Livan.

2005-07-26T10:27:00.000-04:00

Jivatma is the personal soul,
the other is God, Paramatma.
What is the difference between them?
Look inside, Livan, look inside.

You are a workhorse, it's true,
but what merit accrues to such hard work?
Innings Pitched will not redeem you,
will not help you find the bliss of Sahaj.

Livan, do not ignore Earth's simple gifts,
stretched like pearls on strings before you:
the J.J. Hardys of this world, who shrink
your Earned Runs Average -- they are all maya.

Similarly: to chase success
in your team's first year in Columbia's District
is also maya, illusion;
a waltz for shadow puppets!

Do not hold press conferences, Livan,
do not threaten worlds with Operation Shutdown.
Instead, Livan, look inside,
treasure the jewels you already possess.

If strikeouts come to you, let them come,
accept the bounty of the goddess Sita.
But groundball outs are also good,
keep that ratio down, that will also please Shiva.

And if, o warrior!, you give up long gappers
(even though you hurl in a pitcher's paradise),
do not lash out in anger when yanked.
That, too, is maya, and must be avoided.

Above all else, honour your mechanics,
that is the breath of breath that forms the world!
No more lame histrionics, Livan!
Go forth, shatter the idols! Live free of fear!

Kabir was a 15th century Indian mystic and seer, and a huge fan of the National League. His baseball poetry is available in a new translation by Vijay Chaganta.

Autry's War (Part Four)

2005-07-25T15:14:00.000-04:00

By Seymour Hersh
Click to read part one
Click to read part two
Click to read part three

From 1975-1978, the California Angels and Cleveland Indians maintained their protest against Major League Baseball: no pitcher reached twenty wins, and the antagonistic relationship with Commissioner Bowie Kuhn continued to sour. But Angels owner Gene Autry and Indians owner Nick Mileti began to realize that their protest was no more than a gesture, and that their battle was one of little consequence, even within their own organizations. It seemed that the whole project was about to be dismissed as the rich man's folly that it really was.

But then Gene Autry went bust.

Autry made most of his money from cowboy records, the Westerns he starred in and the beef industry, which funded many of his projects and also kept him on retainer as an unofficial spokesman for big-business ranching. But the late '70s, which saw a resurgence of "urban" culture like disco, were not kind to Autry's portfolio, and suddenly he was in dire financial straits — so much so, that it seemed he might even have to sell his beloved Angels.

Sources within Autry's inner circle say that for weeks he agonized over what could be done. It wasn't just the money; pride was at stake, too. Feeling up against the wall, Autry finally made a phone call to his friend Mileti, and asked for a loan. Mileti, who had no closer friend in the game, immediately said yes, he would do whatever Autry asked.

Rather than a simple loan, Mileti and Autry agreed to a longer term deal that could help both financially. The agreement they reached is now commonly referred to as "revenue sharing," but at the time it was a somewhat novel idea, especially within the sports world. The deal worked like this: revenue that each team made over a certain amount would be added to a joint fund, and then that amount would be divided between the two teams. Not only would it keep Autry afloat, but it would similarly help Mileti should he fall upon tough times as well. The one drawback to this deal, however, was obvious: should both teams have simultaneous down years, there would be no relief.

Autry and Mileti began to court other owners to join their pact to combat this one flaw. New owners who joined would receive 20% of the fund, with Autry and Mileti each receiving 40%. For each new team that an owner brought in, that owner would receive an additional 5%. And no matter how many teams joined, Autry and Mileti would never receive less than 30% of the money, and no other owner could exceed that amount. (Several sources suggested that the idea originated with Jackie Autry, Gene's wife, who was an active member of cosmetics agency Mary Kay, which used a similar scheme. Others theorized that some of Mileti's alleged mafia ties could have inspired the idea.)

With those parameters in place, the two men began to recruit new members. They made house calls on various owners, making their pitches with charts, diagrams and Cuban cigars, one owner who rebuffed their overtures remembers.

"Gene came in to my office smiling like a used car salesman, a big pinkie ring gleaming on his hand," he remembers. "He had some assistant with him, who unloaded an easel and some pie charts showing the money I could make if I signed up with them. I told him that I thought the idea was foolish, and asked him if Bowie [Kuhn] knew what he was up to. Gene just laughed and continued with his pitch. He called me many times after that to follow-up. It just didn't feel right to me."

Others, however, were more intrigued by the idea; most notably new San Diego Padres owner Ray Kroc, who made his fortune by founding the McDonald's franchise, and Montreal Expos owner Charles Bronfman, who owned Seagrams whiskey. Both men quickly signed up with Autry and Mileti, and saw their profits soar in the ensuing years as a result. And, in a curious throwback to the agreement's childish beginnings, Kroc and Bronfman both agreed to prevent any of their pitchers from winning twenty games as a subtle insult to Commissioner Kuhn.

Through 1981, Autry, Mileti, Kroc and Bronfman were making enormous sums of money. They were sharing information on how to squeeze every last dollar out of their franchises and prospering in the resulting revenues. They had a tight network among and within their organizations, and the quartet was happy counting its blessings — and profits.

In 1981, however, word got out about their agreement within baseball. None were sure how, and none could be certain of how much was known. But the 1981 labor stoppage, which halted the season for 50 days, was a direct result of their private pact. Word of Autry and Mileti's earlier visits to a number of front offices had long circulated the grapevine, but no one had paid much attention to the seemingly outlandish rumors. As revenues for other teams began to wane in 1980 and salaries increased due to free agency, however, the coupling of those rumors with Autry's newfound wealth made some owners more than suspicious — they were downright irate.

(Continued in part five)

Seymour Hersh, a regular contributor to The New Yorker, is a Pulitzer Prize-winning journalist and author of several best-selling books.

Bleep Bleep - July 25th

2005-07-25T14:00:00.000-04:00

IT'S SHOWTIME F*CKERS!

Oh yeah, I loved hearing Ron Gardenhire give it right back to those umps Lee Elia style. That was some great old-school no-sh*t-taking stuff. You *ss jockeys probably think Major League managers have it easy - they just slap on some stirrups, make a lineup, tell their coaches to coach, and run out to the mound once in a while to pull some sh*twit that couldn't find the plate if he was the f*cking plate. Well, here's a NEWSFLASH for you, Rudy - managing is probably the hardest f*cking thing a guy could do. You gotta wrestle with 27 (or 26 - whatever) multi-million dollar egos every single day, on the field, off the field, every g*ddamn place. You gotta shower w/ these f*cks, you gotta eat w/ these f*cks, you gotta listen to these f*cks while they whine about getting sued by some 14-year-old's parents for statutory, you gotta listen to these f*cks yak up their lunch because the blow they bought was actually cut-up drywall, blah blah blah. Buncha p*ssies. Just take your 0-fer and get the f*ck outta my g*ddamn office, me and Jim Beam are trying to actually get some f*cking work done.

Then you gotta play footsie with the f*cking press, a bunch of cupcake-kissing fat campers asking their stupid sh*t questions like, "What'd you think about losing 10-0 to a Sally League team?" or "How'd you feel when Cormier walked the bases loaded three times in a row?" or "Why the hell are you giving that f*ckwit David Bell any playing time?" And the radio and TV guys, holy sh*t they're dumb. I could have a better conversation with a ham sandwich than with those see-Spot-run tards. And don't think the brains get bigger when you go national. You heard Morgan & Miller, right? Watching them wipe each other's *sses is like watching Jessica Biel do something that doesn't involve wearing a bikini. (Her trying to take down a super-smart plane - yeah, that’s real. Lemme know when you get a role in the next Bond flick as Einstein's daughter, babe. And the talking, not so much - please figure out what T&A stands for sometime this f*cking year.)

But, man, umpires are the d*ck in my popcorn that just makes me so happy I'm done with that nonsense. I spent way too much time watching these fat, cross-eyed, lazy no-good dinks treat the strike zone like a game of Twister. Half the time, the f*cking thing's shaped like a fractal or some Pollock bullsh*t, and the pitcher's just left guessing where the ump wants it. Play Peek-A-Boo on your own f*cking time, sped. And those f*cking stupid strike calls - what, you got a chicken bone stuck in your throat, Gregg? You want me to get the Jaws of Life so we can do the Heimlich on your tubby ass? SAY THE MOTHERF*CKING WORD ALREADY. None of this "hoo-wah" Scent of a Woman shit. You ain't going for the g*ddamn Oscar, so just say the f*cking word you Crisco-licking mancow. The only thing worse than those halfwits behind the f*cking plate are the specially abled clowns out in the field. If I got a nickel for every time some blue f*cked up a call at a base, I'd be rich enough to own the f*cking Yankees ten times over.

And they're so f*cking tough, what with their posing like they're gonna be in the next f*cking Tom Emanski video, and their big pads hiding their f*cking saggy tits, and their f*cking showboating. I love it when some blue decides to start acting like he's the show. Gardenhire had that f*ckwit dead to rights - it's the umps that want the spotlight. Hell, when I managed, I just wanted to get the f*cking game over with so I could kick back w/ some hooch and get the f*ck away from all the bullsh*t. But these guys, they're just f*cking washed-up high-school prettyboys that want to get some airtime, so they strut around like f*cking flamingos tossing guys out and showing up guys that can actually walk up a flight of stairs w/out needing an iron lung and getting in my face because I called that dimwit Durwood on that bullsh*t strike call because f*ck if you're going to call sh*t at the shoetops a strike, then let's call the game and go play catch with the 1st graders because you clearly don't want to see anyone actually hit the f*cking ball. Yeah, that's right, I told you to go f*cking play on the balance beam, you squat little sh*t. Yeah, f*ck you, too - at least I can see my feet when I stand up. Say hi to Princess Leia when you f*ck back to your home planet, Jabba.

And oh no blue took a foul ball off his arm that's too bad boo f*cking hoo. Try taking a one-hopper IN THE THROAT, Fatty. Hell, try actually doing anything that involves you getting any exercise that doesn't involve wrapping your fat yap around a meatball grinder. Those jerks probably go on the DL after taking a sh*t. That QuesTec stuff is a step in the right direction, and I don't care what those pansy-*ss pretty boys say about it. Yeah, that's right, Schilling, you f*cking hobbit motherf*cker. Go beat up another f*cking drive-thru speaker because you can't throw a f*cking strike. How you like being some f*ckwit CLOSER, you fat little b*tch? Can't wait to see what you color your socks this year - "oooh, he's a gamer because he's BLEEDING." Riiiiight. And I'm Mel F*cking Gibson. He wasn't pitching like sh*t because he was hurt - he was pitching like sh*t because he was staying up late w/ his fat little D&D buddies trying to kill some dumbsh*t dragon, and the Red Sox made up all that garbage about the sutures and the sock and that bullsh*t.

But, hey, it worked, right? Way to go, Slap-Rod - getting paid more than G*d, and you can't hit some bullsh*t 70 MPH fastball from some carpal-tunneled walleyed computer geek. Go lift some more weights and get s'more therapy, you frilly little skidmark. "Oh boo hoo I can't handle the pressure! I have too much money, and all these guys lust after my hot body! I can't take it any more! Oh boo hoo hoo!" Chr*st. I've seen 3-year-olds w/ more composure than that sissy. No wonder baseball's in the sh*tter - the so-called best hitter ever is a roid freak, the so-called best pitcher plays f*cking Q-Bert all day, and the so-called best all-around player is a no-hit limp-wristed b*tch that'd rather talk about his feelings than win a ballgame or GET A F*CKING HIT WITH RUNNERS ON BASE. Yay another solo homer for King of the Sh*theads - here's another million dollars, thanks for sucking! F*ck this sh*t. Gimme a real sport like curling or ping pong instead of this *ss-grabbing jockitch crap.

Oh, sh*t - all that's left in the fridge is Levy's f*cking Zima. And the packy's in this f*cking state close at like 3 PM. G*ddamn it. Excuse the f*ck out of me while I go suck down some f*cking witch hazel.

Trading Barbs

2005-07-23T18:46:00.000-04:00

By Chuck LaMar
Special to E$PN.com

It's never been easy being a General Manager in the major leagues. Fans and sports journalists eye every move you make with a jeweler's scrutiny, looking for the tiniest imperfection or flaw. And once they find that flaw, they start booing at the ballpark, or printing ad-hominem assaults in the local paper, and the town turns into a monster movie mob scene. Nowadays, with 24-hour sports coverage, internet fantasy leagues, and amateur fan sites and weblogs, everyone's a critic, and it's sometimes hard to hear yourself think or talk over all the racket. That said, it's sweet vindication when a player you acquire helps your team win a ball game, and it makes all the ruckus and hardship worthwhile.

I think it's fair to say that, out of any baseball general manager currently working , I've been villified the most. What folks don't understand is that I've probably had a tougher job that most. Let me just state a fact - Tampa Bay isn't a lucrative market like Boston or New York, or even Minnesota. It's tough to get fans to come out to the games, regardless of whether the team's winning or losing. Most folks in Tampa Bay are real old, and don't get out that often. The rest of the folks are young, sure, but they're transient, visiting on vacation or business, and they don't have time to stop by Tropicana Field to see the D-Rays play their gutsy brand of baseball. Those are two strikes that make it hard to swing away when it comes time to acquire players and wheel and deal, never mind acquiring the state of the art equipment or personnel that other teams can easily afford.

Not to cry poverty, but I'm actually typing this on an old IBM PS/2 my secretary / head scout / Director of Player Personnel found in the kitchen dumpster while taking out the trash. And this is the GOOD computer - I think Mr. Naimoli is still waiting for his C-64 to finish booting. After I type this up and save it to disk, I'm going to have to walk to the nearest Kinko's to get this printed out, and that's a long walk. Meanwhile, a team like the Oakland A's can afford to have Billy Beane take his fancy WiFi laptop into the stadium bathroom and pound out a couple thousand words about Joe Morgan, while 15 MIT interns drink cans of Coca Cola Zero and crunch numbers and look for the next overweight superstar. The only running water we have is in the player's locker room. Like I said, I don't want to sound like I'm whining or ungrateful, but running a major league franchise is hard work.

This is why Tampa Bay needs to be extra careful when making personnel moves. Whoever compared negotiating with me to tending to 'a root canal without the nerve gas' was very astute. General managing is a lot like dental surgery - if you're not careful and exact, you could do more harm than good. Tampa Bay can't just spend money haphazardly and bank on just one player. We can't just send players up and down like yo-yos. We have to think about the future as well as the present in every transaction we make. People are anonymously quoted as saying that I'm asking for the moon for Danys Baez. What I would say back to these people (if I knew who they were) is that asking for anything less than the moon for a player of Danys' quality would be an insult to him, to me, and to this organization.

Resources are limited here in Tampa Bay, and they have to be exploited to the fullest. When the Mets came calling about Victor Zambrano, this is what I had in mind during negotiations. They were looking to acquire a rotational workhorse for a (sadly unsuccessful) playoff run, a guy that can throw a lot of pitches and give you a chance to win more often than not. And I made sure they paid accordingly for such a high-quality player. The fact that other teams this year don't see eye-to-eye with me regarding Baez doesn't mean I'm going to back down and capitulate to some sub-par offer just because it's the only one out there. It's this tenacity and stubbornness in the face of seemingly impossible odds that's my greatest strength, my ability to stay the course and follow through on a plan of action. Of course, some folks feel differently.

Nitpicky critics often like to point out that I grabbed Bobby Abreu from the Astros during the 1998 expansion draft, and then thoughtlessly flipped him to the Phillies for infielder Kevin Stocker. Now, of course, anyone would love to have a player like Bobby Abreu on their team, and he would have looked great in sea foam green, stealing bases and hitting home runs. But do you realize how much it would have cost Tampa Bay to keep Bobby Abreu around? Like I said, the future matters as much as the present when the team's success going forward is at stake.

In 2000, Abreu's salary increased by almost 800% to nearly 3 million dollars. This year, he's making over 13 million dollars. That's almost 1/3rd the payroll for this year's team! If we kept him around for even his first year of arbitration, he would've cost the team a lot of money. Never mind the pressure from the fans and the newspapers begging us to keep him around. If we sign him and he busts, we have lots of egg on our face and hell to pay with any number of people; if we sign him and he does well, then there's pressure to pay him even more money next year, which just starts the whole process over again. By trading him away, I saved the Tampa Bay organization the time and effort (and capital) that would have been spent agonizing over this issue over the course of Abreu's long and productive career. It's the same situation I faced when dealing with players like Dmitri Young, Jeff Johnson, and even Jose Guillen - do I want these players to develop and thrive and cost this team millions of dollars, or do I want to trade them (while the organization's investment in them is minimal) and acquire more cost-effective players?

It's these moves that allowed the Devil Rays to take their one shot at glory at the turn of the 20th century. Yes, I took a gamble by acquiring high-priced players like Vinny Castilla and Greg Vaughn and Jose Canseco and Juan Guzman and Wilson Alvarez, but I thought it was a risk worth taking. I invested the future moneys saved through the Abreu and Young transactions in the present, at a time where other teams like the Yankees and Red Sox looked weak. (There's no way anyone could have predicted that the Yankees would follow a 114-win season with another divisional championship and World Series.) As nice as it would be to say that general management in baseball is an exact science, the fact is that there are many things that can't be controlled. How am I to know that those players listed previously would all turn out to be unmitigated disasters? How am I to know that highly-touted prospects like Josh Hamilton and Dewon Brazelton would turn out to be headcases? How am I to know that Ben Grieve was done as a slugger at such a young age? This off-season, we took a chance on Josh Phelps, and it didn't work out. Meanwhile, there are moves involving productive D-Ray players like Julio Lugo or Alex Gonzalez that barely get the ink they truly deserve.

There's only so much information out there, and once that information's been viewed and reviewed and rereviewed to the point that the ditto ink smears, and once the film reel begins to snap against the projector, it really comes down to a flip of the coin. Sometimes that coin lands on tails 15 times in a row, and sometimes it lands on heads 15 times in a row. That doesn't mean you stop flipping the coin. For every Bobby Abreu you let slip through your fingers, there are ten Travis Lees or Jason Tyners waiting to pick up that slack. It's a chance you have to take when you're a general manager.

I said this a couple of years ago, and I continue to stand behind this: "The only thing that keeps this organization from being recognized as one of the finest in baseball is wins and losses at the major-league level." We have a young nucleus of great players beginning to mature and thrive. With young hitters like Carl Crawford, Johnny Gomes, and Jorge Cantu being brought along by veteran sluggers Aubrey Huff and Travis Lee, Tampa Bay has one of the most feared line-ups in all of baseball. And a pitching staff anchored by Scott Kazmir (acquired via trade, in case you forgot) could go a long way. But there are more decisions to be made, as arbitration years pile up, salaries escalate, and the need to win a championship grows stronger. Whenever critics wonder when Tampa Bay is going to wake up and actually field a winning team, I take a step back from the ticker tape machine and tell myself that this quest for success isn't a sprint. It's a marathon. Only the runners that know how and when to exert themselves will cross the finish line as champions. It took the Boston Red Sox 86 years to figure out how to become World Series champions. The Cubs haven't won anything in an even longer stretch. I'm only on year 8. I'd like to think I'm ahead of the curve.

Chuck LaMar is the senior vice president of baseball operations and general manager for the Tampa Bay Devil Rays.

Autry's War (Part Three)

2005-07-23T17:07:00.000-04:00

By Seymour Hersh
Click to read part one
Click to read part two

Former Cleveland Indians owner Bill Veeck was one of the most creative executives to ever work in baseball. It was he who signed Satchell Paige, turned baseball games into bazaars of promotional goods and sent midget Eddie Gaedel to bat in 1952. Veeck was a man who knew how to make money, and — as his wounds from the South Pacific showed — win a fight. Although Veeck had sold his interest in the Cleveland Indians years before, his spirit lived on in the team, which, in 1972, had almost been moved to New Orleans and bought by George Steinbrenner. It wasn't a good year in Cleveland.

Fearing that his adopted hometown would lose its baseball team, a 41-year-old well-connected Italian businessman named Nick Mileti stepped in and, along with a group of investors, purchased the team. Although Mileti seemed like small potatoes to the other baseball owners when he first met them back in early 1972, he was actually well-connected. He had persuaded Frank Sinatra to open his Richfield Coliseum, and even had contact with John Volpi, the first American ambassador to Italy.

Through Sinatra, who had known California Angels owner Gene Autry for decades, Mileti was introduced to Autry in late 1971, when he was first considering bidding for the Indians. The two men got along immediately. "Gene was a legend," Mileti says now from his home outside of Cleveland. "It was like meeting John Wayne, only better." (Mileti refused to answer any further questions about his dealings with Autry.)

But as excited as Mileti was about owning the Cleveland Indians, civic pride could only take him so far — the Tribe had not finished with a winning record since 1968, and attendance was starting to wane. Mileti needed to improve, and fast. On the top of his wish list were a new manager (Ken Aspromonte had been a spectacular failure) and a hitter, as was commonly known around baseball in 1974. Sensing that Mileti's status as an outsider in baseball would make him particularly open to his point of view, Autry went to the Indians owner with a simple offer: "I will give you future Hall of Famer Frank Robison to be your manager and player, and in return you will pledge your support in a disagreement I have with the commissioner's office," he told Mileti according to confidential sources within the Cleveland organization.

Trusting Autry as a peer and as a personal hero, Mileti agreed before even asking what the disagreement concerned. It was several months before they finally got around to discussing the specifics of their deal.

The first of many pacts to dramatically change the game of baseball was struck sometime in January of 1975, at Autry's Melody Ranch in Newhall, California. Present were Autry, Mileti and several underlings from each of their organizations, who were brought in to brainstorm as to how best address the Angels' issue with Commissioner Bowie Kuhn. Proposals included sending erroneous statistics to the commissioner's office to skew Major League Baseball's official tallies and bringing in their best pitchers in "win" situations to tamper with the stat.

Both of these ideas were eventually nixed, because they would be too obvious to the team's fans. They finally decided on a much simpler and more conniving idea: so long as they owned their teams, they would never allow one of their pitchers to win twenty games.

It was an odd form of protest, for sure. Ultimately self-destructive and likely to draw the fans' ire if discovered, it was not particularly well-conceived. But at a certain point, say others who were present at the meetings, it didn't matter whether the final decision was practical, it just had to be devious enough to keep these two very rich men interested.

The conspiracy began in earnest in the 1975 season. In 1974, Gaylord Perry had won 21 games; a few months into the '75 season, he was unceremoniously jettisoned to the Texas Rangers, where he would, interestingly, play next to outfielder Mike Hargrove, who would have his own part in the plot as the manager for the Cleveland Indians years later. (One source suggested that the Indians job was a bribe because he had learned of the collusion, but this remains, as of press time, unconfirmed.) As for the Angels, Autry convinced Nolan Ryan to fake injuries so that he would miss starts, and Valentine — who concocted this web in the first place — was occasionally brought in to boot a grounder or two, keeping Ed Figueroa and Frank Tanana from hitting that now-dreaded twenty-win mark.

Autry and Mileti made sure that Commissioner Kuhn was well aware of what they were doing. "Looks like Tanana just missed another 'win,'" Autry wrote Kuhn in June 1975. "When will these boys ever learn to turn a double play?" Shortly after Mileti dealt Perry to the Rangers, he sent Kuhn a note saying, "Seemed like a 'winning' trade to me!" Kuhn was strangely silent in the face of this blatant disrespect. To this day men who worked closely with him cannot figure out why he didn't go public immediately with the information. Some suspected blackmail, others that Kuhn was ultimately sympathetic to their odd cause. We shall never know why Kuhn stayed silent, but it would prove to be the first of his many mistakes.

(Continued in part four)

Seymour Hersh, a regular contributor to The New Yorker, is a Pulitzer Prize-winning journalist and author of several best-selling books.

More Cowbell Than You Will Ever Need V -- The Numbers Edition!

2005-07-22T12:30:00.000-04:00

What do you mean, only five baseball landmarks still matter? You can't compare this to the NBA because nobody cares about numbers in basketball. How many 3-pointers did Jordan have in his career? Nobody remembers those sorts of details. But ask a baseball fan how many homers Teddy Ballgame hit, and they'll tell you right away -- 521.
-- Joe G., Kansas City, MO

You're nuts if you think there are only five untouchable numbers left in baseball. What are you going to do next, claim there were only five episodes of The Contender that were worth watching, and the rest were useless?
-- Frank A., Tallahasee, FL

I could list 50 baseball landmarks that still matter. Maybe you're the one who no longer matters. Chump.
-- Victor E., Albany, NY

Is it "Kill Yr Idols" week at E$PN? Getting 3000 hits is just as difficult as it ever was. Big Mac never got there. Neither will Bagwell. Or Griffey. Or Sosa. Or Bonds, in all likelihood. Those guys might have the MVP awards and the accolades, but Raffy outhit them all. He'll end his career with more hits than all of the so-called "storied" players you named, including Will Clark and Don Mattingly, who have received zero Hall of Fame respect from the voters, and rightfully so.
-- Theo F., San Diego, CA

I received a few hundred emails yesterday, and most of them were just like these four. It also goes without saying that if my readers write in so enthusiastically about something, then they've usually got a good point.

Admittedly, it was a bit presumptuous to boldly state that only five baseball landmarks have remained untouchable and undamaged by the offensive inflation of the current era. It was also presumptuous for me to write off "Rock Star:INXS" after only one episode. I mean, did you see Kirk Pengilly's facial hair? Who thought it would be a good idea to force that onto unsuspecting viewers without at least a parental advisory warning after each commercial break? Who tranquilized Mark Burnett before taping began, convincing him to put his TV reputation in the hands of a saxophone player with a ugly beard? I'm still not convinced that the show isn't an act of self-sabotage on Burnett's part, much like Mel Brooks' character on the fourth season of "Curb Your Enthusiasm". However, after a couple of weeks of this show, you've got JD's pot-stirring, Jordis' babe-osity (she's two or three episodes away from "Reality Babe Pantheon" status), plus three straight nights that I woke up at 4AM for a glass of water and started wondering which of them would do the best version of "Need You Tonight".

So, upon further reflection, I underestimated this show. I also shortchanged some other baseball landmarks, and here are just a few of those:

Jesse Orosco's Games Pitched Record (1252).

Mike Stanton just reached his 1000th game, but he's only third on the active list behind geriatric heavyweights Mike Jackson and John Franco. Still, none of them are within 150 of Orosco, and things will stay that way, unless any of them pitch to one batter a night until they're 65, like Orosco did. Really, what's a career of excellence like Hank Aaron's home run record next to Orosco's accomplishments? It's not a difficult managerial decision to put Hammerin' Hank in the lineup, particularly when he's out there hitting 40 homers at age 40, back when hitting 40 homers meant something. Orosco is a different story. How do you convince a succession of major league teams to let you pitch for five minutes a night for twenty-five years? That's mediocrity stretched as far as it can go, par excellence. That's up there with stretching the "Friday the 13th" series into an eleven-film mini-empire. Orosco should be teaching "Making the Most Out of What Little You've Got" self-improvement classes at his local community center.

ARod's Salary Record (avg 25.2M over 10 years)

Quick -- how many career home runs does ARod have? What was his batting average in 1996? You don't know, do you?

Here's another one -- what is ARod's salary? Yes, that's an easy one. Tell me that the number 252 isn't more famous than 714 or 4256. The salary record works much like 20-loss seasons for pitchers and the single season strikeout record for hitters (Mike Maroth and Adam Dunn's recent, er, "triumphs" notwithstanding). Those marks tend to stay safe because nobody wants to reach those goals. Managers will remove a guy from the rotation before they'll let him lose 20, and bench an otherwise productive player rather than watch him strike out 190 times. Eventually, we'll see contracts creep up back over $20 million per year, but guys will settle for $25.1 million per season before they suffer the ignomity of overtaking the Rodriguez/Boras plateau of greed. It's a line that nobody will want to cross. Mark my words -- 252 is the new Mendoza line in baseball.

Nomar Garciaparra's Delay of Game Record (3839 minutes)

By my estimation, he's presently 57 minutes behind Mike Hargrove, but he'll surely surpass Hargrove's mark during his first month back for the Cubs so we might as well hand him the record right now. How long does it take one of Barry Bonds' homers to leave the park? What, five seconds? However, before every at-bat, Garciaparra spends about 45 seconds pulling his crotch and his uniform. There's more touching and grabbing in a Nomar at-bat than in a 50 Cent video. Do the math for yourself -- 4200 at-bats, 45 seconds each, vs 703 home runs, 5 seconds each. That means Garciaparra has been on our TV screens 50 times longer than Barry Bonds. How impressive is that? This makes Nomar the Regis Philbin of baseball, doesn't it?

Lou Gehrig's Career Grand Slams Record (23)

Manny Ramirez currently has 20 slams, and he's still in his prime, which puts Gehrig's mark in serious jeopardy. The longevity of the number 23 is remarkable. Why do we care so much about 56 and 406 but easily forget something like 73? Easy -- Bonds broke a record that was only three years old, and before him, McGwire broke a mere 37-year old mark. Joe D and the Splinter set their standards more than sixty years ago, and nobody has seriously approached them since. Rickey's 130 is only twenty-odd years old, but it's looking safe for at least the next several decades. It should be obvious that the exact numbers don't matter, it's the longevity that's important. Long-standing records earn their keep, which is why the numbers associated with them deserve their legendary status. If your life depended on it, which would you rather bet against: somebody passing Hank Aaron's 755 in the next ten years, or somebody having a 57-game hit streak in the next fifty years?

Gehrig's record is even older than 406 and 56. Think about that for a moment. If Manny breaks the record (and my buddy Hench put $500 on 3-1 odds in Vegas that he breaks it by 2008) then he can write his Hall of Fame ticket. On top of the 500+ home runs and 1900+ RBI's that Manny will ring up by the time he's done, the grand slams record will solidify his place as one of the top clutch hitters ever, the guy who you could count on the most to come through with a big home run with runners on base. Plus, it'll be oddly fitting to have a class clown like Manny break the record of a straight-laced, non-beaver shooting player like Lou Gehrig.

Autry's War (Part Two)

2005-07-22T10:46:00.000-04:00

By Seymour Hersh
Click to read part one

Some conspiracies, like the assassinations of Kennedy and Caesar and the entire thrust of the Bush regime, are plotted in advance. Others, like My Lai, are hastily spun webs of deceit used to conceal an impulsive decision gone awry. Gene Autry's war on baseball began as a mix of both, but as decades went on, its scope would make even the KGB flinch.

That Autry's efforts have gone completely unreported until now proves the scope of the conspiracy. Back when it first began — before the conspirators had tightened their muzzles on all who threatened them — there were rumors of the plot. Working at the New York Times in 1974 as a reporter, I remember R.W. Apple stumbling across some information about it at a post-season dinner event celebrating Henry Aaron breaking the all-time home run record.

President Gerald Ford and Major League Baseball Commissioner Bowie Kuhn were on hand to praise Aaron, and Apple was sent to gather a quote or two from the newly named Commander in Chief. Apple was up to his usual tricks and was drunk, ending up sick over the toilet. At the same time, Ford and Kuhn happened to enter the washroom and were engaged in a heated discussion about "crazy Gene" "going ballistic" over something. Apple, being the ace reporter that he was, assumed they were talking about Gene McCarthy making another presidential run, and quickly wrote a piece saying so. Never trust a columnist to do a man's job, I remember thinking at the time.

That brief flirt with the harsh light of an American journalist (or even R.W. Apple) was the closest the press has ever come to the truth of the matter. That is, until a whistleblower decided to step forward and detail the entire affair.

The individual who has decided to set this story to paper is by no means innocent in this mess. In fact, he was intimately involved from the get-go, and has aided and abetted the plot countless times. After Gene Autry heard of Bobby Valentine's idea to "juice" the numbers, to use a contemporary term that seems especially applicable, he began to consider who would help him destroy the win statistic, and how he could best frame his argument.

Autry and some other high-level executives eventually decided that their pitch would be that "the win statistic... spoil[s] the epic battle between the individual batter and the sole pitcher [and] cheapens the very heart of our game," according to a draft of the report that they sent to the commissioner's office soon thereafter. Liking the nice round number and the mystique that it holds, the Angels took specific issue with the concept of "the twenty-game winner," pointing out that "by no means is it a pure or even useful measure of success, especially when there are so many other factors that determine a win: the pitcher's own offense, both team's defense, even the whether [sic] that particular afternoon."

Even today, it's a compelling argument, one likely to become popular in this age of statistical baseball favored on the Internet. But the commissioner's reply was swift and merciless: "A win is a win. -Bowie." Autry knew that he alone could not win this battle. For a sane man, that lone fact would have quelled the resistance. But Autry perhaps thought of the cowboy songs he used to sing, about the posses who would take on entire Native American tribes and slaughter them despite the odds. And so when he set about constructing his own posse, he knew the first place to look: the Cleveland Indians.

(Continued in part three)

Seymour Hersh, a regular contributor to The New Yorker, is a Pulitzer Prize-winning journalist and author of several best-selling books.

Getting On Base: The Art of Baseball Productivity

2005-07-22T10:14:00.000-04:00

In a recent game against the Chicago White Sox, a Kansas City Royals rookie saw a prime batting opportunity for what it truly was: a chance to network with perennial All-Star Paul Konerko.

"Second and third with no outs? Most guys would swing for the fences," says the player. "Me, I bunted." In doing so, he turned a simple at-bat into opportunity.

"Konerko respected that," the player said. "I know it. Sure, he said, 'Fuck you, rookie,' just like any other player would have, but after 10 or 12 more of those bunts, I know he'll respect me and view me as a valuable business associate. I'm sure they had a good laugh about it in the other dugout, but when our playing days are done, Paul Konerko and I are going to have a lot to talk about. That was a productive out, and he knew that."

Maintaining a tickler file of useful facts and at-a-glance information is another way of generating productivity out of each and every at-bat. When facing Dodgers pitcher Scott Erickson, a batter should have a very good idea of what he'll see thrown at him - namely, a 77-mph fastball.

"Preparing for anything else is just silly," says Erickson. "Honestly, I don't know why players practice swinging at curveballs and sliders when there are pitchers like me in the big leagues." As a businessman, though, Erickson isn't predictable - he's reliable. His clients know exactly what to expect from him every time they work with him. Even sixty feet away, they can read what's on his mind every time they interface.

A system of "next actions" can also enhance and increase the efficacy of baseball project management. The aforementioned Kansas City rookie's next actions, kept within his tickler file, might have looked something like this:

Project: Bunt with 2nd/3rd/no outs
N.A.: eat a bag of sunflower seeds
N.A.: watch "Robin Hood: Men in Tights" with Zack Greinke.
Context: @dugout

Not a moment of one's game is wasted when one is constantly aware of what one is to do next. While the rookie is trudging back to the dugout basking in the adulation of his fans and teammates, he will already be thinking of the delicious crunch of David-brand sunflower seeds, and the hilarious antics of Cary Elwes and a young Dave Chappelle.

Next actions assist the rank-and-file position players in developing their skills, but they also help to create highly effective baseball life coaches through the shrewd application of basic management techniques. Consider Tampa Bay Devil Rays manager Lou Piniella's recent tickler file:

Project: Drink bottle of Old Grand-Dad
Sub-Project: watch "Celebrity Poker Showdown"
N.A.: make lewd comment about Mimi Rogers
N.A.: hurl empty whiskey bottle at Travis Harper's head
Sub-Sub-Project: sob quietly in clubhouse shower until conclusion of game.
Context: @dugout

Piniella is constantly aware of his objectives and surroundings. During the accomplishment of his initial project, for instance, he is watching Travis Harper to make sure that the player doesn't put on a batting helmet, thus dulling the disciplinary impact of the bottle of Old Grand-Dad. He has one eye on the entrance to the shower in order to ensure that Aubrey Huff isn't plucking his eyebrows when Piniella's meltdown reaches its inevitable denouement. This attention to Next Actions makes Piniella the legend he is; by remaining adroit, flexible, and organized, he is able to keep his mind flowing like water - and his teams routinely winning as many as sixty games year after year.

A basic truism of success in baseball, as well as business, is this: planning your day out, down to the letter, means that you don't waste valuable time standing around on third base or fouling off extra pitches into the stands. The organized baseball player can minimize the amount of time he spends actually playing baseball in order to concentrate on other, more lucrative pursuits, such as day trading, speculating on foreclosed residential property, or, in baseball's dense jargon, "beaver shooting." One assumes that hunting wildlife for one's family consumption is a little extreme when one makes millions, but fellow businessmen would be unwise as to downplay the significance of one's rural upbringing.

There are many methods of arranging and storing this data in efficient ways. A player ought to look at his personal effects as a sort of suit of productivity armor. He can store short summaries of opposing batters and pitchers in his wristbands. He can remind himself of keys to success by writing them on the butt of his baseball bat, like former Orioles infielder Billy Ripken. He can even create a small, portable tickler file out of simple 3x5 index cards and carry them with him - in his pocket, under his cap, in his jockstrap. At any point during the game, he ought to feel comfortable calling time, sitting down and getting into his "me zone," and writing down the thing that troubles him most. With this at the top of his to-do list, he can return to his job clear-headed, much to the delight and amazement of the thousands of cheering fans who will undoubtedly recognize and applaud his innovative strategies.

