mathematically eliminated #18 the Pittsburgh Pirates

Perhaps this will be the saddest elimination thus far this MLB season, as the Pirates were briefly our collective darling, having risen from the ashes of futility like a modern Phoenix (the bird, not the city), to make us love baseball in a special way. But let's be realistic - this is the second or third time the Pirates have done this in recent memory, and all those times have ended in the bitter taste of failure. Can we be content to dabble in success, and have these traditional teams who do not fit the alleged "large market" criteria to teeter at the periphery of relevance until we settle into the showdown of 8 or 10 of the same 10 or 12 teams? What if the Orioles do not make it as well, or are eliminated in the stupid wild card game playoff? Who will be our huckleberry then?
It is sad too because there are few teams with the bold artistic flourish of the Pirates. The bright yellow and black uniforms (traditional to Pittsburgh sports team, which in itself is a pretty cool thing for a city to do), the immensity of figures like LSD Dock Ellis or Playboy Cocaine Dave Parker or Kent Tekulve's wacky sidearm or Willie Stargell's quiet epicness or even the brilliantly legendary yet tragically short Robert Clemente, who was as much a pioneer for the black Hispanics who fill our 2012 rosters as Jackie Robinson was for regular American-Africans. (Man, "American-African" sounds so much more fucked up than "African-American" doesn't it? It is strange how our ears and mouths become accustomed to certain things.) The straight-sided caps, with the pimp stripes around the whole thing. Three Rivers Stadium itself, one of the best overhead blimp shots to be found in baseball history. The Pirates are a wacky and wild and wonderful team historically, and perfect for those crazed folks of western Pennsylvania.
But this is not a time that respects such craziness and wildling behaviors. This is not the age of American hallucinogenic exploration of self as in Dock Ellis, or proudly anti-authoritarian yet 1000% diligent and acceptable as in Dave Parker. This is a time of obedience and respect for nothing but the dollar, a forced worship for an abstract concept that is slowly losing its perceived value and never having had that much actual value to begin with. But the smoke and mirrors have gone into overdrive, and we shall be forced to believe in the exceptionalism of the almighty dollar, and baseball is nothing if not one of the most purely American artistic creations we have come up with as a culture, albeit now an international phenom. So the rule of the dollar means the teams that spend are the ones that succeed, so it is believed that until a team like the Pirates (or Orioles or Royals or Brewers) learns to spend, it will not sustain success. Or you must learn to maximize dollars, as in the sabermetric nerderies of Billy Beane and his philosophical disciples. But it is still based on dollars, not intuition, not magic.
Am I sad Pittsburgh is eliminated from this year's MLB post-seasonal possibilities? Sure, why not. But I am more saddened that the regional ways of Pittsburgh - a sort of cultured hillbilly people, full of Old World influences and New World dreams - has been eliminated. Not this year though, but somewhere along the way while none of us were looking. The ways of the Pittsburghs and the Baltimores and Oaklands and so on and so forth have been replaced by the false gentrification of our western society, which is actually taking the old flavors, sterilizing it "clean" and replacing it with new gaudy facades that look the same whether you are in a city here or one there. It is lifeless and robotic and predictable. That above all is the worst part - so predictable. I did not entertain wild notions of Andrew McCutcheon carrying the torch lit by Dock Ellis and Dave Parker into the October boxes on the 2012 calendar, because I knew better. Spirit like that has already been extinguished, and usually is bought out by piles of dollars, to go play in predictable ways in predictable places, so that nothing gets too wonky or off-kilter. We are not a place of wild spirit and shocking euphorias any more; we are a place of predictable facades and standard orders.

mathematically eliminated #19 the San Diego Padres

The Padres had the day off yesterday (or perhaps they actually played in their camouflage uniforms and I couldn't see them) but they still were eliminated from wild card contetion, by virtue of the Cardinals win at Houston. I am a child of the '80s, so those swank doodoo brown uniforms with the super letters were always the greatest, thus these new-fangled modernist uniforms they wear fill me with hate. I understand keeping with the times, but if your old times are so stylish, why change? Fucking merchandising man, it feeds the sexual juices of that whore called capitalism. Only problem is that whore is old and withered and barren and uncaring and we are only left to sit here and watch her die a painful syphilitic death.
So goodbye Padres.

mathematically eliminated #20 the Kansas City Royals

It has been fun doing this and thinking of teams on the brink of elimination. Last Tuesday, after losing the White Sox, the Royals were about to be forced out. They'd already been gone from wild card contention, but the AL Central is a land of midgets where anything can happen (which hopefully means the Tigers win it, but that is another story). But the Royals were facing mathematical elimination on Wednesday... but beat the Sox. Then they did it again on Thursday. The White Sox flew west to face the Angels and the Indians came to Kansas City, so with there being zero room for mistakes - the Royals had to win out their season, and White Sox lose it out - it seemed like it would happen quickly. But Friday night, both the Angels and Royals won. Then it happened again yesterday, and not only were the Royals still not mathematically eliminated, but the Tigers had moved into half a game of the White Sox. That meant they'd have to start losing too.
Today, in the first game of a doubleheader, the Tigers did exactly that. The Royals were still hanging tough. But then they got crushed by the Indians, 15 to 4, and the magic rally was over. The Royals are now mathematically eliminated from Major League Baseball 2012 World Championship contention. Still though, this scrappy bunch of shitheads outlasted a third of the MLB, solidly ensuring their position as middle class status, albeit very low middle class status. Perhaps this is a thing to build upon, perhaps it is a thing to forget. I am not one to say. Only time to can reveal such mysteries.

The Toronto Blue Jays: Still Awful, But Dumber

that's actually one more game than he got

During their recent shitty home stand, the definitely shitty Toronto Blue Jays managed to eliminate the even shittier Boston Red Sox from playoff contention, which is, I guess, something, right? A few days later, the Blue Jays were themselves mathematically eliminated by the New York Yankees, who are loathsome, but for whom, on that day, Ichiro went seven for eight and had like four stolen bases and gave me feelings, a little, about the passage of time in the limited but non-trivial baseball sense. Anyway, all of that has been duly noted or mathematical elimination expert Raven Mack and I see no need to revisit that well-trod ground that sucks. 

Of course the most notable thing about the Blue Jays these days is not that they are out, because of course they are, but that they are apparently pretty soft on homophobic slurs written on eye-black by increasingly worthless shortstops. There is an argument that runs roughly that Spanish-speaking dudes use homophobic language on the reg so we shouldn't get too worked up about this, but I instead am of the opinion that Yunel Escobar is an idiot and should be driven into the sea.

KS 

mathematically eliminated #21 the New York Mets

Not only did the Mets get eliminated tonight, but they got spanked terribly hard by the Phillies, 16 to 1, at home in whatever it is that is not Shea Stadium. So it looked as though the Phillies were done for, and yet they make this late season run towards an extra watered-down wild card. Meanwhile, the Mets continue to be the Mets. And on the day somebody reminded me this baseball card existed...

