NATS RISE TO GLORY game thirty-eight

(apparently at some point Cirque du Soleil did the opening pitch

for a Padres game)

Ken Shamrock, branded as the Most Dangerous Man on Earth, threw out the mostly ceremonial first pitch in Saturday's Padres/Nats game, which led me to wonder, "Why is Ken Shamrock throwing out the first pitch in San Diego?" I guess he's got some sort of fight against fellow famous but perhaps not relevant mixed martial artistry fighter Kimbo Slice, so it was probably just hype and ballyhoo for that. But it got me thinking about opening pitches, and why the fuck do they get all these weird obscure celebrities to do them, and what's the fucking connection even?

Well, when you figure there's 30 teams with 81 home games, that's over 2400 ceremonial first pitches per season (not counting playoffs), which is a fuckin' shitload of ceremony. Like I'm not sure we even have enough qualified human beings in America to conduct that much ceremony. Mostly though, it made me wonder how come I've never thrown out a ceremonial first pitch. I mean, I've been doing this fucking baseball feelings Nats Rise to Glory sporadically for like a month now. Somebody should've fucking contacted me. This new media digital revolution is starting to feel like bullshit.

Ken Shamrock's dangerousness did not translate to the Padres though, as Maximum Scherzer controlled the show (4 hits over 7 scoreless innings) and The Ultimate Harper (2-for-3, no HRs though) was one of there whom had scored in the top of the 1st, which just set the fucking table for the Padres to suffer a long, slow, meticulous, Saturday defeat. Baseball is so fucking boring, but also psychological, so these long lulls of psychic crushing are funny, because I'm sure during the course of the game there were multiple ebbs-and-flows of energy, where Padres faithful became excited, as SHIT WAS ABOUT TO CHANGE, but it never did, and at the end of the night, they just sat there for fucking ever to watch their team suck. The Fathers (always lol) did manage to squeeze a token run in the bottom of the 9th, to at least reward the stubborn assholes who stayed until the final out because they probably paid way more money than they had planned to go out on a beautiful Saturday to watch a shitty baseball game not turn out in a positive way for them personally. That money could've done a lot of other things. Fucking Fathers.

Nats were 21-17.

NATS RISE TO GLORY game thirty-seven

The Friday night game of last weekend's series against the Padres was a rare moment of both potential aspects of Nats domination clicking at once. The offense was thick, up 7-0 before the third inning was over, and cruising to a smashing 10-0 win. The Ultimate Harper got his 13th homer. But on the bump (that is a goofy played-out sportswriter term for the pitcher's mound, sometimes even I use it without thinking, showing how we are all weakened by our shared existences, but hopefully perhaps strengthened as well - at least that is my hope), Jordan Zimmermann (the extra "n" is not really for anything, it's just how he was taught to spell his name, probably by his familial elders) was a hit-scattering, non-run-allowing motherfucker out there. Nats pitching staff has such potential that sometimes I fantasize of them collectively pitching like a month's straight of scoreless innings. But that is crazy thinking, I know.
Important non-important note though, is this was Nats 20th victory. You have to assume any team that wins the World Series is going to win more than 100 games, but probably not 120 (unless they are amazing). So every 20-games is a sort of psychic tic-mark to that goal. Most decent teams will probably fall off after the 80-game mark, and not make it to 100. Shitty teams (or even low-mediocre ones) don't even make it to 80. And even if you don't win the World Series, if you make it to 100 wins, you are probably going to be around VERY LATE in the season to get to that point. Thus, in my own little world of casual baseball dorkage, I consider this random Friday night victory an important first landmark along the road of five landmarks towards an actual true & living Rise to Glory. Thanks for listening.
Nats were 20-17.