Personal productivity guru David Allen is the acclaimed author of "Getting Things Done" and "Ready For Anything."

Ryne Sandberg Unleashed! (Part Deux)

2005-07-22T10:05:00.000-04:00

EDITOR'S NOTE: This year, Ryne Sandberg has been writing about baseball for Yah00! Sports three to four times a week, offering readers his unprecedented insight and perspective into the game he once played. While Ryne's posted writings are quick and to the point, Ryne actually writes much more than Yah00!.com actually publishes. Given the overall quality of Ryne's writing, E$PN has secured rights to post these unabridged and unedited thoughts on the BBTN weblog, and will publish them sporadically throughout the remainder of the 2005 season. Here is Part 2 of a trade deadline article, covering the NL - click here to read Part 1, about the AL.

* * *

CARDINAL INVITATIONAL - EASTERN DIVISION

WASHINGTON NATIONALS – They made a big move last week by acquiring Preston Wilson, who'll give them a strong veteran hole-filled bat and gimpy unreliable legs and other age-related weaknesses that Colorado's thin air masked, and their bullpen is as strong as Frank Robinson is ornery. They can't spend a ton of money, considering they don't have an owner yet and Major League Baseball likes playing with the Nats like a dog likes sniffing its naughty bits. I heard that Livan Hernandez is actually made of a space-age polymer. Recent reports also suggest that Livan Hernandez is a sissy-face crybaby that needs someone to wipe his butt with quad-ply tissue after he makes boom-boom in his shorts.

ATLANTA BRAVES – I really think they have enough to win the division, even though I am sick of seeing them make the playoffs only to roll over and die every year. I don't remember if Brian Jordan is back or not, but it doesn't matter because the 80-year-old ball guy at PacBell Park could do a better job at the plate if he used a frying pan instead of a bat. They just got Mike Hampton and Tim Hudson back, which would be great if it was 2000. Hampton got hit hard in his first start in more than six weeks, but both of them will be fine because I am Hall of Famer to be Ryne Sandberg and you are my wanton brothel to be used and discarded as I see fit. Now shut up and peel my grapes, mule.

PHILADELPHIA PHILLIES – They're another team that has a big decision to make - do they want to win, or do they want to keep sacrificing pitchers to their ill-dimensioned new ballpark? They're 4½ games out in the wild-card standings, but they could clear salary by moving Jim Thome and David Bell and just cut bait on yet another piss-poor season. Or they could go to the root of the problem and kick GM Ed Wade and his bullpen-guy fetish to the curb. Also, a lot of teams would love to have closer Billy Wagner, because who wouldn't want a hard-throwing high-paid bullpen guy with a history of elbow troubles? Talk is the A's are looking to trade for Wagner, offering Octavio Dotel, Erubiel Durazo, and a DVD copy of Roger Corman's Fantastic Four movie. That movie had a real Invisible Girl, not some hoochie mama skank.

CARDINAL INVITATIONAL - CENTRAL DIVISION

ST. LOUIS CARDINALS – They're a lock for the playoffs and I don't see them needing all that much, what with the rest of the NL doing for baseball what Geraldo Rivera does for broadcast journalism. With the recent injury to Reggie Sanders (a shock to all), they could go after a corner outfielder, or just give So Taguchi the playing time he's earned as the best 5th outfielder in Missouri. It doesn't matter, though, because someone like Scott Rolen or Jim Edmonds or Chris Carpenter will get hurt, and they'll make it to the World Series, and Tony LaRussa will manage to lose them games through his poor bench usage and Jupiter-sized ego.

CHICAGO CUBS – They'll have Jody Gerut in left field now after acquiring him from Cleveland on Tuesday, which will be great if it turns Dusty Baker into a good manager. The difference between Gerut and Jason Dubois is neglegible, but Dusty only plays veterans, so the trade was necessary. But I would love to see the Cubs go after a center fielder/leadoff man and crush his spirits like they've done with Corey Patterson. There has been talk of Juan Pierre, but I'm not sure the Marlins will be selling, because the Marlins like watching Juan Pierre age before their very eyes. They could definitely use a strong bullpen arm to secure the eighth inning, too, so Ryan Dempster has more chances to blow saves.

HOUSTON ASTROS - I don't know why people aren't talking about this scrappy bunch more. All they need is some offense, and they can play with the best of them. Jeff Bagwell, recovering from shoulder surgery, is taking a buttload of illegal performance enhancement drugs in order to return to the lineup in time for the stretch drive run. I predict he'll hit 30 HRs in September, and look like a muscular Butterball. With a really long beard. Also, Craig Biggio is a habitual bruiser - he trips and falls into his coffee table for kicks during the offseason.

CARDINAL INVITATIONAL - WESTERN DIVISION

SAN DIEGO PADRES OF BAJA – I think they'll win the NL West, but I don't think they'll go much farther than that because they're the Padres and the Padres are meant to lose. One option could be a starting pitcher, because a rotation where Woody Williams is the 4th starter cleary has some gaps to fill. The return of Phil Nevin and Mark Loretta to the lineup will have the same impact as a big trade that hurts the team and sends playoff hopes into a tailspin like a shot-down fighter jet. Having those two healthy again should give the Padres a lift, and by lift I mean push down. Because this is the Padres, and if they actually do well, the world ends. I cannot stress this enough.

ARIZONA DIAMONDBACKS – They're the most serious threat to the Padres down the stretch, or at least that's what I think once I finish drinking this case of Robitussin. Their starting pitching and offense are solid like balsa wood, but one area that needs an upgrade is the bullpen. That's why they're interested in acquiring former White Sox closer Shingo Takatsu, because they're k-stupid - why else would they have Quinton McCracken on their roster? There has been talk of sacrificing unimaginative GM / mouthbreather Joe Garagiola, Jr. to the Great God Pan, but that would probably lead to them hiring (and firing) Wally Backman again, which would be embarrassing. Instead, the D-Back braintrust will just hire former Pirate GM Cam Bonifay (architect of Operation: Shutdown and the retirement plans of Mike Benjamin and Kevin Young), spend the team's budget on blow, hookers, and 500 RoboSapiens, and then go into hiding for the next 10 years.

LOS ANGELES DODGERS - I only mention the Dodgers out of some sense of misplaced responsibility. They are dead in the water, and it's all Paul DePodesta's fault. All the trades and signings he's made over the past 2 years have hurt the team - Hee Seop Choi has been a failure, JD Drew is a bust, Milton Bradley is nothing but trouble, the pitching staff is awful (lead by the one-two barf of Jeff Weaver and Odalis Perez), and if it weren't for Jim Tracy, I'd say the Dodgers would be ripe for contraction. As it stands, they can at least make the Reds, Pirates, and Rockies look good. Which is hard to do.

Autry's War (Part One)

2005-07-21T16:17:00.000-04:00

By Seymour Hersh

"Just about the time you think, 'What else can he accomplish?,' he comes up with another milestone. Some of my fondest baseball memories involve Nolan from his days with the Angels. He is one of those rare individuals who will be admired for generations to come." Gene Autry, the famous singing cowboy and owner of the California Angels, once said this about Hall of Fame pitcher Nolan Ryan. Autry, a fierce individualist to a fault, admired the pitcher so much that, in the fall of 1974, he began a quest to ruin baseball to preserve Ryan's legacy. It's the backroom history of the game, the story you won't hear in "Take Me Out to the Ballgame," a tale that has never been told — until now.

Those in baseball's front offices and in the commissioner's chair know this story too well. Autry's quest led to the 1994 strike and has spoiled numerous careers. It involves a seemingly infinite amount of baseball executives, many of whom continue to work in the game today. Full of cheating, lying and disrepute, Autry's war — whose beginnings coincide with Watergate — confirms baseball as America's national pastime, even more than the infamous Black Sox scandal in 1919.

In 1974, Nolan Ryan had one of the greatest seasons a major-league pitcher has ever had: a miniscule 2.89 ERA, 367 strikeouts and 22 wins. Yet Ryan was not included on the All Star team, and finished a disappointing third in the Cy Young voting, an award given annually to the best pitcher in each league. California Angels owner Gene Autry was livid at the snub. "This has shaken my fundamental belief in baseball to its very core," he wrote in a confidential memo sent to Commissioner Bowie Kuhn at the time. "We need to drastically reconsider how awards are given in the future. This is worse than the whole Steinbrenner mess." (George Steinbrenner, owner of the New York Yankees, was suspended from the game for two years because he gave illegal campaign contributions to President Richard Nixon.)

Kuhn ignored Autry's memo, which further fueled the former entertainer's anger. "Somebody needs to stick a Bowie knife in that son of a bitch," he once remarked to Dick Williams, according to sources close to the former Angels manager.

But there are limits, even for a cowboy. Autry recognized that it would be impossible to strip Oakland A's pitcher Catfish Hunter of the Cy Young Award, and knew that Kuhn was imbued with tremendous power within the game. And so he sought an alternative solution to his new obsession. He found his answer in the most unlikely place.

The 1974 Angels were not a good team. With 94 losses, they were never in contention for the pennant, and the club was short on talent. There was Ryan, future star Ed Figueroa, Frank Tanana and slugger Frank Robinson, who was on the downside of his career. There was also a 24-year-old mediocre utility player with a funny name and a devilish personality who would go on to manage the New York Mets some twenty years later. His name was Bobby Valentine.

Though Valentine refused to speak on the record for this story, sources close to him were more forthcoming about his tenure with the Angels.

"Bobby was a nobody then," one former teammate says under the condition of anonymity because he fears the repercussions of speaking out, "but he seemed to hear everything. He was good at two things: beaver shooting [voyeuristically leering at women] and gossip." The former player goes on to explain that one day while snooping around Angels headquarters, he overheard an Autry tirade about Kuhn and Ryan's snub. "Knowing a golden ticket when he saw one," my source goes onto explain, "Bobby got to plotting."

Valentine hit upon a clever thought. Since a pitcher's win-loss statistic is based upon not only the amount of runs a pitcher has allowed, but the amount the other team has scored, one could persuasively argue that it was not an individual statistic, but a team statistic. If Catfish Hunter's 25 wins could be discarded, Valentine further surmised according to a source in the clubhouse, then Ryan would have been a lock for the 1974 Cy Young Award.

Armed with his theory, Valentine went to see Autry, and related his idea. Autry was impressed with the suggestion, and immediately began to conspire as to how he could accomplish the difficult task of convincing Major League Baseball to eschew one of its most important statistics. If he were to do this, he quickly realized according to a source in Autry's country club, he was going to need help.

(Continued in part two)

Seymour Hersh, a regular contributor to The New Yorker, is a Pulitzer Prize-winning journalist and author of several best-selling books.

Ryne Sandberg Unleashed!

2005-07-21T14:24:00.000-04:00

EDITOR'S NOTE: This year, Ryne Sandberg has been writing about baseball for Yah00! Sports three to four times a week, offering readers his unprecedented insight and perspective into the game he once played. While Ryne's posted writings are quick and to the point, Ryne actually writes much more than Yah00!.com actually publishes. Given the overall quality of Ryne's writing, E$PN has secured rights to post these unabridged and unedited thoughts on the BBTN weblog, and will publish them sporadically throughout the remainder of the 2005 season. Here is Part 1 of a trade deadline article, covering the AL - Part 2, about the NL, will be posted tomorrow.

* * *

This year's trading deadline should be very interesting, unlike trading deadlines of the past several years, which have been very uninteresting and stupid. Several teams remain in the playoff race, and that is a true testament to the wild card and the existance of Tampa Bay, Kansas City, and Colorado.

I believe 15 teams have a chance to make the postseason, but I'm going to write about 18 because I'm Ryne Sandberg and you're a fantasy baseball nerd. I also believe that the earth is flat, that women are inferior to men in every way possible, and that the best music ever was made by Barry Maguire and B2K. Just about every club needs to add something by the July 31 deadline, whether it's a big bat, a starting pitcher, or a Landmark Seminar expert. Here's what they should be shopping for.

AL EAST

NEW YORK YANKEES – They're just looking to get healthy. Maybe younger, too, but that's hard to do unless you have a time machine and/or some Botox. Kevin Brown made his first start in over a month on Monday and even though he was hit hard, he'll help the Yankees down the line by forcing their offense to score more runs than any other team in order to win. If Jaret Wright ever comes back from his injury, he'll help the Yankees out in that regard as well. The recent additions of Al Leiter and Wayne Franklin will also help, especially if Joe Torre goes to Franklin in situations where the team is either tied or ahead.

BALTIMORE ORIOLES – The Orioles know exactly what they need – pitching – but there are just not that many arms out there. One starting pitcher that would help a lot is Florida's A.J. Burnett, who would like pitching for Baltimore with that powerful offense, and would like pitching for any team that's not run by Jeffrey Loria and gives lots of playing time to Jeff Conine, Paul LoDuca and the steroid-free Mike Lowell. Because of Rafael Palmeiro's resurgance following his 3000th hit, half the Orioles have started taking Viagra and have had erections for more than 72 hours.

BOSTON RED SOX – I wouldn't think they'll go after any of the big-name players. Depending on how Curt Schilling adjusts to his bullpen role, they may have to get a strong bullpen arm. They might also need to pistolwhip Kevin Millar to keep him in his place. If they get Keith Foulke back, they should stick him in the starting rotation, as Schilling will be too used to coming out of the pen to go back to starting games. They should also trade Manny Ramirez as soon as possible - he does nothing but cost the team wins with his poor defense, poor baserunning skills, free-swinging ways, and unruly hairdo.

AL CENTRAL

CHICAGO WHITE SOX – There's been a lot of talk that general manager Kenny Williams is for another starting pitcher. They won't be able to pull Jason Schmidt from the Giants, but they could benefit from promoting a strong minor-league arm. It's too bad that Kenny Williams made so many idiot trades, as having a guy like Kip Wells would really help out this club. Also, I heard that Joe Crede has pictures of Kenny Williams trying to pick up a shemale at the Hideout, which is why he still has a job. I hope me talking about this in public doesn't cost Crede PT, because he's a kid that can do the little things like ground out, pop up, and strike out.

MINNESOTA TWINS – They'll try to make a move to win the AL wild card, because making a move to not make the playoffs is pretty stupid. Problem is, the Twins don't have a ton of money to spend (according to their books, which aren't cooked at all) and, just as they've done in the past, they won't do anything that is going to hurt their chances in the future by actually making a trade to put them over the top. After trading for MVP candidate Shannon Stewart, what else do you need to do? It isn't like they need a second baseman, or a good outfielder. Reportedly, Minnesota is interested in acquiring some hitting, possibly Boston's Bill Mueller. Mueller would fill two holes as a very good defensive third baseman and a consistent bat. He also makes a great gazpacho, and does a fantastic impersonation of Adam Sandler's Canteen Boy.

CLEVELAND INDIANS - Unlike the Twins, they'll try to make a move for the worst record in baseball so they can secure the first pick in the draft, like the Cavaliers did to get LeBron James. Rumors say GM Mark Shapiro is looking to trade away Jhonny Peralta, Victor Martinez, and Grady Sizemore for more veteran leadership - the Phillies are offering Mike Lieberthal and Kenny Lofton, while the Mariners have Randy Winn and Pat Borders on the table. Scouts are saying CC Sabathia is too fat to live, and wears his hat like a hip-hop hoodlum.

AL WEST

ARTE MORENO'S LOS ANGELES ANGELS OF LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA, SORT OF NEAR ANAHEIM – They don't need all that much. Their bullpen might be the best in the majors and they're scoring runs with ease in spite of having possibly the worst 1-2 combo in the major leagues. It's a testament to Mike Scoscia's stubborness that, despite the team's tendency to run themselves out of innings and award at-bats to bad hitters, they are in first place. The performance of their pitching staff has nothing to do at all with their success. Same with the White Sox. Both teams are playing baseball the right way, and anyone that says otherwise is a terror-loving Communist sissy.

TEXAS RANGERS – Just as in the past, they could really use pitching and some Dale Carnegie classes for Buck Showalter. However, GM John Hart will have to decide whether he wants to make a huge push for the postseason. Taking Richard Hidalgo and Chan Ho Park out to the shed for a stern talking to with a shotgun might go a long way towards making that happen. They're 2½ games out in the wild-card race which, with their problems, might as well be last place. Alfonso Soriano has taken to wearing Derek Jeter Underoos on off days, and pees in Showalter's pre-game coffee.

OAKLAND ATHLETICS – Surprisingly, the A's find themselves only three games out of the AL wild card. Joe Morgan told me they were dead in the water, so I'm really surprised that they can win games. Billy Beane has already added veteran help in outfielder Jay Payton and pitchers Joe Kennedy and Jay Witasick because being old means you're really good. They're a team that – with the right help – could sneak into the postseason. I think they should go for more veteran help in the OF, maybe grabbing Bernie Williams from the Yankees, or getting Albert Belle or Candy Maldonado to unretire.

What Part of (RS^2) / ((RS^2)+(RA^2)) Don't You Idiots Understand?

2005-07-19T11:52:00.000-04:00

I was kind of surprised that E$PN asked me to contribute to this blog. After all, my one appearance on "Ba$eball T0night" didn't go very well, when I told those troglodytes what they could do with their whole "wins and losses" shtick. But I guess genius will out, and my regular readers at www.baseballisagameofnumbersyoumorons.com know that I'm not shy about mentioning my Mensa membership. Hey, if you got it, flaunt it...and if you don't have it, maybe you can be a monotesticled mouthbreather who once played relatively effectively for the Philadelphia Phailures!

So, anywayz, big ups to the big E for recognizing my approach, and -- like the title of my current 42nd favorite song: "Let's Get It Started"!

In case you jive turkeys don't know what I'm talking about in the title of this piece, it's the Pythagorean Equation of Baseball. This little number sentence, invented by the Great God Almighty Mr. William "Bill" James, is the most important equation ever invented for the national pastime. It helps to predict how a team should do in a year, based on Runs Scored (RS, duh) and Runs Allowed (RA, doy). Any other equation (including the retarded PRoPS and the interesting-but-bogus Win Shares) is useless.

[And yes, longtime readers will note that I come down on the side of using 1.8 as the multiplier instead of 2, because it's more accurate. But it's easier to explain if we use 2, so let's just tilt at that windmill a little later. Plus, we're not quibbling over numbers here, but celebrating them.]

In fact, I'm going to go even further with this: the Pythagorean is so important, so perfect, and so elegant that it should replace the outmoded "winning percentage" as the main evaluatory technique of Major League Baseball.

Yeah, that's right, you heard me, I said it and I'm not ashamed. That oldfangled nonsense called "Wins" is crap on a stick, pardon my French. For one thing, this stat is artificially pumped up by one-run games, which we in the sabermetric community have proven to be completely unrelated to a team's talent level, managerial expertise, and ultimate worth. These "results" are unaccounted for in statistical terms, which is tantamount to saying that they are due to luck. And luck has nothing to do with skill, and very little to do with baseball.

So toss that out, and toss out "losses" while you're at it. Just because a team finishes on the lower end of a score doesn't mean that it didn't accumulate some tasty numerals. I'm not saying that Tampa Bay is a good team by any stretch, but they are clearly better than their record, and that is true even if their record continues to not improve. A team that is good when proven by mathematics is still a good team, even in the "standings."

Box scores, in fact, just really shake the dew off my lily. To think of the mindless hordes checking those sad non-adjusted numbers every morning in their corporate-owned tabloids, missing the big picture by so far, fills me with rage and sadness. I long for the day when Mr. James' revolution of the mind happens, and water-cooler talk turns to VORP and PAP and BABIP instead of "batting average" and the asinine "games back." You'd think we were still in the Dead Ball Era or something. It's called evolution. Look into it.

As far as I can tell, the only reason anyone really cares about wins and losses anymore is that boring display in October called "the playoffs," followed by the grand sham called the "World Series." As if. Come on, those are stupid events that do nothing to further our understanding of the game; you can't even compare the players' statistics to the rest of the league, because they skew the sample size! To quote my 17th favorite movie character of all time, "Inconceivable!" I long for the day when we throw out the whole playoff charade and get back to real baseball, old-school baseball: 162 games (give or take), and cold hard science ruling the day.

Do I expect this change to actually happen? Hellz no, not in my lifetime. Do I pray that someday that maybe, just maybe, the lightbulbs will go on over a few heads thanks to our perseverance and pure-heartedness? Well, yes I do. Every night.

Okay, I'm Audi 7000. Love, peace, and hair grease.

"Spartacus" is a prominent sabermetrician who has appeared on "Ba$eball Tonight." His website, www.baseballisagameofnumbersyoumorons.com, receives dozens of hits per month.

Ginsburg Variations

2005-07-19T11:07:00.000-04:00

Kitaro, cuz dude's just cool

"There's no way to accurately determine the greatest lefthanded hitter in baseball history, but an argument can be made for Palmeiro, who now has 346 more hits than Ted Williams, nearly 450 more home runs than Ty Cobb and 127 more hits than Babe Ruth." — David Ginsburg, Associated Press

There's no way to accurately determine the worst pitcher in baseball history, but an argument can be made for Cy Young, who has 150 more losses than Will White, gave up 5,751 more hits than Eric Milton and threw 106 more wild pitches than Steve Trout.

There's no way to accurately determine the greatest manager in baseball history, but an argument can be made for Don Zimmer, who has 88 more wins than Johnny Oates, lost 3,090 less games than Connie Mack and one more KO by Pedro Martinez than Sparky Anderson.

There's no way to accurately determine the greatest politician in American history, but an argument can be made for Strom Thurmond, who served as an elected official 50 years longer than John F. Kennedy, spoke eight hours and 48 seconds longer than Louisiana Senator Huey Long to oppose desegregation and fathered one more illegitimate black daughter than George Washington.

There's no way to accurately determine the greatest musician in history, but an argument can be made for Kitaro, who has released 37 more albums than the Beatles, recorded one more album with Grateful Dead percussionist Mickey Hart than King Sunny Adé and has received nine more Grammy nominations than Daddy Yankee.

There's no way to accurately determine the worst newspaper columnist in American history, but it's Richard Roeper. That shit ain't even close.

Hail the Evil Empire!

2005-07-19T10:17:00.000-04:00

Under a funeral moon last night in Texas, the dark masters of the Evil Empire cast a frost-laden cloud of witchery and spells over the Texas Rangers. Rendering those pale riders of the morbid plains frail and aged, and drawing power from the depths on the haunted night, the Unholy Nine again claimed their rightful place commanding the ancient throne atop the writhing mass of rotting decay that is the American League East.

Their viscera-shredding powers growing stronger by the hour, the Empire's Ancient Ones have again asserted their dominance over the American League's wasted fields of pity and sorrow, despite the pervasive doubts of the weak-minded chroniclers of the Empire's progress. Though now fallen from battle, one of his malefic tendrils twisted beyond mortal recognition as he assured the Empire's ultimate victory with a sky-cracking smiting of Brocail the White during the eighth circle of last night's blasphemous affair, the dark master Ktulu Sierra is being horribly celebrated by the screaming minions twirling about in necrotic delight amid the ashen, reeking pits of Gotham.

But the fiery wizard Ktulu Sierra was not the only hero of this blood-soaked victory on the fields of eternal punishment. No, legions! Raise thy chalice also to the thunderous exploits of the Blue-Lipped Demon, who sharpened his marrow-stained fangs once more on the lambs of inferior pitching. And drink of malodorous wines in the name of the Sheff of Morbid Potions, who concocted yet another bowel-churning meal of revenge and waste for his foes. Welcome with a cacophonous symphony of curdling cries Godzilla, who has recovered the forces which once lay dormant in his world-shattering hammers.

Legions, it was apparent from the very start of time that our slumbering lords and masters would arise once more and prevail on this night. Having banished the Boston swarms to eternal wandering in gloomy dead forests, the Empire drawing strength from their malevolent foe's Northern lifeblood, the outcome on this night was but a foregone conclusion.

So hail, hail, ye tormented! The Empire, rising like a timeless plague from its slow, boiling incubation, reigns once more. Eternal woe, pestilence, and funereal mists be upon you, thou frail birds and pungent red hosiery of the East.

Fenriz is the mastermind of black-metal legends Darkthrone and a life-long Yankees fan. He covers Major League Baseball for Terrorizer magazine.

Game of the Week Re-enactment: Yankees @ Red Sox, July 15, 2005

2005-07-18T12:18:00.000-04:00

Editor's Note: When they're not providing colour commentary for many of the world's most prestigious bicycle races, Phil Liggett and Paul Sherwin like nothing better than to relax with the grand old game of baseball. Recently, they took a short break from working the Tour de France to watch Boston and New York mix it up in Fenway Park. Here are some excerpts from their live chatroom commentary -- an exclusive to Yard Work!

AllKillerNoPhiller: What a storied rivalry we have here.

WeAllPaulter: Yankees vs Red Sox. It doesn't get any bigger than this. The Queen rivalry of baseball.

AllKillerNoPhiller: Who are you keeping an eye on tonight?

WeAllPaulter: Keep an eye on the sloppily-tucked, red-and-white jersey of David Wells. He struggled in recent starts but he's always dangerous.

AllKillerNoPhiller: We're underway now and Boston is at it again! What a turn of events.

WeAllPaulter: It is a spectacular turn of events and I'm not sure if anyone expected to see the Yankees in trouble so early.

AllKillerNoPhiller: The advantage is now three runs.

WeAllPaulter: Three runs can evaporate quickly once these Yankee boys decide to start chasing down that lead. We'll see how long the Yankees let them stay away.

AllKillerNoPhiller: And now here's Hideki Matsui. The ball is on the ground but look out for the white jersey of Mark Bellhorn he's got the ball and here's his teammate Millar who will leadout for the throw Matsui is headed down the line toward the base this is going to be a desperate finish Millar has his foot right on the bag he's not going to take it off the throw is in Matsui is racing for the finish the ball is on its way to Millar and he's got it Matsui is out just pipped at the base by the throw from Bellhorn what a great victory that was.

WeAllPaulter: It surely was, what a great explosive finish on the throw from Bellhorn, with Millar barely reaching the bag in time.

AllKillerNoPhiller: Matsui has to settle for second place. Now here is Trot Nixon and he gets the WOAH Cabrera is down Cabrera has crashed!

WeAllPaulter: He has crashed but he looks to be all right.

AllKillerNoPhiller: Now Nixon is steaming around the bases, how is he doing it Paul?

WeAllPaulter: I don't know how he's doing it, he's at second base but his legs are absolutely screaming in pain. The determination is etched on his face and you know that his body is telling him to stop but his mind won't let him.

AllKillerNoPhiller: He's at third now. Can he possibly make it through all four bases?

WeAllPaulter: I think he can, the throw isn't on its way yet. This is absolute torture for Trot Nixon. He's reaching deep into his suitcase of courage with this one.

AllKillerNoPhiller: And he's home safely, what a sprint by Trot Nixon and the advantage is now eight runs!

WeAllPaulter: It's still early, but eight runs is a big advantage at this stage of the game. I don't know if the Yankees can bring this one back.

AllKillerNoPhiller: Jason Giambi was just hit by a pitch. Hats off to him for that, but sadly, he's never regained the form he had when he was playing in Oakland.

WeAllPaulter: He's a fine supporting player but his superstar days as part of the action are over. He's playing in his own personal purgatory.

AllKillerNoPhiller: Right you are, and now the lead has been stretched to eleven runs. I'm starting to think that these boys can stay away, Paul.

WeAllPaulter: It will require a monumental effort by the Yankees to bring this one back. We're already halfway through the game and I think the Yankees have left the chase too late.

AllKillerNoPhiller: David Wells is now in a spot of trouble, he's got two men on in the sixth. I can't believe he's still out there.

WeAllPaulter: He's pitching on fumes now, going on nothing but courage, sheer courage. His left arm is exploding right now, it's telling him to stop, but he won't do it. But he wants to win. It will take all his energy, all the reserves that he has left.

AllKillerNoPhiller: They'll have to watch out for the man wearing number 34, David Ortiz. He's launched a ball toward the stands and it's out, it's out! 17-1 Red Sox and I think Boston is going to take this one. They broke away in the first and nobody has been able to catch them.

WeAllPaulter: It will be a great victory for the Red Sox, the 8313th victory in their storied career. The Yankees, however, are experiencing pure agony. They have to finish the game in their own personal hell.

AllKillerNoPhiller: And David Wells is still out there!

WeAllPaulter: He's putting his body through utter torture. His left arm has to be screaming in pain, it's saying "please, enough, I've had enough" but still he presses on.

AllKillerNoPhiller: Finally, Wells steps aside in the eighth, he's given all he can for the team, now his work is done for the day.

WeAllPaulter: It was seven innings of absolutely excruciating pain and agony for his body. He's gone through nothing but torment and debilitating, nightmarish suffering. But now it's over, and the Red Sox look they'll be able to hold off until the end.

AllKillerNoPhiller: Tino Martinez lines out to end it, victory belongs to Boston, what a performance!

WeAllPaulter: It certainly was.

Byrnes Calls O'Dowd, Trades Himself to Rockies

2005-07-15T15:28:00.000-04:00

By Susan Slusser

Former Oakland A's outfielder Eric Byrnes is a "do-it-yourself" kind of guy: from checking his own X-rays to making a bong out of a batting tee to burning Zeppelin CDs for his teammates, the young slugger isn't content to rely on others. That's why over the All Star break, Byrnes decided to take his professional fate into his own hands.

"I've known [Colorado Rockies GM] Dan [O'Dowd] for years," Byrnes says. "We met at a Big Head Todd concert at Red Rocks, and we really vibed. And so when Oakland wasn't giving me the PT I deserved, I just picked up the phone and made the call."

O'Dowd confirms the exchange.

"Eric just explained to me how he was being underutilized in Oakland, and how much he would help our team," he says. "He explained the importance of team chemistry and how he knew how to 'set the right vibe' in the locker room with candles and music, and how much that could help a struggling team."

The two men talked long into the night, negotiating various trade options.

"I told Dan that the A's were going to need at least [first baseman Todd] Helton, [young pitcher Jeff] Francis, and a few minor leaguers to get me away from [Oakland GM] Billy [Beane]," Byrnes recalls. "Dan was silent for a little while, and then said, 'How about two crappy pitchers?' 'Yeah, that'll work,' I told him."

On Tuesday, Byrnes called Beane and informed him of the agreement that he and O'Dowd had reached. Byrnes says that Beane was "surprisingly groovy" about the whole thing, telling him, "you just saved me the trouble." Beane declined to comment for this story.

Overall, Byrnes is excited about heading to Colorado. "It's just mellower there," he says. "No pressure. Just mountains and pretty smiles. I can't wait to get on the plane."

Let's just hope he doesn't try to fly it himself.

Susan Slusser writes for the San Francisco Chronicle

Show Me The Wins and I'll Show You the Money

2005-07-15T10:19:00.000-04:00

I must have missed the memo -- the one that explained why the 2005 baseball season was shaping up to be the greatest year in the history of the game. Bud Selig couldn't stop talking about it during the All-Star Break. Everyday, he called a press conference or scheduled a TV interview to announce it. However, no season in which Barry Bonds hasn't played a single game can possibly be considered the greatest ever. Don't get me wrong though -- I don't want Bonds to come back, even though the game needs him now more than ever. Regardless, he should walk away from baseball and never come back. You see, Barry is standing in a very large room, and in that room is a white elephant. Clearly, this is all about racism, and if you don't know how or why, perhaps you'd better take a closer look at yourself.

With or without Bonds, baseball is in serious trouble and the league needs to make several changes to keep the game strong. The international style of baseball that is played in places like Venezuela and the Dominican Republic is clearly superior to the American style. If you don't believe me, look no further than the spectacular performances by David Ortiz and Bobby Abreu in the home run derby. International stars are forcing the game to change, and they're changing it for the better. In turn, it is the league's responsibility to do something about the current salary structure, which clearly isn't working to the benefit of the fans or the players.

The most important thing to a baseball fan is to see their team win. Fans don't care about home run contests or All-Star Games because those things aren't important. They want to see a brand of winning baseball on the field in their home city. The best way -- if not the only way -- to accomplish this is to tie salaries to wins. It's simple. At your workplace, if you do a good job, then you get a raise. If you're sick and need to stay home, then your work doesn't get done, your employer suffers, and you don't get paid. What could make more sense?

Look at the NHL. Cancelling the 2004-5 season, contrary to what many people believe, is the best thing that could have happened to the game of hockey. The NHL is now in the enviable position of being able to institute some major changes before restarting play. We've heard about salary rollbacks, upping the number of playoff teams from 16 to 20, and many other proposed reforms. Everybody has an idea about improving the NHL and all this brainstorming can do nothing but benefit the game. Still, they need to take things to the next level and link player salaries to wins. Hockey is a physical game, and players who are motivated by money are more likely to play harder and lead their teams to victory. Players will put a little more muscle behind each shots if they know that it could mean the difference between a large and a small payday. These are the sorts of fan-friendly changes that will bring people back to the arenas, and the NHL needs every fan they can get because the last year has been devastating for the game of hockey. It's hard to imagine any league being in worse shape than the NHL is right now, and they need the support of their fans right now more than ever.

MLB should take a page out of the NHL's book. Do you think the Yankees would have lost so many games earlier in the season if A-Rod was paid more money when the team won than when they lost? Derek Jeter would never stand for a Yankees' loss if his paycheck was on the line each and every day. At the other extreme, you have teams like the Royals and the Devil Rays. It's no wonder that a great manager like Lou Piniella can't get any wins out of the Devil Rays -- there's no incentive for his players to win with that miniscule $30 million payroll. Why should Jorge Cantu bust his butt when he's only making a few hundred thousand dollars per year? Are you truly surprised that the Rays are in last place again?

Bud Selig is afraid. He wants to tell people how great this season has been and he has every reason to do so. Attendance figures are skyrocketing and the quality of play has been excellent. However, he's worried about criticism from fans and writers, who have been embarassing the commisioner by highlighting the glaring weaknesses in the way the game is played. The ball is in Selig's court, and he needs to act fast.

Jason Whitlock writes for the Kansas City Star and is an occasional contributor to E$PN's Page 2

The Tools of Ignorance...But at What Cost? by Me, Rob Neyer

2005-07-14T17:27:00.000-04:00

One of the great names of baseball history has passed away; Mickey Owen, a great catcher for the Brooklyn Dodgers, finally got the thumb from the Great Umpire in the Sky, at the age of 89. Sadly, most people only remember Owen for his biggest mistake: a dropped third strike in game four of the 1941 World Series that allowed Tommy Heinrich to reach base and eventually score. This is one of the saddest truths about baseball: sometimes the thing you're known best for is the thing you don't WANT to be known best for. No matter that pitcher Hugh Casey had thrown a spitball on that pitch, making it well-nigh impossible to catch in the first place; no matter that the real crime in that game was Pee Wee Reese's ill-conceived notion to try to take third base on a pop foul by Jimmy Wasdell...no, it is Owen who was immediately goated, and it is his name that survives even to this day.

You know why? Because he was a catcher.

Catchers are, basically, the unluckiest of baseball players. In the most visible, naked sport in the world (well, except perhaps for basketball, and soccer, and maybe swimming or bicycle racing), they have to wear heavy equipment and a mask, and toil in the hot dirt of the noonday sun, trying desperately to hang onto 100-mph heat from pitchers who can take off most of a week between starts.

Maybe that is why the worst things happen to catchers. One, Cincinnati Reds' second-stringer Willard Hershberger, filling in for injured star Ernie Lombardi in 1940, committed an error to lose a game for his team, and then actually committed suicide in his hotel room after the game. This was for a World Series-winning team! Can you imagine a player feeling that way after an error in this modern era?

And there are plenty of examples around us, to this very day. Was anyone else as disturbed to the very pits of their soul as I was, watching poor Mike Piazza attempt to "rock out" onstage with Alter Bridge before the All-Star Game? Piazza smashed more than just a cheap cymbal during that skit -- he smashed his legacy as well. It's sad, really; really, really sad.

But that isn't even #10 on my list of All-Time Stupid And/Or Horrifyingly Disgusting Things Done By, And To, Catchers. Get ready, people, because this one's gonna get a little R-rated, for language, violence, sexual perversity, and consumption of drugs and alcohol. Plus, a Piazza-related story that will change the way you look at this former superstar...FOREVER.

10. The Ritual Self-Mutilation of Johnny Bench, and How the Media Covered It Up

Second Half Preview

2005-07-13T11:16:00.000-04:00

I like the All-Star Game and all that, but I gotta say, I'm glad all that's finished. Between the 24-hour Home Run Derby, and all that Kenny Rogers bull, the Break was starting to rub me like a tight sweaty jockstrap. The time for showing off and goofing around's finally over. It's time to look forward to what's in store in the second half of the season. There are lots of great stories, and even worse stories, to keep tabs on. Here are a few of them.