Yes, I know that has nothing to do with the Mets, but what the fuck do I care? They are the Mets. No one cares, except for those weird dudes you hear on talk radio in the middle of the night when you are on a long drive and you are like, "Hey, I'll listen to AM radio," and all you pick up is 660 the Fan, and every guy that calls you imagine to look like that James Coco dude who used to act in the TVs - all short and balding and weird looking, like a puffalump but 1/4 Italian, and they live in an apartment smaller than most American people's kitchen, and they are sitting at a small table with the refrigerator like literally right over their shoulder, and there is an old TV on the opposite wall, and that is where they watch the Mets, drinking Diet Cokes like mad, and calling AM radio to further discuss the wild tangents that bounce around their little caged minds.

mathematically eliminated #22 the Miami Marlins

Remember a long time ago when the Marlins opened up that new stadium with the crazy psychedelic motif and had all those big free agents who came in, and it was ushering a new age of baseball in south Florida, where people were gonna love baseball, and the Marlins were gonna be so fucking awesome it was going to knock the Phillies and to a lesser extent the Braves off the NL East throne? Remember that? Yeah, a couple months ago was pretty cool.
Already nobody cares, further proving that the "build it and they will come" fleecing of investors (whether taxpayer dollars or just stupid regular investors) is bullshit. Here is a simple catchy phrase for you to remember for the rest of your life in regards to getting people to point their eyeballs (and wallets) at things: If shit sucks, no one gives a fuck.

mathematically eliminated #23 the Toronto Blue Jays

I will leave the sad specifics to my good pal KS, but by virtue of their loss in the first game of this doubleheader in the stupid Bronx, the Blue Jays were officially eliminated from playoff contention, and thus World Series contention. I am sorry Canadia. Tu eres maricon. Haha, not really. I mean, I don't know, you have a questionable relationship with Greenland at times, but I don't think it is anything serious or worth demeaning you over.
Also of note: fuck the Yankees.

mathematically eliminated #24 the Seattle Mariners

They are now done apparently. I am not even sure of who is on their team as I have an east coast bias, which is why I wear my right pant leg bunched up around my knee at work, and use my office stapler to staple motherfuckers in the head who look at me wrong at the water cooler. EAST SIDE!
Seriously though, forgive my ignorance, but did the Mariners still exist after they traded away Ichiro Suzuki? Or are they in the Pacific Coast League now? Does the Pacific Coast League still exist? I know Triple-A went from three leagues to two leagues at some point a few years back, but I don't know which one ceased to exist. I grew up an International League man personally, seeing the Richmond Braves play as a little leaguer. Back then it was easy to know who the minor league team was a minor league team for, because they had the same nickname. Nowadays, with hat merchandising, there's no fucking way to tell. I went to a game last year to see Bryce Harper play in Richmond and it was the Richmond Flying Squirrels vs. the Harrisburg Winterfells, and they were hyping up a big weekend series against the Charleston Baby Bo$$e$ with fireworks and some sort of bobblehead promotion. Ultimately, this just furthers my belief that over-marketing has essentially ruined the joy of Western civilization, and now we are just left to suffer the diminishing returns of what we have wrought, until death.

mathematically eliminated #25 the Colorado Rockies

I know very little about the Rockies, other than they are the Rockies. They and the Diamondbacks are still in this grey area of my brain being neither of them existed on the baseball cards I hoarded as a youngster, thus they have no illustrated Diamond Kings at all, meaning they cannot be that great. But they are eliminated, having gotten ousted from mathematical contention for the lowered standard of MLB wild cards yesterday evening, while I was still watching football. We are left with 24 teams officially still standing a chance at winning the World Series this year.

mathematically eliminated #26 the Boston Red Sox

Congratulations KS the only guy who reads this blog, your Toronto Blue Jays today put a stake through the heart of this horrid Boston Red Sox season. The illustrious return of the overhyped Bobby Valentine, Josh Beckett being a proud beer-drinker and chicken-eater who refused to let go of his ways, the last great heroes of when the Red Sox became champions and made a million drunken Bostoners feel like life was not worth complaining about briefly - all of it down the drain. The Red Sox have crashed back upon the surface of their multi-generational reality, and now have to figure out a way to make themselves relevant again, last place in a division they briefly had an arms-and-bats race of highest monetary proportion with the Yankees, now overshadowed by not only the Rays but also the Orioles. I mean, really the Orioles? Oh well, not much else to say as it's football season already and who really gives a fuck about baseball outside of the four or five important games you glance at the scoreboard for when there's actual American football to play?

mathematically eliminated #27 the Minnesota Twins

Like I said earlier in the Indians post, both them and the Twins have been out of wild card contention for a hot minute already, but because the AL Central is lackluster, they still stood an outside longshot, mathematically speaking, at their division title. Until today for both. The Twins actually lost to division leader the Chicago White Sox, at home in Minnesota, which only added insult to the injury of having your season officially over from a winning the World Series perspective. So let us sum up the Minnesota Twins season. On defense, it was like this...

And then on offense, it went like this...

And that's their 2012, in a nutshell. All apologies to Kirby Puckett's glorious memory. (Didn't he die? Didn't also like to sex up chubby chicks? I hope so. On the second, not the first.)
The Red Sox flirted with elimination today, but a 9th inning rally means they will survive mathematically at least one more day. I'm sure Bobby Valentine is proud.

mathematically eliminated #28 the Cleveland Indians

And then there were 27. In the AL Central, both the Cleveland Indians and Minnesota Twins have been already out of wild card contention for the better part of a week. But being the AL Central is the weakest division in baseball, they were still, technically, in the running to win their own division. For the Indians, that ended tonight, as Justin Verlander got all Justin Verlandery on them. A sad ending yet again for the Indians, who could be considered the Cubs of the American League, if they had people who gave a fuck. It wasn’t too long ago that the Indians were sort of in the same boat the Orioles were in, shockingly contending for a division title, only having sat a handful of games out of first at the end of July. But the Indians collapsed like the rust belt manufacturing base, and Indians fans everywhere will once again have to count on Major League, the first one, for their postseason highlights. Jobu needs a refill indeed.

mathematically eliminated #29 the Chicago Cubs

a better time in America, when a man could at least entertain the idea of taking his favorite goat to the ball game, being denied, and then curse the team for eternity; as a man who has known goats, I understand Jack Bales thinking