NATS RISE TO GLORY game thirty-six

(a Tim McCarver scorecard from somewhere I found online,

not the shining example of artistic beauty I would want to share

but hey, we are extremely limited with what is available

in terms of handcrafted arts on the internet)

I guess it is perhaps time for me to catch up on some baseball feelings though to be honest, I didn't have much over the weekend. I was preoccupied with a rich & full real life. But before abandoning pretending anybody cared for a few days, while daydreaming at work (where I do all my daydreaming, which is both hopeful but sad), I was thinking about old school keeping score in actual scorebook, and how I used to love doing that shit as a kid, and would take on THE IMMENSE CHALLENGE of keeping book for the All-Star game, which if you know anything about keeping a scorebook (and how limited your space is, and how ridiculous the All-Star rosters & substitutions are), you know that's stupid thinking. But I tried.
I am not sure all the complicated stat shit we have nowadays would have existed in straight "some guy keeping book" scorekeeping days, all the WHIP and WAR and other shit that seems like nonsense to me BECAUSE IT WASN'T ON A FUCKIN' BASEBALL CARD WHEN I WAS 12. Like you think back to those stats, and slugging percentage was complicated enough because you had to perform multiple functions to get there. So whoever had to actually punch calculator buttons was like, "Okay, I'll do slugging percentage for you fuckers, but only like once a week, okay?" But then pitchers wanted stats too, so somebody came up with the ERA and that pretty much killed shit for statisticians for decades. It wasn't until everybody had pocket computers that we went buckwild with the numbers and spreadsheet functions and sabermetrics and shit like that.
Still though, there is a weird ancient beauty in hand-written scorebook pages, especially if dudes were into it, and cultivated that talent over years. (Or ladies - I do not mean to assume only dudes did it, because I learned keeping book from my mom, who did that shit with such grace and accuracy in our little league that she was the go-to scorekeeper for all All-Star traveling teams for like six or seven years in a row.) I imagine somewhere some artsy-brained dork has compiled amazing scorebook pages from yesteryear. I actually am seriously contemplating buying a scorebook to keep book for imaginary games of chaos teams from deep inside my own ever-expanding heart. "Why would you do that?" the more saber-metrically inclined mind might ask, Who are you to judge what brings joy to another human being? Life is short, you should expand your positive chemical charge to the biosphere as much as possible.
Anyways, the Padres won the opener to this west coast road series, perhaps with their left pant legs pulled up, I do not know. And I bet somewhere in that sea of onlookers, some kid or some old dude or one of those weird yet unmistakably beautiful baseball obsessive ladies kept a wonderfully perfect scorebook of the game, only for themselves, that none of us will see ever.
Nats were 19-17.

NATS RISE TO GLORY game thirty-one

So, finally back to .500, now the Nationals on Saturday were allowed the strange notion of going into a game, thinking, "Hey, we could actually go above .500." This has only happened two other games this season thus far, and one of those was opening day. Doug Fister (lol) gave a solid start, and midway through this nice Saturday in DC, Nats were up 6-1, looking like they could maybe idle their way into the above-.500 column for the first time in 2015.
But then fuck, nothing is ever easy with these guys. The fuckin' wheels came off Fister and the defense, partially in the 7th, more so in the 8th, and by the time the Nats got off the field to bat in the bottom of the 8th, 6-1 had become 6-6, and this had all the hallmarks of yet another classic Nationals collapse, of which they have earned a reputation both in the individual games as well as the larger sense. Shit looked fucked. All this talent (allegedly) brought together, under the guise of winning at least a World Series, perhaps more. But what of the year they shut Strasborg down? But what of the crumble of severe nature against the Cardinals two years ago? Is this team shook, at a deep psychic level, and unable to achieve? No runs in 8th, or top of 9th, game still hung in that 6-6 balance, so easy to assume, "Fuck, here we go into extra innings, where things will get ugly in some bizarre snakebitten way."
Except there is a man on, with one out, and up to the plate steps The Ultimate Harper - a young man, perhaps a God in a Farmboy's Body, who embodies that potential more than anything else in a Nationals uniform. He could be this generation's Barry Bonds (minus the controversy hopefully) or he could just be another power hitter amongst a thousand. A fanbase drunk off alcohol and sunshine but also sobered by the harsh reality of Washington sports fandom, specific to this team but also the overall glut of quality successes for an American city this size, hung in the balance, wondering would they happily go home and get drunker and fuck and make babies to name Bryce, or would it be another failure in a long line of failures and they'd go home and do Mother's Day shit tomorrow and then go back to work on Monday and life would just go on, no glory no dopamine sports release just on and on with boring mundane life, but not forever, because we all fuckin' die in the end.
Then BAMM - Bryce jacks one that was gone the moment wood struck ball, and not only was the game's tie untied, but all that heavy emotional weight hovering over the stadium with all those individuals, feeling these psychic pressures and perhaps being forced to face their own post-industrial somewhat meaningless mortality - it dissipated in the moment. Single HR ball to end game, inject dopamine into thousands of brains, lift collective spirits, and (momentarily) avoid the sometimes depressing nature of suffering life the way humans have it. That is the Ultimate Harper's power.
Not only this, but for the first time this season of much hyped promise, the Nats were above .500. They were a winning team. The stumbles and struggles and strangely sore elbows and whatever elses - none of it stopped them from still being a winning team. This walk-off HR was another "moment", and in these "moments", momentum is gained. Not physical momentum you can measure with scientific devices in laboratory settings, but that unexplainable yet undeniable metaphysical momentum. This is a team that is gaining momentum, hopefully enough to sustain their movement deep into October.
Nats were 16-15.