ARE THE ORIOLES / NATIONALS / WHITE SOX FOR REAL?

Of course they're real, geez! Wins are wins, and you can't take them away. And you can't take first place away from a group of guys just because folks think they don't belong there. If the Rockies had the Orioles' line-up, they'd be running away with the NL West. And the White Sox mix of clutch pitching and clutch hitting is the stuff of world champions. But the team that impresses me the most is the Nationals, because they're doing it without any superstars. On the Orioles, you have Miguel Tejada and Brian Roberts. On the White Sox, you have Mark Buerhle, Jon Garland, and especially Scott Podsednik. But who's on the Nationals? Livan Hernandez? The guy's fatter than me! Nick Johnson? He can't even play a full season! Chad Cordero? Where'd they find this guy? Is his name Spanish for "Tony Fossas"? Credit has to be given to tough-as-nails (but not as tough as Nails) Frank Robinson for pulling these Bad News Bears together and getting wins out of them. And wins is what it's all about. It's not up to the first place team to prove anything. It's up to the teams behind the first place teams to take them down. (Yeah, I know the Orioles are in 2nd place, but, come on, the Red Sox are in deep, deep trouble.)

ARE THE RED SOX IN DEEP, DEEP TROUBLE?

Gee, you think? The clubhouse chemistry's all messed up. Their lead idiot is verbally mouthing off about team decisions and singing back-up for crappy rock bands. They're going to put their ace pitcher in the bullpen, a move he's not too happy with. Their starting first baseman is complaining about playing time. Their back-up outfielder put up so much of a stink that he was shipped out for peanuts. Manny Ramirez is struggling to hit above .280. Their closer, when he's not bad-mouthing fans or flying cross-country for lunch, is getting knee surgery. Their best hitter doesn't even play the field. And their best pitcher right now is a guy that didn't even finish above .500 last year for a Cub team that featured Nomar, Moises Alou, Sammy Sosa, and Derrek Lee. The O's just took 3 of 4 from them prior to the All-Star Break, and now Boston has to play the Yankees, who are only 2.5 games in back of them, thanks to great pitching and Jason Giambi. And those Blue Jays are right there in the thick of it, too. I can't remember the last time a first place team looked dead in the water like this, but I think the Red Sox are biting down hard on a scuba tank and are just waiting for the bullet. You don't need a bigger boat for this guppie.

WHO'S GOING TO SURPRISE FOLKS IN THE 2ND HALF?

In the National League, I have to go with last year's wildcard team, the Astros. They're actually in a better position than they were last year, record-wise, and the production they lost when Carlos Beltran went to New York has been picked up by my NL MVP Morgan Ensberg. The Rocket's still firing on all cylinders (even if he can't win games anymore), Brad Lidge can be the best closer in baseball when he wants to, and after what happened last year, you know manager Phil Garner has some tricks up his sleeve. As for the American League, I know the hot pick is the Oakland A's, and they looked pretty good these past few weeks. However, I think one team that everyone's overlooking is the Detroit Tigers. Their pitching staff, anchored by Mike Maroth and Jeremy Bonderman (possible Cy Young guy), is kicking butt, they've got closer Troy Percival back throwing gas and getting saves, and their big free agent acquisition, Magglio Ordonez, is back and ready to drive in runs. The Tigers have a nice mix of youth and veterans that could catapault them past both the struggling Twins and the hapless Indians and into the postseason for the first time since I was a rookie. And as my expanding waistband can tell you, that was a long time ago. (No, I'm not on any growth hormone - I'm on a mayonnaise diet!)

AWARD WINNERS?

Pitchers, I gotta go with the D-Train and Jon Garland - wins talk, and everything else walks (or strikes out). And in D-Train's case, shutouts talk real loud. I already talked about my NL MVP. In the AL, I gotta go with the Pod people. I mean, last year, they had Carlos Lee, and they went nowhere. This year, they switch Lee for Scottie P, and now they're running away with the division. That's no coincidence. That's valuable play. As for managers, you gotta go with the top two winners in the game this year, Ozzie Guillen and Tony LaRussa. Enough's been said about LaRussa that I don't need to talk about him - he's one of the best managers ever, and this year's more proof. As for Guillen, he's got his players playing the way he used to play - scrappy, feisty, clutch, annoying as hell - and it's going to take them far in the post-season. I have to say, though, if Joe Torre can manage to bring the Yankees back from where they were in May, given how out-of-it they seemed, then he might get my vote.

WILL BARRY BONDS COME BACK?

This is probably the biggest question of the second half. And my thought is I don't think so. He says he's been rehabbing for a while, and he says he wants to come back and play for the Giants, and he says he wants to get the home run record. He also said he can't tell the difference between flax seed oil and the juice, which is garbage. I mean, hey, if your head grows to the size of a school bus, and you start hitting home runs on check swings, maybe there's something to that fancy new cream you're using, right? I think of a guy like Barry Bonds playing right now, and I see someone like Sammy Sosa. Sosa used to be an ambassador of baseball, saving the game after the last strike with the help of Mark McGwire (and what looks like a buttload of supplements) (emphasis on the word BUTT). Now look at him. He can barely get the bat through the zone. Every time he actually gets a hit, it's like the Fourth of July, Christmas, and $.99 Whopper Day all wrapped into one. He's getting paid almost $20 million dollars to hit like Tony Womack, but at least Womack can steal a base! Barry's too proud to want to go through something like that, and he's definitely too proud to play for a bunch of stiffs like the 2005 Giants. He'd be better off getting traded to Tampa Bay or Kansas City - at least there he could DH!

Even if he's this close to the home-run record, I can't see him tarnishing his career by limping back into the batter's box. You gotta know when to cut bait, like I did. It takes a certain type of courage to walk away from the game. Everyone knows stories about washed-up players trying to make a comeback after retiring because they don't know what to do, and they think they can still play. That's sad. The strength of your convictions is huge. I walked away, and I did it mid-game - tell me that doesn't take grand huevos! I walked away so I could say I was a .300 hitter in the majors, and I'd do it again. Yeah, people question my heart, but once you retire, what's heart? Can you put heart on a plaque? Does heart count as a resume skill? Can you put heart in a press release or a card show ad? I can't show Hooters girls my heart (obviously!), but I can show them that .300 average, and that counts for something. If Barry knows what's good for him, he should walk away. Thanks for the great career, Barry! Say hi to Cooperstown for me!

WHO'S GOING TO WIN IT ALL?

Real quick:

AL: White Sox, Orioles, Angels, Tigers
NL: Cardinals, Nationals, Padres, Astros

ALDS: White Sox and Angels; White Sox in 3
ALDS: Orioles and Tigers; Orioles in 4

NLDS: Cardinals and Padres; Cardinals in 4
NLDS: Nationals and Astros; Nationals in 5

ALCS: White Sox and Orioles; White Sox in 7
NLCS: Cardilans and Nationals; Nationals in 7

World Series: White Sox and Nationals; White Sox in 6.

Enjoy the games!

Small Ball, Big Dreams

2005-07-12T13:10:00.000-04:00

Barring delays, next week will find Mincer Poppadopolis ensconced in the Slushie Hut at the Harper Woods Little League complex just outside of Detroit, selling spectators a plethora of cool colored ices. He will also be leading spectators to their proper seats on the 5-tiered bleachers on each side of the diamond. He will also umpire, tend to the needs of hitters, and act as mascot for the inaugural American All-Star Bunt Bowl. Right now, he's taking a screwdriver to an outdated pitching machine, trying to finetune the machine's mechanics. "Pitches need to be slow but not slow slow!" he says breathlessly in thickly-accented English, his swarthy and squat five-foot frame hunched over the machine. "Hitters don't catch fast pitches with the bat!"

Satisfied with his struggles, he turns the machine on and steps back. A dimpled yellow ball slides between two fast-spinning rubber donuts and zips over the plate, waist high to a cardboard cutout poised in the right-handed batter's box. The pitch hits the backstop's chain link fence with a satisfying metallic clink. Mincer looks over at his taut and tan daughter, Ferrari, leaning against a fence on the 3rd base side of the field. She snaps her gum while pointing a radar gun in the general direction of the pitch as if the gun is a limp loaf of bread. "Ferrari!" he shouts. She casts a withering glare in Mincer's direction, and at me, and then looks at the read-out on the gun. "75, poppa," she sighs, her gum snap punctuating the ennui in her demeanor. Mincer looks at me with rabid glee flecking his eyes. "Yes!" he shouts, waddling over to hug his disinterested daughter, her deep brown eyes rolling skyward as her father squeezes her lithe frame between his meaty forearms.

Mincer Poppadopolis is a 2nd generation American. His parents came to the United States in the early 50s, with Mincer's father's career as a Fuller Brush salesman taking him, his wife, and young Mincer all across eastern United States. They finally settled in East Lansing, MI, where Mincer and his daughter now reside. Mincer's lackluster performance in high school, coupled with financial hardships, forced the young man to go to work at a local Kentucky Fried Chicken. He began behind the frier. After 18 years, he now owns his own Taco Bell / KFC / TCBY restaurant, and is looking to open a Pizza Hut not five minutes from his house. "Hard work is the American dream!" he shouts. "I work hard, and look! I am making money!" To illustrate his point, he pulls out a Detroit Tiger money clip from his black satin Detroit Tiger jacket, and rolls his fat fingers over the bunched dollar bills wedged into the clip. The sound made is not unlike what you hear when bicycle wheel spokes flicker over the edge of a Topps card. He grins, and shakes his money clip furiously. "I know I am money!"

As you might discern from his couture and accoutrements, Mincer is also a huge baseball fan. He has one room in his house dedicated to his favorite Tiger of all time, outfielder Milt Cuyler. Cuyler, a player known for his speed and little else, played only one full year in the majors. In 1991, his first full year in the majors, Cuyler stole 41 bases and scored 77 runs, leading off for a Tiger team transitioning from its mid-80s heyday into a dark descent into futility. The wood paneled walls of Mincer's study are draped in pennants and pictures and clippings concerning the little-known Tiger. "I don't know how it happened," Ferrarri Poppadopolis muses, her teeth mulling over her wad of sweet-smelling gum the way her cat-like mind mulls over memories. "I think he just saw Mel steal a base or get a hit or do something one day, and then, from what I know, it was all you could do to get Dad to talk about anything else. Besides, I was only 3 or 4. Why are you even talking to me about this?" Included in Mincer's collection of Cuyler memorabilia is a picture of Cuyler shaking Mincer's hand - it was taken at a local card show circa 1992. The look in Mincer's eyes: pure, focused madness, the type of madness typical of eccentric geniuses and misunderstood artists. The look in Cuyler's face: shock, dismay, seasoned with a small helping of fear, or perhaps a sense of his own baseball mortality. Cuyler's hand disappears into the swarthy man's grip the way a rat disappears into the unhinged maw of a cobra.

"It was the way he played!" Mincer offers as reason for his obsession. He talks breathlessly while taking a pair of pinking shears to the infield grass, fastidiously trimming any rogue blades. "He was fast! And he was speedy! And he did not hit home runs like Cecil Fielder and Lou Whitaker! Like me! I am Milt Cuyler! I do not hit home runs! I have to make runs the hard way! And I did!" It is this tenacity and ferocity that fueled Mincer's desire to participate in the upcoming All-Star Game festivities in any way possible. Hence, the American All-Stars Bunt Bowl, an exhibition displaying the oft-overlooked skills that, in Mincer's words, "make baseball great!" In Mincer's world, the Bash Brothers bring forearms together for advancing runners, and curtain calls are reserved for those who can coax a ball down a foul line fair. "No home run derbies!" Mincer yells, pounding the aluminum bleachers. "Home runs are for fat people with no skill! I hit home runs if I want! I just swing hard and throw out ass like cheap floozy! And there is yard work! Big fancy whoop-dee-doo-dee! But bunt and speed and moving runners - that is true skill! Like Milt Cuyler! I want to show people that!"

To that end, Mincer has painted multiple targets between the batter's box and the pitcher's mound. Like in the Home Run Derby, a hitter is given 10 "outs". The hitter will be offered a pitch, and the hitter will try to bunt the ball into one of the circles on the ground. Getting a ball into a certain circle earns the hitter a certain amount of points - the circles directly in front of home plate are worth only 5 points, while landing in the circle halfway down the 3rd base line is worth 100 points. However, a hitter also has the option to swing away at pitches in an attempt to move imaginary runners over with a well placed groundout. The chance for scoring increases with such attempts - a groundout through the proper circle could mean 1000 points - but there is also a chance that you lose points if you, for instance, line a basehit back through the box. Any ball hit to the outfield on the fly means instant disqualification. Other rules are written on multiple pieces of posterboard, twenty in all. On the day of the Bunt Bowl, Mincer plans on hanging these rules on any and all available surfaces.

"Mr. Poppadopolis' endeavor is the sort of endeavor that we wish was helmed under the aegis of Major League Baseball," says an anonymous representative of the Elias Sports Bureau. "In this day and age, the Productive Out and Sacrifice Bunt are unfairly impugned upon by various organizations that prefer the hollow glitz and glamour of scoring runs in bunches." Unfortunately for Mr. Poppadopolis, Major League Baseball has not recognized the Bunt Bowl as an official All-Star affiliated event - hence, the event taking place in a little league park in Harper Woods, and not Comerica Park. Despite constant and fervent petitioning, Major League Baseball has forbid Mincer to attempt to represent this event as being a part of the MLB All-Star festivities, and even went so foar as to state that the American All-Star Bunt Bowl cannot take place until after all MLB-affiliated All-Star events have been completed. To add insult to injury, invitations to various players - ranging from current players like David Eckstein and JJ Hardy to old-timers like Otis Nixon and Marty Barrett - have gone unnoticed or unresponded. "I heard back from Alex Cole!" notes Mincer. "But he thought this was a paid event! I said yes, you get paid! In hot dogs and cole slaw! And Corey Hart performance! By me! Night sunglasses!"

Mincer's passion hides a tint of bitterness - because of his undying passion for baseball, his wife, Claudia Maria Jennifer Poppadopolis, left Mincer three years ago. He was also removed as manager of the local tee-ball team after an ugly confrontation with a player and his parents. The following is an account from a parent who would only talk to us anonymously, for fear of earning Mincer's ire. "There was this kid on the team, a natural. Every time he swung, the ball would fly over the fence. And that squat little freak was getting angry at the kid! He kept saying stuff like, 'Stop swinging so hard!' and 'You're not playing right!' But the kid just kept on doing the same thing every at-bat. So that freak decided to bench the kid. And the kid's parents, rightfully, got upset. I wasn't at the game, but I heard that the argument got so heated that the freak grabbed an aluminum bat and started chasing people around, screaming something like, 'I show you how to swing!' I think the umpire broke his arm or something, and he managed to knock out a player's mother. They had to mace him. It was like bringing down a rhino. It was terrible." While Mincer would deflect any questions concerning this incident, it's clear that he sees the Bunt Bowl as an attempt to atone for that incident.

Atonement comes at a high price, however. Because of the incident, Mincer has had to pay the town an exorbitant fee to rent out the field. As noted before, there's a good chance that no players will show up, and the ill will fostered by Mincer's bunt-centric fanaticism has alienated most townsfolk. Still, the interest in the event for the Poppadopolis clan does not waver. "Whatever," sighs Ferrarri. "Dad said I could either help out with his stupid baseball thing, or I could work double-shifts at the Taco Bell all week, making burritos for burnouts and nerds. What would you do? And why do you keep staring at me? Perv." Despite the hardships Mincer has endured, it is hard to begrudge the man his dreams. Watching him splatter color Pollock-like across a scraggly infield, swearing to himself as sweat and paint drip into his eyes, one can't help but think of Ray Kinsella pouring his life savings into the building of a baseball field, powered by one overriding though. Mincer, face mottled with red and yellow sploches, looks over to me and smiles as if reading my mind. "This is my dream field!" he shouts, stubby arms spread wide, encompassing everything from the rusted playscape to the gravel parking lot. "If you come, I will build it!" Ferrarri, flipping through the latest issue of Blender, pops a bubble, and Mincer, smiling to himself, returns to his work.

Zen and the Art of Teamwork Maintenance

2005-07-12T00:41:00.000-04:00

Gang:

The Chiba Lotte boys checking in on a somber note. It's afternoon here, and we've just foregone a morning workout to watch the wanton longball orgy that I've come to understand as the stilted, Westernified version of a game I once knew.

You guys know I've been on my soapbox in the past, and now's the perfect time to remind you how much this new World Baseball Classic is stewing our soba.

In the past few years I've come to understand the game on a level that transcends send-ups and 6-4-3's, rises above sucking a cold Budweiser with Icy Hot tickling your nose and dudes lounging in their jocks in the clubhouse.

Baseball in Japan, friends, is an elephant on a feather, a feather known as teamwork, and if our best can't cultivate our spring mojo, sing our koans from the outfield and bask in the echoes, we will revert back to the slobbish stick and ball game I left what seems like an eon ago.

Our best players simply cannot leave their teams for the first weeks in March, a time when in Chiba we await the blossoming of the sakura, the unfolding of our swing to the fence. We eat sweet takenoko, and koinobori flutter in the wind while the boys and girls welcome their Marines home.

Our game is a game of counting. I got win number 1,200 as a manager here, we're halfway through another winning season. But as the Marines and I start our 2006 season we will become one as others separate, and your insulting proposal of a World Baseball Classic will not demean our solidarity. As Master Ryokan wrote:

The flower invites the butterfly with no-mind;

The butterfly visits the flower with no-mind.

The flower opens, the butterfly comes;

The butterfly comes, the flower opens.

I don't know others,

Others don't know me.

By not-knowing we follow nature's course.

--------------------------
Sent from my BlackBerry Wireless Handheld

Fever of Elongball: Drink It!

2005-07-11T20:50:00.000-04:00

I has just have 24 orgasms in one round.

Ana Maria Callejeo Guillen is the top baseball writer for El Universal. She is also one happy Venezuelana tonight.

Bleep Bleep - July 11th

2005-07-11T15:27:00.000-04:00

Wooo. Happy f*cking All Star Break. Give me a second to actually give a sh*t.

OK, so some boy genius called me out on my comment last time about Delgado being the 2nd best first baseman in the National League. Seems I totally forgot about Derrek Lee, some flash-in-the-pan pill-popping slapmaster playing so far over his head he's getting clipped by 747s and Sputnik. Yeah, like some no-talent ragweed suddently hitting .380 with almost 30 homers by the f*cking All Star break is worth the time of day. The only Triple Crown this guy's going for: Human Growth Hormone, Andro, and good ol' fashioned needle-in-the-ass steroids. This isn't some case like Andruw Jones finally getting off a lapdance and actually playing ball. This is some no-talent dink finding his way into Sammy Sosa's Tang and turning into the Iron F*cking Shiek getting all Camel Clutch on you piece of sh*t infidels. Betcha he has 20 of those HRs against the Reds and Danny Graves. HEY A-HOLE - WAY TO BE WITH THE HOMERS IN NEW YORK! Hope your health insurance covers you sucking like a two-bit d*ckjockey. Happy Endings for everyone! F*cktard.

Of course, Lee plays for Chicago, where the mob and the mayor play the f*cking town like a rigged shell game. Oh, where's the grift? Where's the corruption? Where's the 192 dead bodies? Ha - wrong! You lose, McFly! You got a f*cking Cub turning into Babe Ruth out of the blue, you got the f*cking White Sox (please) playing 392 games over .500 like they can actually do something, and you got no-talent *ssclowns like Ozzie Guillen and Dusty Baker flapping their jowls like monkeys banging on f*cking Smith-Coronas. Forsooth and odsbodkins, wang-tards, for thy crap rolls downhill past people that know better and right back into your f*cking mouths, you spew-spitting nutmunchers. Moo, b*tches.

So this is big fancy All Star Break time. Lah dee freaking dah. Excuse me while I go palpate my buttocks in f*cking excitement over the notion of seeing two mental midgets square off in a battle of Who Can Burn Through The Most Piece of Sh*t Players First. Yeah, it sure counts this time. Too bad it needs to take off its shoes to get past the 5th inning. (It's a deep joke, f*ckwit. Try reading a book without pictures sometime.) Me, I can't wait until I'm making time w/ some f*cking St. Ides while the cast of Mad TV mushmouths their way through some dumbsh*t story about Danys Baez's bris or A-Fraud's vestigal snatch. "Oh, and Alex was so brave to get some duct tape on that, so he could go through life with some sense of normalcy." "Yes indeed Josephina. And now, here's footage of me sucking on a pig's nipple." G*d help me I'd rather watch Barbara Walters felch Larry King than watch Buck's horseteeth escape his f*cking mouth like prison inmates. And that f*cking forehead, g*ddamn - I've seen diamonds that don't shine that bright. Lay off the Turtle Wax, mantit.

As for who I'd want in the All-Star Game? Who gives a sh*t? Talk to Dibs or some other amped-up mouthbreather if you want to ask dopey sh*t like that. Oh no Derek Jeter won't be able to give the fine women of Detroit the clap this week. Too f*cking bad. Instead we have to watch Scott Polish Sausage spaz like a 5-year-old, like he has to pinch a loaf or some crap. Assuming he can actually get the bat through the strike zone. And oh no Pedro Martinez is wussing out of the game because he's a big p*ssy wuss and can't throw more than 10 pitches a game. Best starter of his generation my d*ck. Go hang out w/ Tattoo, you curly little b*tch. Yeah, try throwing at a REAL player, see how quick that juice gets slapped out of your perm. (Yeah, that's right, I'm calling him out AGAIN. I'd like to see him do something about it! Come on, Eriq LaSalle - bring the f*cking pain!)

Maybe Clemens and Pizza will actually man the f*ck up and have it out over that namby-pamby bat-tossing garbage. "Oooh, look at me, I have boobs the size of Texas - watch as I throw this sharp piece of lumber at a defenseless hitter! I am a sure-fire Hall of Famer! Don't mind me while I bankrupt the franchise from my homef*ckingtown so my wife can pop out another 15 kids I can give names starting with K because I am a strikeout pitcher ha ha ha ha! Goo goo g'joob, Kolonel Klink!" Yeah, that'd be a meeting of the minds. Watch out Nobel Laureates - here comes A CATCHER! "I'm not gay! I just like growing my beard in a fancy braid, and listening to gay ass sh*t like Creed and Toby Keith because I'm a raging heterosexual! I'm going to have my wife's lesbian lover pierce my nipples, because I am all man oh yeah! Love me and my meaty haunches! CALL ME, CARSON!" Coming up next: Jose Lima and Keith Hernandez on preventing f*cking STDs by chopping off your sore-ridden mansnout.

Oh, G*d, I feel like Kruk farted up my ass. Who the f*ck told me that mayo was good? I knew that green sh*t wasn’t pesto. G*d damn it, Ravech. You're gonna get it like Sharon Tate, you snotshot. If this post sucked, blame him and his 16 IQ. Until next time - enjoy the f*cking tee-ball, ladies.

World of Shame

2005-07-11T15:25:00.000-04:00

In its infinite wisdom, baseball, apparently taking a hint from that grand spectacle of athletics known as “futbol,” has decided that the 2005 Home Run Derby ought to feature an “international flavor.” Eight hitters will step up to the plate tonight, each from a different country that the average baseball fan couldn’t find on a map.

Don’t get me wrong. After steroid-enhanced freaks like Mark McGwire and Brady Anderson turned the game into some sort of pill-popping WWF sideshow with their tight little biceps and medicine cabinets full of God knows what, baseball needed to do whatever it could to restore the former glory of the Midsummer Classic. But this? This isn’t a sideshow, it’s a freakshow. Minus the freaks. This so-called competition isn’t going to whet anybody’s appetites for next year’s World Baseball Classic any more than a Trinidad/Botswana soccer game is going to make me, Skip Bayless, shout “Olé!”

This is the sissification of baseball, pure and simple. In the name of globalization, MLB has seemingly forgotten its roots. This is the national pastime. This isn’t some United Nations crap. There isn’t any need to concentrate on selling baseball to people who can’t even speak English.

One of the hitters participating tonight is Andruw Jones, who hails from the tiny island nation of Curacao. Curacao? They couldn’t dig up some bum from Cuervo Nation while they were at it? The only other major leaguer currently hailing from that floating dock is Randall Simon. You may remember Simon as the sickening thug who took a bat to a young lady dressed up as a Braunschweiger during a Milwaukee sausage race. Andruw Jones could have torched an orphanage and he’d be a better face of baseball in Curacao than Randall Simon. Some competition you’ve got there, Andy.

And then there’s Hee Seop Choi. Hee Seop Choi isn’t a guy who’s good enough to start for his own team against lefties. You mean to tell me he’s good enough to represent his entire country in international competition?

The Koreans are wonderful people, and I’ve got nothing against them. But Hee Seop Choi isn’t fit to carry Ichiro’s jock, no matter how mindful MLB is of the game’s burgeoning popularity in Asia. Either the powers that be know something about Hee Seop Choi that Jim Tracy and Paul DePodesta don’t, or this decision was all about selling jerseys in Pyongyang, and not about giving baseball’s best a chance to shine.

But it gets worse. The last time anybody cared about Panama, they were dragging that nut Noriega off to the slammer. Yet Carlos Lee, the best of an illustrious roster of Panamanian hitters that includes such stars as Jose Macias, Einar Diaz, and Olmedo Saenz, will be stepping up there and taking the rightful place of a deserving – ie. American - hitter. It’s a travesty. Who’s going to challenge for Jason Bay’s Canuck spot, anyway? Corey Koskie? Stubby Clapp?

Look, the fact is this: if you take the best home run hitters in baseball right now, they don’t make a rainbow. American baseball players – American baseball fans - will have to make do with Texas’ own Mark Teixeira as their sole representative. Nobody denies his talent, but dozens of deserving American hitters will get the shaft.

You can’t polish a turd like Hee Seop Choi and call it the Silver Slugger. And so, instead of an exciting Home Run Derby, we’re primed for another yawner, as a bunch of little guys with funny names hit a bunch of 310-foot loopers.

Let’s hope there’s a tailwind in Detroit tonight. We’re gonna need it.

Skip Bayless is a columnist for E$PN and a frequent correspondent on the hit E$PN2 morning show "Cold Pizza." In 1978, he was disqualified from the Texas regionals of the Mr. Universe pageant for punching out a fellow contestant who argued that barbecue was the same as grilling, and he’d gladly do it again. Look for his upcoming book, “No Way, Jose: How the Bash Brothers Ruined Baseball” in Vitamin Shoppes and finer truck stops near you.

About Face

2005-07-11T00:52:00.000-04:00

It should have been a laugher. A formality. The most celebrated team leader of his generation versus his hobbled teammate, a glorified singles hitter who steals the occasional base, and a couple of other guys who don't matter. After being cruelly and inexplicably ignored by his fellow American League fans and players, it was a virtual certainty that when all the smoke had cleared, Derek Jeter, better known as The Face of Baseball, would emerge as the Last Man Standing.

But it wasn't to be. At the time, all that remained were plenty of questions, with precious few answers.

For me personally, it has been a week for pause and reflection. My first reaction to Podsednik's selection was one of numb grief. Afterward, my emotions moved into more unsettling territory, as I was overcome with an intense anger that profoundly frightened both me and my family. Soon enough, this led me toward acceptance -- an understanding of what baseball fans had done and why they had done it.

Finally, it was time for reflection. Baseball is an infallible game, that much is axiomatic. The joys of your home team's 9th inning walk-off homers and the crushing heartbreak of their bases-loaded strikeouts could never carry such emotional heft if baseball were a fallible game. One of us had made a mistake -- it was either me, or it was the game of baseball. And it had to be me.

All my logic was therefore false. It follows that everything I thought I knew about baseball was wrong. Therefore, the opposite of my previous thoughts had to be true. With this realization, I was euphoric once again, for I was on the way to recovering an understanding of the game of baseball. The perfect, unblemished game of baseball.

Alex Rodriguez, Jeter's much maligned teammate, is the greatest player in the game today. By being a bratty, selfish man-bitch, he improves his team immeasurably. His frosty demeanor stokes the five senses of everyone who plays with him, thereby raising their level of play. Jeter's level-headed, "team first" attitude casts a pall over his clubhouse, for a team that cannot play with emotion is a team that cannot win ball games. It's no wonder that the Yankees are struggling this year.

The game of baseball is constantly evolving, but one thing has always remained constant: each era is defined by its prominent players, not its most successful teams. This is because team dynasties are fairly rare, whereas colorful characters are always in abundance. Barry Bonds is one of the greatest players ever and his perpetually sour disposition says everything that his numbers can't, or won't. Mark McGwire may have lacked eccentricity, but he made up for it in spades with the persistent andro/steroid rumours, thereby cementing his place in baseball lore. Controversy is a surefire mark of a legendary player. Yankee owner George Steinbrenner, whose Yankees have won six World Series under the watchful eye of his checkbook and his private investigators, would surely agree.

Babe Ruth and Mickey Mantle aren't legends because of their long home runs and countless pennant victories. Mantle's legend was cemented by his unquenchable thirst for potent potables in addition to his thirst for expansion-era AL pitching. Ruth is fondly remembered today because his hunger for home runs was equal to his hunger for pussy and 18-egg omelettes. What does Jeter hunger for? "He hungers for nothing" remarked one former Yankee. "He dated Mariah Carey but wouldn't make a big deal of it because he refused to turn his personal life into tabloid fodder. He never said anything about her to the boys, either. It was like he didn't trust us. At the time, it really hurt our sense of team unity".

Jeter's style both on and off the field is one of cold efficiency. He only speaks out in the press when his team is struggling. He never says a word when the Yankees play well, but as soon as their quality of play slips, he's quoted in the papers, flatly saying "we need to play better". He's the players' equivalent of the worst type of sports fan, namely, the front runner -- a person who cheers when his team wins, and boos when they lose. Someone like Jose Lima is the opposite of Jeter in this regard. Lima's personality is constant, steady, and consistent. Whether he's throwing complete game playoff wins or contracting STD's in his spare time, he always behaves the same way. Lima is genuine. Jeter isn't real, he's a masquerader. Lima is a character. Jeter is an actor. The importance of such characters in baseball cannot be overstated. There's a reason that we remember Moe Drabowsky and Bobo Holloman, but have forgotten about Bob Feller and Hal Newhouser.

Jeter is so aloof that he calls his manager "Mr. Torre". "His pretentious formalism really got on everybody's nerves" said Arizona pitcher Javier Vasquez, who pitched one year (2004) with the Yankees. "When there is a dispute in the clubhouse, you need a leader that can relate to everyone and help people work out their problems. Who would want to confide in somebody who's so emotionally distant that he can't even call people by their first names?".

On the field, he's a bundle of wasted energy that can be easily mistaken for a man of hustle. "He runs hard down to first base with every at-bat", says E$PN broadcaster Dan Shulman, "but for what? David Ortiz and Manny Ramirez don't do that, and they have a lot more RBI's than Jeter does. If he spent less energy hustling down to first then he might have more energy left with which to swing the bat".

"And what about that face-first dive into the stands last year in Boston?" continued Shulman. "He could have smashed his head open. How would that have helped his team? It just goes to show that Jeter is famous for all the wrong reasons. Jim Edmonds makes three catches like that in nearly every game".

None of this should surprise anyone who has followed Jeter's career closely. He's been like this his entire life. Even in high school, his parents made sure he was home by 10 PM every night, thereby teaching the young man how to hate fun. His early curfew ensured that he would grow up without any cool friends, a reputation which has remained with him to this day as the black sheep of the Yankee clubhouse. His parents taught him the wrong lessons at the wrong time, and now, he's messed with Scott Podsednik at the wrong time. That is why, during this Tuesday's All-Star Game, I'll be cheering even louder than usual every time Podsenik is on first with second base open.

Tim Kurkjian is a senior writer for E$PN The Magazine and a frequent contributor to Baseball Tonight.

Foulke Implosion

2005-07-08T14:12:00.000-04:00

Keith Foulke already found out all about the barbecue in Birmingham. Maybe this time, he can tell us about the Burger King in Brighton.

Or Braintree.

Or Bridgewater.

Or Brockton.

For as sure as he ventured to Alabama in search of better ribs than Redbones’, Foulke’s coming back to Boston for knee surgery, his season hanging by a thread flimsier than his ACL. He’s made no secret of his disaffection for the local cuisine – or at least, for the people who cook and serve it, pay good money to come to Fenway, and ostensibly cheer him on, and all without the benefit of a free truck for blowing a bunch of hot air on the radio – but he stands to eat quite a lot of it while he rehabs and tries to throw another meaningful inning for the Red Sox.

Wasn’t Foulke supposed to be the the antithesis of the sort of professional prima donna that the Boston brass had run out on a rail along with Trader Dan Duquette and He Who Must Not Be Named? Foulke’s antics make you long for the days of Dante Bichette and Jose Awfulman – never mind Jurassic Carl and the Dominican Diva himself. Keith Foulke was supposed to be different. Here we had a hard-nosed workhorse, a man of the people. As a lights-out closer for the White Sox and A’s, he was supposed to solve the problems that plagued Boston’s relief corps in years past.

Yet this wasn’t just a slow start, like he experienced in 2004. When blown save after blown save began piling up, when it was obvious that Foulke was serving more meatballs than Bertucci’s to the dregs of the division, the questions began again in earnest.

The true Sox fan can be forgiven for holding Foulke accountable for his team’s bullpen struggles lately. After all, Alan Embree and John Halama have been lousy all year. Matt Mantei pitched through his injuries until they became too much to bear. The difference is this: when confronted, they took responsibility for their own failings. What did Foulke say?

"I'm more embarrassed to walk into this locker room and look at the faces of my teammates, than I am to walk out and see Johnny from Burger King booing me."

By the next day, he had the Internet going nuts. Rarely has a player fallen out of favor so quickly in Boston, this most mercurial of baseball burgs – even Bob Stanley managed to avoid this kind of alienation after his famous anti-fan screed in 1986. You expected to see #29 jerseys burning in effigy in the Twins store, little kids in the suburbs quitting hockey (as if they still remember what it was) in order to further distance themselves from the disgraced Phoenix Coyotes fan. Right now, his postseason heroics – that single earned run in fourteen innings – seem like ancient history.

You can still stick a fork in the rest of the AL East. Just as the sun will rise tomorrow over that BK in Beverly, the Yankees, Orioles, Jays, and Rays will lie withering under the heat lamp like so many of yesterday’s Croissan’wiches. But Foulke needs to realize that the guy opening up that Burger King – good ol’ Johnny, the guy who pays his salary – won’t be gripping grain in the extended-cab Dodge Ram Foulke gets for a half-hour of his time every Friday on WEEI. If we’re looking for heroes, look no further than the fast-food joints. Don’t expect to find one on the Fenway mound in the top of the ninth.

We ought to wish him the best in his rehab; when healthy, there are few closers in the game who are better. But with a healthy knee, let’s hope he gets an attitude adjustment as well. We’ll welcome you back to Fenway with open arms, but it takes grinding to be a king, Keith Foulke. Don’t forget that.

Dan Shaughnessy is a frequent contributor to ESPN the Magazine.

Pay To Play

2005-07-08T11:26:00.000-04:00

A fan asked me, in a recent E$PN chat, about Adam Dunn. He's an attractive player to lots of teams, with his walks and home runs, and he's still young. But he has a low batting average, he doesn't have many RBIs (only 2nd on the team!), he strikes out a lot, and he's only batting 6th in the Reds' line-up. This is a guy that's going to make $9 million next year in arbitration. Like I told that fan, you can't have a guy that’s going to make almost $10 million batting 6th - he has to bat at the top of the order. Otherwise, you're just wasting money. Teams pay players the big bucks because they want these players to make money for them. It's that old business adage - to make money, you have to spend money. And spending lots of money on a guy that bats low in the batting order, a batting spot that tells fans to go buy more brewdogs or go to the can, is a poor investment of resources.

Which brings me to the All-Star Game. It's a game for the fans most of all, even if the winner gets home field advantage in the World Series. And the fans want to see the marquee high paid players - why do you think the Red Sox and Yankees get so many fans and all these televised games? But the leagues let relative nobodies like Mark Teixeira and Brian Roberts start for the AL, or David Eckstein and Derrek Lee start in the NL? No wonder fans stopped watching. Those aren't the players that put fans in the seats. It's the Pedro Martinezes and the Manny Ramirezes and the Barry Bondseses and the Sammy Sosases that the fans want to see play. There's a reason they make all the money. And with that money comes responsibility.