All you hear about is the wild card battles, and rightfully so, but as we enter the last few weeks of baseball, teams at the lower end of the W-L charts will start to be mathematically eliminated from playoff contention, perhaps as many as five this weekend alone. They will be whittled down to ten, and then to one. For the hapless Cubs, that happened this afternoon, even with a matinee victory. And to the Cubs credit, they teetered at the very edge of mathematical elimination for about a week. But finally, the games left were reduced enough to take them out of even wild dreams of magical comebacks. Not to their credit, the Theo Epstein era came in with a whimpering thud on the cellar of the NL Central. If not for the even stupider Astros, the Cubs would be last in their division, and last in baseball. And it couldn't have happened to a more deserving team. I am not sure what it is about this franchise, but it attracts a vile breed if thick glasses, scruff bearded, hipster doofuses. In fact, the younger demographics of their fanbase, which expands across the upper midwest like, well, like your average midwesterner's malnourished belly, are the hipster wretched of this American earth. In fact, large chunks of Chicago itself made me uncomfortable as I crawled through on a Boltbus, left to wander their gentrified streets for two days, looked down upon by those who would be dressed similarly and similarly scruffy, but with the smooth skins of affluence covering their bodies. These are white people - even the non-whites in large swaths of the city - but not my white people. They are the former vegans and microbrew aficionados and IT professionals of the emerging ruling middle class, those that the Obama ads speak at and the Romney ones dream of. They are not my people at all, and it is easy to feel. Lucky for me I wandered south, and ended up getting high as fuck with some Salvadorans somewhere along that outlaw blur between Chicago and Gary, Indiana, and a chunky flirtacious Latina woman sang her Mexican songs and would ramble at me where I only understood certain words, and her cursive tattoo peeked out from the frilly edges of her lowcut cream tank top, and they did not care about the Cubs. They did not care about that part of Chicago - it was foreign outside of work assignments. Not a one of them gave half a fuck about the Cubs either. So good night wretched Chicago Cubs. You were not even relevant enough to mock this year. Come back next year, and continue to judge those who would not be of smooth skin or smooth heritages or should befriend goats or Mexicans or black people who did not graduate from brick-and-ivy universities. Come back next year, and continue to be stymied for eternity.

The Mind of Mike

This week, the video of New York sports radio host, Mike Francesa, falling asleep during an interview on his show was the talk of the internet.  For most people, it was just an amusing video of some guy falling asleep during his job, but those of us who've hate-listened to Francesa for years, it was like a mass Baptism of new people to share our beliefs.  "Look at how terrible this guy is," we told the newcomers who came just to laugh at this person who would ordinarily be fired.  "This is what passes for sports radio in New York."  

When Francesa offered excuses and a complete non-apology two days later, nobody was surprised.  

Here is the whole story.  

Mike Francesa had never seen a more beautiful sunset. 

"It's uh pahfect bookend to da day," he thought to himself, recalling the way that he'd watched the suns first rays creep through his living room window that morning. At the time, he'd thought it was the silver lining to staying up all night to deal with his son's asthma, that if he couldn't get any sleep he could at least have this moment to himself. He'd run his hand over Jack's head as the boy rested in his lap, and as the rays crept through the window and along the floor, he'd felt like the luckiest man in the world.

Until that evening. 

Francesa took another sip from his Diet Coke and watched as the waning sun's light reflected as a million golden shards on the gentle waves of the Long Island Sound. "Pahfect." 

At about five o'clock that morning he'd decided that, with his sleepless night, he was in no condition to go to work that day. "I ehned it," he'd rationalized, having worked a grueling Footfall Friday three days earlier, a Football Friday during which, he noted, he was also able to jam in about two hours on the collapsing Yankees. He'd followed that up with his first NFL Now of the season on Sunday, and pulled double duty, replaying every single angle of the controversial Mark Teixeira play for the benefit of those watching him on television. For those listening on the radio? "Whatevah," he'd told his producer, Ray. "Dey saw dah play. Everyone saw dat play. It was a disgrace." 

"Well, maybe some people weren't watching the game," Ray had said. 

"Whattaya talkin' about?" 

"Some people weren't watching the game. Some people don't like the Yankees. Maybe they were watching the Mets, or college football, or out with their families."

Mike had stared at Ray for what seemed like ten minutes.

"Whattaya talkin' abowt, Ray? What else are they gonna do? This is playawf baseball. What else is happening last night? Da Mets? Get outta here. Yah lawst." 

After that blow-up, he'd gone home for ten grueling hours of football, and just as he was settling down for bed, he heard Jack wheezing in his room.

"Poor kid," he thought to himself as he took another sip of Diet Coke and watched the waves.

He'd called out at seven that morning, but had been planning his day since he realized that sleep wasn't going to be available to him. He had decided to take the boat out on the sound. "Don't want to waste the beautiful Septembah weathah," he'd told his wife. "Don't have too many boat days left. Out dah it's like San Diego out dah."

It had been a beautiful summer for the boat, he recalled, having spent 75 of his 90 vacation days speeding along the sound and doing circles in the water around Jones Beach. Now it was coming to an end, and he knew that if the summer had to close, and he'd soon be stuck behind a microphone while the blizzards raged outside, that there was only one person he'd want to spend that remaining free time with. 

"Anothah beeh, Brandon?"

Brandon Inge had been lulled into a light doze by the bobbing of the boat, but at Mike's words, he stirred in his deck chair, his eyes flittering awake under the bill of his A's cap.

"No thanks, Mike," he said, holding up a half-full Shock Top with his good arm, his other arm in a sling from the shoulder operation he'd received earlier in September. "I'm good." 

"That's good," Mike said, as the waves sloshed against the bottom of his boat.  "Dis is nice, right?" 

"It's great, Mike, thanks for having me out."

"Yeah," said Mike. "Anytime." 

They let the silence hang between them until it was pierced by the roar of a passing speedboat. Mike fiddled with the cap of his Diet Coke bottle. 

"Hey, uh, Brandon..." Mike began.

"What's up, Mike?"  The Oakland third-baseman turned to face him. 

"Well, uh...this is a little hahd, but uh....I like you, Brandon."

Brandon smiled. "Hey, thanks Mike," he said. "I like you too. You were always nice to me whenever the Tigers were in town." 

"I like you a lawt."

Brandon laughed. "You too, Mike. Thanks."

"No, Brandon. You don't undahstand. I like you a lawt." 

The silence was deafening as the smile slowly retreated from Brandon's face. He took his cap off and ran his hand through his hair. 

"Oh, wow. To hear you say that, Mike, it's just....it's just like....finally, you know?" 

He sighed as he sat up straight to look at Mike. "Oh, Mike..." 

"Mike."

"MIKE!!" 

Ray's voice in his ear shocked Mike awake and as he looked around, the Long Island Sound and the golden sunset was replaced by the cold, sterile walls of WFAN's studio.

"Teixeira's absence is part of this, the Yankees have been a little affected by left-handed pitchers lately, and they're gonna face two of them in this series..."

Inge's voice was replaced by that of WFAN's Yankees beat reporter Sweeney Murti, and as Mike shook off the cobwebs, he glared through the glass at Ray who was staring in shock at his host.

"Where's Brandon," Mike mouthed at Ray, who only shook his head, uncomprehending. 

"What?" Ray mouthed.

"Brandon," Mike mouthed again. "Who're you..." 

 Then, it began to dawn on him. As reality overwrote his subconscious and the dream evaporated, Mike slumped down in his chair, resigned, and continued the interview. "Alright, we're talkin' to Sweeney obviously as we get ready ahhh for a trip to Boston and back, the weekend against Tampa..." 

**************************

His humiliating so-called apology over, Mike pushed the mic away with frustration and groaned as he stood up, forgetting that his earphones were still on. He could hear the techs in the next room snicker through the glass as his head was yanked downward. He pulled the earphones from his head in disgust and walked into the control room. 