NATS RISE TO GLORY game twenty-five

Gio actually went 7 innings without giving up a run, looking like the ol' Gio of lovable yore. Bullpen didn't fuck up either, so one run from iron-poor offense (although through use of wooden bats) was all that was needed. Perhaps at some point this team will get to where they are scoring 8 runs and giving up none. Wouldn't that be nice?
Nats were 11-14.

NATS RISE TO GLORY game twenty-four

I guess Friday night was supposed to be a masterful pitching showdown between Maximum Scherzer and Matt Harvey (rematch of opening day actually). Together, they each went 7 innings, "scattering" (lol) 5 hits, except the Mets got a single run thanks to Michael Cuddyer's solo HR in the 4th. Nats bullpen gave up three more runs in the 8th, and offense was gone after 34 runs in three days, so Nats lost 4-0 (or 0-4 if we do this like soccer).
Nats were 10-14.

NATS RISE TO GLORY game sixteen

The Cardinals won the rubber tramp stamp game because they are the Cardinals and I hate them.
Nats were 7-9.

NATS RISE TO GLORY game eleven

This past Friday night, Max Scherzer was a beast. I was wandering around and got to catch a little of the game on AM radio in my shitty truck which has almost 200K miles & will explode any day now, which in my humble opinion is the only way to truly enjoy America's past time. In my head I started referring to him as Maximum Scherzer, so I am going to pretend that is his real name now. But Maximum Scherzer was in beast mode. Also of note is the Ultimate Harper (aka Bryce Harper), who smashed a 3-run homer in the first inning, giving Maximum Scherzer a comfortable cushion to be like, "lol lemme do pitcher shit that sportswriter assholes will say 'scattered X hits' about later." So he did.
Nats are (were) 5-6.

NATS RISE TO GLORY game eight

A little late but mostly because I actually barely followed this game from the other night where Stephen Cyborg was bitchy, then the Nats looked like they could win but then they forgot to play defense, which is kind of a big problem if you have trouble scoring runs. I guess they figured they had scored a bunch of runs so they didn't need to play defense, thus the Red Sox got like 3 unearned runs and ended up winning 8-7 or some shit like that I don't know, it was two days ago and I don't feel like looking it up again, and honestly the internet only gives you new shit to hijack your brain from more important deeper matters. It is superficial news constantly. I literally just clicked an article about Kelly Clarkson. Why the fuck did I do that? Why would I give a fuck about Kelly Clarkson and her weight gain? All the poetry of a couple thousand years is at my fingertips, and I just spent about 17 seconds briefly scanning a fucking Kelly Clarkson article at Huffington Post. What the fuck?
Nats are 2-6.