That's why I think that the All-Star starters should be the highest paid player in that position. Here's what the starting line-ups would look like if that were in place:

AMERICAN LEAGUE:
C Jorge Posada ($11M)
1B Jason Giambi ($13.4M)
2B Bret Boone ($9M)
SS Derek Jeter ($19.6M)
3B Alex Rodriguez ($25.7M)
OF Manny Ramirez ($19.8M)
OF Ichiro Suzuki ($12.5M)
OF Sammy Sosa ($17.8M)
SP Mike Mussina ($19M)

NATIONAL LEAGUE:
C Mike Piazza ($16M)
1B Jeff Bagwell ($18M)
2B Jeff Kent ($7.5M)
SS Rafael Furcal ($6M)
3B Chipper Jones ($16M)
OF Barry Bonds ($22M)
OF Andruw Jones ($13M)
OF Bobby Abreu ($13M)
SP Roger Clemens ($18M)

Tell me that wouldn't be a great game. Mike Mussina and Roger Clemens have a long history of battling from their Orioles / Red Sox days, Derek Jeter gets rightfully restored to the All-Star glory he deserves, Bret Boone gets back into the spotlight (where he belongs!), and exciting players like Ichiro and Furcal get to wreak havoc on the basepaths. I'd take this one step further and stock the line-ups with the highest salaries regardless of position, but then you'd have folks like Darren Dreifort turning double plays, and the last thing anyone wants is to see a pitcher hit. Or field, for that matter. (Actually, the last thing anyone wants to see is Al Leiter throwing 175 pitches in a World Series game we could have won if the manager wasn't a self-serving teeth-polishing egomaniac, but that's under the bridge.)

The best baseball players are the ones who make the most money. It's not about on-base percentage or numbers; it's about cold hard cash, and when you're putting your money where your mouth is, you're telling the world how much your players are worth. And when you're putting together an All-Star team, you need to trust your intuition and look at the payroll. I don't mean to sound like a breakfast cereal commercial, but it would take over 10 David Ecksteins or maybe 20 Felipe Lopezes to equal the value in just 1 Barry Bonds. And maybe you like waste, but having 1 Alex Rodriguez on a squad more than makes up for having the 15 or so Mark Teixeiras it'd take to equal his importance. I could take a knuckle from Mike Mussina, and it'd do as much for the team as the entirety of Kenny Rogers, especially in terms of character. Some of these low-paid guys might be all right players, but dollar signs don't lie.

Now, you'll notice I have injured guys like Jeff Bagwell and Barry Bonds in the starting lineup. That's on purpose. Like I said earlier, with lots of money comes lots of responsibilities, and sometimes the needs of the job overwhelm your own needs. You don't see CEOs begging out of shareholder meetings because they have a bum ankle or a cold. So why should someone making $22 million be given an exception to not show up to an "important shareholder meeting" with the fans because of some minor rotator cuff surgery or some out-patient chemotherapy? That's nonsense. A game for the fans should give the fans what they want, and they want to see stars.

And that means no excuses for not playing, medical or otherwise. No vacations to the Dominican Republic, no movie deals, no rock and roll tours, no charity engagements, and no "dog-ate-my-homework" kidnapped relatives stories. The All-Star Game is first and foremost a fan-friendly experience, and it's important for these multi-millionaires to be humble and realize who pays their salary. In essence, the ticket sales and concession sales are as much a vote as the actual ballots. You, Baseball Superstar, by virtue of your salary, have been elected to represent baseball by the great people of your city, the same way this nation, every four years, unites to elect a steward for this great land we call home. And just as politicians answer to their constituents, so should baseball players. Pedro Martinez is begging out of the All-Star Game, claiming his next start happens too close to the game to make it worth his while to show up. But it's not about his while - it's about the while of the fans. Pedro Martinez is a proud ambassador of the New York Mets, and he ought to represent his franchise, and his profession, on baseball's biggest stage, whether he likes it or not.

Does Pasquale Beerdrinker really care about Billy Wagner, the guy taking Pedro's spot? No, and for good reason. For one, Wagner's probably going to hurt himself packing his suitcase, never mind him throwing maybe one pitch, the way LaRussa's going to manage. Having relievers on the All-Star roster at all is a joke. Does the NBA have 12th men play in their All-Star game? Does the holder for a place kicker get to travel to Honolulu? Has a goon ever played in an NHL All-Star game? (Well, I mean besides regular hockey players - they're all goons, really.) Then why should a one-inning chucker-and-ducker take up a roster spot that belongs to a REAL pitcher? And why should fly-by-night kids playing over their head for 12 weeks or 1 year or even 3 years take the spot of a true warrior whose salary reflects his hard-earned experience? The All-Star Game isn't called the All-No-Name game for a reason. Put the names back in the game, and the fans will come back, too.

Steve Phillips, former General Manager of the 2000 NL Champion New York Mets, is a regular contributor to BBTN.

Still One of the Guys

2005-07-07T17:39:00.000-04:00

I'll be the first to admit it: it's been a tough year in Cincinnati. We've lost some we could have won, and we haven't won as many as we could. And there have been chemistry problems, too. (Remember that whole chair thing? I would have forgotten, too, if Ken and Adam would shut up about it. KIDDING!) But I'm happy to report that we're coming together as a team of late, and that we're primed to make up those 21 games on the Cardinals and bring the pennant back to Cincy. Oh yeah!

This week, for example, everyone's been making their plans for the All Star break. Now I don't have the luxury that these other guys do, because I am participating in the festivities. Felipe Lopez — who is every inch an all-star, let me tell you — and I keep talking about what we're going to do in Detroit. He wants to see Eight Mile Road and visit a Ford plant, and I'm pumped to finally (FINALLY!) ride the Detroit Princess Riverboat. It's good that Felipe and I are finally getting to be tight. (The language barrier is a problem, but we are getting past it. For instance, he likes to call me "puta" because I'm practically married to my laptop! LOL! Phil, as I like to call him, is one loco hombre.)

But even though it's a dream come true to participate in such a historic event, it's driving a wedge between me and the other guys. Like just yesterday, I asked Adam what he was doing over the break. He said he was going fishing, and I said that it was too bad I was going to the All Star game and he wasn't because I like fishing. He didn't even respond!

Same thing with Griff. Our conversation, exactly:

"Hey Kenny G!"
*LONG STARE*
"So, you kickin' it with your 'homies' during the All Star break?"
"What the [BAD WORD] is it to you?"
"Oh, I was just thinking we could hang out."
"Nah, man."
"Whoops! I just forgot that I'm part of the All Star festivities, so we can't hang out! I feel so red-faced!"
"[BAD NAME] you're pitching for the [BAD WORD] Home Run Derby. You proud of that [BAD WORD]?!?!?"

And then Griff starting laughing and walked away from me. But the more I think about it, it was respect that made him walk away. When you're on the downside of your career, it's tough seeing guys on their way up. But I'm going to do Griff and all the Reds proud, just you watch. I'm going to give up more home runs than anyone. An All Star. Can you believe that?

Eric Milton is in the first year of a three-year deal with the Reds. So far this season, he has served up 28 juicy tacos to MLB hitters.

The Fix Is In

2005-07-06T10:28:00.000-04:00

Over the weekend, baseball history was made with eleven first-time starters voted into next week's All-Star game. Unfortunately, what should be a watershed moment in the lore of our national pastime has been ruined by Republican corruption.

This season, Mark Teixeira emerged as a credible candidate for the starting job at first base. On the face of things, Teixeira's election was an easy one, as he cruised to victory by more than half a million votes. But Teixeira's election was hardly a fair vote, as evidenced by his connection to the Texas Rangers, and in turn to its former owner and our current president George W. Bush.

The voting record bears out the damning evidence of vote tampering, if not outright voter fraud. First of all, Teixeira was lucky in that he was aided by vote splitting, as the northeast vote was split between Kevin Millar and Tino Martinez. The lack of unification among the voters in New England and New York was a great help to Teixeira. Secondly, exit polls showed that that Millar may have drawn up to 20% of the 1B vote in Texas, but once the ballots were counted, he only garnered 45 000 total votes in the Bush family's home state. Potentially hundreds of thousands of Millar votes have gone unaccounted for, and with ballot box irregularities reported in Houston, Lubbock and Montague counties, the evidence of tampering is too obvious to ignore. Indeed, White House fingerprints are currently staining many a ballot box in more than one Texas ballpark.

Furthermore, the All-Star rosters were to be announced at 7PM Sunday on E$PN. However, at 6:57 PM that same night, Fox News made their own announcement and declared that certain American Leaguers had been elected to their positions before that information had been confirmed by E$PN. In addition, the employee at Fox News who gave the official go-ahead to reveal these results on air just happened to be the fourth cousin twice removed of the president's grand-uncle's illegitimate son Hezekiah H. Bush.

The sad thing is, Teixeira is a worthy All-Star candidate who might have been elected even without GOP interference. Now we'll never know what might have happened in a fair election. However, it's just like Karl Rove to organize this sort of scam while the country's attention is diverted toward George W. Bush's role in the upcoming G8 meeting in Edinburgh. Shame! Shame on you, Mr. Bush.

The National League has not been exempt from these types of shady backroom deals with prominent baseball-affiliated neocons. Roger Clemens wields tremendous influence in the baseball commissioner's office due to his well-publicized connections within the NRA. Concerted lobbying by Clemens and high-ranking NRA officials in the Houston-area resulted in Roy Oswalt's inclusion on the "Last Man" ballot, ahead of more deserving non-partisan candidates such as the Cardinals' Matt Morris. Over the weekend, I paid an unannounced visit to Clemens' Houston home to demand answers from the gun-toting future Hall of Famer. Sadly, I had forgotten about the Astros' road trip to Cincinnati, and was therefore unable to speak with Mr. Clemens. However, on my way out, I left a photograph of Matt Morris in his mailbox. Mr. Clemens' actions carry heavy consequences, causing real hurt to real people. Perhaps once he looks at that photo and gazes into the eyes of Matt Morris, he will start to understand this. Where has your humanism gone, Mr. Clemens? Shame!

Congratulations to the thousands of you who faxed, called, and wrote to Bud Selig's office to voice your objections to the decidedly corrupt All-Star Game voting process. Thanks to hard-working citizens such as yourselves, the integrity of our country's national pastime is not lost. Rest assured that your voice is being heard in the hallowed halls of the baseball commissioner's office. The Republicans know that we're onto their tricks, and they're running scared. Your efforts to reunite the game of baseball with its lost pride will never be forgotten.

Jenkins Variations

2005-07-05T13:04:00.000-04:00

"When the ninth inning rolled around yesterday and the score was tied, the largest crowd this season stood as if victory had become an inalienable right, as if the concept of defeat was unpatriotic...To upstage another New York team 37 years later would be like an extra scoop of ice cream on a piece of apple pie." - Lee Jenkins, The New York Times, July 5, 2005.

To upstage another New York team 37 years later would be like an extra yellow ribbon magnet on the bumper of an H2 Hummer.

Carlos Beltran's substandard play this season is an act of treason tantamount to Richard Clarke's scorched-earth book tour against the War on Terror.

At his initial press conference with the Kansas City media, manager Buddy Bell should have eschewed Royal blue for one of two costumes: Angus Scrimm's dark tall couture, or a William Howard Taft fat suit.

From their lofty perch atop the AL Central, the Chicago White Sox are baseball's own shining city on the hill, with a bullpen built on rocks stronger than oceans.

You would find more support in the Reds clubhouse for John Wilkes Booth and Sirhan Sirhan than you would for Dave Miley and Don Gullett.

After being released by the Tampa Bay Devil Rays, Alex Sanchez heeded the call of Lady Liberty, moving west like the great pioneers to claim his center field homestead in San Francisco.

As Yankees fans rained boos on Sammy Sosa on Monday night, they proved that they do not merely hate him, they do so because of his prosperity, achievement, and thus, the very freedom he represents.

The fireworks on the Mall were not the only ones on display last night; indeed, Jose Reyes played shortstop as if he had lost several fingers in a sparkler accident.

With JD Drew's unfortunate - but not unexpected - injury this weekend, the second of the Dodgers' Twin Towers finally, predictably, collapsed, as did the hopes for a winning season from Dem Bums. Chavez Ravine now sits as barren and wasted as Ground Zero as fans and front office personnel pick through the rubble of a tragic baseball campaign, wondering how things went so wrong so fast.

Along with baseball, democracy is that which makes America great - and there is no more vital display of the democratic process in our sport than the Ameriquest All-Star Final Vote. Not only does Derek Jeter lead the league in intangibles, but by dint of his leadership, motivational skills, championship experience, stellar defensive prowess, All-American good looks, toothpaste smile, and erstwhile relationship with America's songbird Mariah Carey, whose platinum album "The Emancipation of Mimi" is available in better record stores near you, he is the only rational choice for the American League 30th man. Exercise your vote, America. I urge you to vote Derek Jeter to his rightful place as his nation's All-Star ambassador - from sea to shining sea!

Pay Rickey

2005-07-01T16:30:00.000-04:00

If you don't know, life in the minors is different from life in the big leagues. In the big leagues, you're eatin' steak every night, sometimes with shrimp on it or that sauce that Rickey can't spell the name of. In the minor leagues, dudes get like $10 a day in meal money. $10! Even in the clubhouse, they don't have any Gatorade, just this no-name stuff they bought at the dollar store with all this Russian writing on it and all these weird flavors nobody ever heard of. You ever try to drink an orange-parsnip Gatorade?

In the big leagues, you're doing Sunday Conversations and sh-t, and later you go to Scores, and you always stick Karl Ravech with the check. In the minors, you're hanging out at the airport Holiday Inn waiting for some girl named Starlene to get off third shift. And then there's this host family. Rickey gets paid in the minors, but Rickey don't get paid a lot, so to offset the costs all the Surf Dawgs stay with families in the suburbs.

Anyway, Rickey's host family is always conspirin' against him and sh-t. "Do the dishes, Rickey!" "Eat your carrots, Rickey!" Rickey Henderson is the major league leader in runs scored! Rickey told them that one night, and they were all, "Rickey, you better run this trash out to the curb before the garbage truck gets here!"

It ain't Rickey's fault that he's always coolin' in the basement with that corny little punk Trevor and the Xbox. They got air-conditioning down there! And "Halo 2"! Rickey was beatin' that kid's ass one night, and Trevor got all mad and started to cry, and Rickey, being Rickey, got up in his face. "You just jealous! You just ain't as good as Rickey! You ain't the greatest leadoff hitter of all time! What, you scared? You scared of Rickey!" Then that kid ran up the stairs, and down came his parents, looking all serious and sh-t.

So they sat Rickey down and said, "Rickey, we just don't think you're doing enough to earn your keep." Rickey was ready to fall out! Then they were all, "Maybe you should get a second job - it'll get you out of the house, and you can chip in for food and utilities."

Maybe they was just mad. Rickey was chilling in the basement one day, watching "Days of our Lives," and the phone rang.

"Hello, this is Deion from DirecTV."

Rickey was all, "Deion? Prime Time?" It's amazing what those football dudes will do for an extra buck. So Deion and Rickey were catching up, talking about the old days, and Deion said, "Do you know you can save 30% off the cost of cable and get, like, nine ESPNs if you sign up for satellite?"

Damn! That's a lot of ESPNs! Rickey didn't have to think twice about that. So a few days later, Rickey's host dad was all like, "What happened to BBC America?" And host mom said, "And what about the Lifetime Movie Network?" Rickey was watching some Denise Austin aerobics video from 1991 on ESPN Classic 2 at the time, but they didn't seem too interested in watching her switch that ass.

So maybe that's what they meant by paying the utilities.

See, the thing about being the greatest left fielder of all time is that you aren't really prepared for a career in the working world. Work experience? Rickey ain't experienced in sh-t but getting on base, stealing second, stealing third, and scoring mad runs. Rickey ain't gonna work at no car wash. So I'm sitting at Jack in the Box, eating them 99 cent tacos and getting my Pennysaver on, when I finally go, "I got it! I'ma apply for this job as a player/coach for a softball team!"

Just you wait. Rickey's gonna get paid.

Hey, Baseball Jerks: Take One Responsibility!

2005-07-01T11:26:00.000-04:00

Okay, MLB has called me in to talk about some of these meatheads that have been disgracing the great game of baseball with their senseless acts of violence. We've had a bunch of these knuckleheads giving the national pastime a black eye: Kenny Rogers, Oliver Perez, Gary Sheffield, Jose Guillen, Frank Francisco...the list goes on and on, like Baptists in a picnic line.

The thing that really frosts my pumpkin about this is that none of these so-called adults have the gumption to own up to this childish behavior! "Oh, it was the media's fault," they moan, or "the umpires goaded me into it," or "my ex-manager, who shamed me last fall, got caught cheating and then started screaming at my new manager, who is a famously hot-tempered Hall of Famer and a certified AARP member." And the gullible people of the country who don't want to think ill of their pampered millionaires just smile and nod and go "yep, must be someone else's fault."

But that's all ten tons of hogwash in a shotglass. If you blow up at someone, it's your fault. Life always has obstacles, but it's up to you to overcome them. Come on, you either get it or you don't.

Take this Rogers fellow, for instance. He's 40 years old. That's a very impressive accomplishment, especially for a white man in baseball. (No offense.) So you'd think he'd know a little better than to very intentionally assault some Hispanic cameramen, in full sight of some other Hispanic cameramen. Hey, believe me, no one is sicker of the excesses of the paparazzi than me. I've had some bottom-feeders going through my garbage for months, trying to bring me down by finding something incriminating to splash across their tabloid newspapers. But come on, Kenny: even Hispanic cameramen need to make a living. Use your head, and act like the good Lord gave you a brain in your head instead of just a thunderous left arm!

It's happened to me, too. I guess a lot of you know that I am related to the late baseball pitcher Tug McGraw; and, for that matter, his country singer son Tim McGraw and Tim's wife, the beautiful and sexy country singer Faith Hill. Well, we lost ol' cousin Tug a little while back, a very sad occasion indeed. We were all there at the funeral, and it began to dawn on me that I was developing a very real sexual attraction to Faith. Hey, an adult can own up to these things. And it started to eat away at me that this scrawny little snot-nosed kid, who used to mope around the family compound all the time like "oh, boo hoo, I miss my daddy because he plays baseball and can't hang out with little poor old me," is now a multi-millionaire with his own hair and the hottest wife in the world. I mean to tell y'all, I saw red. Because it seemed to me that that blonde bombshell should be mine instead of his. And because I am a man, with natural male urges towards revenge and procreation.

Now, clearly, I could horsewhip Tim McGraw with my eyes closed and both arms tied behind my back. Hell, gimme a horsewhip and a place to stand and I ain't afraid of anyone. But did I disrupt the service to go over and sucker-punch that little brat, heave his woman over my arm like a pirate, and fly the coop? Like fun I did. I just gave myself some personal space, withdrew to the comfort of the nearest restroom, and spent some time doing some visualization exercises about Tim and Faith. Mostly about Faith. It worked like a charm, and I was "back in 15" with no one any the wiser.

If Kenny Rogers had tried this, or if he had thought to himself, "Let me visualize the fallout from me beating up this camera guy and having the footage replayed endlessly on E$PN," he never would have done what he did. He would have realized that this was no way to go about disproving the rumors about him wussing out and exaggerating the injury to his non-throwing hand just to get out of
starting in upcoming games against the Angels just to keep his surprising ERA and won-loss record nice and shiny. He could have maybe talked to the guys first or removed himself from the situation causing his rage and shame, thereby performing what I like to call a PMS, or Pre-Melee Self-intervention.

(Or he could have also just waited, and then jumped them with some teammates and some Louisville Sluggers after practice was over. Believe you me, there are a lot of places in Texas to hide a body.)

Now they'll be calling for his head. It's sad, but that's what happens when you look externally for the approval that you need to be giving yourself.

And I know that a lot of you are going to write off the incidents with the Perez kid and the Guillen kid and the Francisco kid to their being hot-tempered Latin fellows. But culture is no excuse for bad behavior. Hell, one of my favorite people in the world is my gardener, Arturo. He's been working on my ranch for about 30 years now, and a nicer, more humble guy you'd never want to meet. His English might not be too great, but that's because he has been in this country since he was six months old and went to public schools in Houston. And, last I checked, Arturo was a name-0 in espanyol-0.

So none of your cultural excuses, please. Act like an idiot, you should be suspended for 30 games immediately. Do it again, they should kick you out of baseball and into one of my boot camps. Hell, didn't you see the episode where I had my new friend Milton Bradley on? He didn't want to go on that nature trail hike at all, but then he realized that all the punk-rock little teenage girls that we'd sent to boot camp for the last month were all there in the middle of the woods with him. Hey, whatever works, right?

I guess it all boils down to this: You have to Behave Your Way to Success. Once these mental defectives get that through their skinny heads, this will be a better sport, a better world and a better place. So why don't these players know this rule? And when are they going to establish a mental health executive for the sport as a whole? Hey, I'm available! Until then, the chances that blood will flow from the fountains at Kaufmann Gardens are pretty high. Come on, Selig: don't say I didn't warn ya.

Dr. Phil McGraw is the star of "The Dr. Phil Show," a syndicated advice show that helps millions of people get real, get smart, and get going every weekday. (Check local listings for times.) He has also written many books, including Family First and Get Over It: A Guide to Overcoming Physical and Sexual Child Abuse.

Diamond Notes

2005-07-01T01:50:00.000-04:00

The Slugger's Strife: Rumors about the Reds trading misunderstood slugger Adam Dunn abound. Reports say they're looking for a Beckett / Wood starter type to solidify their rotation and turn the image of the team around. GM Dan O'Brien might have his work cut out for him, though: Dunn has twenty HRs, but only twice as many RBIs. Meanwhile, first baseman Sean Casey has only 3 home runs, and is behind Dunn in RBIs by only 5. And he didn't have his massage chair confiscated. Supporters say that cutting off Dunn's potential as a run producer to spite his high K totals (82 Ks in 248 at-bats this year).

One scout, however, doesn't believe the hype: "There's a reason he's batting low in the order. He's a total all-or-nothing guy, and playing in the Great American Small Park only makes him look like a real hitter. The way the Reds have handled Dunn is probably the only thing they've done right this year." The Red Sox are rumored to be involved in negotiations with the Reds (as are most major league teams), but the one thing the up-and-coming Sox farm system doesn't have is the type of pitching prospects the Reds desire and need, aside from the untouchable Jon Papelbon. At the very least, Cincinatti looking for the type of arm that can complement Brandon Claussen, who's rising to the challenge of being the ace with Paul Wilson on the DL.

The Red Sox, meanwhile, might be looking to address their first base issues. With Kevin Millar due to leave (and eagerly paving his way out the door) and no big boppers in Pawtucket or Portland, Theo Epstein is scouring the minor league rosters of some clubs for possible replacements. The names mentioned in rumors offered in published reports, though - Texas' Adrian Gonzalez, Arizona's Conor Jackson, Anaheim's Casey Kotchmann - might be out of reach for what the Red Sox are willing to offer. Supposedly, overtures to Joe Garagiola Jr. regarding Jackson were met with derisive laughter and a stream of profanity that should earn him a memo from The Resistance any day now. After the lackluster results of the Schilling trade, and especially in light of Casey Fossum coming into his own in Tampa Bay, I don't blame him. (More on The Resistance in the next item.)

With Prince Fielder's successful cup of coffee during interleague play this past week, Milwaukee's Lyle Overbay might be more expendable than previously thought. However, this isn't the Milwaukee team that gave players like Geoff Jenkins way too much money for way too long - it would take a blockbuster deal (probably involving Hanley Ramirez, Papelbon, and even Kelly Shoppach) to get Overbay's gap-power stroke in red and white. But consider this: Overbay hit 51 doubles last year. Imagine him playing pepper off of the Green Monster for half a season. And then try to get your work done.

God, Sometimes You Just Don't Come Through: Brett Myers' poor performance this past weekend against the Red Sox in Philadelphia might have more impact than in the boxscores and standings. Christian conservative activist group The Resistance, getting headlines for protesting Jessica Simpson's latest video, is now aiming their holy water super-soakers at the national pasttime, in particular highlights of Manny Ramirez's 4th inning grand slam against Myers. The home run looked like a routine fly ball to right field, but the heat and the Coors Lite aspects of the Phillie's horrible new home conspired to give players and fans a case of indigestion. Manny trotted towards first as if the out was assumed. Bobby Abreu coasted towards the wall thinking he had the ball in his sights. And, as replays showed, Myers watched as the ball continued to carry towards the stands, and voiced his dissatisfaction using some language your mother shouldn't know. It doesn't take 20/20 vision to watch Myers talk to himself and realize what he was saying (or shouting). And that's what The Resistance is afraid of.

In a press release sent to various reporters and news outlets, The Resistance expressed displeasure at the constant airing of Myers' silent but deadly outburst. "For a sport that trumpets its ties with American and Christian values, it is disappointing that broadcasters decide to focus on shameful acts of vulgarity and profanity, especially on the Sabbath." The press release continues on this tact, berating MLB and its partners for offering such "pornographic filth" and "homoerotic propoganda, such as chest bumps and hand pats to the posterior" to its viewing audience, and vows to urge advertisers and sponsors to pull out their advertising dollars. "It is a shame such a beautiful sport is in the hands of such irresponsible stewards." The Commissioner's office has yet to make an official statement regarding this issue. Curt Schilling and Trot Nixon were also unavailable for comment. When told this story, Todd Jones was reportedly happy with this press release, once someone translated the release into Moron. And inboxes across the world eagerly await a statement regarding Kenny Rogers and his dislike for photographic equipment.

What The World Needs Now Is Another Foulke Zinger: A recent column suggests that Red Sox players are fed up with Keith Foulke's lackluster performance this year, pointing to comments that suggest Foulke is less interested in punching out hitters and more interested in punching the clock (and getting free trucks). Foulke allowed 5 runs on Tuesday, including a grand slam to the Indians' Travis Hafner. It was his first blown save in over a month. Boston.com columnist Eric Wilbur's column for June 29th takes Foulke to task for avoiding media scrutiny and secrecy, and offers this as evidence that his teammates are fed up: "After allowing a grand slam to Travis Hafner in the top of the ninth inning, Foulke's defeated teammates were so inclined to help him wriggle out of his latest disaster that it took all of three pitches for Cleveland closer Bob Wickman to retire Jay Payton, Bill Mueller, and Mark Bellhorn on a trio of consecutive ground balls in the bottom of the inning."

"That's garbage," says one Red Sox player. "That's such garbage. No wonder Foulkie doesn't want to talk to anyone. We're all here to win ballgames. You leave that personal stuff in your diary. That stuff happens - you're looking for a good pitch to hit, and sometimes it's the first pitch, and sometimes you ground out. I bet that guy didn't say jack when we picked up Foulkie in that A's series." Says another Sox idiot: "Y'know, man, we're just here to support each other and win ballgames. And everyone struggles. It's the way things go, y'know? Y'know, we've all had times where we can't make pitches when we need to or get hits when we need to or get outs when we need to, and it doesn't help that folks are out there shouting all the time about how we stink. We just gotta stick together, and we'll come through this OK." Foulke has allowed runs in 11 of his 35 appearances this year, 25 runs in total. All of last year, Foulke only allowed 22 runs. Still, Tito is quick to say that Foulke is the closer for the time being. But when the Red Sox had a 5-2 lead in the 9th inning of Wednesday's game, they turned to Mike Timlin, this year's bullpen stopper, pitching this year the way Foulke pitched last year. A day off, or a sign of things to come?

Of note: one of the heroes of Thursday's game? Mark Bellhorn, no stranger to wrong-headed controversy or abuse. Folks continue to kick him when he's up or down, but after last year's performance, people should just be happy with his 20 HRs, his 80+ walks, and leave well enough alone.

I Want To Bite The Hand That Feeds Me: So what is The Nation (Red Sox, that is) to make of Pedro Martinez's resurgence? Last year was an off year for Pedro, which meant it was a year most pitchers would kill for (3.90 ERA, 1.17 WHIP, .238 BAA). But then the Red Sox slighted Pedro with their 3 year offer, and Pedro has spent the first 3 months of the season returning the slight. Clearly pitching in Flushing has unclogged whatever gummed up Pedro's works last year (2.72 ERA, 0.80 WHIP, .174 BAA). And clearly the Red Sox have a penchant for spurning would-be Hall of Famers when they are seemingly spent. It was over 9 years ago, during a different Red Sox era, when then-GM Dan Duquette publicly lambasted an erstwhile stopper for his lackluster performances over the previous two years. And Duquette had the gall to suggest that the 34-year-old Roger Clemens was on his way out of the league. That was 132 wins and 4 Cy Young Awards ago. Guess how old Pedro is?

Freedom's Just Another Word: A partial list of pitchers with 7 or more losses - Barry Zito, Jeff Weaver, Danny Haren, Roy Oswalt, Jake Westbrook, Zack Greinke, Derek Lowe, Ted Lilly, Jon Lieber, Kip Wells, Vincente Padilla. Not a bad group, are they? However, only Lieber and Oswalt have records above .500. And Oswalt has gotten the decision in every start he's made - he's 10-7. Defending AL Cy Young winner Johan Santana is only 2 losses away from matching his entire loss total from last year (6). And the NL winner? Only 1 loss away is Roger Clemens, despite having numbers (1.50 ERA, 0.94 WHIP, .182 BAA) that put last year's award-worthy totals to shame. Fine wine, meet your match.

King of the Tacos!

2005-06-30T15:49:00.000-04:00

Taco Bell announces the 2005 King of the Tacos competition! The Major League Baseball pitcher who serves up the most tacos in the 2005 season will be rewarded with a guaranteed job at the Taco Bell of their choice for life! This year's finalists are:

Oliver Perez (20 Tacos)

Jon Lieber (22 Tacos)

Eric Milton (27 Tacos)

Good luck to the three finalists, and remember to think outside the bun!

Ball Five Pt. 4

2005-06-30T12:31:00.000-04:00

Editor's Note: John Rocker, the maligned former closer for the Atlanta Braves, has signed a book deal with Regnery Publishing (publisher of such bestsellers as Unfit for Command: Swift Boat Veterans Speak Out Against John Kerry) to chronicle his comeback attempt. Regnery and Mr. Rocker have graciously agreed to post some of the pitcher's entries here, as they happen. On June 28, Mr. Rocker elected to leave the Long Island Ducks. Below are his parting words.

My daddy always said there'd be days like these. Went to pound some Michelob's after a crap day at the office, lost $20 at Golden Tee to some douchebag with a face like a pizza milkshake, spilled a Baybreeze on my favorite polo and my sloshed ass hit on a tubber for like 15 minutes without even getting blown. It was a bad day gone badder, the kind that always ends with me shouting at myself in some shattered bathroom mirror for two hours, snot dripping from my nose like the clap.

It was pretty close to rock bottom that night. I can see that now. But just as the bottom started to come up at me like a screamer off the fat part of a bat, someone saved me. A blonde. Huge tits, hot bod, dressed real nice. One minute I'm puking up beer nuts under a barstool and the next I'm playing naked Jenga with this babe and three of her friends in some penthouse apartment in New York. I'd never experienced anything like it. And before I knew it we were suddenly in a private plane headed to Florida while they gave me a "stress test," which I thought would be something kinky — ya know? — but ended up being a, um, stress test.

I dunno what it was, but while they were talking to me everything just started to make sense. At first I thought it was just that I was skunk-drunk on a fancy-ass airplane with four fine-ass naked ladies standing over me and my brain needing oxygen, but looking back now in the cool light of day, I understand that that euphoric sensation was simply my body releasing its thetans thanks to the teachings of Mr. Hubbard. You heard that right: I'm a Scientologist now.

Back when I went to a Baptist church as a kid, I was always fascinated by how Saul became Paul. What would it feel like, I would wonder, to have that heavenly light bulb go off? Well, now I know. You look at yourself in the mirror and you don't have this weird feeling like you want to flex your pecs and cry at the same time. You don't feel so angry. Instead, you just feel relieved to finally be out from under Xenu's thumb. Every muscle in your body just aches to return to your starship, which is probably idling off of some kick-ass planet you've never heard of.

You've probably heard that I quit the Long Island Ducks. Well, it's true. If I'm to bring my race back to its rightful intergalactic prominence, I can't be spending my time striking out wetbacks in Rhode Island. I have a new mission now, and so do you: go see War of the Worlds. It totally kicks ass. Over and out.

Phanatics in our Midst

2005-06-30T10:30:00.000-04:00

As you know, ordinary American citizens play a vital role in the War on Terror. It is often only by the watchful eye and diligent reporting of true patriots that terrorism is squelched on these shores before it has a chance to strike.

Earlier today, federal agents raided the locker room at beautiful new Citizens Bank Park. At first, everything seemed in its place, but their attention was drawn to a distinct ovular shape concealed under the clubhouse rug. There, along with subversive literature, they found detailed blueprints of the Liberty Bell and enough ammonium nitrate fertilizer to reduce historic downtown Philadelphia to a smoldering heap. Indeed, the culprit was quickly apprehended - the team's own mascot, shown here in a file photo.

Not even President Bush could have suspected that the Phillie Phanatic would be an actual fanatic. But while this lovable green goofball has entertained millions over the years, he has harbored sinister intentions against his own country. As an embedded agent of Al Qaeda, the Phanatic proves to us all that terrorism is an ongoing threat in this great nation.

Where did he learn to hate America? I don't know. But now that he languishes in a holding cell at Guantanamo Bay, the Phillie Phanatic will never harm an innocent, defenseless American. In this new age of terrorism, fanaticism - phanaticism, if you will - can take many forms, and we must all be as vigilant as Mr. Met in combatting the dangerous threat of Al Qaeda. Along with Mr. Met, I am gathered here today with Wally the Green Monster, the San Diego Chicken, Sluggerrr the Lion, the Mariner Moose, Bernie Brewer, Billy the Marlin, and even Youppi! the orange thing to announce the formation of a baseball outreach program: Mascots United Against Terror.

These lovable mascots will serve as goodwill ambassadors for the sweeping set of anti-terrorism laws soon to be approved by the Senate. Americans can once again sleep soundly knowing that their homes are securely protected - and these smiling mascots will introduce the new rule changes in a nationwide ad campaign to start this fall.

No clubhouse peanut vendor, stadium organist, radio announcer, parking attendant, or disgruntled right fielder is beyond suspicion these days. Therefore, my fellow Americans, if you see something, say something. It isn't just a good idea. According to Section 215(d) of the Patriot Act, it'll soon be the law.

Dr. Condoleezza Rice is the United States Secretary of State and an avid Washington Nationals fan.

Come Out And Play

2005-06-30T09:04:00.000-04:00

By Bill Plaschke
Special to E$PN.com

He bounded, rabbit-like, into the home team clubhouse twelve hours before the first pitch.

As effervescent as champagne.

As calm as a spring flower.

O.C. Original Confidence.

He was picking up three boxes of baseballs.

He was going to sign them all right then and there, and bring them to a local children's hospital, and spend time with the kids.

And then give blood. Twice.

And all this, with an ailing elbow.

His World Series ring shimmered under the flourescent lights like King Arthur's Sword, wrapped in the gentle caress of the Lady of the Lake.

His Sharpie glided softly across the ball's hide as his looping signature appeared as if magic.

And there were no cameras, no announcers, no invasive media vultures.

Just some coaches, some maintenance personnel, and this humble writer, quietly witnessing greatness.

Quietly appreciating this humble multi-millionaire.

Quietly basking in Original Confidence.

Once upon a time, he was the heart and soul of a baseball team for a city that hated baseball.

A city that wanted more to do with homicidal maniacs and gutless beatdowns than America's Pasttime.

Now, that team thrives in our Nation's capital.

Once upon a time, he was traded to a team that epitomizes high-priced mediocrity and futility.

A team desperate for a spark that would turn them from pretenders to contenders.

That team is now the defending World Champions.

In the offseason, he was signed as a replacement of a player that played the game right.

He was brought in to fill the pint-sized hole between second and third.

A huge gaping yaw that once held the keystone of the Los Angeles' Angels 21st century successes.

Los Angeles - the REAL Los Angeles team - is now in first place.

This is how baseball teams should spend money.

Money needs to be spent on things more important than numbers. Ask Paul DePodesta how much his math classes and laptops helped him so far.

There are some things that don't fit into an Excel document.

Mike Scoscia knows this.

Bill Stonemann knows this.

And, most importantly of all, Arte Moreno knows this.

Don't look at O.C.'s average. Don't look at his RBIs or his home runs. And please don't look at that frivolous on base percentage.

Look at this quote from Mickey Hatcher, a man that knows heart: "[T]his guy’s done a great job, and he’s gotten some big hits, moved some runners.”

Look at his stupendous defense, as awe-inspiring as it was back in the days when he was surrounded by unforgiving Canadian Astroturf and falling blocks of concrete.

Look at the misfortunes of his former team, the Money Sox - mired in mediocrity, struggling to hang onto first place, throwing games away against perennial oormats like the Cleveland Indians.

Look at the Nationals and Jim Bowden, a true GM that understands investing in a player like Original Confidence or Christian Guzman means more than what some laser printer can tell you.

And look at the first place Los Angeles Angels, riding high on a cocktail made of moxie, grit, and good old fashioned baseball.

They swing the bat. They run the bases. They catch and throw and have fun, just like little leaguers.