"Twenty fawr yeahs on the aiyah and I gotta answer for 15 seconds," he bellowed as he pushed open the door. "I give dese people twenty fawr years of my life and I screw up once, and they pounce all over me. I can't believe those clowns. And you," he pointed at Ray, "How could you let me fall asleep on the aiyah? You keep it so warm in that studio, how could I not nod off? It's like an incubatah in theyah!" 

Ray stood rooted in place in the middle of the room, frozen as his hands hovered over the keyboard he was leaning over. His face grew hot as he realized that all of the techs were staring at him. He was dumbfounded as he looked at Mike, who was glaring at him from the doorway.

"I'm..." Ray's tongue was dry, and he swallowed hard. "I'm sorry Mike." 

"Yeah, youah sorry, I'm sorry, everyone's sorry," Mike said. "I'm sorry I let an amatah like you evah produce my show! It's a wondah I'm still numbah one! If you evah let that happen again, you're fiahed!" 

He waved his hand dismissively and began to waddle down the hall to the kitchen for a Diet Coke. Ray looked around, and all of the techs quickly buried themselves in their computer screens. Ray looked at Mike's back walking down the hall, and was suddenly aware of the heat in his face, and he clenched his fists and something inside him broke. 

"You're an idiot." 

He saw Mike freeze in the middle of the hallway, and as the radio host turned, Ray saw anger smolder in his eyes behind his glasses. 

"What'd you say tah me?" Mike growled. 

"I said you're an idiot," said Ray, who almost couldn't believe his own ears. He looked around the room and all of the techs were looking up from their computers, mouths agape. He saw one tech, Pete, give him almost an imperceptible nod. 

Yes. Do it. 

"You had a chance to make this whole thing go away and maybe even make yourself seem a little more human, and you blew it," said Ray, feeling bolder with every word out of his mouth. "You could have come on the air, had a little fun with it, shown a little humility and this whole thing would have been over. You could have joked around with Sweeney during your next interview that you had your coffee and were good to go, but no, that's not you." 

Mike's face began to redden. It almost looked like he was shaking. 

"Your job, for five hours a day, is to talk about sports. Wait, no. After all of the commercials, and the updates every 20 minutes, you spend roughly 25 minutes per hour talking about sports. It's one of the most easiest, most fun jobs that I can think of. Me and my buddies, we go out to the bar, and we talk about sports with each other for hours, for free. It's a job that millions of people would kill for, and you act like it's beneath you. Everything about your demeanor says that you can't possibly be a more miserable person. People wait for hours to get on the air with you, and they genuinely mean it when they say "Great show," or "Good to talk to you," and all you say is "Ok, go ahead." And then when they do go ahead and start to talk about what they waited for hours on hold to talk about, you cut them off after 10 seconds to make your own points."

Mike raised his hand, "I don't have tah listen to dis...." he went to wave and turn around but Ray's voice stopped him. 

"No, you listen," Ray said. "I'm not one of your callers, that you can just wave away, and not have to deal with. You were on the air making every excuse possible, and straight out lying to people, when all you had to say was, "Yeah, I fell asleep, so what?" You had the chance to make a small bit of your miserable existence likable and you blew it." 

Ray was almost preaching now, and the techs were hanging on every word, and, for once, Mike Francesa was at a loss for words. 

"It is a wonder your show is still number one. You dole out information that's downright wrong and then backtrack when someone calls you on your bullshit. Even worse, you routinely throw everyone that you can under the bus! How many times have you berated one of your staff on the air for your own screw ups?" "It's a wonder we can still get any guests on the air with the way you treat them, as if they're there to feed YOU topics. We have Terry Collins on a weekly basis, or maybe I should say HAD. I'm not sure how eager he's going to be to come back on the show since you said he should kill himself!" 

"You're a joke, Mike. You're fat Skip Bayless with a horrible accent. You're the worst kind of troll, one who doesn't even realize what he is. More people listen to you because they hope you'll fuck up so they can mock you on Twitter, or put it on YouTube than because they value your opinion. You're a pompous ass, and maybe if you didn't act as if the entire city of New York owed you a giant favor for showering them with your wisdom for two hours a day, people wouldn't be so quick to, 'pounce all over you.'  You've even defended Scott Boras for fuck's sake!"

Ray went on for what seemed like hours, an endless litany of Francesa's faults, from the time he picked his teeth on tv and ate it, to his complete disdain and misunderstanding of technology. And as he went on, Francesa stood, stonefaced in the hallway, his face flushed red with anger, now actively quivering. 

"And do you know what your best show ever was, Mike? Do you want to know? It was the time you shut the fuck up for two minutes and just played songs about summertime. That was the greatest show you've ever done in 24 years." 

The room was silent. Ray blinked several times, still barely comprehending what he'd done. He looked at the techs who stared back at him with an equal mix of awe, shock and terror. He looked at Mike. The big radio host was trembling now, as he ran his hand through his hair, the first time he'd moved since Ray had started talking. He removed his glasses and ran his hand over his face and let out a sigh, and as he looked at his producer, Ray thought that he saw Mike's eyes welling up. He put his glasses back on, and as he stared at Ray, the techs, breathless, waited for his words.  Mike's heavy breathing was the only sound in the room until...

"Cool it down in that studio. I evah fall asleep in there again and yowah fiahed," Mike said, as he turned around and walked down the hall for his Diet Coke.

Catching Up With the Toronto Blue Jays, A Baseball Team That Sucks

uh oh

The Blue Jays have won four in a row, but it doesn't really feel that way. They dropped two out of three at home to the Orioles -- a team I have chosen not to believe in lest they overturn all that I have believed about run differential and all that flows from it since first reading Bill James so many years ago -- and the roof got stuck open and it rained on everybody (well, not everybody). The sweep in Boston that followed made for some excellent lazy afternoon radio, don't get me wrong, but man this season has been and continues to be a drag. 

I don't know man. I really don't know.

KS

DC delirium starts to set in

When this season started I made some long-winded post about following the hopeful path to a .500 season for this promising Nationals team, which had never happened since they were cast onto us from the netherworld of Canadia. It seemed a reasonable expectation, and I am nothing if not a reasonable man.
Who could have foreseen what has transpired though? Baseball magic has incurred a complexity of baseball feelings around this Nats team that has gotten the nation caught up in it - whether it's Bryce Harper's wackiness or the Strasburg discussion or the random greatness of so many contributors out of nowhere. And yesterday, the Nats won the 82nd game of the season, guaranteeing their first plus-.500 season in DC. Also the Washington Post started carrying their magic number on the front page yesterday as well, meaning their magic number to guarantee a playoff berth, which even a month ago, even when it seemed probable, I could not really wrap my head around. They will literally most likely be playing in the playoffs, actual playoff games with the extra long drawn-out weird pseudo-psychology involved.
Honestly, this cast of characters, even without Strasburg, could not be a more glorious cast of characters to shine such limelight upon. I encourage you all to join me on this bandwagon once your favorite team has been pitifully eliminated. It will be glorious, as I am drunkenly believing in the magic of it all.