And they're in first place.

All thanks to O.C.

All thanks to Original Confidence.

They stayed in first place without nature boy Vlad Guerrero.

They stayed in first place without up-and-coming superstar Kelvim Escobar.

They stayed in first place without gritty veteran Troy Percival.

Now, they might have to stay in first place without their heart and soul.

Without O.C.

Without Original Confidence.

But he'll be there in person, and in spirit.

He will be the #1 Fan.

His Thunder Sticks will be his hands, clapping for that base hit or strike out.

He will be an actual real-life Rally Monkey, throwing feces and spitting raspberries at other teams' attempts to win.

At other teams' attempts to withstand the inevitable.

Watch him take charge of the dugout the same way he takes charge in the field and the batters box.

And thank your lucky stars he's on your team.

Enjoy him while you can, Los Angeles.

Bill Plaschke is in his 18th year as a sports columnist for the Los Angeles Times. He is also a regular panelist on E$PN's Around The Horn.

All Eyez on Me

2005-06-29T12:21:00.000-04:00

Upon reading Mr. Davis' article, businessman and philanthopist George Soros has asked Yard Work for a chance to respond. E$PN has agreed to allow him that chance.

When I was a teenager living in Budapest, Hungary was overrun by Nazis. As a Jew, I was forced into hiding for a year. I will never forget the terror that pervaded the air in 1944, the constant fear that someone, somewhere, would go behind my back, behind all our backs, and turn us over to those butchers. And I will never forget the relief we felt when the Allies, led by the United States of America, prevailed.

I live in the U.S. now, a proud American who happens to love the Constitution written so many years ago. In that document are codes that provide for the greatest country the world has ever known. The actual greatness of America can only be measured by how closely we hew to those codes. I am sorry to say this, but Representative Tom Davis seems to have lost sight of the vision of our founding fathers. He hates the freedoms I love, and loves the tyranny I hate. His arguments are specious, inaccurate, barely literate, and based fully on his right wing Christianist agenda instead of in the law of this land.

Also, he just wants to cock-block me because I did his old lady a couple of years ago and he found out about it. Haha, sucker, can't NO ONE compete with my smoove old-world accent, my full head of cute white hair, my good manners, and my eleven billion freaking dollars. So let's just get that bizness out of the way.

Listen, if I was wearing the horns like T-Dizzle, I'd be mad too. Old girl is probably still bending his ear about how much better I was than he is. I had to put a restraining order out just to get her to stop calling. It's like Prince said: "I may be qualified for a one-night stand / But I could never take the place of your man." Except I could; I just don't want to. Better or worse, Lonesome George gotta be free.

There IS, in fact, a political agenda here -- but it's almost too sad to mention. Let's face it: George W. Bush is dead like Biggie, with a political approval rating that is slightly under Jose Reyes' OBP. His legacy will continue to tank, Joe Budden-like, for years, smelling up the fundie dream with a stank no air freshener can dent. Davis and his fellow geepies know this, and they're casting around for a post-prez gig for their boy. And you know what that gig is, right?

Hint: Selig is a marked man as of 2008. Something's gonna "happen." Copy and paste THAT into your blogs, suckaz.

So you really think they're gonna welcome me with leis and luaus? You think they want an opinionated brother like me in their little game, with a fat pocketbook to match? Hellz naw, they're about as far away from that as K Solo is from a comeback. They're gonna throw up every obstacle they can, block a playa from playin like an incompetent grounds crew with a wonky tarp. Hey, I saw this coming, saw it from the jump, scoped that booty like a big game hunter.

But I ain't goin' out like that. I got a plan, I got posse in Cooperstown, I got my cousins, I got the whole streets locked. You want war, you done effed with the wrong Hungarian.

So bring the pain, Tom Davis. If you fittina go to war, you better bring all the guns you got, and you better bring your whole family to fire 'em. Yeah, and tell your wife to wear something nice. Lonesome George just bought Viagra.

George Soros is one of the world's wealthiest men. He is one of the major contributors to MoveOn.org and many other liberal causes. He also made $1 billion in one day by placing a hedge bet in 1986 that Great Britain would devalue the pound sterling. ONE BILLION IN ONE DAY IS NO F***ING JOKE.

Set Our Game Free

2005-06-29T11:32:00.000-04:00

Editor's Note: Congressman Tom Davis (R-VA) has come under fire for reportedly using his position to prevent Democratic activist George Soros from joining a bid to purchase the Washington Nationals. The Congressman requested that he be allowed to make his case directly to baseball fans, and we agreed.

It has been said that America is a melting pot, and our society is a soup of nationalities, religions and ethnicities. That's something that we see even in this fine chamber, as there are members of congress of many colors, not to mention the janitorial staff. America is a place of dreams, where a nobody can achieve everything he has ever dreamt, and where happiness is just one major political donation away.

But soups have a lot of different ingredients, and some of them taste better than others. I like chicken noodle soup myself, and tomato soup as well. My wife also makes a great fish stew, using catches from Virginia's own Chesapeake Bay, the same waters that brought our founding fathers to this great land so that they could quell the Indian insurgency.

Major League Baseball is the American pastime, and another melting pot. Major League Baseball Soup has changed much over time: now it has some tacos, Canadian bacon and even sushi, giving it a zesty flavor that I personally detest, but others seem to enjoy. And that's fine. This is a big country.

But now liberals want to spoil our national pastime. Liberals want to throw out the whole bowl of soup and replace it with a bowl of marijuana. That's what would happen to baseball if registered Communist George Soros — who, like that rat Durbin, has compared our Commander in Chief and brave military forces to Nazi cannibals — is allowed to purchase the Washington Nationals. With Francs, no less.

George Soros has said in the past that he favors distributing marijuana in school cafeterias. He is in favor of giving heroin to the elderly, and crystal methamphetamine to hamsters. And, naturally, the Washington Post, New York Times and the rest of the liberal media support him. They don't report these policies of his of course. No, they just talk about Nobel Peace Prizes, as if they mean anything after known terrorist Yassar Arafet won one and suspected terrorist Jimmy Carter was nominated for another.

Worst of all, that liberal Soros wants to replace the traditional baseball cap with a beret. Can you imagine that? I can practically hear New York and San Francisco erupt in applause at the very idea. Such a move would turn Major League Baseball into yet another arm of the homosexual mafia that seeks to convert children to their sodomizing ways in an attempt to destroy the American family and shame us all in the eyes of Jesus Christ, our Lord and Savior.

Like all good Americans — and, don't forget, George Soros isn't one — I am not willing to cede my country to people like him. Look on our currency, listen to our Pledge of Allegiance, look at our Constitution, look in your Bible: this is a country of the Lord, not atheist liberals who want to erase the very knowledge of our Savior Jesus Christ from our memories and replace Him with Karl Marx.

So I urge Congress to pass a law banning George Soros and any other liberal from purchasing the Washington Nationals, especially when an honorable man like Fred Malek — who hunted down seditious Jews under Nixon — is waiting. We couldn't save Terri Schiavo from the clutches of liberals, but if we do what's right, we can save Nick Johnson. Thank you, and God bless America.

Tom Davis represents the 11th Congressional District of Virginia

The Physics of Baseball 3: "Throwing Strikes and Breaking Bones"

2005-06-29T10:49:00.000-04:00

I recently returned from a conference in Europe, where all of the continent is busily anticipating this year's installment of the Tour de France. It is not only the world's physically demanding race, but is also the finest and most elegant example of raw physics at work in modern sport. The bicycle -- the simplicity of its operation, the gear-ratio dependent torque of the pedals with respect to its drive train, the affect of the decelerating force of gravity as the muscled riders struggle to climb the 6.9% average grade of the Col du Galibier -- is the ideal athletic manifiestion of the poetry of Newton's Laws of Motion as they apply to the science of athletics.

Unfortunately, here in America, professional cycling is less popular than cold fusion and therefore it is pointless for me to waste my time writing about that great sport. Luckily, the art of throwing a baseball presents us with a representation of the poetry of physics that is nearly as beautiful as the art of pedal-pushing. Both involve the application of exteme force to an inanimate object through the use of a bodily appendage. When a baseball is gripped tightly and the arm is thrust forward in a robust throwing motion, it is possible to impart significant momentum to the ball and propel it forward at speeds up to 44.7 meters/second, or 100 miles/hour in layman's units. A related problem involves moving an empty hand (or foot) at high velocity toward a very large object in an attempt to impart momentum to it despite its considerable mass. This is precisely the situation encountered by Major League pitchers Kenny Rogers and Oliver Perez during this past week.

By now, you have no doubt heard about the interaction between Rogers' hand and a water cooler, as well as the one between Perez's foot and a laundry cart . In fact, such instances are nothing new to the game of baseball, as evidenced most recently by Kevin Brown's well-publicized interaction with a clubhouse wall in the middle of last year's pennant race. Let us consider the physical kinetics and dynamics that were at play in an attempt to assign a measure of risk to the actions of both Rogers and Perez.

Rogers' pitches travel at speeds approaching 40 meters/second. However, it would be presumptuous to assume that Rogers' hand is capable of throwing a punch at exactly that speed. For instance, in this case he punched with his non-throwing hand, which is surely slower and less coordinated than the hand with which he pitches. Furthermore, he was not throwing this punch from a mound, which further decreased his maximum attainable punch velocity. Using reductions of 38% for the non-throwing hand and 22% for the lack of a punching mound, we can decuce that Rogers' punch travelled at a maximum speed of 19.3 meters/second.

My unpublished 2003 study of the coefficient of restitution of MLB water coolers revealed that the average clubhouse water cooler is very hard indeed. When striking such an object (typical mass = 30 kg), there is very little "give" to the surface of the cooler. Unfortunately, I am unaware of a similar study of laundry carts in typical MLB clubhouses. However, I am quite certain that the mass of said carts, particularly when filled with the large daily allowance of laundry that is expected from a baseball club, exceed that of the water coolers. Such carts are likely constructed from plastic or metal of a similar hardness to that of the water coolers. Therefore, for the purposes of this calculation, we can approximate both the laundry cart and the water cooler as spheres with coefficients of restitution less than 0.1. This spherical approximation simplifies matters quite considerably, and greatly reduces the complexity of the calculations. Similarly, we can also approximate Rogers' hand and Perez's foot as spheres. Thus, summarizing our approximations diagrammatically, we have:

= =

and

= =

It should be obvious that the masses of the cart and cooler are considerably larger than those of the hand and foot. Along with the very low "give" of these materials, we can easily solve the conservation of momentum and energy equations. Well, it is easy for me and anyone else with a university physics degree. For those of you who have not had this honor bestowed upon you, you simply need to trust my intellect on this matter. The end result is that, unsurprisingly, the cart/cooler barely moves when struck. The collision is highly inelastic, with a considerable amount of impact energy being absorbed by the fist or foot.

Armed with this information, we can now investigate the possibility of physical correlations between punching a water cooler and the risk of serious injury. A fist speed of 19.3 meters/second results in an impact force of 17 000 Newtons. Assuming that the cross-sectional area of Kenny Rogers' fist is equal to that of my own, we find that the pressure exerted during impact is 2.57 megaPascals. This is considerably larger than the 1.2 MPa compression fracture threshold for bones in the human hand. As for the big toe, its higher volume to surface area ratio (in comparison to the wee pinky finger of the hand) suggests a higher fracture threshold. However, the act of kicking produces lower cross-sectional impact areas than the pugility of punching, and therefore the impact pressure is expected to be higher, probably in the 4.0 - 4.5 MPa range and well above the predicted fracture threshold for toe bones in the human foot.

In simpler, more direct terms, we can conclusively state the following: punching a water cooler hurts like a b*tch. The same is true of kicking a laundry cart. We can furthermore conclusively state that both Rogers and Perez are douchebags. Clearly they had nothing to gain through their actions, for both the laws of physics and the principles of common sense were working strongly against them. In the future, big league pitchers would do well to consult with local physicists before attempting such acts of thuggery.

As always, I look forward to revisiting this blog and enlightening your understanding of our national pastime through the magic of physics. Until then, please join with me in rooting for Der Kaiser, Jan Ullrich. The Tour de France is ready for a new King!

Where Is The Love For ... NAKED EMPERORS?

2005-06-28T16:24:00.000-04:00

Dear blog readers: let me first begin initially by typing a small set of words regarding the struggles of my team. No, it is not looking good. Once, we were in the lead, and then the lead kicked us out for another team. Once, we were making crooked numbers with machine-like efficacy, and now we must be content to dally with straight lines and robust voids. Where our pitchers were once a source of pride, they are now the source of the wounds that our pride has endured. Still, we are racing, and it is arduous, and those of you that were eager to look in our mouths for horse-sense once we stumbled should note that studs we rode on both the hitting and pitching sides during our fat times have been put out to temporary pasture. No doubt Milton Bradley, set back with a finger injury, would gladly injure another finger to express displeasure at the speed with which certain reporters disbanded our wagon train.

I realize that I am part to blame for this swoon. Since my two-fisted pummeling of the Minnesota Twins, my play has been quite punchable. I went ten days without a hit, spanning 20 sad ABs. Worse, there was a fielding miscue that was given play where such things play well. (I imagine this was given more play than the play that achieved 6 home runs.) And yet again, Mr. Jim Tracy showed no hesitancy to pull the plug once my bulb seemingly flickered. That my struggles mirrored my team's struggles is no surprise, as we were missing both the aforementioned fingering of Milton Bradley as well as JD Drew - the team's two best hitters - during that stretch. It is no coincidence that JD Drew returned to the lineup on Monday evening, and we were successful. That I also tallied two hits is a pleasant surprise. As for my supposed lack of patience at the plate of late - yes, I have been more aggressive, yet what does it say that I am tied for 3rd on the team in walks, even with Mr. Jim Tracy's undue jerking? Consistency is not achieved through sporadic activity - it is borne of regular repeated action. And as any ball player will tell you, it is hard to replicate facing Major League pitches from beside the bat rack.

I am not passing the buck to another, but am merely hinting that perhaps the buck is not mine to bear. I only wish Mr. Jim Tracy was as trusting of my sporadic failures as he was of the repeated failures of a Mr. Scott Erickson, a man whose performance to date only inspires nausea, vomiting, and the occassional episode of homicide. I am awaiting the disembarkment of Mr. Scott Erickson to pastures consisting of tumbleweed and crabgrass and poisonous wildlife, for I do not doubt it is only his wife's effervescent and soothing personage that keeps Mr. Erickson buzzing in our bonnets. (Mr. Paul DePodesta, I implore you to step to the plate and make hard contact with this point!) Anyway, to you fans of the Los Angeles team in Los Angeles, take heart that we are still in fine spirit and in a state of play for our ultimate goal. Once these wrongs become right, we will be ready to assume the position. Keep up your chins!

One would hope that our Baseball is a strange sport - it is tied strictly to math, yet numbers rarely add up. A pitcher of skill and gifts can lose a game just as easily as a soft-shooting pea tosser. A hitter can get many hits, yet still be poor. And a team can be outscored, yet be in first place. To that end, here are some numbers concerning a group of Canadian expatriates currently assuming the squat rights of both the capital of the Americans and the National League's eastern quintet:

44 wins, 31 losses (310 runs scored, 316 runs allowed)

No doubt readers with some forthright sight notice a discrepancy. The Nationals, as they are now called, have allowed more runs than they have scored. Yet, they have won 13 more games than they have lost. Indeed, numerologists would say that this 13 is a sign of completeness. A WikiPedia article subjected to this topic will tell you the following: "While thirteen foretells new beginnings, it also signifies that outmoded systems must come to an end to make way for much needed transformations." No doubt such an unlucky deficit is signs of something portentous. Here is another statistical grouping from a team from the American League:

33 wins, 41 losses (317 runs scored, 329 runs allowed)

Note what the WikiPedia says about 8: "Huge reversals in life are common for the eight." This is the path walked in shame by proud people like Adrian Beltre and Jamie Moyer. Yes, the Seattle Marines have allowed more runs than their National brethren, yet they have also scored more runs. So how is this team's failure an all-but-pristine reflection of the Nationals' success? Some people out there - including a good number employed by my employers for this enterprise - will offer such good words or phrases like "knowing how to win" or "doing the little things" or "leaving it on the field". They will point to their surprising 18-7 record in games decided by 1 run as a sign of these truisms' veracity.

No doubt the more astute of these rose colorists will also employ the word "luck" in regards to this falling wind in Washington. Luck is an unquantifiable aspect of this game. It is the fudge that factors into the slow decay of baseball's rock hard statistics. Talent will undoubtedly out, in ideal situations, but only if luck allows the outing. And luck, like my erstwhile (and irksome) manager Mr. Jim Tracy, is a fickle fumbling fleet-footed bum. Surely a team self-saddled with prickers like Vinny Castilla (of the rapidly decreasing 721 OPS) and Christian Guzman (of the nearly infinitisimle 522 OPS) will start to eventualy buck this upward trend of success, especially when Jose Vidro's heavy lumber is replaced with the Guzmanian tinder that is Jamey Carroll. And if the combustible state of their starting pitching - 9 different starters used through late June! - doesn't catch, then perhaps the dangerous sparks thrown off by their bullpen (aside from the inflammable Chad Cordero) could ignite a scorched return to Earth. Far be it from me to be the one that cheers on yet another scalp for the Braves' swelled heads, but it is quite possible Atlanta will once again rise from the south and overtake their current oppressors.

Less likely, though mathematically possible, is the graceful fall of the Chicago White Sox. Only they are more lucky than the Nationals in contested tightness, with a 20-8 one-run record. Yet their record - already 50 wins! - is quite reflective of their play to this point. Here is what a numerologist would say regarding the sum of the digits in that win total: "This number governs our ability to think clearly and our intellectual capacity. Five represents openness to new experiences as well as new ideas." They are 6th in the major leagues in runs scored, and (most importantly) 2nd to only those nomadic Angels when it comes to allowing runs. The key to success for the White Sox, when not given to their quote-doling manager, was supposedly shaped by a trade made in the offseason, where Chicago swapped a powerful bat, and power in toto, for a fleet of feet helmed by one particular pair.

Scott Podsednik, if your hearing is believable, is the catalyst that charges the electricity within the White Sox. He has a .290 BA, and has stolen bases 38 times. Three plus eight equals eleven, which allows me to quote the following: "Because eleven contains many gifts such as psychic awareness and a keen sense of sensitivity, it also has negative effects such as treachery and betrayal from secret enemies." Again, good words are offered - he "disrupts the rhythm of pitchers" with his "heady baserunning" and his "hustle" and "sparks the offense". Of course, no mention is made of his "lack of power", or his "one-dimensionality", or the simple fact that, had the White Sox kept Carlos Lee, they might actually be a better team. But I digress. Much is made of getting into the head of a pitcher and stealing bases. There is an atavistic thrill attached to thievery. Breaking the law is, understandably, not kindly seen, yet watch how fiction and even non-fiction romanticizes law-breakers and vigilantes, and see how common folk buzz and shiver with glee when given a chance to even minutely flaunt authority in a clandestine manner. This love of seed translates easily into baseball, where deception is treasured, and burgling is encouraged. Yet this "small ball" that the White Sox are credited with is a misnomer, even if their superficial signifiers point to such beneficial miniaturization.

Their high run totals obscure the fact that they are in the middle of the pack in both batting average and OBP. Such middling success at reaching base actually speaks highly of the team's ability to drive the few runners they have towards the plate. Five of the nine White Sox starters have slugging percentiles over .450, and this doesn't include the small-but-powerful taste long time Sox darner Frank Thomas has provided since his return. First base is often not stolen, they say, and it is true here. What is also true is that the greatest distraction to offer a pitcher is to score runs. Extra base hits provide such a distraction, and Carlos Lee has been providing many extra base hits for his new team. Distracting the pitcher in such a fashion while your pitcher distract hitters is a fine way to succeed. I have no problem asserting that if those hits Carlos Lee made this year were for his former team, in place of Scott Podsednik's speedy singles, then Chicago would possibly be legitimately worthy of such a fantastic record. Indeed, this is the grandest deception of all - a supposedly small team playing large, hiding their strength within a lithe and wiry frame. That this smokescreen was manufactured by a franchise best known for their failure to successfully deceive is yet another appropriate piece of poetry indicative of the fugue many baseball thinkers allow to cloud their judgements. Fool yourself only if you can live with the shame of it all.

Stop the Presses! Controversy Ahoy!

2005-06-27T10:57:00.000-04:00

Go right ahead, I don't mind.

This column will make your blood boil, your liver quiver, and your hair turn white overnight. You will be outraged, perturbed, upset, freaked out. You will send outraged emails to E$PN, you will call your local affiliates and demand the immediate cancellation of ABC shows. Go for it. I don't care.

A man's gotta speak truth to power when the occasion calls for it. If we learned nothing else from the upheavals of the civil rights movement, we have learned that. So old Skip B. is drawing his Maginot Line in the sand. (Don't know what I'm talking about there? You probably went to public school. Look it up, punk.)

Here is the statement that is going to get me fired for its utter controversiality and envelope-pushing-ness: Baseball is a better game than soccer.

I know, all you crunchy types out there with your tofu shampoo and your hemp underwear and your snot-nosed rugrats running around the rectangular environs of local elementary schools will be up in arms about this. It's not exactly the "fashionable" opinion anymore, not in our modern "soccer mom" age, where secular liberals run the show and good ol' boys have to hide our pride under a bushel basket. But ol' Skip calls 'em as he sees 'em, the same way he always did, the same way he always will. If that means he needs to go looking for a new job -- well, he's been fired before, it'll happen again.

This is occasioned by the weekend's activities. My sister has been pestering me to come to little Jeremi's "Summer Silly Soccer" games for about three billion years, so I finally decided to shut everyone up by actually showing up. Now, I had never seen a soccer game before, except sometimes when me and some of my buddies used to go "break them up" down at the municipal park back in the days, if you know what I mean.

Well, as long as I'm letting it all hang out, let me say that I was just disgusted by what I saw. Kids in big flappy shirts running around poking ineffectually with their toes at a weird-looking ball; parents yelling encouragement from the sanctity of those little chair thingies you buy at Target; coaches who greet kids running off the field with hugs and little syrupy phrases...oh, it was enough to make my heart jump out of my chest, sprout legs, and run around the sidelines until the last geyser of arterial blood had been ejected onto my already-spoiling corpse.

Give me good old Little League baseball any day! There, there are no encouraging hugs, only manly hand- and chest-bumps after good plays, and cold stares of contempt when a kid screws up the suicide squeeze. (If you want to know why America is so soft, look no further than coaches who "hug it out," bitches.

There, parents do not get to set up "Cushy Tushys" -- it's the bleachers or nothing, take it or leave it, the American Way at work. And none of this rotating parent snack jazz either: like the song says, it's peanuts and Cracker Jack, or hot dogs and cold frosty beers, or maybe a graveyard snocone. Oh, sorry, that might offend the dead...better call it a "rainbow coalition artificially-flavored ice treat."

And there, kids can use their hands. I've never seen anything more sickening in my life than a lot of good normal kids artificially handicapping themselves by not being able to reach out and grab that danged ball and run like the dickens to daylight. In Little League, kids use their hands all the time, and it's good for them! Throwing! Catching! Hitting! All noble American pursuits. In "Stupid Saturday Summer Soccerball Secular Scenario" or whatever the heck it's called, they get a penalty for even accidentally touching the ball. Whatever weirdo European/Latin/African/Asian/etc. plot this "soccer" is, it's clearly in the same league as appeasement of terrorists and fluoride in the drinking water. Not letting a kid touch a ball with his hands...can you imagine if we put the same restriction on John Kruk?

Neither can I.

The idea that millions of kids in this formerly great nation are spending their leisure time running around doing "throw-ins" and "corner kicks" is literally making me heave up my Wheaties. In fact, I'm so nauseated that I don't really mind that you've already dashed off about 50 whiny letters to E$PN demanding my removal, "for the good of the children."

You know what would be good for the children? How about a little something called playing baseball or football or basketball instead of soccer? And accepting Jesus Christ as your personal savior while you're at it, you hippies.

Well, it'll never happen. I know I've stepped over the line. They'll be coming for me any second now. Believe me, I'm well fortified here at the compound. And I know what to do when the black helicopters land.

Shoot for the face.

Skip Bayless is a syndicated columnist who is a regular contributor to E$PN2's morning show, the huge ratings success "Cold Pizza." He is also the author of several books about the Dallas Cowboys, barbecue restaurants, and gladiator movies.

Sunday Night Baseball Preview

2005-06-26T18:48:00.000-04:00

We originally planned to feature an exclusive Sunday Night Baseball preview with Joe Morgan and Jon Miller. However, unforseen to those of us at Yard Work, we ran into Anna Benson in the Yankee Stadium press box and were unable to resist her charms! Model, actress, mother, and socialite, Anna always has time for interacting with her fans. On the afternoon of husband Kris' start against the Bronx Bombers, Anna offered her own unique Sunday Night Baseball preview.

The "Bronx Bombers"? I don't know about that, but I'm getting bombed in the Bronx right now! I'm already on my fourth cosmopolitan and the game doesn't start for more than three hours! That's OK, because Kris doesn't drink on the days he pitches so I have to drink for the both of us. But after Kris gets his win, we can get smashed together, go home and screw each other's brains out!

We're always very busy on the days Kris pitches. We woke up early today and I was feeling a little horny but my husband has a strict "no sex" rule on the days he pitches because he doesn't want to tire himself out. So I had to take my neck massager and disappear into the bathroom for a while! Ooooh! By the time I was finished, Kris was having breakfast with the kids.

He left the house at around ten and went to the stadium to work out and go over the Yankee hitters with his coaches. I don't really understand those pitching charts. I keep telling him that he should keep it simple and pitch everybody the same way. When he pitches to me in bed, he always throws the hard heat inside. If it works for him in the bedroom, then why shouldn't it also work on the baseball diamond?

Since we had a few hours to kill, I took the kids downtown and we spent a whole load of Daddy's money. I don't even remember what we spent it on, because I had two Manhattans with my lunch. Get it? We were in Manhattan, so I drank Manhattans! I think I bought the 4" heels that I'm wearing right now. After shopping we all came to the ballpark. Last I saw the kids, they were climbing all over the man at the soda machine and were drinking Dr. Pepper like it was water. I think they've gone to run around on the field now. They get so excited when their Daddy pitches!

I guess I should say something about the Yankees. Both the Yankees and the Mets have won 37 games this year, which means the winner of tonight's game will be the champion of New York! Friday was a great game with all the "who's your Daddy" chants. Pedro showed them who the real Daddy was. Pedro is the Big Daddy. He might have been the little Daddy when he played in Boston, but he's the Big Daddy now. He's bigger than ever. Of course, I only have one Big Daddy and that's my man. When I'm bad, I get sent to my room and my Big Daddy gives me a spanking!

Tonight, Kris is pitching against "The Big Unit". Haha, I know what you're thinking, but even I won't make a joke about that -- my mouth isn't that foul! It's a very important game, but I have all the confidence in the world in my man. But no matter what happens, even if he doesn't beat Randy Johnson, I'll be randy for beating his johnson once we get home!

Enjoy the game! I know I will!

Brer Perry and the Tar, Baby

2005-06-24T16:38:00.000-04:00

Howdy folks - Hall of Famer Gaylord Perry here, offering you a REAL players' perspective on what some folks call "cheating". Me, I call it "resource optimization," because I know who stole my damn cheese, and my parachute's nice and open. Anyway, I don't know why those Yahoo!s thought that tapping a knuckle dragger like Todd Jones to talk about pine tar would make any dingdonging sense. When it comes to scuffing and shining and spitting and greasing, I'm the one to talk to. I know the ins and outs of hoodwinkin' as well as I know my sticky johnson. And believe me, my johnson got plenty sticky when I was playing. In more ways than one! I've got stories about me and Morgana that'd turn a black Trans Am cherry red, lemme tell ya.

But, Jonesie, son, you might want to stick to what you do best - sucking wind and burning crosses. So what if you used pine tar and stunk while in Colorado? You stink anyway, boy! And the fact that you stunk while trying to cheat just means you stink at cheating! Boy reeks like a three-legged wet dog in a pool of piss. Anyway, if you want to pull a fast one, pinetar's not the way to go. Anyone with anything that'll stop the wind from going through your ears knows you don't use pinetar to help you get a better grip on the ball - you're liable to hold onto the damn thing too long! You'll miss your spot, you'll turf the ball into home plate, you'll send one skidding off into someone's nachos. You want the ball to slip and slide all over the place. You need something vicious and gooey, like Vaseline or spit or that stuff you get in your backside when you dip a little too deep into the Del Taco. I'm thinkin' that maybe Jones did figure it out, tho, looking at his numbers this year. He's like Mike Marshall or Roy Face nowadays. Damn, boy, make it more obvious! Why not come out dressed like a tube of Preparation H, ya backwater buttplug?

Any ballplayer worth his cup knows that pinetar is just for show. It's like getting dirt on your uni - makes you look all grizzled and mean and ornery like. Pinetar ain't good for a damn thing practical in baseball. You use pinetar as a distraction from your other cheats. Y'all think that Branden Donnelly was actually using pinetar? Hell no! Look at the tape close enough, and you'll probably find a broken belt buckle or a patch of petroleum jelly or a goddamn pocket knife or something. Pitching is about misdirection and deception, throwing hitters off balance, making these big ol' boppers look like slappy shortstop from Capistrano. Y'all heard stories about Greg Maddux giving a hitter a fat tater pitch to some dumb slugger in the first inning to set up his nasty stuff late in the game, right? Well, it's the same thing for folks that like to play grabass with the rules. You show something like pinetar, and it's a perfect smoke screen. It lets you pocket the KY Jelly for when you're going through the line-up the 3rd time, or work that tack into the hide a bit during a yap with the catcher.

Works for hitters, too - you know that George Brett pinetar homer? I heard from someone that knows someone that the bat was corked. Brett tarred up that bat up to the tip so that drunk rule jockey Billy Martin would get all bug-eyed about that, and not bother checking if the bat was legit. (Ha - imagine what Sammy Sosa was trying to hide with that superball bat! He probably uses some space-age wood-metal mixture or some other fancy sci-fi thing. The things they can do with a stick of gum and some soda pop nowadays...) All of this finagling and flopping around, it's a game within the game, like poker - you might have Big Slick, but some knock-kneed buttberry could call your all-in with a suited 26 and get the flush on the river and make you look and feel like, well, like dumb ol' Todd Jones. Doesn't mean you can't kick his can till it dents, though.

And speaking of kicking cans - son, what is going on with you talking about boning bats in the bathroom? One, you're a damn pitcher, and I use the term "pitcher" lightly. The only thing you know about bats is watching hitters flip them aside when they take your pisspoor change-up from home plate to Honduras. Second of all, this ain't some seedy Mafia thing like the Bash Brothers shooting each other up in the buttock all spy-like - it's a legal practice. Hell, an intern for this bloogarooni here went all Googly and found a bat manufacturer that TALKS UP its boning process! (Sounds like a young me, actually. But I digress. To the left.)

Take a peek at this, Roscoe: "Boning bats began in the earliest days of baseball. The Hall-of-Famers spent hours in their dugouts rubbing their bats with old cow femur bones. Bone rubbing closes the wood's pores, compressing it and making it harder. Marucci uses the same technique Babe Ruth and Lou Gehrig used on their bats, rubbing before the finish is applied to seal and harden the wood. Using cow femurs from Sandy Farms, Iowa, Marucci takes his time on this step, and the same pride in it his baseball heroes once did." Any one trying to tell me that Lou Gehrig was a cheat can go sit their derierre on an A-Bomb and yippie kie yay themselves to Baghdad.

Anyway, who cares about "cheating" in baseball? Rules are made to be amenable to certain spirited interpretations. You know how folks get pissy on the highway when someone's driving at the speed limit and nothing more? Imagine if baseball was actually played on the up and up. You know how boring that would be? I'd rather watch beauty pageant girls try to think of words that have more than five letters in 'em than "true" baseball, because at least the girls look good when nothing's going on. The only boring thing in my life is church, and "true" baseball ain't gonna get me in with St. Peter, y'know? Don't think of stuff like this pinetar horsesense (or recreational substances like that stuff from Sgt. Bilco) as evil bad things that hurt the game. Think of them as the spice that kicks the game up a notch. And if you can't handle spicy food, then get the hell away from the jambalaya, Harvey, cause I'm starvin!

Gaylord Perry pitched for eight teams in his 22-year career, becoming the first pitcher to win Cy Young awards in both the American and National League. He won 314 games, and had a career ERA of 3.11. Perry was elected into the Baseball Hall of Fame in 1991.

Your Turn

2005-06-23T14:22:00.000-04:00

Editor's Note: Baseball Tonight is more than just the world's greatest baseball program and this blog; it's also a community of fans that stretches around the globe. To honor our viewers, BBTN is starting a new feature where we give you the megaphone, and allow you to hold forth on our favorite game. Leading off this new endeavor is Shawn Johnston, currently the leader in ESPN.com's Fantasy League and a two-time champion of Electronic Arts' MVP Baseball World Series. Johnston, an Orlando native, has asked to address the sorry state of his Tampa Bay Devil Rays.

Hello? Is this thing on? LOL. Anyway. Hi, I'm Shawn (7UPtonYrs for you Xbox Live peeps — you see my name in your nightmares LMAO ), and like the Loch Ness Monster, you prolly didn't know someone like me existed: a die-hard Devil Rays fan. I'm 24 and live in Orlando (you might have read about my anti-gravity suit experiments at Epcot in Stargate SG1: The Official Magazine) with my parents, older brother and little sister. What Barry Bonds is to IRL baseball, I am to fantasy baseball and MVP 2005. Phear me!!!

The Devil Rays get trolled by the major media outlets because journalists (no offense to you BBTN guys — ya'll rock like Seamus) have a hard time seeing into the future. But I'm not afraid of time travel, and I know that with guys like Scott Kazmir, Delmon Young, BJ Upton, Carl Crawford, Jorge Cantu and the like, the D-Rays will be k-awesome for years to come, and with some brave moves by a hotshot GM (), they can kick Orc ass this year, too. (And even without a IRL Sharkport, though my buddy h0tsh0tsdeuXXX says he's close to inventing one. KICKASS! )

Here's my plan (some of you might think some of these moves are unrealistic but I tested all of these in the owner mode of MVP 2005 — the most realistic baseball game ever made — and all of these trades were accepted. PWND!!!):

001 NoMo Hideo (LOL!!!): Trade NoMo and Toby Hall to the Mets for Mike Cameron and David Wright. Wright gets better each year (by year three of my simulation he had 100's in contact and power vs. righties), and while Cameron isn't great on contact, his defense is good and he's got great speed. With my patented steal trick (double tap toward second, and on the second pitch take off, pressing up and right to get a perfect slide away from the throw), every Cameron single turns into a de facto double.

002 Get Him Up(ton): Call up BJ Upton and put him in at catcher. All catchers have to do is catch balls and throw out runners at second (WTF Piazza? Douchebag!), and BJ has a great arm (90 power, 85 accuracy), and can rake against lefties.

003 Get Thee Some Moneyballs : Here's the big deal. Trade to Oakland Aubrey Huff, Lance Carter and Travis Lee for Rich Harden, Joe Blanton and Dan Johnson . Billy Beane who??? LOL!!!

With these moves, the D-Rays become faster, younger and would be the envy of even Curt Schilling's Dwarvin Cleric Cylic. (Thanks, Curt, for turning me onto baseball! You ROCK!!! ) Now if we could convince MLB to undergo a fantasy draft I'd have the Rays winning the series from now until the cows come home. Lou, you listening?

The Diary of Zack Greinke

2005-06-23T13:47:00.000-04:00

Editor's Note: Kansas City Royals starter Zack Greinke has been keeping a regular diary throughout the 2005 season. The sixth pick of the 2002 draft, Greinke made his Major League debut last May. At the age of 20 years, 7 months, and one day, Greinke was the youngest active player in the majors. He finished 2004 with a record of 8-11, a 3.97 ERA, and 100 Ks in 145 IP.

MARCH 16: Baseball is fun! Spring Training is fun! I am having a good time with my teammates, getting ready for the new Major League Baseball season. Coach says we have a good chance at doing well - he thinks our lineup will be better with Terrence Long in the outfield, and Tony G (cant spell his last name) in the infield, and Mike Sweeney leading our attack. And Calvin Pickering is very fat but people call him Big Boned or Massively Challenged and he hits homeruns when he does not strike out so he might do good too! I guess some people want me to pitch really well. So do I! I had lots of fun pitching last year. It was pretty easy but sometimes it was hard too. Baseball is a team game and even if I pitch well I will need help from my teammates to win. I also need to help my teammates when they cannot help me. I have to give a hundred! And ten percent too! This is the best part of the season getting ready for the season except when we win which I like a lot too! Coach said I should just have fun and I will always be a winner. Coach is great!