Blue Jays 2, Rays 0; Blue Jays 2, Rays 1; Rays 5, Blue Jays 4; Rays 9, Blue Jays 4: You Know What This Was Actually Pretty Neat

slid right into his butt, like right into it

Great starts from Carlos Villanueva and Brandon Morrow, back-to-back games ending with dudes thrown out at the plate, and tight, low-scoring affairs that could totally have gone either way, I mean, shoot, that sounds pretty awesome, does it not? And indeed it was! Were it not for Ricky Romero getting absolutely pasted beyond all recognition in the series finale on Sunday afternoon -- 1 IP, 8 H, 7 R, 7 ER, 1 BB, 0 K, 1 HR -- this would have been nothing but good times, man, nothing at all. But yeah, the Romero start, his worst ever, and pretty much the worst you could ever possibly see, took a little bit of the shine off an otherwise excellent weekend of baseball, the Blue Jays series I have enjoyed most in a long time (because I kind of whiffed on the Yankees series, to be honest). 

I would like to point out, in case you had not noticed which is entirely possible, that E5 is now up to 37 HR, which is utterly ridiculous. Not that it would have made that much difference to the shape of the season or anything, but wouldn't it have been cool if Jose Bautista's wrist hadn't exploded and both these awesome dudes hit forty-plus dingers? Boy. Boy.

KS

mathematically eliminated #30 the Houston Astros

The Astros escaped last night barely hanging onto a finite possibility of wild carddom, due to the Cardinals losing in D.C. Of course, the Astros lost at home to San Francisco, setting up tonight as not only do or die for them to not have them officially eliminated before the calendar flips to September. Of course, that did not go well as, even though the Cards helped the cause by getting crushed in DC, the Astros, of course, could not hold their own and were themselves beaten senseless at "home" 9-3 by the Cincinnati Reds. Thus the relevancy of their 2012 season is officially ended and over. In fact, the Astros are so completely relevant as an actual baseball team they are entering the literal minor league world of freak show attractions, potentially signing the 50-year-old Roger Clemens to pitch a couple of late season useless home starts and spike attendance, which would also postpone Clemens possible inclusion on the Hall of Fame ballot for another five years, potentially letting the "yo, all those dudes cheated, fuck them" mentality more time to sort of die down. Fucking baseball, man.
But let us remember these 2012 Houston Astros season as summed up by this sequence...

Orioles 6, Blue Jays 4; Orioles 8, Blue Jays 2; Sweet Cleansing Rain; Blue Jays 8, Yankees 7 (F/11); Yankees 2, Blue Jays 1; Blue Jays 8, Yankees 5: Aaaaaand Jose Bautista is Gone for the Year Now

this Ichiro thing is still nuts imo

Things in Baltimore went hideously: the Blue Jays dropped both of the games they actually got in, and Jose Bautista left in like the third inning of his second game back, and now he's done for the year with all kinds of wrist awfulness, which is a pretty big concern long term if you are inclined to worry about such things and I am very much so inclined yes. Then, mercifully, came the rains, postponing the third game and allowing them to just play a bunch of awesome old Tom Cheek calls on the radio, which was a welcome diversion from this current season which, it gives me no pleasure to say, has sucked. And so to New York, where Colby Rasmus ended his 0-for-eternity with a home run to win one in extras, Ricky Romero put in his best start in ages in a loss, and Yunel Escobar returned from paternity leave a monster, and there you go, two out of three from the Yankees, who actually haven't been great for the last six weeks or so actually. The AL East has been so weird this year: the Yankees are totally good but aren't playing that way; Baltimore is still way over .500 with a seriously negative run differential, which really isn't a thing that happens that often; Tampa is doing it with all pitching and no bats; and Boston just pulled off a Baseball Mogulesque salary dump of epic proportions, so ruined is their year. 

This totally would have been the year for the Blue Jays to do something if the roster had not, like, ulcerated. 

KS

Tigers 5, Blue Jays 3; Tigers 3, Blue Jays 2; Tigers 3, Blue Jays 2 (F/11): Muck/Shit/Despair

brooms of woe

In the opening game of this fine series against the Tigers, poor, poor Ricky Romero issued bases-loaded walks in consecutive innings en route to losing his tenth-straight decision (you will recall that he was nearly as bad when he was winning). Game two ended yeah that's right ended with Omar Vizquel thrown out attempting to steal second in a tactical decision so egregiously dumb that it was singled out on the Baseball Today podcast, a fine institution but not one that goes out of its way to let you know what happened for all of the last-place teams the previous day, you know? What I am suggesting to you here is that the Blue Jays forced their hand at ESPN by ending a game so foolishly. Then, finally, today, after beautiful, sweet E5 put the Blue Jays out in front 2-0, it all melted away into nothing more than a 3-2 walkoff loss and a sweep. 

I like the Tigers; they are respected AL East foes of yore. I occurred to me the other day, with another disastrous game on the radio, that if the Toronto Blue Jays for some reason ceased to exist tomorrow in some kind of Twilight Zone-style occurrence, I would defy the century-old tradition of my homeland and turn to the Tigers, not the Red Sox, as the team I would watch and then get sad about. When the Detroit Tigers make the playoffs, they are the team I want to see come out of the AL, and thus the team I want to see win the World Series (because National League baseball is smug and I will not stand for it). I wish them every success. But holy cow I wanted the Blue Jays to win one of these, man, just one. Why should that matter at this stage of a pretty spectacularly lost season? I have no idea.

KS 

I guess I should offer my valuable insight into the Stephen Strasburg shutdown debate as well