APRIL 7: Ouch! A Detroit Tiger hit me on the arm with a ball! It hurt a lot! Still, I wanted to stay out there and "be a man" like Mike Sweeney but Coach told me he wanted me to come out. I felt bad because I let my teammates down but Coach said it was OK because things happen and you can only do what you can and we will get them next time. We lost but that was OK. Coach took me to McDonalds with his best lady friend! I got a Big Mac a large fry a large Coke (yum!) and an Apple Pie too. Pop always makes me eat veggie tables and fiber so this was lots of fun! I was full! Coach's friend was really nice but when I asked where Mrs. Coach was Coach did not say anything and bought me another Apple Pie. I always have room for Apple Pie! Thanks Coach!

APRIL 23: I had a good game! I made the White Sox look silly. Coach says I change speeds really well and pitch beyond my age which is very good I guess! It is not so hard though. I just throw away from their bats and then throw what they don't expect. I made Jermaine Dye lose his bat when I threw a deuce ball. He missed it by about 50 miles! That was fun! One of the Chicago announcers tried to talk to me about golf. He had a big nose, and his breath smelled like sour milk, and he talked real fast, and then would YELL really loud. He scared me. Coach chased him off with a baseball bat. Pop would not do that. Pop would probably ask for an autograph and a picture and then make me play golf with him while he yelled HEGONE and FLYBALL and YYYYYYYYES and other stupid smelly milk things. Coach would never do that to me. He would let me stay in the park and eat Apple Pies from McDonalds and mess up my hair and call me G-Unit. Coach is great!

MAY 15: Pitching is fun! I am pitching really well but I am sad for our team because we are losing lots of games. I do not have a win yet but that is OK because I am doing my best and Coach said I can not do anything else more than what I can. Coach told me to keep on doing what I am doing and the wins will come to me and us. Then Jose Lima came over and started yelling in that funny language. And Coach yelled right back at him. I saw Coach talking to Mrs. Jose Lima earlier. Maybe that is why they are yelling? I do not like yelling usually but they sound funny when they do it! I laughed a lot! I also heard that Mrs. Coach was not happy with Coach but I think people are making things up because we are not winning baseball games. Pop was going to fly in and see the game but he got sidetracked by work stuff. That is what he told me. He always has to work. I wish Pop was more like Coach. We are going to go to play the National League soon. This should be fun because we only play American League teams. I can not wait!

MAY 19: I saw Coach kissing his best lady friend! A lot! And touching in bad places! I caught them in the locker room before the game and I started crying because Coach should not be kissing anyone except for Mrs. Coach and Coach tried to tell me that sometimes these things happen but I do not want to hear that because Coach should not do things like that and not tell Mrs. Coach or do those things with someone that is not Mrs. Coach and I told Coach this and he tried to hug me and call me G-Unit and I pushed him away and I ran out of the locker room because I did not want Coach to see me not "be a man". I am not happy with Coach right now. I hate the National League.

MAY 20: I hate the National League.

MAY 22: Coach quit today. I am happy Coach is gone. Mrs. Coach does not deserve to be treated like that. I am angry at Coach. Coach sucks. I hope our new Coach is better.

MAY 31: I got a win! I got a win! Against the Yankees! They are the best baseball team of all time! And I beat them! That is great! Especially for our team because we lost six in a row after we won our first game after Coach left. New Coach is OK. He is very different from Coach. He spits a lot more. And he does not talk funny. He is kind of dull. I heard from some people that he is really not a good Coach and his teams do not do well. But I heard from some people on the team that he is a very good Coach so I hope he can teach us how to win. I heard he coached in Colorado. That must be hard to do! But New Coach is not Coach so he is OK. And I got a win! I won eight times last year. Maybe I can beat that this year!

JUNE 10: I hate the National League.

JUNE 16: I think New Coach hates me and made the team hate me because I liked Coach so much. Or maybe they hate me because they think I made Coach leave and now they hate New Coach and blame me for New Coach. Last time I pitched my team did not score until after I left the game. And then it happened again in this game. I pitched OK even though I threw the ball a lot more than I should have but then I left with us losing and then they scored lots of runs right after I leave. I heard somebody tell someone that the team lost 12 games that I pitched! Maybe they always hated me? When I was pitching well the team was losing and now that I am not pitching well the team is winning. Maybe I am the reason the team is so bad? Before I got here last year the team did really really well. And now the team is losing a lot to everyone else and we are in last place. I would ask someone but I do not think they will talk to me. Coach always talked to me.

JUNE 21: I hate pitching. It sucks. Everything I throw gets hit a lot and I even get scored on when I am not pitching. I hate New Coach. It sucks. He sucks. He might be winning but he is stupid. I do not think he likes me very much. I miss Coach. I miss going to McDonalds. I do not like the post game spread. Cold cuts suck. Even though we are winning more games with New Coach I am not happy. No one on the team likes me. They do not talk to me anymore especially when I pitch bad. They talk on their phones about going to play somewhere else. I think it is my fault we are so bad even though we won more games with New Coach than with Coach. And the scary man that smells like bad milk from Chicago keeps on talking to me. And New Coach does not chase him away with a baseball bat so I will have to play golf with him and hear stories about how good he was and how big his nose is. He laughs like he is farting out of his mouth and it smells like farts too. Like smelly milk farts. I hate baseball. I want to go home. And I can not talk to Pop on the phone to take me home because he is busy talking to companies about shoes and sports drinks and fungus powder and things that he says will make me lots of money but I do not care about money. Pop answer the phone. Please answer the phone Pop. I want to go home.

Fever of Baseball: Do Not Give Up the Hope, Carlitos!

2005-06-23T11:01:00.000-04:00

First of all time, lett me start by saying primarily how proud I am to win the Premio Deportes, Venezuela's #1 top award for sportes writing! Here I am at the awards banquet, although I am not looking so good after recently having been stunged by a jellyfish. My face: tan huge! My many of thanks to the other writers and journalistas of Venezuela, all of whom I am humbled to be honored with this distinction.

Secondly, this is an open letter to my nephew, Carlos Zambrano. Oooh, yesterday was not so good-looking for little Carlitos! He was notoriously being shelled by the Cervezistos del Milwaukee, eight runs in one inning, ay yi yi! Not since I hit him so hard in the guts for grabbing me behind the showers at Punto Abajo has Carlitos been knocked so hard for a eloop!

I grew up in Caracas, so we did not get to see Carlitos's's family so much unless they traveled to meet us from Puerto Cabello, which we would not go in many million of years, to unless to be paid cash money dollars. But we are a very close and large and warm-hearted and loving and passionate and kissing and hugging and grasping family, so I saw mi nephew pequeno enough to know that his main problem is the getting upset and emotional in times of crisis. And I would say that getting eknocked out the ebox by los Cervezistos, who have less offense than John Bolton by his self, qualify as a crisis. Would you not?

So here is my message to Carlitos: be brave and courageous, little one! Of course, you are not so little now, at 1.8 metres tall and more than 102 kilograms. (Que gordito! Jajaja, just eplaying.) You have been force to carry the loading for your team, los Ojitos de Chicago, with all their "best" pitchers either getting hurt or sucking, and it is lots of stress. And I know that stress is a very stressful thing. Especially for you, Carlitos, who so often would get upset at us teasing you about your little fat cheeks! (Both sets, jajaja again!)

You had a very bad temper when we were ninos, so bad that when I knocked your hanging curveball over the fence at that family reunion you got so mad and red and cried like a smacked-up puta. And you had 19 anos at that time! I am sorry that I was so good at that reunion, I know you were trying to put the emack on our fourth cousin, that little skinny one with the ponytails and the culo like a piece of flat bread. It did not go so well for you that day, thanks to my mighty muscles and keen eyes.

But perhaps you should think about that time now when you are in your time of troubles. Remember how we finally made you tranquil by offering you some nice arepas and some cool sodapop? And so you decided to come down off the tall and dangerous pier that had been damned by the government inspectors? And you handed Uncle Ozzie the shotgun so that no one would be hurt or perhaps ekilled? Yes. That was one of our best reunions ever, as there was a minimum of bloodshed, and I ended up making out with Rafi Betancourt in the horse stables. (Is he related to us? If so, how? I cannot remember all these things!)

So check your mailbox, I has sent you 20 arepas and a case of cool sodapop, and some tapes with music from good new singing sensations like Dia Nueva and Baja Del Mesa and Ookie "El Cardinal" and Los Millonarios Jóvenes del Aceite. This will cheer you up, you will be back on the horse that bit you in no tiempo at all. We want to see those dimples in your round cheeks, Carlitos! Because otherwise you will shame our family very badly and we will shun you with the shroud.

That is concludes my open letter to my nephew. Until next time, gringitos, stay frosty!

Ana Maria Callejeo Guillen is the top baseball writer for El Universal. She also stars in a new reality show on Venezuela's Channel Uno this fall called "¡Sea ana Maria por un día... si usted se atreve!" ("Be Ana Maria For a Day...If You Dare!")

More Cowbell Than You Will Ever Need IV -- All-Star Edition ... Continued! (Now with MORE Mailbag!!)

2005-06-22T16:50:00.000-04:00

Following up from last week's column , here are my 2005 All-Star candidates from the National League:

C: Ramon Hernandez, San Diego. Mike Piazza is now a 36-year old gimpy catcher which means he's no longer an automatic selection, so I'm going with the sentimental choice and picking Hernandez. He was responsible for the single most shocking play I've witnessed in the past five years, namely, his bunt to win Game 1 of the 2003 ALDS against the Red Sox. Nobody saw that coming. A catcher? Bunting for a game-winning single? In the 12th inning? In the playoffs? A catcher for the bunt-shy Oakland A's bunting for a game-winning single in the 12th inning of a playoff game? I was so stunned, I sat motionless on my couch, staring blankly at the TV screen for 25 minutes. Then I called my dad, and you know what? He'd been staring blankly at his TV screen for 25 minutes also. This was the baseball equivalent of Kim beating Lex and Ethan on the final immunity challenge on "Survivor:Africa". Who would have expected a 55-year old grandmother to stand motionless on a narrow pedestal in the blistering heat and outlast two guys half her age that had dominated the game for weeks? You would have bet your house against her without giving it a second thought. That's what watching Hernandez's bunt was like.

Of course, I can be sentimental about this only because the Sox came back from 2-0 down to win the series, going on to face the Yankees and ... well, let's stop the trip down memory lane right there.

1B: Derrek Lee, Chicago. Who else? Pujols and Delgado are having great seasons, while Bagwell has finally succombed to the karma of being traded from Boston for Larry Andersen. The trade was horrendous, but you don't see a World Series banner flying in Houston, do you? And can it possibly be a coincidence that Bagwell's career has been snuffed out by a bizarre shoulder injury almost immediately following a Red Sox championship win?

Derrek Lee's impact on the Cubs has been incalculable. When Heather Locklear started on "Melrose Place", it was a struggling show that would have been cancelled in a year or two. She transformed it into a huge hit and a staple of 90's TV culture. One new cast member completely overehauled an entire TV show. That's what Derrek Lee has done with the Cubs the last couple of years. It's the same impact that Curt Schilling had when he joined the Red Sox, in that he turned a team of frustrating losers into a club of loveable winners. Of course, the comparison isn't fully deserved unless Lee can get the Cubs to the World Series, securing his place in the baseball pantheon in the process. But right now, Lee is the most dangerous hitter in baseball. Every time he comes to the plate in a late-inning pressure situation, he does something remarkable. Even if Bonds was playing this season and was duplicating his 2001-4 numbers, Lee would still be my MVP. He's that good.

2B: Jeff Kent, Los Angeles; SS: Felipe Lopez, Cincinatti. Kent has been mashing the ball and is displaying the form that won him the MVP in 2000, so he's an obvious choice. Lopez is having notable season for a shortstop, but I'm sure you've noticed that all the voting results in both leagues are slanted toward players from big-market teams such as Boston, New York, LA and St. Louis. Voting for Lopez is my way of distributing the vote to teams that generally go unrecognized. Regardless, this particular vote isn't worth agonizing over because the only thing that matters is the AL winning this game so that the Sox can open the World Series at home, and who starts at shortstop for the NL isn't going to figure into who wins or loses the All-Star Game. It's like the first person out of eighteen to get voted off of "Survivor" -- they have to show up to the reunion show for completeness' sake, even though they didn't figure into the outcome of the series. Not to mention that nobody watching at home (besides their families) knows enough about their personalities to care about them.

Unfortunately, it's looking like soft-hitting Dodgers shortstop Cesar Izturis will win the vote, which means on July 12, during the pre-game introductions, we'll be watching the debut of the Cesar Izturis "I'm Only Here Because One Guy Ripped His Groin Apart and Another Guy Fell Down Carrying Deer Meat" Face.

3B: David Wright, New York. Sometimes it's nice to vote for a guy on New York's non-devil worshipping team. Wright is a breakout star and he deserves a chance to get some All-Star attention.

OF: Ken Griffey Jr, Cincinnati; Bobby Abreu, Philadelphia; Miguel Cabrera, Florida

Several Marlins players are having great individual seasons so I felt that I needed a Florida player on my ballot. Nonetheless, you have to wonder how a team with Lowell, Cabrera, Delgado, D-Train, and Beckett can be playing .500 baseball in June. In particular, Delgado is an interesting case: we keep hearing about how good he is, how well he's made the adjustment to a new league, and that he's a future Hall of Famer. However, in eleven prior seasons, he's never been to the playoffs. On top of that, this year he joined a club that won the World Series two years ago and their record has gotten worse with him there. Does that sound like a Hall of Famer to you? Did Larry Bird ever miss the playoffs in his prime? Despite his yearly chokejob in the playoffs, did Karl Malone's teams ever play .500 ball? Say what you will about Alex Rodriguez, but even he took the Mariners to the playoffs a couple of times. So you really have to wonder what's going on in South Florida.

Against all conventional logic, Ken Griffey Jr. has returned to form and is putting up his best numbers in years to go along with his usual highlight-reel play in center field. What's more, he's doing all this for one of the worst teams in baseball. Can you imagine how good he'd be right now if he was motivated? Junior needs a change of scenery, and fast. He needs to get out of Cincinnati like Vince Carter needed to get out of Toronto.

In March, Vegas was posting a 1.5 over/under on the number of trips Junior would make to the DL in 2005. That wasn't good enough for my buddy Hench, so he got 3-1 odds in Vegas that Griffey would make more than 3.5 trips to the DL this season. Between that and betting on "Yard Work" not lasting three months, it's not looking like a good summer for Hench.

But Junior is only fifth in voting right now, which perhaps serves him right because he used to lead in voting every year, almost by default. It's quite likely that he was overappreciated for many of these years. However, on the other end of the spectrum is Bobby Abreu. He puts up eye-popping numbers every season. He's been one of the top five outfielders in the NL for years, but nobody knows who he is outside of Philadelphia. Is there a more underappreciated superstar right now in any sport? What does this guy need to do in order to get noticed? Earlier this season, he dumped his fiancee when he discovered she had been starring in adult films, went on a hitting tear, and still nobody noticed outside of statheads and Phillies fans. If Abreu played in LA, he'd be as famous as Kobe Bryant. He'd be dating Lindsay Lohan, I'm sure of it.

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The Sports Gal is still angry with me over the whole ARod thing from last week, so she has limited me to only seven hours of TiVo per day, not including the NBA Finals. This leaves me with a bit more free time on my hands, so I'm going to use it to answer some of the emails that have been piling up in the Yard Work inbox.

Q: Would you rather have a sports career like Alex Rodriguez or Craig Counsell? That is, would you rather have all the money in the world, the most impressive statline, and be a whiny glove-slapping bitch who's never won anything in his life; or a light-hitting pipsqueak who scored the winning run in Game 7 of one World Series, and contributed to the winning rally in Game 7 of another (beating the Yankees, no less)?
-- Harold G., Birmingham, AL

SG: Counsell, no question. ARod might be the more talented of the two, but would you want to play on the same team as him? However, who wouldn't want to play with Craig Counsell? Does anybody dislike Craig Counsell? Is such a thing possible?

Also, you've hit the nail on the head -- Counsell was involved in two of the most exciting World Series finishes ever. ARod's career numbers are impressive, no question, but can anyone name even one famous MOMENT that he was involved in, ALCS Game 6 excepted? A big play, a game-winning hit in a meaningful game, anything? Just one single moment that the casual baseball fan can remember? Anybody? Sports isn't just about players, it's also about moments, and ARod doesn't have any great moments associated with his name. Not to mention that I'd give my left pinky finger to have been standing on first base and watching Gonzalez's bloop hit fall in to win the World Series over those damn Yankees. So yes, I pick Counsell, and it's not even close.

(You see? Happy now? Can I please have the TiVo remote back?)

Q: In all of recorded history, has a man ever gone out on a first date with a woman, talked about fantasy baseball (no matter how briefly) during any part of that night's conversation, and earned a second date with that woman? Has this ever happened to the best of your knowledge?
-- Norman B., Montreal, QC

SG: No, that has never happened. To review, the following topics of conversation are off-limits on all first dates, no exceptions: fantasy baseball, Golden Tee golf, manure, weight/dieting, ex-girlfriends/boyfriends, and the book "Morrissey and Marr: The Severed Alliance" by Johnny Rogan. The reasoning behind the first five should be self evident. As for the last one, you'll just have to trust me.

Q: Is there a "Yard Work" intern? Do you need one? I'm available.
-- Leroy R., Vancouver, BC

SG: No, we don't have an intern here. But we don't need one because we don't bother checking facts. We make everything up. Hey, it worked for Jose Canseco. And speaking of Canseco ...

Q: Jose Canseco is starring on the fifth season of "The Surreal Life". Which current player would you most want to see on that show?
-- Gerry T., Chicago, IL

SG: Can I pick a current manager instead of a player? If so, then the answer is easy - Lou Piniella. If he'll tell off the Devil Rays ownership while sober, can you imagine what sorts of things he'd say to Mini-Me and Da Brat while raging drunk?

Q: Baseball would be a far more interesting game if managers wore clown suits. Big bulky clown suits with oversized red shoes. People would look forward to seeing pitching changes, and the managers would enjoy them more too. Furthermore, the manager would come out and wave his floopy clown suited arm toward the bullpen and the new pitcher wouldn't run out, instead, he'd ride out on a mule. The entertainment value of the game would increase immensely. Do you like my ideas?
-- Charles O., Kansas City, MO

SG: Yup, these are my readers.

Bleep Bleep - June 22nd

2005-06-22T13:48:00.000-04:00

So I hear there's some Kurt Cobain wannabe giving me guff on his website (oooooh!), talking trash about me and Dibs and B-Mart like he knows what the f*ck he's talking about. Yeah, it takes a real man to plop his fat *ss down in a chair, pop open a box of donuts, and TYPE. You got something to say about the way I do my job, stop two-fisting Boston Crèmes and say what you gotta say to my face. Or maybe you're too busy writing in your GIRL-nal about how you can't stand the pain of living because your mom didn't buy you a My Little Pony for Christmas and you flunked out of Chess Club, and now you're gonna write a song about it, and then get to second base w/ a shotgun because LIFE'S TOO HARD. Oh boo hoo hoo, here's a tampon. Man the f*ck up, She-Ra, and show respect for folks that actually have a job. The taxes I pay keep leeching sacks of puke like you on welfare, so remember that the next time you want to prove how big you are by writing on your fancy website about stuff you know jacksh*t about.

And speaking of folks that don't know jacksh*t - here's a new thing for BLEEP BLEEP called THE FIVE TOOLS. Figure it out.

5) Jay Payton

Yeah, you're smart. "Oh, wow, I got traded to the World Champion Red Sox! And their starting OF features a guy leading the majors in hits, one of the best hitters ever, and an unsung scrappy kid in RF! I should totally be starting! And, hey, if they don't want me and my .125 BA in the OF, I can DH, right? Who they got there? Some post-season hero? The team's best hitter? He sucks! I should totally be starting! And if they don't want me, someone will! I can ground out and kill rallies like a mofo! Totally!" Guy needs to go back to Colorado and get the pressure in his head normalized. Or maybe get an Irish breakfast upside his top o' the morning. How's about starting Operation: Buy a F*cking Clue, JP?

4) Eric Gagne

Did that stupid Canuck actually reinjure himself trying to change his pitching motion? Are you f*cking serious? How much Labatt Blue do you have to stick in your ear to be that stupid, eh? "Oh, fuuuudge - my car won't go forward. But that's OK - I'll just drive in reverse!" Or how about this? "Oh, fuuuudge - my baseball team is made up of whiny douchebags! But that's OK - I'll just fire the manager!" Yeah HOW YOU DOING ED? Great start by wonderturd Brett Myers yesterday against the MetroPOLEitans. Oh, yeah, your team's going places w/ f*cking Don Ameche at the controls. Full speed ahead, Captain Kirk!

3) The MetroPOLEitans

And speaking of f*cking space cadets - where's the horse I need to snort to think that bringing up Benito Santiago and ICE ICE WILLIAMS is going to help win ballgames? What, Minnie Minoso was busy w/ a heart-lung-liver transplant? Gordie Howe wouldn't return your phone calls? F*ck, I heard Jane Russell turned 84 this week. Let's see her sagging jugs hitting the ground in a Met uni instead of having to smell either of those walking Ben Gay tubes. I don't care if Beltran loses both his legs and starts babbling about jumbo shrimp - I'd rather have him out in CF in a baby high chair and a bib than ICE ICE F*CKING WILLIAMS. The fact that replacing Pizzaface with BS is almost a push says all I need to say about how crap the Mets are. Hope your midget friend likes last place there, Pedrone!

2) Everyone on the Devil Rays except for Lou Piniella

Thirteen runs. IN ONE INNING. And they were WINNING. BY FOUR. Olney the Lolney reported that Piniella was b*tching at everyone from players to the coaching staff. Like that's a bad thing! You're winning by four runs in the 8th inning, and your piece of sh*t team decides to just bend over like a bunch of sallies and give the Yankees a baker's dozen right there. Hell, I would've grabbed the f*cking ball and pitched - I could be dead and throw better than that! A younger Lou would've dropped that Phelps tard on his head. Kid's lucky he can play with himself after that jerkjob. Lou's a great manager, and a baseball legend, and for this bass-ackward A-ball squad to show him the respect our government shows guests of Club Gitmo is a f*cking disgrace. Note to you piece of sh*t pitchers: throwing a "get me over" strike doesn't mean throwing a strike that gets over the outfield wall. Note to the rest of you fishtailed queefs: do Lou and basaeball and everyone everywhere a favor and die. Don't show up anymore, don't cash your paychecks, don't even kiss your dog's *ss goodbye. Just up and f*cking die. Of course, this is Tampa Bay - they'd probably f*ck that up, too.

1) Bill James and his stat jockeys

Yeah, way to f*cking go, guys! Oh yeah! Go Oakland with your drive for last place! Take that to first base! Go Blue Jays with your jerk*ss record! You guys got ROY F*CKING HALLADAY, and you still suck! Letting Delgado walk was a great move, lemme tell you. Yeah, the best 1B in the game besides Pujols - who wants that f*ck? No, give me that Hinske jerk, because I like guys that can find new ways to donkeypunch scoring chances. And oh yeah Dodger pride! That 12-2 start? Yeah, that was real. Jim Tracy's a great skipper, but even he can't save this group of f*ckwits. And now they're 3 games under .500. Oh yeah! Way to crunch those numbers, DePodesta! Are those the same numbers that told you to tell Mao Tse Tung to get in the way of that Jeff Kent throw? At least Kent knows what's what - someone's got to get in that kid's face and tell him how to f*cking play baseball, if that bucktoothed calc nerd's gonna make Tracy play him. Hey Bok Choi - that glove's not there to take muffins out of the stove, y'know? And that's a BAT in your hand, not a SLIDERULE. That's what you desk jockeys get for taking advice from a night watchman that NEVER PLAYED BASEBALL. Yeah, hold on, I gotta get some stock tips from my mailman, and then I gotta get my haircut by that blind hobo outside the Gold Club. And then I gotta talk to Chesty Nippleridge about my close personal relationship with SHUT THE F*CK UP.

Bite me.

Mike Piazza's Political Soapbox

2005-06-21T21:06:00.000-04:00

Hey, I'm Mike Piazza, All-Star catcher for the New York Mets. And I'd like to talk to you about Social Security.

If you're like me, you stay awake late at night worrying about the future of this country. "What am I gonna do when I'm really old?" you ask. "Who's gonna provide for my kids when I'm gone?" you think. (Not me. I don't have any kids.)

Well, the president's plan to privatize Social Security is totally kick-ass. It'll let you invest your hard-earned money the way you see fit - in stocks, in bonds, in rare collectible coins, and even in autographed Mike Piazza trading cards.

It's your money. You should control how it's invested. And there's just no reason why people who don't make as much money as you do should reap the benefit of your hard work. Take me, Mike Piazza, for instance. Just because I'm making $16 million this year, should I be responsible for supporting Joe McEwing and all his illegitimate kids? (They don't call him Super Joe for nothing!)

I was out partying hard, looking for babes, and grilling venison with John McCain and Ted Nugent last weekend, and MacDawg said, "P, I'm madder than a public school graduate trying to read USA Today over these wacko MoveOn.org liberals trying to stick their fingers in the cookie jar of America's retirement fund!" The Nuge said, "Hell yeah! First they go for our wallets, and then our guns!"

I didn't know what to tell either of them. "MacDawg, you're an old dude," I said. "Why do so many other old dudes think that privatizing Social Security would cut them off for good? Don't they have kids who love them and support them?"

Ted didn't look convinced. "And Nuge," I said. "What if they redistributed record sales like Social Security revenue? Wouldn't that be like taking money out of Damn Yankees' pockets and giving it to some lame-ass band from the Inland Empire that nobody cares about, like Diskothiq?"

He sighed. "You're right," he said, and I coulda swore the Nuge had a tear in his eye. He turned around to face the grill.

"Hit one for the Nuge," he said, and he flipped the venison.

You see, liberals want you to believe that the system's just fine the way it is. But that's like saying that I should give Jose Reyes some of my home runs and RBIs, just because it's more fair! And what if I crash my Harley, or what if the Nuge mistakes me for a bull moose when we're out hunting? Hey, if the Rocket had hit me with that piece of bat, it could have severed an artery and I could have bled to death right there on national TV, and all my tax money would have just disappeared. My loved ones deserve better than that. Our loved ones deserve better than that.

I'm Mike Piazza, and I approve this message.

Forecasting the AL East

2005-06-21T14:08:00.000-04:00

I get asked who will win the AL East almost every day. People like to complain that we focus too much on the Yankees and Red Sox, but I get asked about them all the time when I'm in New York, Boston and even in Connecticut. I always tell people the same thing: don't bet against the Yankees. If the Yankees could, they would go 162-0 every year. I don't think that's true of other teams because other teams don't have the desire that the Yankees do, and baseball is all about desire.

The Red Sox like the underdog mentality. They are "The Idiots," as they like to say, and I don't think real champions think of themselves as idiots. Real champions think of themselves as champions. So I don't think the Red Sox have the desire to win 162 games; they have the desire to win 90 and the Wild Card. It says something that the year they finally break the Curse they do it as the Wild Card team. They didn't really want to win. They just wanted to get by, to do just enough so that their fans didn't turn against them. Real champions don't just get by.

You can see the different mentalities of the Yankees and Red Sox on the field. When Manny Ramirez goes to get a fly ball he loafs to catch it. When Tony Womack goes to get a fly ball he hustles. Now neither player is going to catch every ball hit their way, but Womack's hustle plays add up to a lot of hustle every year. And so that's a difference that you see. Another is that when David Ortiz hits one of his home runs he lollygags out of the box. But when Derek Jeter hits a home run he sprints out of the box and hustles around the bases. The way you get out of the box is part of your follow-through on your swing, and so if you hustle out you will hit more home runs. Little things like that really add up.

I know that the Yankees have had a hard time so far this year. They haven't been the team that we've seen win 26 championships. But part of that is that when teams see the Yankees on their schedule they circle those dates and decide that they're going to have a lot of desire for those games. And so they manage to steal a few. The Yankees don't need to circle any dates on their calendar because they are the champs and champs don't need to circle any dates. And that's why the Yankees will win the AL East again.

Viewer Guide

2005-06-21T12:39:00.000-04:00

Los Angeles Dodgers vs. San Diego Padres
Congressional fuckers say it's 'roids, but schlong swinging is p.u.re beisbol like spikes-up homophobia and back-turned racism, and the Dodgers, led by frathauze prez Jim Tracey, man up with the worst of 'em. That the LAD persist in their back-page chest-thumps while playing bananarama "smartball" (a term those London post-feminists would ovulate all over) is most peculiar — isn't flypaper bunting the sissy-est move of all? The semantics of the "sac-out" come way-too-clear (but Jeff Kent can wash my car anytime). The Pads play true smartball, even if Brian Giles is MLB's Scissor Sisters — no love at (or for) home, and the Elton histrionics tire like second encores. But the Dodgers are a pianoman car-crash waiting to happen. B

Oakland A's vs. Seattle Mariners
When Kurt wore Raincoats T's on eMpTyV, it was like alt-rock's dub history coming to life. And when the Mariners lose 100 games this year, it's like the Seattle Pilots never left. In Seattle, they never forget. Lost in the Moneyball hype was this fact: the A's are simply the Raiders, and Beane is Al Davis with a bouffant 'do: air it out, bite and claw for every inch, watch the castoffs gladiate for PT. But the Nonathletics' anti-stances bore like backpackers — fuck who you aren't, be who you are. This one should be played in cardigans. D

Robert Christgau, the Dean of American Rock Criticism, writes for the Village Voice.

Cheating: It's All Good, Until You Get Caught

2005-06-20T14:16:00.000-04:00

Every time there is a question about baseball players or managers cheating, I get about 15,000 calls for quotes from journalists all over the world. After all, I was the GM of the New York Mets, and we had Bobby Valentine as our manager, and he cheated like a Navy wife. Oh, sure, I know you're all just thinking about the mustache-in-the-dugout thing -- but I'm talking about full-on 100% cheating and deception with the intent to defraud. And it was all done with my complete approval, because I was the kind of GM that always supported his managers and coaches and players, no matter what.

We got away with it most of the time because we just kept trying, and when you try that hard you usually succeed. One time, I remember, we went on a seven-game win streak with nothing but 100% corked bats and free Viagra in the dugout. (Boy, you should have seen the effect that had on old Al Leiter one day! Kinda gave the expression "knuckle-curve" a whole new meaning.) And we got away with it, too. If there's any lesson Brendan Donnelly can take away from this whole thing, it's just this: Don't give up! If at first you don't succeed, try, try again.

I am actually surprised that Frank Robinson got so mad. I mean, what, HE never cheated? That's not what I hear around the ol' grapevine, if you know what I'm saying. Where did those out-of-nowhere 49 dingers in 1966 come from, Frank? If the scuttlebutt is to be believed...well, I've said too much. (Five words for the inquisitive: ILLEGAL BODY-MODIFICATION SURGERY IN GUATEMALA. But that's all I'm saying.)

The thing is, cheating is an important part of baseball history and lore. Gaylord Perry's spitter is nothing compared with Sandy Koufax's ritual mutilation of the baseball using the razor-sharp nails of his pinky finger, or Mark Fidrych wiping his own feces on the ball. (What, you thought all that talking to himself jazz was real? Come on, people, that was classic misdirection, every magician learns that on the first day!) The only thing wrong with Sammy Sosa's corked bat was that he got caught. The way they make the baseballs all cold and damp in Arizona before games against big sluggers...geez, that trick's as old as Gammons. And the guys who used to sit up in center field at Shea and steal signals using telephoto lenses and transmit signals to our hitters via Morse code: American heroes. That's the way the ball bounces.

I know MLB doesn't want young people to know all this stuff, but I don't care; we're talking about a grown man's game now. Speaking of grown men, I find it pretty funny that John Kruk thinks that Jose Guillen should be drilled for telling his team about the pine tar. First of all, that is known far and wide as "Move your feet, lose your seat" -- if a team trades you, they have to change their tactics, because it is ASSUMED that you're going to tattle on them. If anything, Scoscia should be drilling himself for letting Donnelly continue with the pine tar trick instead of moving him over to another, better system as soon as Guillen was gone.

And it seems pretty curious that Kruk is upset about squealing. Maybe he doesn't remember a certain All-Star Game when he bailed out on three straight Randy Johnson pitches because he was being a big chicken. Sure, people laughed, but that's not baseball. When you get up to bat, you stand there and deal with what's thrown at you, rather than tucking your tail between your legs and mincing back to the dugout. And from what I hear, Kruk, you pull one heck of a hidden-ball trick!

So my very strong feeling is that there should be more cheating. And you should listen to what I say. After all, I was the GM of the mighty New York Mets. Now if you'll excuse me, I have more than 347,000 people asking me for interviews about managers and cheating and players and steroids and some other things that I cannot remember because there are so many of them.

Steve Phillips is a Baseball Tonight regular. He is the former GM of the New York Mets.

Game Of The Week Re-Enactment: Cubs v. Yankees

2005-06-20T13:22:00.000-04:00

EDITOR'S NOTE: In the storied tradition of E! Entertainment Television's daily re-enactments of the Michael Jackson trial, BBTN is proud to bring you a regular series of posts featuring chatroom re-enactments of Fox's Game of the Week broadcast, featuring Emmy-award winning broadcasters Joe Buck and Tim McCarver.

[L-R: MiggityMac, BucKKKarooBonzai!]

SATURDAY, JUNE 17, 2005
CUBS @ YANKEES

BucKKKarooBonzai!: greetings grecian formula

MiggityMac: howdy mister propecia

BucKKKarooBonzai!: haha hello squinty msquinter look at my RECEDING HAIRLINE OF DOOM

BucKKKarooBonzai!: at least im not lying to myself

BucKKKarooBonzai!: would milady care for more shellack for her pate, perchance?

MiggityMac: hahaha can it cueball

BucKKKarooBonzai!: so hey look we're doing another yankee game

MiggityMac: i no - nice to see these kids get some attention

MiggityMac: new york is such an overlooked little burg

BucKKKarooBonzai!: PETER BERG

BucKKKarooBonzai!: RUNDOWN WAS WICKED BRAH

BucKKKarooBonzai!: BUT HELLDORADO WOULD HAVE BEEN FOINER

BucKKKarooBonzai!: rosario buck o yeah

MiggityMac: dude ritalin

MiggityMac: anyway people better GET FAMILIAR w/ these upstarts from the apple

MiggityMac: they are doing the gosh darn thing no diggity

BucKKKarooBonzai!: indubitably, old chap

MiggityMac: inDOOBIEtably?

BucKKKarooBonzai!: ROFL stfu wilford brimley talk about the cubs

MiggityMac: suck suck suck suck curse moo cow I'M BARTMAN suck

MiggityMac: dusty baker : pitchers :: joel schumacher : batman

BucKKKarooBonzai!: oh snap

BucKKKarooBonzai!: you mean schumacher : cinematic arts in toto

MiggityMac: true dat

MiggityMac: except for vampire flix

MiggityMac: LOST BOYS II DAMMIT

BucKKKarooBonzai!: btw ms. soon to be cruise beard - BYE A BRA

BucKKKarooBonzai!: or not

MiggityMac: boioioioioing

BucKKKarooBonzai!: hahaha shut up beavis

MiggityMac: i am teepee for my bunghole

MiggityMac: EAT MY TACO

BucKKKarooBonzai!: uh, yeah.

BucKKKarooBonzai!: so how about this kid WANG?

MiggityMac: you mean weng?

BucKKKarooBonzai!: WENGO TENGO

BucKKKarooBonzai!: the cubbies can barely CAT SCRATCH out any hits!

MiggityMac: omg u r lame like three-legged dog

BucKKKarooBonzai!: meanwhile the yanks treat GLEN-DON like a wicked witch

BucKKKarooBonzai!: oooo ooo witchy womang

BucKKKarooBonzai!: see how soft she throw-ow-ows

BucKKKarooBonzai!: oooo ooo witchy womang

BucKKKarooBonzai!: see how far the ball go-oh-oes!

BucKKKarooBonzai!: *wicked glenn fry solo*

MiggityMac: riiiiiiiiiiiight

MiggityMac: meanwhile DEREK JETER WHIPS OUT HIS GRAND SALAMI

BucKKKarooBonzai!: yeah i knew u were goin there

MiggityMac: derek jeter is ultrahip

MiggityMac: soft like pleather

MiggityMac: hot like fondue

MiggityMac: wicked k-rad like average white band or BTO

BucKKKarooBonzai!: dood lay off the krylon

MiggityMac: i would father his babies

MiggityMac: if i were in a movie w/ danny devito

MiggityMac: and emma thomson

BucKKKarooBonzai!: hahaha youd b Lame Old Betwetter #3

BucKKKarooBonzai!: nurse! my prostate! it prolapsed!