So it seems to me the biggest argument against the Nats shutting down Strasburg is that, hey, this just might be their year. Forget the fact they very purposely built towards having a long run of their years, which was supposed to begin next season. So really, they’ve done their job better than expected, and are reaping the rewards. Now in most professional cases, the response would be, “Oh cool, you’re really good at what you’re doing. I think I shall trust your judgment on matters pertaining to these continuing endeavors. Great job, brocephus.”
Except this is the baseball, a game worshipped by armchair theoretical physicists with two external hard drives full of sortable spreadsheets chock stuffed with obscure yet important data. However, these amateur statisticians, for whatever reason, very commonly are seduced by the lustful ramblings of strange fairies from the deep dark woods where Babe Ruth’s home run bats were hand-hewned by magical elves who understand the ways of baseball far more than us normal men ever could. And these strange fairies whisper unto the ears of every baseball player, pundit, blogger, and traditional newspaper columnist, “How dare these Nationals of the Washington shut down Stephen K. Strasburg, for this could be their magical year,” and then they laugh a laughter that sounds like feral children raised by coyotes playing “squirrel hunt” together. And yeah, I guess it makes sense if you believe in magical nonsense and all that shit. And sure, even Tommy John, who one would illogically assume is the ultimate authority on Tommy John Surgery, said Strasburg should keep pitching. Except, of course, Tommy John is not actually a surgeon; he is Tommy John, the guy who first had his elbow re-manufactured from Estonian parts.
But here is the one thing that keeps coming up in my mind (other than the aforementioned “If the Nats have proven ahead of schedule they know what the fuck they’re doing, then why would you question what they’re doing?”), over and over, that I’d ask you to riddle me if you will…
If this truly is the Nats one and only chance and the great magical year for their entire franchise’s existence and city’s existence to be remembered by baseball forever, then why the fuck would it matter if Strasburg plays again or not? If this is their chosen year, by magic and the universe, what slight is put upon magic and the universe that would cause them to be like, “Oh wait, fuck these Nats,” if Strasburg sat out the rest of the magical, destiny-soaked ride they are enjoying? What the fuck?
The whole thing is so stupid because it assumes the team is just along for the ride, that there’s not a ton more swirling around this franchise than Strasburg alone. Sure, he is a major part of the story, and along with Bryce Harper, the youthful double-face of this franchise’s future, but still, come on.
Basically what I think I’m saying is shut the fuck up everybody. I do not need to know everybody on earth’s opinion of how much Stephen Strasburg should pitch or not pitch. And while I believe in magic far more than the 500-page file on Tommy John surgery statistics the Nats allegedly have somewhere as guidance on this matter, I also believe enough in magic, and can recognize how magical this season has been, that one dude is not going to fuck it up by being gone. Baseball is so stupid with it’s “don’t jinx the no-hitter” and eating spaghetti before away afternoon games and all that hooha. And celebrity conjecture posing as serious analysis on Stephen Strasburg’s bionic elbow has just really gotten on my fucking nerves.
Also, fuck Chipper Jones. There, I said it. He looks like an asshole, and just because an asshole gets old doing the same thing over and over does not mean he is no longer an asshole, or at least looks like one.
Also here are some other baseball-related things I want to say fuck you too as we enter this postseason 2012, the year of our Magical Fairy Elves blessing the Nationals into the playoffs first time ever I MEAN EVER:
- that bowtie chump on Fox baseball
- all five Sam Malone from Cheers wannabes that host the pre-game/post-game thing, whose names I never remember other than they all sound like a pack of date-raping Theta Chi members I’d fistfight with drunkenly on my drunken way home from hanging out at a real bar, not some chump ass frat party
- the Yankees always and forever, especially A-Rod but really all of them
- people who think Bartolo Colon is somehow not as awesome as he was last week
- Presidential Election commercials on TV during baseball which is already hard enough to follow for a whole game without giant “PLEASE TURN OFF THIS MACHINE AND MOVE TO NORWAY BEFORE AMERICA IS EVEN STUPIDER THAN IT ALREADY IS” ads in between every half-inning
- and a bunch of other things most likely

Blue Jays 3, Rangers 2; Rangers 2, Blue Jays 1; Rangers 11, Blue Jays 2: At Least We Still Don't Have Any of Our Guys

return to me my sweet

I think my favourite part of this series was when the Blue Jays totally wasted a great start by Carlos Villanueva on Saturday afternoon, totally failing to do anything despite loading the bases a couple of times late at which point dudes elected to just pop up on 3-1 pitches. That was tremendous. To me.

KS

Toronto 3, White Sox 2 (F/11); White Sox 3, Blue Jays 2; White Sox 9, Blue Jays 5; White Sox 7, Blue Jays 2: Somebody Make It Stop

some poor dude had a heart attack at this shitty ballgame 

Yeah aside from David Cooper's walk-off hit and a dude I didn't even know was on the roster striking out four in an inning, the rest of this series was nothing but nonsense.

KS

Yankees 10, Blue Jays 4; Yankees 5, Blue Jays 2; Blue Jays 10, Yankees 7: If You Give J. A. Happ Ten Runs, You've Got A Chance

Carrie Underwood fuckin gunnin it

Yeah, so, if you stake J. A. Happ to a monstrous lead, he will only give up a dinger to Robinson Cano before getting the hook and the bullpen will try to blow it but fail and you will win. This is the only way for the Toronto Blue Jays to defeat the New York Yankees at this point, and it can only happen once a series, but I intend to enjoy it all the same, perhaps all the more. I am still pretty dang weirded about this whole Ichiro situation, which is getting no more normal seeming, but maybe by the end of the playoffs it will seem reasonable? I don't know. 

I don't know.

KS

Rays 3, Blue Jays 2; Rays 7, Blue Jays 1: Seriously I Don't Even Know Who These Guys Are

E5 takin' it back

Just some crazy fucking line ups these days, man. It's just a situation. At least Jose Bautista is ready to start hitting off a tee! But also Brett Lawrie is on the DL. And now the Yankees are in town. 

Revised 2012 prediction: the Toronto Blue Jays will lose one thousand games.

KS

Rays 4, Blue Jays 1: A Disappointing Return To A Reasonable Time Zone

 you don't see a lot of photos of a dude just routinely sliding back safely but I like this one

You know what, it occurs to me that it is possible that J. A. Happ is not the answer. Had that occurred to you? Oh OK, it totally had; I see. I am as pleased as anyone (and arguably also punch) to see Colby Rasmus ding a solo dinger but it was far too little on this night and so here we are. 

KS

Blue Jays 3, Athletics 1 (F/11); Blue Jays 6, Oakland 5: It Is Going to Be Like This The Rest of the Way Isn't It

don't act like you've never seen Moises Sierra before, jaws all on the floor , etc.

So yeah hot on the heels of all of the muck and shit and despair of basically the whole west-coast trip until Saturday, the Blue Jays picked up two against the A's to put them, well, five games out of the wild card, which is to say, just close enough that you keep checking the scoreboard but far enough back that they are still totally doomed. What we have before us now is a team of unrecognizable dudes, several of whom I am sure will be totally serviceable, but seriously man this is too much. Today, for instance, both Drew Hutchison and Dustin McGowan are going under the knife. Two dudes. Same day. Why not. 

KS

Mariners 4, Blue Jays 1; Marines 7, Blue Jays 2; Mariners 5, Blue Jays 3; Athletics 4, Blue Jays 1; Athletics 5, Blue Jays 4 (F/15): OK Cool What Did I Miss

in there, regrettably

Due to my almost fanatical devotion to the Olympics in general and Olympic judo in particular, I have barely had baseball on at all over this last week, and one day I didn't even check the previous night's score until like three in the afternoon, a thing that is, I assure you, a thing that is rare. So let's see here what did I miss oh OK they have lost all of the games and traded away Eric Thames and Travis Snider alright see you in a bit.

KS

Blue Jays 8, Tigers 1; Blue Jays 5, Tigers 1; Tigers 4, Blue Jays 1: I Am Not Even Going to Front Like I Caught These

Say what you will about Rajai but the man has a look

Look man I am genuinely glad the Blue Jays were able to take two out of three against the recently-looking-like-they-were-finally-good-but-I-guess-maybe-not-exactly Detroit Tigers, but I didn't catch more than a little bit of the Sunday game on the radio because the Olympics are just generally the best to begin with and then they go ahead and air like seven hours of judo online everyday and I mean what is one guy with even a few actual responsibilities to do? Watch less baseball than previously, is the answer to that age-old question.