MiggityMac: shut up bucktooth

MiggityMac: and read one anatomy book

BucKKKarooBonzai!: oh no you wound me in my meaty hindquarters

BucKKKarooBonzai!: w/ yr vorpal wit

BucKKKarooBonzai!: saving throw vs. LAMENESS

MiggityMac: hahaha k truce

MiggityMac: thank god yr not brenneman

BucKKKarooBonzai!: omg

BucKKKarooBonzai!: if u were lyons i wd switch to nascar

BucKKKarooBonzai!: or assisted suicide

MiggityMac: hahahaha

MiggityMac: HI I AM STEVE LYONS I DROPPED MY PANTS ONCE

MiggityMac: AND NOW I HAVE A CAREER - I AM CARRAZY SUB-MIMBO

MiggityMac: I KNOW THREE WORDS EVER

BucKKKarooBonzai!: and hello constable I am Thomas Q. Brenneman, Esquire Emeritus

BucKKKarooBonzai!: I will bore you to fckin death about the way baseball is bad

BucKKKarooBonzai!: and how it should be played

BucKKKarooBonzai!: because I hate all non-white player

MiggityMac: hahahahaha

BucKKKarooBonzai!: and people making more money than me

BucKKKarooBonzai!: and I am riding my daddy's coattails

MiggityMac: dude stones + glass house = pot-black u

BucKKKarooBonzai!: oh snap kicksave

BucKKKarooBonzai!: SCRATCH MY BACK WITH A RENTED MULE

MiggityMac: hahaha hockey sux

BucKKKarooBonzai!: ouch hoser with the low blow

BucKKKarooBonzai!: final score?

MiggityMac: who cares? yanks win, cubs lose, sun rises in the east

MiggityMac: and baseball pwns all

MiggityMac: as it ever was

BucKKKarooBonzai!: amen, my shizznit. amen.

Same Old Situation

2005-06-17T12:43:00.000-04:00

Hey, everybody! Hope you've been enjoying the weblog! I would be posting more, but I'm real busy working on my new baseball show - The Baseball Bunch on Saturday mornings! Check your local listings! - and with all the great posts by BBTN regulars and guest stars, I've been busy reading all this great stuff! I think it's great that all you fans out there are really enjoying what we're doing, because we enjoy doing it! Thanks!

I wanted to talk about the Mets, and Willie Randolph in particular. Now, lots of folks in the off-season were wondering how the Mets would do this year. They threw a lot of money at Carlos Beltran and Pedro Martinez, they had some old aging players like Tom Glavine and Mike Piazza, and there was some question about whether they'd be any good. Well, it's almost time for the All-Star Game - don't forget to vote! - and the Mets are only 6 games back in what's probably the strongest division, top to bottom, in all of baseball. And I give all the credit in the world to new manager Willie Randolph. He's brought some of that Yankee mystique with him to Flushing, and it shows. He's gotten great years out of Pedro and Cliff Floyd, a breakout season from David Wright, and even some surprise production from other places - who knew about Victor Diaz before this year? And he's doing this with Carlos Beltran at 75%, no production from Piazza, a struggling Doug Mienkiewicz, and a spotty bullpen. If the season ends right now, he's my Manager of the Year.

Of course, in New York City, no one's happy. Folks are talking about this or that. Why does he play Kaz Matsui so much? Why is David Wright batting in the bottom third of the order? And why is Jose Reyes hitting leadoff? That last question is what I want to talk about, specifically this quote I heard from Willie about hitting at the top of the order - “Just because he gets on base doesn’t mean he’s doing the right thing.”

I was a top of the order hitter for most of my years in the majors, so I know what it's like. Your job, as a lead-off hitter, is to put pressure on the opposing team. You do that with clutch hits, with stolen bases, with foul balls. That's a lot of pressure to put on one guy's shoulders, to be responsible for putting pressure on the opposing team and upsetting their rhythms. It takes a special player - a Rickey Henderson, an Alex Cole, an Endy Chavez - to pull that off. And a key to this is what I like to call SITUATIONAL HITTING. You have to hit to the situation. Just like some pitchers pitch to the score, hitters have to hit to the score, and also the number of outs in the inning. It's fine to just get a walk when you're leading off the game, but when you're down 3 runs with 2 outs in the 9th inning and a runner on 2nd, what good is a walk then? You have to hit to the situation.

If you're in that 2 out situation, you want to get a base hit to drive that runner home to keep the pressure on. If you're down 1 run in the 9th with one out or more, you want to get an extra-base hit so you can get in scoring position for your big boppers. If you're leading off the 9th, you bunt for a base hit and try to steal 2nd, and maybe 3rd. If your pitcher is on base, you want to take as many pitches as possible so the pitcher can catch his breath, and step out between every pitch. If you're up with runners on and a small lead early in the game, you want to move those runners over for the heart of the order. If you walk, you walk, but that's a last resort. After all, there's a reason you go up to the plate with a bat in your hand.

Sometimes getting on base isn't enough. Sometimes even getting a hit isn't enough. That's what SITUATIONAL HITTING is all about. It's tough to expect a young kid like Reyes to figure all this out so early in his career. Heck, some of these thing I'm still learning, and I've been out of the game for over 10 years! It's to Willie Randolph's credit, though, that he's willing to take his lumps with Reyes as he's learning his position in the batting order in the middle of a penant race. Lots of managers, they would either demote Reyes in the batting order, or demote Reyes to the minors, saying he can't play in the major leagues until he learns to be more selective at the plate. But that's what's ironic about needing to learn - you need to play to get experience, and you need experience to get to play. Willie realizes that the best place for a kid to get experience is at the Major League level, regardless of the results. That's a true sign of leadership, and no doubt it's something that Yankee skipper Joe Torre taught him.

Sometimes, struggling is often better for a player than success. Look at how Willie's handling young phenom David Wright - he's one of the Mets' best run producers, but he's keeping Wright in the bottom third of the order so he doesn't let the success make him cocky. Managers have to hit to the situation, too. Keeping him in pressure-free situations, even when the team struggles to score runs consistently, is a small, subtle move that'll pay off huge when Wright matures. And the same goes for Jose Reyes. Struggling now will mean less struggling later. The more Reyes plays, the more experience he'll get, and with Willie Randolph showing him the ropes, there's no telling where Reyes, and the Mets, could end up.

Riding the Pine

2005-06-17T09:24:00.000-04:00

If you listened to some of these purists talk about it, Brendan Donnelly crapped on Cy Young’s grave out there the other night. Bull! The fact is, Donnelly plays about as tough as anybody out there, and the Krukster’s got no love for guys who don’t sack up and game hard. That crybaby Frank Robinson might look at Donnie and see a cheater, but I see a guy who had tooled around the minors and never complained about it for ten years. You ever tried to party in Altoona on a Tuesday night? You’re lucky if you end up with a sixer of Iron City and a shiner the next morning courtesy of a certain swears-she’s-18-year-old somebody’s jealous boyfriend. I swear, the way he reacted you’d think I had my way with his Xbox.

Then Donnelly got hit in the face in spring training and shattered his nose. Never said a word, just took it like a man and wiped the blood off his schnozz. Three hours of reconstructive surgery later, Donnie looked like Ernie Lombardi after a chance meeting with a shovel.

But Donnelly knows he can go out there and snap bats in half with some of that steam he throws. And the last thing baseball needs is pretty boys who are all worried about how their uniform looks or whether their spikes match their shades. Listen up, Mariah! This is baseball! Dirt, blood, spit, chaw, brews, and melted ice cream from one of those little snot-nosed punks’ miniature batting helmets filled with heavenly hash are all badges of honor! Donnelly ain’t no cheater, but he sure as hell wasn’t going to wipe that crap off his glove, either. If those Nationals think that’s cheating, they’d better remember that a year ago, they were lucky to play in front of five thousand striped-T-shirt-wearing, poutine-munching Frenchies up there in that hellhole. You ever seen some of the teeth on those “Continental” girls?

And as for Jose Guillen? Back when I was playing we’d have treated a squealer like him worse than Dykstra’s old lady. (Just kiddin’, Nails.) Jose better watch himself, or he’s gonna get drilled every game. By the end of this thing, he’s gonna get beaned so many times, he’ll have a bigger case of the ol’ red-ass than Michael Vick and Miguel Olivo put together.

If the Nationals think they can beat the Phils by crying every time some schlub’s hat’s on all cock-eyed, I’ve got news for them. Just like Brendan Donnelly, the Phils are working-class gamers, and they play the game hard. You think Pat the Bat would call the umps like a little sissy? Ha! No way. The Krukster knows a thing or two about stones. Brendan Donnelly has stones.

BOOKCLUB - Long Balls, No Strike (by Joe Morgan)

2005-06-16T17:08:00.000-04:00

I've taken my share of heat throughout my baseball career, as a player and as an executive. People throughout baseball were amazed that a man of my natural athletic gifts and uncanny baseball instincts could fail to develop into a major league ballplayer. People were amazed when I, a life-long athlete, decided to continue my post-player career in baseball as a front office official. And, as anyone that's heard about Michael Lewis' Moneyball knows, people are amazed at my supposed arrogance and cockiness when it comes to being a General Manager. In case you haven't tired of such talk (like I have), here is an excerpt from yet another article that takes me to task for my supposed failings:

"The Oakland A's are in last place in the AL West division, laptops and all. This past winter, Beane traded his two ace pitchers, Tim Hudson and Mark Mulder, in return for surprisingly unremarkable young players. The 2005 season was to be seen as the turning point that would either prove Beane's genius for spotting talent or reveal a naked emperor. Call a tailor. Oakland is in a free fall that suggests Beane merely rode his best pitchers to achieve the A's recent successes."

It's nice to see that receiving an Ivy League education is as much a sign of actual intelligence as an SAT score or zipping your fly. Even analysts with more hair than common sense could look at the players moved in those two trades and intuit that these moves were made for the years beyond 2005. Judging the success of these trades on approximately 3 months' worth of baseball is the same as judging a marriage a success or failure after 36 hours. I've been public to a fault about calling this year in Oakland "a rebuilding year". While there have been plenty of struggles (and many pieces of broken furniture to accompany these struggles), the A's are now in a better position for the future than they would have been with both Hudson (currently hurt) and Mulder (currently the 4th best pitcher in the St. Louis rotation) in green and gold. The fact that various SABR-friendly writers decided to pick me as the AL West representative says more about my track record of success than any sort of hubris on my part. But if you listen to almost anyone that passes themselves off as an expert, they'll say the same thing that Tim Mosso says (though probably using less metaphors, and smaller words). Worse yet, they'll say the sorts of unsubstantiated nonsense respected E$PN mouthbreather Joe Morgan has been saying since Moneyball hit the New York Times Bestseller List.

To be honest, I couldn't care less about what Joe Morgan or anyone as intellectually challenged as him thinks about me, my aims and goals, or "my book," and I'll be damned if I'm going to give him the satisfaction of quoting his blather in this column. One paragraph of garbage is enough for one day, I think. Lewis, in the afterword of the paperback version of Moneyball, undoutbedly said everything I could think to say in regards to this ridiculous grudge Joe, or anyone else, has against me and the way I do my job. For what it's worth, Lewis also said such things in a nicer way than I'd be able to manage.

It would be nice if pundits and thinkers actually did research on a topic before they went off on fact-free tirades about that topic, but in a world where spurious soundbytes reign supreme over the truth, and talk show hosts are hired because of their volume and not their convictions, it's not surprising. It would also be nice if people weren't so dead set on being right that they close their mind to any notion antithetically opposed to how they think, but people are naturally resistant to change, and there's no better example of this resistance than in baseball.

I had no idea Joe actually wrote a book aside from the appropriately titled Baseball For Dummies. No doubt anyone that's experienced the stink-ridden hot air Joe pushes between his flapping lips on a daily basis knows that he's ridiculously overqualified to write that book. But thanks to the generosity of E$PN and their foisting of Joe Morgan on the hapless baseball-viewing public of the world, Joe got another chance to hold court on the game he supposedly loves. And, of course, befitting Joe's antiquated approach to baseball analysis, the game he loves is the game he played. In Long Balls, No Strike, Joe advocates for a higher pitching mound, more aggressive baserunning, and the removal of the DH - the sorts of suggestions you'd expect from a man who played in the National League for his entire career. He also holds court in regards to revenue sharing and various managerial strategies. However, it's what Joe talks about away from the actual game on the field that is truly interesting.

No doubt the chapter where he tears Jon Miller a new one (titled "Stupid Fat Bald Men Shouldn't Leave The House") will surprise readers - it's not too shocking, though. If my broadcast partner of umpteen years took me to task week after week about the ridiculous nonsense I'd spit out between pitches, I'd be pretty upset, too. Also shocking was his revelation about his hatred for Davey Concepcion, and how his constant lobbying for Concepcion's entry into Hall of Fame is merely a result of some dirty pictures Concepcion took involving Joe, a Stretch Armstrong doll, and Marv Albert. There's also his heartfelt confession regarding his addiction to "players coffee", and how his addiction lead to that spastic chicken-flap in his batting stance.

Stories like this abound in Long Balls. Joe on having a .392 career OBP fueled by multiple 100 walk seasons as a player, and being a vocal and vehement anti-walk advocate as a broadcaster - "I feel so ashamed for what I've been saying about walks on TV, but I can't change my ways now. People just eat it up like potato chips! People like potato chips! It's all I can do to stay sober sometimes." On Pete Rose - "He lost me $1,500,000 on the 1988 World Series. I had to hock my MVP trophies just to pay off the vig. I can never forgive him for that." On the Game 6 of the 1975 World Series - "I was so stoned, I don't even remember if I was wearing a jock strap." On Linda Cohn - "She has dumps like a truck, thighs like what, and lips that go all night long. I won't go and say she flashed that thong like Monica Lewinski, but I can tell you that I had a nice long look at her field of dreams through that bathroom peephole." And so on.

Now, please note, I haven't actually read the book. My busy schedule as General Manager of the Oakland A's doesn't allow me much time to do any leisurely reading - as a matter of fact, I'm writing this post (on my laptop, Mosso!) in a bathroom stall. Time, after all, is a precious commodity in baseball. Also, there's a certain poetic justice to be had in writing about a Joe Morgan book while on the crapper. Anyway, I've seen Joe on TV enough, and I've read way too many of his Insider articles, so I can safely call myself a Joe Morgan expert, and sound off on what the book discusses from an informed position, which I've done.

Clearly, Long Balls, No Strike longs to be a modern day Ball Four / Hollywood Babylon - a book that shakes the game to its very core, and reveals the dark and dangerous side of hero worship. Unlike those books, where a naivete cultivated by the industry in question and the support system around that industry was shown to be a sham, Joe's book is nothing more than shameless ego stroking. He brags about his omnisexual exploits with the sort of revolting candor that would shame a porn star. His wanton abuse of all types of substances, and the lavish descriptions he awards this debauchery, borders on inhumane and is clearly a cry for help. Honestly, the fact that E$PN - a subsidiary of the family-friendly Disney corporation - continues to employ such a waste of a human being as a baseball ambassador boggles my mind.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to wipe, flush, and make a motherf*cker of a trade so the A's can be in position next year - or even this year - to win yet another low-cost post-season berth. Say hi to my middle finger, Joe.

Billy Beane, a former first round draft pick of the New York Mets, is the General Manager of the Oakland A's. He did not write Moneyball, Joe. Joe Morgan's Long Balls, No Strike was available in bookstores in 1999, and might still be available, if you're interested and have the need to spend money like Richard Pryor in Brewster's Millions.

More Cowbell Than You Will Ever Need III -- All-Star Game Edition!

2005-06-16T16:45:00.000-04:00

The outcome of the NBA Finals is still a foregone conclusion and there are no new episodes of "The O.C." until September, so I've got to find something else to write about. That's when I turn to baseball, even though I see no reason why all of my TV staples can't be on the air all summer long. Reality TV has no off-season, "Survivor" was one of the biggest summer shows ever and a veritable cultural touchstone, so why can't "The O.C." follow this sort of example? If it's the "90210" of the aughts, then it needs to develop a summer season. "90210" didn't make the jump from cult hit to cultural phenomenon until that 1991 summer season, AKA the Summer of Dylan and Kelly. For those who weren't around at the time, this was seriously heavy stuff -- for Generations X and Y, in terms of serial drama and overall hype, we're talking about "Who Shot JR?", the Undertaker's Higher Power, and Game Five of the 1987 Eastern Conference Finals all rolled into one. You couldn't go anywhere without hearing "will they or won't they?" gossip about Dylan and Kelly. All aspiring young TV shows should follow the pioneering lead of "90210". Why am I the only person who understands this?

At times like these, baseball becomes a welcome summer distraction. Which means it's time to do my part as a card-carrying member of the Red Sox Nation and help my team repeat as champions by casting my All-Star ballot. The outcome of the All-Star Game directly determines home-field advantage in the World Series, which means that the fans effectively choose which league gets to host Game 1. Has any sport, at any level, ever given the fans that kind of power? It's one of those ideas that's so simple and ingenius that you know it'll never last. On my list of the 50 Greatest Moments in My Life that Didn't Involve Larry Bird, the final out of the 2004 All-Star Game ranks at #35, because it directly led to the Red Sox winning the World Series. I spent my first thirty-odd years on this planet fearing that me, my dad, and my kids would die without ever seeing the Sox win it all, so how could a moment like that possibly rank outside the top 40? It couldn't. Can you believe that this idea, the one which directly led to all this happiness and joy, came from the brain of the same guy who cancelled the World Series in 1994? Thinking about these things keeps me awake at night. I can't sleep! Not only that, amongst the "this time it counts" furor, Bud Selig quietly managed to put an end to home-team bias voting. In my case, I could vote for nine Red Sox players, but it's more in my interest to include other teams' stars so that the Red Sox have the best chance of hosting four World Series games this fall. So like I was saying, the idea is ingenious and therefore, it can't possibly last. It just can't. They'll be reviewing the rules this offseason, and they're bound to eliminate this one. I'm certain of it. My buddy Hench was so certain of it, he sold his car and used the money to get 3-1 odds in Vegas that they'll go back to alternating home-field advantage from year to year. That's basically found money for Hench. Vegas usually doesn't miscalculate the odds like that. They just don't.

Now, let's take a look at the ballot that I'll be submitting 24 more times on mlb.com during the next couple of weeks:

DH: David Ortiz, Boston. Over the weekend, I watched my "Red Sox: 2004 World Champions" DVD four times and each of those times, I rewound and watched Ortiz's ALCS Game 4 homer another five times. Why name your kids Ginobili when you can name them Papi? Did I mention that I love this DVD? I might not be able to get through the rest of this column without stopping to watch it again.

1B: Justin Morneau, Minnesota. Nobody stands out at this position in the AL. Somehow, all the best first basemen are in the NL this year. In these instances, almost anyone is an equally good and bad pick, but nevertheless, you have to pick somebody. It's the gambling equivalent of Vinny Testaverde and Matt Hasselbeck facing each other in the playoffs -- you'd rather bet on neither guy, but you've got to convince yourself to actually bet on one of them. All the rules of gambling get thrown out the window and you need to go with your gut. So I'm going with Morneau, who's a young slugger that's looking like a perennial All-Star for the next decade if he can stay healthy (although, between Larry Walker, Corey Koskie, and Eric Gagne's injuries, it hasn't been a good year healthwise for Canadian ballplayers. Did I just jinx Morneau? I hope not. I feel good about my pick, I do. I do? Yes, I do).

C: Jason Varitek, Boston; SS: Miguel Tejada, Baltimore. In contrast, these are a couple of no-brainer picks. There's absolutely no discussion needed, and you'll only hear arguments coming by way of New York, courtesy of people who will try to convince you that Derek Jeter's latest faceplant catch is worthy of a lifetime exemption into the role of AL starting shortstop in the All-Star Game. As for Varitek, he can do no wrong this season. He's been the glue that has held together an otherwise fragile Red Sox team. I mean, if you were playing a game of pickup softball with your friends, and you could "draft" any AL ballplayer as your first pick, then who would it be? Faced with that situation, I'm sure that nine out of every ten people would pick Varitek first. That's the mark of a guy having a dominant, MVP-calibre season. What more proof do you need?

2B: Brian Roberts, Baltimore. Speaking of players who can do no wrong, Brian Roberts lives in his own universe of doing no wrong. Roberts should skip the All-Star Game and head to Vegas instead, because you've got to take advantage of these types of hot streaks while you can. You know that scene in "Swingers" when Vince Vaughn says "you're so money" to Jon Favreau? That's Brian Roberts right now -- he's so money that he doesn't know what to do with himself. Opposing pitchers can't figure him out, and before they have a chance to adjust, the series is over and the Orioles have left town faster than you can say "Brady Anderson". How can anybody dislike Brian Roberts right now? All this, and he's a Yankee killer. How can you not like this guy?

3B:ARod, New York. A lot of people are bound to be upset about this one. I was filling out my ballot and the Sports Gal walked by, shrieked "you're voting for Slap-Rod! How can you live with yourself?". Now she's hidden the TiVo remote and I haven't been able to find it all day, which is why I'm taking the time to write this blog post. But remember that scene in Goodfellas when Henry (Ray Liotta) goes to Pauly (Paul Sorvino) to beg for help after he got busted for drugs? Pauly gave Henry a wad of money and turned his back on him. Even after a lifetime of loyal service, Henry knew that he was a dead man sooner or later, so he went ahead and testified against the mob. What does all this mean? Just like Henry and Pauly, I have tremendous respect for A-Rod. He's clearly having the best season by any AL third baseman. I can vote for him now, employ him to help the Red Sox get home field advantage in the World Series, and turn on him in a heartbeat come October. Baseball is a dirty business.

OF: Johnny Damon, Boston; Vladimir Guerrero, Los Angeles; Manny Ramirez, Boston. Guerrero needs no justification. Manny is Manny, I've got to show some home team favoritism (and cleanse myself of any remaining guilt over that ARod vote). And he's obviously the best bet to deliver one of those Kruk-Unit All-Star moments that become 1000 times more famous than anything that will happen in the game itself. If we're lucky, he'll catch his spike on a pigeon or hot dog bun while running after a routine fly ball. But Damon is something else. His career is indestructible. He has survived the Kansas City Royals, Moneyball, a biography titled "Idiot", appearances on "Queer Eye For the Straight Guy" and "Rob and Amber's Wedding", and a head-on collision with an outfield wall. Despite all of this, Damon's hitting .340 and is enjoying the best season of his career. Is there any precedent for this? By all rights, Damon should have gone the route of Buster Douglas after all these extracurricular adventures. He's like Jimmy Piersall without the mental anguish. He's too insane to be crazy. Everytime I see him crash into a wall or nearly trip over his hair while rounding third base, I hear Vince McMahon's mid-90's-era ringside commentary coming out of my TV speakers. "Un-bee-leevable. Johnny Damon is un-bee-leevable. Look at that! What an athlete! He's coming home ... he's safe, no he's out, c'mon ump!". You'll be telling your grandkids that you saw Johnny Damon play. You will.

Coming up on a future edition of More Cowbell ... my NL All-Star ballot. Until then, go rent "Caddyshack" in case Tiger runs away with the US open by 3PM on Saturday.

The Physics of Baseball 2: "The Seven Per Cent Knuckleball"

2005-06-16T10:04:00.000-04:00

Last weekend, I found myself in Chicago with a free Sunday evening. (I had been presenting at the AAPT conference, and moderating a panel discussion at the University of Chicago in charming Hyde Park.) So, as is often my wont, I wended my way up to Wrigley Field to see the Chicago Cubbies play against the Boston Red Sox, a game many of you saw on E$PN. I did not have a way to get in, so I was forced to purchase a very expensive ticket outside from a tattooed gentleman with the lovely sobriquet of Cobra Phase Two; once inside, I found that someone else already had that seat, so I suspect some kind of skullduggery from Mr. Two. Will I ever learn?

Answer: no.

Eventually, however, I found a seat next to some high-spirited young ladies, purchased a frosty beverage for $8, and settled back to watch a gem of a game turned in by Tim Wakefield. Although the Red Sox are somewhat of a non-event for me, I had to admire the skill and aplomb with which Wakefield tosses the only legitimate knuckleball left in the major leagues. (Mike Mussina's knuckle-curve does not count. This is unfortunate because he is one of baseball's truly intelligent and soulful pitchers, but ultimately fine, because he is on the Yankees, who suck.)

I am probably asked about the knuckleball more than about any other pitch. The physical principle is simple enough. When a baseball is thrown or hit, it must overcome several factors: wind resistance, air density, and gravity being chief among them. The force that works "against" a moving ball is called the Magnus force, and has been documented for years.

Pitchers are able to influence how the ball moves on the vertical and horizontal planes by manipulating their grips and their release points, thereby imparting a spin to the ball. This spin can work any number of ways, from the curves and nickel-curves (a.k.a. "sliders") that we often hear about to the relatively exotic (and dare I say erotic) variations on same: sliders, slurves, scroogies (known as "screwballs" or "fadeaways" in the past), cut fastballs (which are actually half-curves), sliced fastballs (technically half-sliders), slinkers (half slurve, half sinker), clurves (half curve, half slurve), scroorves (three-quarters curve, one-quarter scroogie), palm jobs (one-third curve, one-third cut fastball, one third sinker, thrown with the palm), and the like. There is a finite but very large number of combinations.

An amusing anecdote: while taking notes for this article, one of the heavily perfumed and tipsy young ladies came over to me and asked, "What are you writing?" When she noticed the words "palm job" and "scroogie" on my notebook, she yelled out, "Oh my god, this old dude is a FREAK!" and ran away, giggling, her cheap perfume floating on the wind like a scarf. In retrospect, I see what she meant. Oh, my!

The knuckleball is a different creature altogether. It is, first of all, a misnomer: the knuckleball is actually propelled by the fingertips, or the ends of the fingers if the pitcher has accidentally lost his fingertips. The knuckler is thrown without spin, causing asymmetric stitch configurations and trajectoral turbulence relative to the ball's flight. The wind resistance is directed from the smooth side of the ball to the rougher, stitched side. Therefore the balance of Magnus forces is thrown into imbalance, and the ball's flight is given over to chaos theory.

I don't really want to get into chaos theory here, as one needs to study it carefully for a number of years before even beginning to understand it. I try not to talk over my students' heads, and I will not write over yours. Instead, let me put it in terms that any layperson can understand: Given the Brownian motion of air molecules, the Earth's rotation and position relative to the Sun, and the time of day, we can come up with a simple iteration formula of g(x) = (x+3)/2. Knowing as we do that we must re-iterate this based on the velocity of the thrown baseball, and that Wakefield generally throws his knuckleball at an average of 70 mph, we come up with g (g(x)) = ((x+3)/2 +3)/2 = (x +3+6)/4 = (x+9)/4. A third iteration produces g (g(g(x))) =((x+9)/4)+3)/2 = (x+9+12)/8= (x+21)/8, which happens to correspond exactly with the distance 60 feet and 6 inches divided by 70 mph according to the formula often called Sierpinski's Triangle, or the "Infinite Perimeter" principle. Therefore, the limit of D (V+8 / 60.5) as x approaches H = 11.2 inches.

Or, to put it simply, that shiznit is FILTHY. He had the Cubs looking like they were blind miners in a coalshaft. No one knew where the ball was traveling: not Derrek Lee, not Jason Varitek, not Tim Wakefield, not Robert K. Adair, Ph.D., not the zaftig young women heckling me and my equations for three innings of a baseball game, not the kind security guards who eventually led me out of my seat and into a taxi back home (I must remember that four beers on a warm night are 98.4% more likely to get me crunked up double quick!), not even God Himself knew where that knuckleball was headed. Such is the nature of chaos theory, of Magnus forces, of what my Mexican friends call "las gorditas lindas," and of malt liquor in the bloodstream of an old fool like myself.

As to the question of why Wakefield is the only knuckleball pitcher left, I can only assume it is because he is the only pitcher whose arm is weak enough to throw the pitch slow enough so that the break is optimal. Other than that, I have no idea. I am but a gentle, and fragile, physicist. If there were more knuckleball pitchers in the major leagues, it would be a more interesting place for people like me who get a thrill from graphing equations instead of yelling "HEY" when they play that benighted Gary Glitter song. But Major League Baseball would, I am certain, sell fewer jerseys. When Tim Wakefield passes from this earth, this skill will be gone forever. The passing of an era, the end of an age; so quickly are my favorite things disappearing from this earth!

Robert K. Adair, Ph.D., is the author of The Physics of Baseball (Perennial/Harper Collins) and the Sterling Professor Emeritus of Physics at Yale University. He is a lifelong Brooklyn Dodgers fan.

On Pitching, Winning, and Billy Beane

2005-06-15T17:15:00.000-04:00

ZEROES FOR HEROES

Folks that still think there's a problem with steroids in baseball need to look at what happened Tuesday night. There was a lot of great pitching, including six shutouts. Rookie pitcher Sergio Mitre pitched a complete game five-hitter against a tough Marlin lineup. Like Dusty Baker said, Mitre's just a little pony compared to thoroughbred horses like Mark Prior and Kerry Wood, but starts like this can turn him into a horse, too. A struggling David Wells and the struggling Red Sox bullpen held a struggling Cincinnatti squad to only one hit. Clearly it's not a good year to be wearing red, unless you're in Washington or St. Louis or Philadelphia or Los Angeles of Anaheim. Mike Mussina returned to form in blanking the Pirates 9-0, signaling that it's never smart to count out the New York Yankees. New Brewer Tomo Ohka pitched a great game in his first start, shutting down Tampa Bay - if he pitched like that, he might still be on a first place team. (More about Washington later on.) Cris Carpenter stuck it to his former team, blanking the Blue Jays. And, finally, the Oakland A's catch a lucky break, with Joe Blanton and the bullpen limiting the New York Mets to 4 hits and zero runs. For at least one night, Billy Beane's Moneyball was a winner.

The fact that all these shutouts happened during interleague play is a sign that steroid use is a thing of the past. If all these shutouts only happened in one league, people could say that only one league was clean. With both leagues posting zeroes, though, people can't say that. The last few years featured lots of hitters hitting lots of homeruns and ruining baseball for fans of all ages. This year, Bud Selig's crackdown on illegal substance abuse has helped return baseball to its roots of great pitching and low-scoring games. When I was a player, hitting a home run was a special event. People cheered when someone went deep. However, with players like Jason Giambi and Marvin Bernard using creams and medicine and other scientific cheats to make themselves stronger and better than regular athletes, these special moments disappeared, and baseball's popularity began to dim. Days like Tuesday, though, show that baseball is on its way back to being the greatest sport in the world.

SENATORS VOTE YES FOR FIRST

Tuesday night, the Senators showed people that doubted them that they are for real. With smarts and with guts, they beat a tough Los Angeles of Anaheim Angels team, 6-3. Frank Robinson, one of the best people to ever be involved with the game of baseball, caught Angel reliever Brendan Donnelly using pinetar in his glove while pitching. Donnelly was tossed because of Frank's sharp eye, and a fight broke out because of it. Angel manager Mike Scoscia and Frank Robinson got into an argument, and players ran onto the field to defend their skippers. A sign that times have changed for Washington is what Jose Guillen did during the fight. Jose got so worked up during the fight that teammates and coaches had to restrain him. Later in the game, Jose hit a two-run homer that tied the game. Jose's passion for winning is a trademark of Frank Robinson's managerial greatness, and also a sign that the Senators are in first place.

I'm glad to see Jim Bowden's getting another chance to be a general manager. In Cincinnatti, he was put in a tough position, having to cut payroll and trade away great players like Aaron Boone in order to make the owner happy. Now, under the supervision of Major League Baseball, Bowden has made the team he wants to make. And Frank Robinson is the guy that can take this team and make it win. Frank has brought the same even-handed temper that made him a great disciplinarian for Major League Baseball, and is bring that discipline to Washington. Look at how that embarrassing Tomo Ohka situation turned out - a starting pitcher showed up his manager because he was struggling on the mound, and Frank wasn't going to have any of that. As a result, Bowden makes a great trade to get Junior Spivey from the Brewers, a great team player that can hit the ball well and play second while Jose Vidro recouperates from his injury. Folks that say Frank is abrasive to foreign players or rookies just don't understand baseball. Managers have to be tough in order to win, and if players can't handle a manager's toughness, then they need to leave. That's why Tomo Ohka is in Milwaukee.

Robinson and General Manger Jim Bowden have put together a great squad filled with veteran leadership and gutsy players like Vinny Castilla and Christian Guzman. Even though Guzman's having a tough time at the plate, he's helping his team with with his great defense and his veteran leadership. Jim Bowden knew Guzman would bring these things from Minnesota with him to Washington. That's why he signed Guzman, and Vinny Castilla, too. Bowden made a comment earlier this week, talking about how he doesn't concern himself with stats too much when deciding what players he wants on his team. He just wants guys that put wins on the board, which I think is the best way to make a great baseball team. If you put together a team full of winners, you're going to win. You don't need to know what stats are to know that makes sense.

MONEYBALL IS CHEAP

Meanwhile, there's the Oakland A's. For three or four years, Billy Beane's A's played over their head, making it into the playoffs only to lose to better teams. Players like Jason Giambi, Johnny Damon, Keith Foulke, and Miguel Tejada carried those teams on their backs, only to leave town because Billy Beane wasn't willing to pay these players what they're worth. In Oakland, it seems that Billy's ego means more than fielding a World Series-caliber team, and this year is the best example of that. Prior to the season starting, Billy Beane traded away his two best starters, Tim Hudson and Mark Mulder. It's one thing to let players walk away, but to actually get rid of great players on purpose makes no sense at all. The Oakland A's success was a result of their pitching - Hudson, Mulder, and new ace Barry Zito were Cy Young caliber pitchers, keeping a low-scoring A's team in all those walk-filled games. Now, though, Billy Beane wants to prove to the world that Moneyball can work, and you don't need good pitchers to win. That just doesn't make any sense.

This sort of behavior is why I won't bother reading his book. When a coach or a manager puts himself before his players, that team is going to fail, and you can see what's happening to the A's this year. Eric Chavez and Jason Kendall are both struggling. Young pitchers like Danny Haren and Joe Blanton are failing to get major league hitters out. They can't hit, they can't pitch, and they can't field. All they do is walk, and that's only going to upset fans and lose you ballgames. Players like Giambi and Tejada knew there was more to baseball than just getting on base. That's why they hit so many homeruns. But, now, with young players like Bobby Crosby and Nick Swisher buying into the Moneyball brainwashing, the Oakland A's can barely string two hits together. Even if they still had Tim Hudson and Mark Mulder, the A's would be struggling to score runs and win ballgames. The fact that the A's, along with other Moneyball teams like Toronto and the Dodgers and Boston, are struggling means that baseball has had enough of Moneyball, and it's time to let real teams like the Washington Senators have a chance at the playoffs.

Buy The Book: Forecast

2005-06-15T10:12:00.000-04:00

Sometimes, John Kruk says something that makes folks wonder how he can walk upright and speak in semi-coherent sentences. That's when we go ... BUY THE BOOK! Here's today's word:

fore·cast (fôr'kăst', fōr'-)

v., -cast or -cast·ed, -cast·ing, -casts.

DEFINITION:
v.tr.
1) To estimate or calculate in advance, especially to predict (weather conditions) by analysis of meteorological data.
2) To serve as an advance indication of; foreshadow: price increases that forecast inflation.

v.intr.
1) To calculate or estimate something in advance; predict the future.

n.
1) A prediction, as of coming events or conditions.

INVESTOPEDIA:
Forecasting - The process of analyzing current and historical data to determine future trends.

Stock analysts use various forecasting methods to determine future stock price movements, earnings, etc. Economists use forecasting techniques in order to determine future economic trends.

SEE ALSO: Barometer, Econometrics, Indicator, Technical Analysis

HOPE YOU BROUGHT AN UMBRELLA:
"[...] E$PN.com lists two areas that John Kruk feels that contending teams can improve on, [including] Atlanta's outfield [...] To drive this point home he presents the following table.

2004:
AVG: .282
HR: 88
RBI: 285

2005:
AVG: .230
HR: 28
RBI: 97

"Wow, one would say, Atlanta's outfield is three times worse this year than it was last year. The people who enjoy John Kruk's writing stop there, and absorb this sagely wisdom. The smart person says 'wait a second, Andruw Jones already has 16 home runs, so that can't be the projected numbers for the entire season. Kruk can't be that stupid though, maybe that was last year's outfield at this point in the season. No, that wouldn't make sense either, since it means that the outfielders would average 80 home runs a piece. This means John Kruk just compared stats a third of the way through the season against stats compiled in an entire year.'

"At this point, my brain explodes, leaving a horrible mess for me to clean up in the morning." (Andrew, DePodesta For President)

Bagman Begins.

2005-06-13T20:43:00.000-04:00

He probably carried his own bags.

That's the kind of guy a guy like Alex Sanchez is: a bag-carrier. A bagman.

Bagged.

Alex Sanchez was bagged the other day by the lousiest team in the east, the Tampa Bay Devil Worshippers--er, um, I mean Devil Rays. I guess. Because, honestly, if they were prancing around a graven image with cloven hooves down in St. Pete I wouldn't be half surprised.

After all, they worshipped Alex Sanchez, didn't they?

Sanchez, the bagman who was dropped by no less a baseball dynasty than the mighty Detroit Tigers, ended up in Tropicana Field after testing positive for...gee, can you guess?

Was it: a) sportsmanship; b) intelligence; c) baseball played the right way; or d) steroids?

Gee, what do you cogitate?

Yep, it doesn't take Kreskin or Einstein to guess the answer to that one. Strike one.

So what do these Beelzebub Rays do? Snap him up faster and nastier than Valerie Buttinelli snaps up a twenty-dollar bill in the champagne room.

Strike two. Can you smell the brimstone?

Now, to prove that sometimes evil is not punished quickly enough, the Tampa Bay Scumsucking Pigs got a lot of drug-addled production out of Alex the Bagman Sanchez. He was at .346, hitting the heck out of the ball. Knocking it around like Iceberg Slim in a back alley. Slapping it like a schoolboy with a lock on his door. Smoking it like a marijuana doob, which he probably did a lot of before sliding down the hallway to the hard stuff.

There's a reason they call it a gateway drug. The gate has a sign over it. The sign reads "Abandon All Hope, Ye Who Enter Here."

Sanchez gave the good hardworking ticketpaying folk of Florida a lot of hope. But the Rays are in the (fish)tank now, their hardworking right-way-guy manager Sweet Lou Piniella gone nutty from the heat and the strain of trying to play ball with a hardcore drug addict like Alex Bagmanchez, or whatever he's calling himself now.

When a good guy like Piniella, one of the game's true treasures, loses his cool...well, let's just say the Bagman has a lot to answer for.

But he won't be answering anyone anytime soon. He got his walking papers. The pink slip. The boot in the butt. The cleat in the seat. The shoe in the shinola. The Devil Rays -- shouldn't we call them the Angel Rays, now? -- finally wised up and told Sanbag not to let the teal and pink door hit him in his chemically-enhanced gluteus maximus on the way out.

You see, sometimes, it doesn't matter that a guy is hitting .346. Sometimes, a fella's worth is calculated just a little bit differently. Not with numbers...but with a little thing called baseball smarts.

So the Bagman had to pack his bag once more. Don't shed any tears for him; he's done it before, plenty of times. That's why they call him the Bagman, isn't it?

Personally, he makes me sick to my g_d d_mn stomach. But that's just my opinion. And who am I?

Just a man. But not a bagman. I'll leave that job to the Bagman.

Skip Bayless is a columnist for E$PN and a frequent correspondent on the hit E$PN2 morning show "Cold Pizza." He is well-known for his tough stances about Mike Tyson being not such a nice guy and for Mark McGwire not being such a great hero after all. He has also written restaurant reviews for the Dallas Morning News, and if you think that's an easy gig then he's got news for you, bub: it's not.

Where Is The Love For ... PEOPLE SHUTTING THEIR YANKEE DOODLE PIEHOLES?

2005-06-13T13:08:00.000-04:00

Hello again, blog readers! Sorry for the lack of posting of late. Understandably, I've been a bit upset, both with my plate slumping, and with certain managers conflating my parched spell with an overall decline in usefulness. There was one game featuring a substandard right-handed pitcher where I should have started - no brain needed for that move, Mr. Tracy! - and yet a lineup was constructed to prevent me from seeing any plate time. Jeff Kent at first base, Olmaedo Saenz at third, and someone else (perhaps the gamey, and gamine, Oscar Robles) at second base. Such a lineup only makes sense if you are trying to display some sort of managerial madness that you hope is interpreted as genius. Of course, madness as genius only works if you are in fact a genius. But I digress.

Those ducks are under the bridge after this weekend's bounty. In case you missed it (like E$PN almost did), I hit 6 homeruns this weekend, including 3 last night. Granted, I would like to credit my success to a newfound hitting trick, but a lot of it had something to do with the pitchers I faced. For one, there was no Johan Santana, which was good for everyone involved. For another, the pitchers I faced are known for being strike-throwers that don't throw all that hard. For another, I hit one homerun off of Terry Mullholland, pitching in the 9th inning of a tied game. I am not sure why Terry Mullholland was in the game, except to face me, but Mr. Jim Tracy realized it was Terry Mullholland, and leftie-leftie matchup snafus aside, let me hit. And I did what you are supposed to do against Terry Mullholland - go long!

So, yes, I am happy, but please, fantasy owners, be wary in regards to future production from me. I don't know if Mr. Jim Tracy will start to hate the way my jib is cut again, and I could be another 0-for-two-games away from pine riding with the skip. Hope is springy, though, so do not do too much fretwork! I will do my best to garner you the right to brag!

Speaking of fretwork, though, there seems to be a large buzzing bonnet surrounding the performance of the New York Yankees this year. The punditry at large waxes and wanes on this team's slightest whim. A slow start, and people immediately disown them like bad stock. A hot streak against substandard opponents, and people praise their resurrection from the ashes of mediocrity. Granted, New York is a big to-do in America, if not worldwide, so what happens there happens everywhere. But, at the same time, would it not be prudent to take what is happening there with some salt and perspective? And would it not be prudent for the players to also partake of this salt? For example, here is a brief portion of a Newsday article regarding disgruntled happenstances (courtesy of Baseball Think Factory):

[Tony] Womack is not believed to be particularly happy with his role on the Yankees - he was signed to be their second baseman but was moved to left field in early May when Robinson Cano was called up from the minors - and there have been rumblings he could be traded for a more prototypical outfielder. There aren't any current plans to return Womack to the infield and he is one of the Yanks' few tradeable commodities.

Before Friday's game, Womack, who played with the Cards last season, was asked by a St. Louis reporter if he considered himself an outfielder now. Womack bristled slightly at the question, before saying, "No. I'm a second baseman. I just play outfield."

What Tony Womack does, which he does not seem to realize, is he plays awfully. He currently has a 566 OPS, which is the worst OPS for any Yankee with over 100 at-bats to their credit. He also has the worst OPS of any second baseman in baseball. No doubt he also has the worst OPS of any left-fielder in baseball, as left-fielders are traditionally better hitters than second baseman. Indeed, the only left-fielder in the major leagues close to Womack's awful OPS is the light-hitting, hard-hustling, vaguely-skilled Scott Podsednik. At 689. Which is an awful OPS. And still outshines Womack's performance by approximately 1/4th of Womack's total OPS.

Womack's performance is not unexpected - after all, when you sign a 36-year-old hitter with a tradition of low power numbers and poor patience, you should expect this to happen. But, no - as with most people, Womack's career trends were disregarded in light of his out-of-character over-achievements last year for the National League Champion Cardinals, and people wrongfully assumed that the corner Womack had turned was in fact long-lasting and permanent.

There is a sweet and bitter irony with regards to the turn that Womack has taken these past two years. Prior to last year's baseball campaign, Womack was a non-roster invitee to Spring Training by the Boston Red Sox. He was then traded to the Cardinals for some players, and then proceeded to have the best year of his career. Given his performance (and, no doubt, his notoriety on a World Series team), George Steinbrenner desired to have him bring such spirit to the soulless bowels of New York. And propmtly paid Womack $2 million for the privilege of killing rallies and booting baseballs in striped Yankee pride. And will pay Womack another $2 million to do the same for New York, or some other city, next year. No doubt this set of events gives the Red Sox spirits some satisfaction, though the negative karma garnered by trading Babe Ruth for some money can never be properly expunged.

The follies of this past post-season have been well-traveled by those actually willing to obey the rules of common sense. Instead of typing more than I need, I will simply quote YES Network's Steven Goldman on his Pinstriped Blog regarding these tribulations:

Kids, there's hardly any point in breaking this down. We've been through it all before. Last winter the Yankees brain trust dealt Joe Torre a weak hand of Tony Womack, Jaret Wright, and Carl Pavano instead of Carlos Beltran, Matt Clement, and Jon Lieber. Womack can't hit, Wright failed his physical and they signed him anyway, Pavano was a pitcher with no track record and a middling strikeout rate, they miscalculated the market for Lieber, and Beltran…Beltran will remain a mystery for the ages. I don't expect you to get very excited about this "analysis." After all, it has been true for about six months.

What is most troubling, in regards to these mistakes, is the Yankees' inability - or George Steinbrenner's inability, most likely - to realize the folly of his ways. Much in the same way a bully uses his size and sneer to winnow his way out of situations, Steinbrenner tosses his money clip at perceived problems. It is a sizable money clip, no doubt. At the same time, money is the root of evil, not the root of solutions. And much like how a bully is often disguising his own fears and cowardice with loud hollow bluster and bombast, Steinbrenner's overweight bankroll disguises the true cause of the Yankees' distress.

It is common knowledge that the heart of the Yankees' recent (and fading) spate of World Series success was borne on the back of the team's minor league system - players like Jeter and Williams and Posada and Rivera, and even players like Eric Milton and Christian Guzman, minor league bait used to snare productive players from other teams like Chuck Knoblauch. (Let us not think on how Milton and Guzman are doing right now, though.) The development of these players, coupled with savvy free-agent signings, made the Yankees a model team that baseball could at once both admire and envy.

Of course, such success also bred their recent failure - the spoils of winning spoiled the team, and made them believe that winning was their birthright, and not the product of toil and shrewd intelligence. As a result, Steinbrenner began to covet veteran presences, players that have won before, or players that faked their winning knowledge. He mortgaged his team's future for the services of hard-knocked players whose best years are long gone. Worse, his desire to grab marquee real estate clouded his judgement with regards to free-agent signings. No greater example of this folly is there than with the beleagured Jason Giambi.

Coming off a series of unparalleled MVP-esque years in Oakland, the Yankees inked this dominant first baseman to a long-term contract totally $120 million, approximately 3 times the Oakland A's payroll. At first, the contract paid huge dividends - while the Yankees failed to sieze World Series glory, Giambi was a fantastic performer, and also, thanks to his New York ties, became the beneficiary of multiple endorsement deals. And, of course, everyone knows the sadness that soon followed. Even without the spectre of steroids looming over his slumped shoulders, the Giambi signing was a questionable allocation of resources.

One need look no further than the Boston Red Sox to see how they sharply solved their first baseman quandries. While the Yankees were waiting for the ink to dry on checks related to that three-figured contract, the Red Sox quietly acquired the services of former Florida Marlin (and soon-to-be expatriate) Kevin Millar for a paltry sum. Millar was a solid performer during the time he was out in the field, yet the Marlins were ready to let him go to Japan without so much as a warning regarding the deadly fugu. The Red Sox siezed on this opportunity, and brought in a player that (this year notwithstanding) has proven to be a patient and powerful hitter.

That same year, the Red Sox brought in another cast-away player, a large stocky DH type that was painted as a platoon-only sort of player. Despite those caveats, what he produced when sent out against his opposing-sided throwers was exemplary, and so the Red Sox inked him to a contract as well. Fortuitous injuries, coupled with exemplary performance, merited this player a full-time job. And since then, Big Papi David Ortiz has become a feared major league hitter, and a beloved emissary of Red Sox Nation. Both the salaries of Ortiz and Millar combined fail to reach what Giambi earned, yet the Red Sox's return on the former has far exceeded the Yankees' return on the latter.

And this is what baseball is about - leveraging resources and know-how to acquire and develop players that are better than other players. (And then hoping that these players do not get hurt.) This was the true curse of the Red Sox - karma is secondary when your team fails to make personnel decisions that sound good to any non-tin ear. The early-90s trio of free-agent Boston Massacre that was Danny Darwin, Matt Young, and Jack Clark immediately springs to mind like so much vomit, as do recent Yankee maneuvers.

Now, with their sown rows reaped, the Yankees are forced to suck on bitter overpriced jalopy-colored lemons, while their less-expensive baseball brothers cavort and croon like beer-soaked fraternities. Revel in this misfortune for only a moment, readers, before turning your eye to your own team of choice and making sure they are not drowning in the same shallow waters. As for those people (pub pundits and published poltroons alike) that still believe the Yankees are only one move away from putting the rest of the league on checkmate - stupid is as stupid thinks, and if you think that, you are indeed stupid.

The Diary of Clint Barmes

2005-06-12T18:59:00.000-04:00

Editor's Note: Colorado Rockies rookie Clint Barmes has been keeping a regular diary throughout his standout 2005 season. Among MLB rookies, the 26-year-old shortstop from Indiana State ranks near the top of the leaderboard in almost every major offensive category. In this Yard Work exclusive, we are pleased to bring you excerpts from the diary of this budding superstar.

April 16. I had a great game last night, going 4-5 with two homers, but we still got blown out by San Francisco, 13-6. I thought I did my part, but I guess it wasn't enough. But after the game, Preston Wilson came up to my locker and said "hey rookie, why are you making the rest of us look bad? You're supposed to stop trying when we're down by ten runs, squirt". I apologized, really I did, and he said I could make it up to him by helping him move the next day.

They made me do a lot of work. At one point, I was walking from room to room carrying a huge oak cabinet strapped to my back. We'd get to one room, Preston and his wife would argue over where to put the cabinet and I'd have to stand there holding it while they had their discussion. Then we'd walk to the next room and the same thing would happen. After 25 minutes of carrying this 200 lb cabinet (including twice up and down two flights of stairs), I tripped over their dog and fell flat on my face. Preston's wife started screaming but fortunately the cabinet didn't get a scratch because it landed on me and I braced its fall. I got a little smushed but I was OK. Preston bought me a slice of pizza at the ballpark to thank me for the help. It had pepperoni on it and was pretty good. But all this work is worth it in order to earn the respect of the veterans on our club.

April 29. I'm hitting .430 after another two-hit game, but we lost again, this time against LA in Dodger Stadium. After the game, a few of us decided to head out for dinner. Well wouldn't you know it, our rental car broke down on the drive there. I told the guys to take a cab the rest of the way while I took care of the car. The vets always make the rookies park the car anyhow, so I figured I might as well volunteer. I put the car in neutral and started pushing. The restaurant was sixteen blocks away -- it's a good thing the weather is so nice in LA! Then, about halfway there, the car got rear-ended. Lucky for me, I'd just gone to turn on the hazard lights (I'd forgotten to put them on all that time -- oops!) only a few seconds before the car was hit. The rear bumper was knocked off completely so it's a good thing I wasn't back there pushing the car at that moment or else I could have bruised a knee or something. Well, by the time I got to the restaurant more than two hours later, the vets had already left without me. That's OK, I wouldn't have wanted them to wait and ruin their dinner on account of me. But I was hungry by that point, so I hailed a cab back to the hotel and had a bowl of Frosted Mini Wheats in my room while watching a late-night rerun of "Fear Factor". Yum!

May 26. I got three more hits last night, but we lost 8-6 to St. Louis. I really wanted to go home and relax, but I'd already promised [General Manager Dan] Mr. O'Dowd that I would bring the new photocopier up to his office in Coors Field. It didn't have any wheels and the service elevator was broken so I had to carry it up the stairs. Then I had to meet a delivery man in the parking lot and bring Keith's [Dugger, Rockies head trainer] new massage table into the trainer's room. It was over ten feet long so balancing it on my shoulder was really hard, and getting it through the doors was even tougher.

This morning I had to wake up early and drive into the city to pick up the vintage 50's pinball machine for our clubhouse. It's a gift from the rookies to the vets. In return, they promised to stop putting yogurt and week-old mashed potatoes in our gym bags after each ballgame. The pinball machine was really big so I had to strap it to the roof of my car using bungie cords. I got into the car and was about to turn on the ignition when suddenly, the roof caved in! A shard of metal scraped my ear and I had to get a band-aid for it, but otherwise I was OK. Good thing I wasn't in the passenger seat -- I would have been flattened because the pinball machine tumbled into that side of the car! I'll need to replace my car but the worst part was that some of the paint got chipped on the under side of the pinball machine. The vets were none too happy about that so they said they'd stop with the yogurt, but would continue to use the mashed potatoes. Now the vets AND the rookies are angry with me. Jeepers! Fortunately, Todd Helton said he'd forgive me if I went hunting with him next week. He likes to hunt deer but he needs somebody to carry the dead deer back to his house afterward. He said if I behaved myself then we could ride ATV's after he finishes hunting. Golly, life in the big leagues can be so unpredictable sometimes!

Dare I Say ... En Fuego!

2005-06-10T15:56:00.000-04:00

By Bob Klapisch
E$PN.com

Talk of lighting a fire under a struggling Yankees squad turned tragic early Friday morning when the corpse of an unidentified man was found aflame in a Yankee Stadium parking lot. While details about this incident are still being uncovered - ABC7 reports the man is of Hispanic origin, while NY1 News reports that the victim suffered severe blunt force trauma to the head and may have also been a gunshot victim - and no suspects have been uncovered by police, stragglers at the scene are quick to suggest that the victim's proximity to the Yankee's baseball home is no coincidence.

"Lemme put it this way," says an anonymous bystander. "Yankees get swept by KC, win only one against Minnesota - in extra innings, I might add - and then lose two to the Brewers. The Brewers? You heard what Reg said about the Brewers, right? And that Bob Sheets guy? So, yeah, Yankees are stinkin' up the joint. And then, Wednesday night, they score 12 runs. And we find the body early Friday morning. You tell me what the math says, OK?" The bystander intimates that this corpse might be the result of a religious ceremony gone awry. "You know that flick Major League? Eff you, Jobu and all that? Look at all the [expletive deleted] the Yanks got - A-Fraud, Sanchez, Sierra, Posada, even Bernie. You gotta think that one of those guys was trying some satanic Santeria bull to right the ship, right? And you know what they say about people and chickens, right? Badaboom badabing."

Another bystander, who also preferred to remain anonymous, had his own theories. "Well, at first, I thought the guy was [infielder] Andy Phillips or [outfielder] Bubba Crosby - you know, because you never see 'em in the game. I mean, Crosby was on the team earlier this year, right? What happened to him? Where'd he go? Why the hell is Womack getting play in LF? And Phillips - he has some pop. But, no, you gotta play the guy with the contract. You know, I gotta tell ya, when I heard the sirens, and someone told me what happened, I was kinda hoping it was the Giambino [first baseman Jason Giambi] making like a burnt Brat, y'know?" The bystander noted remnants of a Black Cat firework near the body. "And all of a sudden BOOM, it hit me. Vince Coleman. You remember when he was a Met, and he was chucking cherry bombs at 5 year olds and s--t? Maybe he's upping the ante? Y'know, looking for a little attention, maybe a job. You know - PAY VINCE!" Vince Coleman was unavailable for comment.

As Yankee employees came into work this morning amidst swaths of yellow tape and flashing lights, a rumor spread that the victim was actually a hitman contracted by Yankee owner George Steinbrenner to assassinate Yankee General Manager Brian Cashman. Late Thursday evening, Cashman was reported as saying that the Yankees' problems this season might stem from over-estimating the team's talent heading into the season. "The answers have to be here," Cashman said in a article by New York Daily News columnist John Harper, "because I'm not sure how much we can do on the outside. We made our bed. This is not a flexible roster. It doesn't mean I'm not going to look to do as much as I possibly can. But I'm being honest. Our options are very limited."

During the offseason, the Yankees signed free agent pitchers Jaret Wright and Carl Pavano to multi-million dollar, multi-year contracts, as well as trading for veteran pitcher Randy Johnson. Johnson also received a multi-million dollar contract extension. While many baseball pundits thought such moves would ensure the Yankees yet another trip to the post-season, the team finds themselves in 4th place in the American League East, with 29 wins and 30 losses. This is the latest in a season a Yankee team have been under .500 since Joe Torre took over as manager.

In most cases, Cashman would bear the brunt of this failure, as the General Manager is primarily responsible for making personnel decisions. However, it is common knowledge that Steinbrenner exercises an enormous amount of influence on his team's roster. Earlier this week, Steinbrenner order Cashman to join the team on their road trip, a sign that the Yankees owner is once again losing his patience with this year's Yankee squad. According to NorthJersey.com Staff Writer Randy Lange, Cashman had this to say before Wednesday night's Yankee victory: "George, like all of us, is looking for reasons why. We have underperformed, no question."

According to an anonymous source within the Yankee organization, Steinbrenner found his reason for the team's underperformance. "For a couple of weeks, prior to the recent roadtrip, I found myself … I mean, I heard that Mr. Cashman was being tailed by a couple of strange looking guys. And these guys would always loiter around the stadium after games, like they were waiting for someone or something. And I heard they were asking folks questions about me … I mean, Mr. Cashman. And then George calls me … Mr. Cashman out to Milwaukee. Maybe it was a ploy to sabotage something of Mr. Cashman's while he was away. I mean, mine. I mean, Cashman's.

"Maybe this was a message that George shouldn't try to get kids to do a man's job. Maybe Mr. Cashman was telling George to back up his idle threats with some actual action instead of sending some overpaid errand boys to try and take me out. He thinks he's so tough, but he ain't jack, lemme tell you. I know my way around a Luger, George. You wanna run with the bulls, you better watch out for my tail, George." Calls to Mr. Steinbrenner's office regarding this anonymous account or his supposed toughness were not returned.

When approached for comment by the Boston Globe, Red Sox Clubhouse Manager Joe Cochran had this to say: "Sometimes, it's hard to hang in there against the high heat. And even if you stick it out and stand your ground, you're gonna get burned. But, still, when the chips are down and you get the chance, you gotta take a shot."

Bob Klapisch is a sports columnist for The Bergen Record (N.J.) and a regular contributor to E$PN.com. His book, "The Worst Team Money Can Buy: The Collapse of the New York Mets" (co-written by John Harper), has recently been released in paperback by Bison Books.

My Brother Is Stupid--and That Does NOT Mean Stoopid Fresh.

2005-06-10T10:30:00.000-04:00

When I read my big brother Nick's guest column in our former hometown newspaper, my first feeling was pride in his accomplishment. Hey, we might scrap a bit, but we're still siblings, and it truly changed my life when he invited me to be the final member of our groundbreaking vocal quartet 98 Degrees. (DON'T call us a boy band! We perform for fans aged four through fifty-four, and we sing all our own songs!)

But my feeling of pride soon turned to disgust when I realized that he was on again about Danny Graves. Believe me, this is NOT a new obsession. He's always hoisting this one up the flagpole; I keep expecting him to come into sessions for our next album Together-o with a song called "Danny Graves" or "The Closer They Threw Aside" or something. It's been this way for years, since before he met J-Simp or was on a TV "reality" show or anything. I swear, sometimes I think Nick is completely non-traditionally sexual about Danny Graves.

Not that there's anything wrong with being non-traditionally sexual -- hell, I was in "Rent," I know the score about that business. But still.

Listen, Nick and everyone: Danny Graves just is not a very good pitcher. He was okay last year if you're into fantasy baseball (and I think it's clear that my brother is playing some kind of fantasy baseball of his own, if you know what I mean), but this year, or 2003, or any other time in his career: uh, NO.

It sucks that Reds fans booed him and all, but you have to kind of admit that he deserved it a little. If I freaked out about a couple boo-birds at a Niner-Eight D concert and whined that no one should boo even if we sucked, then I would expect a veritable cascade of raspberries the next time we busted out with "Yesterday's Letter" or "Dizzy." But that would be stupid of me. Plus, no one ever boos when the Niner-Eight D is out there, doing our thing! Just a lot of cheers, applause, funky dancing from fans aged four to fifty-four, and a whole lot of lovely ladies. (Three words for you, courtesy of my man the late Bill Hicks: cotton candy, papercuts. Word.)

And I'm sorry, but flipping the bird to a fan is never cool. I'm an entertainer, okay, and I know this -- so should Danny Graves. So what if the guy dissed D-Grav's Asian racial heritage? Dude, people call me "white boy" all the time! I just shrug it off, say "guilty as charged," then take off my shirt to reveal my hairless chest. Aw yeah.

What the Reds SHOULD be concerned about is Ryan Wagner, who seems not to be ready to assume the mantle of closer yet. That game in Colorado where he gave up six earned runs in two-thirds of an inning was straight-up ass. The velocity is there, his ratios are still good, but he just doesn't carry himself like a closer. I'm guessing someone needs to do a CCFHI (Closer Creative Facial Hair Intervention), like, stat. Where's Carson Kressley when you need him? Because otherwise we're stuck with lame-oid Dave Weathers, who is approximately old as Reverend Joe Simpson's leathery nutsack, you should excuse the expression.

As for the stuff about Bob Huggins: who gives a crap? Cincy ain't been the same since Kenyon Martin broke his leg. Screw that, I'm all about UCLA now. Well, if by "all about UCLA" means "hip deep in UCLA cheerleaders who used to be high school girls listening to 98 Degrees records". And it does.

So, yeah, my brother's an idiot. Plus, he should remember that you can't spell CKY without KY, if you catch my driftwood. Screw Danny Graves, give R-Wags a Fu Manchu, and slide me a couple of those Vicodin and a Red Bull.

Drew Lachey is a member of the vocal group 98 Degrees, as well as an acclaimed stage actor. This article originally appeared in the Cincinnati Super Shopper Weekend Coupon Extravaganza newspaper. Reprinted with permission.

Bleep Bleep - June 9th

2005-06-09T15:12:00.000-04:00

And now, a special edition of BLEEP BLEEP. Or, as I like to call it - Interleague: What The F*ck?

Does anyone give a sh*t about this housewife crap anymore? Does anyone actually think this AL/NL crossover garbage is BASEBALL? What the f*ck? Yeah, Bud, screw up the season for 12 games so a few NL teams get to host the Yankees and Red Sox, and Real Fans get to see such great deathless match-ups like KC / San Fran and Tampa Bay / Cincinnati. TAMPA BAY and CINCINNATI - who the hell would actually pay to see that sh*t? Schottzie taking a whizz on Adam Dunn's cleats would be more fun to watch that this crap. MARGE SCHOTT taking a whizz would be more fun. Two words for this series: HOT F*CKING CARL. (Look it up.) I can already tell you what's gonna happen in a D-Ray / Red game. Watch this, and tell me if this sounds f*cking familiar:

1) Tampa Bay scores lots of runs because Cincy's pitching f*cking sucks.
2) Cincinnati scores lots of runs because Tampa Bay's pitching f*cking sucks.
3) Alex Sanchez drops 10 fly balls and acts like it's the ball's fault for not landing in his f*cking glove.
4) Griffey gets hurt spitting f*cking sunflower seeds.
5) Sweet Lou gets ejected in the 2nd because he's sick of watching Carl Crawford hit warning-track flies.
6) Ten fans commit hara-kiri after it takes THREE F*CKING HOURS to finish the 4th inning.
7) Alex Gonzalez drops his colostomy bag while running to first on a pop-up to the pitcher.
8) Griffey, Randa, Dunn, Casey, Kearns, Pena, your mom, my mom, and f*cking Estelle Getty strike out 2783 times.
9) I hit the Mad Dog while Ravvy and Har-Rey stumble through the BBTN highlights like ESL halfwits.

But, of course, some moron is gonna wipe the drool off his keyboard and say something like, "Durrrrrr, interleague be fun for fans that don't see baseball too much! Red Sox and Cubs play for first time this weekend! Yankees play St. Louis! White Sox and San Diego be good series! Meesa eat my own poop for fiber! Durrrrrrrrrrrrrrr." What the f*ck ever, Inspector Clouseau. Ooooh, Cubs and Red Sox, just what everyone wants to see! Two piece of sh*t franchises facing each other so they can keep all their sh*t in one bowl! Fantastic! Never mind that these two piles should've played each other in 2003 - way to be, Dusty. Hey, I think Prior can still wipe his *ss unassisted - send him out there for another 250, how about it? Oh, wait - Kerry Wood is dressing himself? Can't have that - Kerry, go pitch to Little Leaguers until your shoulder feels like my *ss after running to the border, OK? And, hey, Zambrano - save your meat-beating for the mound, son. I'm Dusty Baker, and I don't know how to manage a pitching staff, so you have to throw until I tell you to stop f*cking throwing, and if you don't like it, you can go pound f*cking sand with Swinging Sammy Steroid over in the land of f*cking crabcakes and crack whores for all I care, you tubby bastard.

It's just so f*cking stupid, and it's REAL stupid to have these stupid exhibition games count for any damn thing, especially when some team you play once screws up your team for the rest of the season. Like that manly man Darin Erstad keelhauling Johnny Estrada. What kind of f*cked up redneck macho bullsh*t was that? Oh, yeah, it takes a real man to f*cking barrel into a player that's STANDING STILL. No wonder you were a f*cking PUNTER, Erstad. "Oooh, I played football in college!" Yeah, and Teamsters Local 282 banged your mom last night after a keg of Beast and a bunch of Jaegerbombs - you don't hear them bragging about that. You'd probably take pride in working a doorknob, wouldn't you, Jethro? Save your ball-scratching macho horsesh*t for your pansy-ass ABs, you overrated overpaid scruffy no-hit b*tchtit. F*ck retaliating when he gets up to the plate - if I were a Brave, I'd f*cking retaliate by going into the clubhouse after that f*cking stunt and introducing Deliverance Boy's out door to the working end of my cleats. Hope you like sh*tting through a tube, Mr. Ed!

And, seriously, f*ck the Yankees and the Red Sox. OH IT'S THE GREATEST RIVALRY IN BASEBALL! Of course it is! BECAUSE THAT'S ALL ANYONE EVER F*CKING TALKS ABOUT. It's all blah blah George blah blah Babe Ruth blah blah Evil Empire blah blah Scott Cooper. Shut the f*ck up. You think f*cking Florida cares about this? Here's some math:

Number of World Series rings Red Sox have since 1919: ONE
Number of World Series rings Marlins have since 1919: TWO

Guess what, brah? TWO IS GREATER THAN ONE. But nooooooo it's all CURSE CURSE CURSE. F*ck that. I hear some no-nothing E$PN swiffer open their pukehole to say any g*ddamn thing about the CURSE anymore, that hole's going to be filled with my F*CKING FURY. As for the Yankees - well, they're getting what they deserve. You go so far up your ass you're eating your lunch twice, you deserve to f*cking suck rocks. The only team the Brewers beat is their own damn self, and then whup up on those 26 rings TWICE. TWICE. Hey, George - Nolan Ryan's still kicking around. He's only 65 - that's younger than Ruben Sierra or Tony Womack! Just get him some beer, a few buckets of chaw, and he'll probably suck twice as well as Jaret F*cking Wright for one-tenth the price. Hey, Boss - you know that commercial you do where your wrist is hurt and you can't sign checks? Did your wrist get hurt because Cashman stopped spanking your cocktail weenie for you Georgie Boy? Chr*st. I've seen more brains in my General Tso's Chicken than in f*cking Yankee Stadium.

So, yeah, to hell w/ interleague. Who gives a f*ck about SUV-drivin', cube-sitting, know-nothing f*ckwits that can't tell home plate from Hometown Buffet? You pander to the sh*theads of the world, and you get a lot of sh*t, right? Fox Sports already f*cked this game up enough - no need for the game to join in on the f*ckfest. Just stop this showoff crap, and save the AL/NL matchups for the PLAYOFFS where they f*cking belong. F*ck this stupid game. Bunch of dumb*ss math nerds, jizzmopp*rs, and greasy back-biting politicians. Running around the field like it's f*cking Romper Room and they're all f*cking Weebles. Chr*st, it's enough to make me wanna hang out with Kruk. Someone get me a bottle of KY and a copy of Cocoon. This is LB, telling you to go f*ck a tree. See you at Electric Blue, Poindexter.

Where Is The Love For... Scott Erickson?

2005-06-09T01:17:00.000-04:00

We here in the Dodgers front office hear what you're saying, fans. Scott Erickson has got to go. Scott Erickson is the worst pitcher in the major leagues.

What the meatheads and frat boys aren't telling you is that Scott Erickson is a proven winner. This is a man, let's not forget, who propelled his Minnesota Twins to World Series glory just 14 years ago.

Are you telling me, Dodger fans, that you don't want the same Scott Erickson on your team who outdueled the mighty Randy Johnson on April 26? Neither Ken Griffey Jr. nor Ken Griffey Sr. could manage much in the way of success against the devastating Erickson sinker that fateful day in the Metrodome. Scott Erickson's power simply spans generations.

On May 1, Scott Erickson shut down the Boston Red Sox - the very same Boston Red Sox who, of course, eventually went on to win the World Series themselves. Not even Hall of Famer Wade Boggs could manage a hit that day against the rubber arm of young Erickson.

Bill Gullickson. Roy Smith. Andy Johnson. Bobby Witt. Dave Stewart. They were all mowed down by the impressive force of the plucky Erickson. Even Charles Nagy - arguably the greatest major leaguer ever from the storied University of Connecticut baseball program - could manage only a pathetic piffle when his Indians crumpled against the Twins one sultry June night that fateful year.

We've known about Scott Erickson for a very long time, Dodger fans. And we know what he brings to a team. Proven experience. Championship poise. You may have heard some baseball experts call these "intangibles."

We're on the Internet, too, and don't think that we don't take your opinions into consideration. "He pitches like a beer league softball player," you say. "He looks like Jamie Moyer at 24 fps," you scornfully cluck.

The fact is, when major league hitters step into the box, they expect to see the ball coming at them at lightning speed. When it's slow, their little brains hesitate, and they fail to register the ball's movement at all. Most of these hitters barely graduated high school, let alone cum laude from Harvard like me, Paul DePodesta '95. Like the great Kodiak grizzly, a top major league hitter like Albert Pujols simply cannot react when his prey - in this case, the deceptively slow fastball of Scott Erickson - is before him, unmoving. Albert Pujols went to a junior college in Missouri, people. I shouldn't have to spell this out for you.

But if I must, let me put this in terms that even the casual baseball fan can understand: if you take the N, tilt the letter I a little, and visualize the letter M, it is absolutely impossible to spell "Scott Gavin Erickson" without "gamer." This is exactly what a progressive, modern organization like the Los Angeles Dodgers is looking for in this age of bloated contracts and big-money free agents.

Some of you bloggers, safe at home behind your keyboards, may want to call Erickson a "human taco machine," but we Dodgers choose to look beyond the tacos - even tacos such as those which Erickson serves up, drenched in guacamole and refulgent with luminous caramelized onions - and see what lurks behind the crispy corn shell of Erickson's 81 mph fastball. It's this type of thinking outside the box - nay, thinking outside the bun - that shall lead us once again to the promised land.

Paul DePodesta is the general manager of the Los Angeles Dodgers.

Fever of Beisbol: A Message for You Ugie

2005-06-08T22:47:00.000-04:00

How do you like my new photo?
O my dear Ugueth, I was very surprise to see that los Tigres has traded you to los Filis. At first, I was very upseted. I was like this: "¡Oh no you did NOT do that to mi gran tio once removed!" I beg you, Alan Trammell seriously thinking Troy Percifal is better as a closer than you? Gringo please. Percifal could not even hold the jockstrap of our great countryman Francisco-Rod in Los Anaheim, now suddenly he is the second to coming of the savior. ¡When you were 9 por 11 in oportunities as el más cercano, with hitters hitting an average of .208 and two times the Ks as the BBs!

Okay, this seems unfair to me. Ordinary, Ana Maria does not traffick in teorías de la conspiración. But think about it: if Ugueth Urtain Urbina is really named George Yanqui America, he is Closer of the Year. Not to offense it, but this is pure and simply anti-Venezuelanismo. We seen it time and time again. Where is the love for Caracas? For beautiful land of pageants and Los Amigos Invisibles and arepas and shortstops?

But is okay, Tio Ugie, do not let los bastards get you down. Plus, Filadelfia is un better city than Detroit for us. They have won many games in recents, you will be again hanging out with Bobby Abreu (remember that cabin house we had at Paria Peninsula? o, Dios mio, such efun), and fewer pinche bolivianos. Even plus, the uniforms are MUCHO MEJOR!

You must go to Sazon on Spring Garden Street, is real Venezuelan cuisine like we are used to, the quesillo is to dying for (although the tres leches cake is weak).

And as for not being el closer anymore, just tenga paciencias. Billy Wagner is good but very brittle, he could snap like branch any day now, like "Pum, muerto." And then you will step in, wearing a cute P in red white and blue instead of an old black and white old-time skanky D. You will save many kilotonnes of games, you will be hero, just like deservedly. And even if you do not, if you have trouble, is okay. Filadelfia fans are good, they will support you. This they are famous.

As for how I feel about you and Ramon Quien-Dat Martinez being moved for that overrated Dominican sweathog Polanco, I has nothing to say. And if I make myself accidentally to think about your poor mother...o it is too maddening, like being in la Brujeria with no sacred charms against ghosts.

Okay, Ugie, I must go to make a visit to the manager of los Aguiles. He says he has scoop for me. It has better be a real baseball journalism type scoop, porque if he tries to scoop my culo again it will be like this: "Lights out, good night" to him. ¡Just like you taught me!

Ana Maria Collejeo Guillen is the top baseball writer for El Universal. She also recently won a spot on Venezuela's national biathlon team for the 2006 Olympics.