KS

Athletics 7, Blue Jays 2; Athletics 16, Blue Jays 0; Blue Jays 10, Oakland 4: Even With That Win This One Felt Like a Sweep

me too, rick

Yeah, that second game was so fucked up that it cast a shadow over what should have been a pretty cool win in the getaway game. Romero has got to be hurt or something, right? There is no way he could just have gotten this bad this quickly, is there? This is just depressing. As is this: with J. P. Arencibia out for a while now, you'd think this would be an exciting opportunity to get a look at Travis D'Arnaud, one of the top catching prospects in all of baseball, but no, he wrecked his knee. So get used to Jeff Mathis, I guess, who actually pitched the ninth in the blowout, which is the sort of thing we all like to see I think (not kidding here actually). 


Coming into this series I was telling myself things like, "all we need is a sweep here against these ridiculously and unaccountably hot and possibly even magical Oakland A's, and we're tied for the wild card," which, looking back, may have been folly on my part. 


And yet, with basically no players at all at this point, here we sit, right at .500, a mere four games out of the wild card. What if everybody totally got healthy right away? What if this major-league-leading offense (look it up, it's true!) were supported by a couple of even league-average arms picked up before the trade deadline? What would all of that do to me? 


Oh yeah also Jason Frasor's arm is in ruins, how about that.

KS

Blue Jays 6, Red Sox 1; Blue Jays 7, Red Sox 3; Blue Jays 15, Red Sox 7: Such Brooms

a faceful of safe actually

Clearly invigorated by the dullest ten-player trade in major league history, Aaron Laffey and my man Carlos Villanueva put together straight-up heroic stars on Friday and Saturday nights to put the Blue Jays in position to sweep away the significantly hated Boston Red Sox today, and holy shit did they ever. I put the game on the radio walking home from the gym this afternoon thinking it would probably be the end of the second, maybe, but no, it was still the top of the bat-around five-run first, which saw Brett Lawrie put the first pitch of the ballgame out of the park, apparently (I mean, this is what they told me, and on the radio that is all I have to go on). Big ups, perhaps the biggest, to Alan Ashby, who found it within himself to call nonsense on the safety squeeze even when it works, even as part of a ridiculous five-run start to a game in a series the Blue Jays had already one; Ashby was like, it worked here, but it often doesn't, and I just don't like that play. Ashby.


All kinds of zany doings in this one, with basically a million dingers, including one from Rajai, which was cool because he also just totally lost a ball in the sun (it was scored a double because baseball is hopeless which is part of its appeal frankly). Just a great big sloppy mess of a great time, in short. I would like to note two things in closing, the first of which is that today is Dave Steib's birthday, and he was an enormous asshole with a great moustache and a filthy slider and one of the best pitchers of the 1980s and a guy who lost no-hitters in the ninth in consecutive starts in absurd circumstances so happy 55th; the second is that even though the internet tells me he does not regularly do this, I am certain that Red Sox shortstop Michael Anthony Avilés came to the plate to "Dance Yourself Clean." Or maybe they were playing it because of something else or something. But I know what I heard, and I liked it.

So yeah, a sweep in Boston, and we're back to a mere three games out of the Wild Card. I have become pretty sure that the Blue Jays are going to hover around .500 and totally dick with my head for the remainder of this 2012 season. It'll be OK.


KS

Yankees 6, Blue Jays 1; Yankees 6; Blue Jays 0: Is This Real Life?

think of me as a more exasperated version of all of the women in this picture except that I am a dude

Getting swept in New York whilst our rotation is a humiliating shambles is one thing, but to lose both Jose Bautista and now Brett Lawrie to injury over the course of that shambles is quite another. If this was a season of Baseball Mogul, and one hopes that that is indeed all this is, we would have just now reached the point where you decide that the highest difficulty level is just absurdly cheap, injuring all of your key dudes in completely arbitrary, Spinal Tap-drummer ways, and you either start again or go outside. But if this is really what is going on outside, where do I go outside to? And so you see that this totally untenable rash of injuries creates not just on-field problems but metaphysical ones, and that makes me uncomfortable, like, existentially. I mean, here's the fucking .gif of the thing:

totally don't bro

If Brett Lawrie pulls this kind of pseudo-heroic nonsense again I will forsake him. It is as simple as that. I have forsaken for less. It left him looking like this . . .

. . . which is arguably punishment enough, but imagine if on top of that, he was also forsook? 

KS

Yankees 6, Blue Jays 3: With Jose Bautista Hurt, Baseball is Meaningless

:(

I am not saddened by Raul Ibanez's grand slam any more than I am gladdened by Alan Ashby's description of E5 "dead nutting" a line drive: Jose Bautista is hurt, and there are no other cares.


KS

Blue Jays 11, Indians 9; Blue Jays 3, Indians 0: First Bats, then Arms

such dudes man just SUCH dudes

Hey, a great big hot mess of an 11-9 game is just the ticket for a hot Saturday afternoon in July, but let's hear it for the ever-dependable Carlos Villanueva who took the hill Sunday and allowed but three hits over six innings. Jason Frasor, who has been OK, put in a scoreless seventh, and Darren Oliver, who has been astounding, worked two shutout innings to close it out with his pretty dang choice 1.38 ERA. Pitching! Let's have some more of that! Maybe right away, too, since it's the New York for three! Boy, the Yankees are really running away with the division, aren't they? But I'm way less interested in the 9.5 games that separate the Yankees and the Blue Jays than the 1.5 games that separate the Blue Jays from the second Wild Card. And yeah, there are bunch of teams clustered together right there in the standings, but many of those teams are clown teams bro and therefore of no lasting concern. 


Playoffs? Almost certainly not, and yet: playoffs.


KS

Indians 1, Blue Jays 0: Well This is Fucking Great

blast

Now that Ricky Romero has finally got it figured out, the bats have gone cold for him, which is, as I have already mentioned above, fucking great. Another blow against pitcher wins/losses, true, but at what cost? 


Also, and shame on me for not mentioning this previously, but good for E5; that is a low-risk contract for the Blue Jays but a hell of a lot of money for a dude who sure stuck it out despite being set up to fail for most of his major league career. Do not ask Edwin Encarnacion to throw the baseball; do not ask it of him. 


KS

2 Things 2 Remember

So I was barely awake after the 4 hour beginning of the All-Star game the other night, but luckily caught life towards the end of the NL reserves being announced, and there they were, side by side, Harper and Strasburg. I was still half-dullard from both my napping as well as the harsh consequences of the life I've led, but my brain sharpened up with the reality that this is real. We had been conjuring up fantasy images for a couple years, about what could be, what might happen, and then there they both were, All Stars, together.
(Not to be forgotten is Gio standing on the other side of Strasburg, and dare I say Gio Gonzalez may be my favorite solid bro on this Nats team.)
Secondly though, as the deliriums of "STRASBURG! HARPER!" dances through the minds of long-tormented Washington sports fans, who would have little in their life to reminisce fondly of had Joe Gibbs never been born, and we think to ourselves, "The Nationals have the best record in the National League, halfway through the season" and start to imagine imaginary imaginings, it is important to remember this wasn't even the time for this to have fermented. Strasburg will be shut down as he should, and Harper is still 19. There legitimately should be no World Series this year for the Nats. I mean, come on. Don't be greedy.
But there seems to be a process of contention/playoffs/World Series that every franchise must navigate if they are building (unless they are the Marlins who just sort of pop in and out of the World Series every so often like magic unicorns), and perhaps we do make the playoffs and give this young ragtag collection of oddballs, castoffs, and top prospects a little post-season seasoning. I have not forgotten that at the beginning of the season on this blog I was charting the path to .500 every 16 games. They should be able to hit their target for this season, so everything else will be extra slices of blueberry pie, so to speak.
Also, of course, this is DC sports, so some terribly stupid tragedy could happen and derail the whole thing by the middle of August. But hey, let's enjoy the moment.

Clearly The Best All-Star Game Of Our Age

well isn't this just a hell of a thing

After much crying on the Internet regarding no-good Giants fans and their Silicon Valley computers (said with a sneer and followed by spitting upon the ground, to rinse the mouth of such unclean, perverse words), the four Giants starters (for there were four) did totally, and without remorse, wreck fucking shop. Melky Cabrera recorded the first hit of the game off a Justin Verlander who -- while not on top of his game -- was hurling absolute fire (as he tends to do). Buster Posey got a four-pitch walk off the fella and then Pablo Sandoval -- a guy who swings at the rosin bag behind the mound on the best of days -- hit the first bases-loaded triple in All-Star Game history. In history! The All-Star Game has been around a long time, my dudes, so that is truly something. And then Matt "Not R.A. Dickey" Cain pitched two scoreless innings that would have been two PERFECT innings (fitting for a man who recently threw a game that -- it could be said -- was perfect), had not Derek Jeter beaten out an infield single that Pablo only kind of misplayed.

Oh yeah, and then Melky hit a two-run dinger later to make it 8-0 National League and won the g-dang All-Star Game MVP award (pictured above). It was a hell of a game. I thought that last year's All-Star Game was the second-best All-Star Game I had ever seen (the first being that rad ASG where Bo Jackson hit a home run like a billion feet onto tarped-off batter's-eye seats), but this one shot right past both of them with righteous indignation and the NL once again absolutely obliterating things and insuring the Texas Rangers will lack home field advantage for an unprecedented third straight year in the Fall Classic. 

Midway through the season, it has been an amazing season of the highest highs and lowest lows. The Giants curl up and poop themselves when confronted with an over-.500 team (with the exception of the Dodgers, which is a great thing), Tim Lincecum has turned into a sub-Jonathan Sanchez horror show, and Emmanuel Burriss is always in danger of being inserted into a game. BUT at the same time, the Giants are only a half-game out of first place in the West, there is an extra Wild Card slot this year, MATT CAIN, Ryan Vogelsong and Madison Bumgarner are all putting on Cy Young-worthy performances, and Barry Zito has been better than expected. Aubrey Huff and Brett Pill spontaneously combusted, leaving Brandon Belt the starting first baseman between three and four out of every five games played, and the outfield of Melky, Angel Pagan and Gregor Blanco has been one of the very best outfields in baseball.

It will be quite a ride the rest of the way, but if literally nothing else, we shall have MATT CAIN, and we shall have this All-Star Game. The day when a band of Giants got together and invited the world to kiss all around their butt areas. Happy birthday (week) to me. 

White Sox 4, Blue Jays 2; White Sox 2, Blue Jays 0; Blue Jays 11, White Sox 9: Stumbling Towards The Break

yeah he's in there I guess

After the offense failed to support solid starts from both Aaron Laffey and Ricky Romero in the first two games of a weekend series against the apparently still active Chicago White Sox, the bats were out in force Sunday afternoon as the Blue Jays hung on to win the kind of four-hour shitshow that only ever seems to happen when it's crazy hot out. In truth the game came up a little short of four hours, but it had a languid pace that had Jerry Howarth and Alan Ashby nervous about their 8:40 flights home. Brett Cecil was terrible, and made a hash of a couple of pretty hefty leads he had been staked to, but whatever. That he gets anybody out with that junk he's been tossing ever since he lost all that velocity is a miracle, and so thank you for your service, Brett Cecil. 


And so here we sit at the All-Star Break: 43-43, tied in the AL East basement, 9.5 games behind a pretty impressive Yankees squad, but only 2.5 games out the Wild Card; our starting rotation basically does not exist; who knows what is up with Romero; but we can swing the bats a little; and Jose Bautista is going to hit fifty home runs. I don't know what to make of it, man. I feel so much more out of it than 2.5 games, but there's a lot of baseball left to play, and as I have proven many times over, I don't know anything about any of this.


Anybody watching the All-Star Game?


KS

Royals 11, Blue Jays 3; Blue Jays 6, Royals 3; Blue Jays 4, Royals 1; Royals 9, Blue Jays 6: Can This Really Be All We Are?

where have you gone, ricky ro?

While far from the worst butt, a four-game split with the Kansas City Royals at home is still firmly on the butt spectrum. I am genuinely pleased that this reborn Brett Cecil had another pretty good start (that's three of four, right?), and I always enjoy the work of Carlos Villanueva, but the sad tale of Ricky Romero renders all that moot, kind of, in that it is so bad it makes you want to forget about all Blue Jays starting pitching except for Brandon Morrow oh wait he is out for weeks. I believe it was Stoeten who said on the DJF podcast the other day that for all the awfulness of watching this once and future boss (my words not his) struggle so mightily out there, Ricky Romero is sort of doing the lord's work, in that he (along with the until-recently-winless Cliff Lee) is helping show yet again how dumb and pointless pitcher wins are as a stat. Ricky Romero is 8-3! What a great first half! Except he is awful! And he knows it! And it is clearly killing him! Note however that it can never kill us, because I am still firmly in this man's corner in the style of a NJPW Young Lion or possibly a squire of some kind, bringing him cool drinks between innings (in my heart). 


In other news, Jose Bautista continues to be utterly ripshit. I fucking love this guy. Hey did you know who he credits with turning his career around? Blue Jays hitting coach Dwayne Murphy, and motherfucking Clarence "Cito" Gaston motherfuckers.

yeah that's right

Is that Jerry Howarth behind him? If it isn't, it should be, because he owns too. 


In closing I would like to salute once more the fine people at DJF, who have started posting annotated win probability graphics after every game, which is probably the best idea in basbeall coverage in ever. Here are my two favourites from this Royals series, first this:

And then from last night:

An excellent idea excellently executed imo.


KS

Blue Jays 11, Angels 2; Angels 10, Blue Jays 6: So It Goes

canada day cursive: makes me want ginger ale (even more than usual)

On Saturday, Peter Bourjos, who is awesome, dropped a fly ball and the Blue Jays scored a million runs and won handily. In a much more interesting and yet ultimately contemptible game Sunday, the Toronto bullpen coughed it up and sent the Canada Day crowd home hating their country. But what can you do? We still basically have no guys, but we're still only 2.5 out of the wild card, somehow, with Kansas City coming in for three, so it could all be worse. It could all be, I guess, slightly worse.


KS