Mike Greenwell certainly could have saved this unnamed Yankee from gruesome death by alligatór (Mr. Greenwell pronounces “alligatór” with the accent on the final, definitive syllable), but restraint of power is a power unto itself …
It is said that a young Bertrand Russell refrained from killing himself because of his love of math. Somewhere in America, Mike Greenwell, the subject of your Daguerreotype of the Evening, has just saved a philosopher’s life.
Even with his team leading the AL Wild Card race by a mere three games — and winning by only a single run in the fifth inning — Terry Francona isn’t the sort of person to pass up an opportunity to make solid-gold comedy, here capitalizing on the double-meaning of the word climate during Boston’s 4-3 win over Tampa Bay on Friday night.
Not captured as part of this footage is Francona saying, just seconds later, “Your move, Carrot Top.”
You should know two things about tonight’s Daguerreotype of the Evening. First, it moves. Second, it contains magic. Click and witness:
We already knew of A.J. Pierzynski’s dark ways, and now we know he treats the opposing catcher’s mask like a grinder’s wheel. As such, we can safely christen him “The Blacksmith.” Which has a slightly better flow to it than “Widely Disliked Spark-Maker.”
In which I shamelessly stand on the shoulders of the giants who came before me by inserting Dick Allen’s name into various works representative of the Western Canon, thus adding to those various works the patina of blessedness.
Today’s episode: Dick Allen awakes one morning from uneasy dreams and finds himself transformed in his bed into a gigantic insect in Franz Kafka’s The Metamorphosis.
Hardly was he well inside his room when the door was hastily pushed shut, bolted, and locked. The sudden noise in his rear startled him so much that his little legs gave beneath him. It was his sister who had shown such haste. She had been standing ready waiting and had made a light spring forward, Dick Allen had not even heard her coming, and she cried “At last!” to her parents as she turned the key in the lock.
“And what now?” said Dick Allen to himself, looking around in the darkness. Soon he made the discovery that he was now unable to stir a limb. This did not surprise him, rather it seemed unnatural that he should ever actually have been able to move on these feeble little legs. Otherwise he felt relatively comfortable. True, his whole body was aching, but it seemed that the pain was gradually growing less and would finally pass away. The rotting apple in his back and the inflamed area around it, all covered with soft dust, already hardly troubled him. He thought of his family with tenderness and love. The decision that he must disappear was one that he held to even more strongly than his sister, if that were possible. In this state of vacant and peaceful meditation he remained until the tower clock struck three in the morning. The first broadening of light in the world outside the window entered his consciousness once more. Then his head sank to the floor of its own accord and from his nostrils came the last faint flicker of his breath.
This has been the latest installment of Inserting Dick Allen’s Name Into Works of Literature.
I dare you to look at the aged — yet oddly handsome — face of Dusty Baker, and not be impressed. I don’t know about you, but I see wisdom.
I see a mix of young and old: A pair of stylish frames I’d most certainly rock; a Phiten Tornado necklace; and some gray, some years, both in the mustache and soul patch that Baseball Lifer Baker wears so well.
I see a reflective man, one who ponders his place in the universe, who contemplates when he will be freed from the shackles of Bronson Arroyo.
I see a leader’s mustache; a manager’s mustache. Respect, Dusty Baker.
Image courtesy Reuters, via Daylife.
As you may have noticed, here at NotGraphs we occasionally rely upon the kindness of readers to lead us by the clammy hand to content worthy of our revered imprimatur. Usually, this entails sending us a link or even vague hints at search terms. As you are about to learn, however, this writer is not averse to wholesale plundering of the reader’s innermost thoughts.
Cherished reader Reillocity, who maintains a philosophic calm despite his triumphs in Muay Thai, regaled us in the Busy Businessman thread with tales and examples of a thing that does things to things (URGENT UPDATE: Noble reader glassSheets also played an extra-vital role in doing my work for me). It is my belief that the Internetting Gentleman will appreciate what happens next …
1) Actually, that title is somewhat of a misnomer. This first balk is, like, totally obvious.
Show #9 (Season 2)
“The Unnatural”
Larry’s softball team has a chance of winning the championship, but with their star player unavailable, Larry’s hopes of winning the coveted trophy might rest on Balki’s shoulders.
Dallas Braden is excited.
See? I told you.
You, the reader, may not fully understand just how excited Dallas Braden is. I, the author, somewhat fortunately, do not understand just how excited Dallas Braden is. But you know who does? People on the Maury Povich show. Like this guy:
And this guy:
In fact, I think Braden actually might have been on Maury one of those times… I think we have the footage (which will be embiggened upon clickage):
Well, just allow me to say congratulations to Dallas on both fronts (the being able to throw and the not being the father).
Many thanks to Holy Maury Mother Of God for existing and having these great images.
Commenter/reader/strapping violinist ChrisDTX, over yonder in the most recent “Nickname Seeks Player” nomination thread, calls the writer’s attention to what follows, your Daguerreotype of the Evening …
There are not one but two nouns for what you ogle above: handsomeness and handsomity. As for me, I do intend to gaze at the Daguerreotype of the Evening for a bit longer but not until I retrieve my sandalwood hand fan and safely position myself astride the fainting couch.
How could the image above excrete, seep and ooze even more handsomeness and handsomity? I present to you the surely true and accurate description that accompanies the above Daguerreotype of the Evening:
Detroit Tigers pitcher Justin Verlander talks with reporters before leaving Detroit on the team’s Winter Caravan Thursday, Jan. 20, 2011, in Detroit. (AP Photo/Paul Sancya)
Yes, this is how Mr. Verlander looks while chatting up reporters and mingling with devoted rooters: pocket-squared, lapeled and striking his most intense pre-coitus gaze.
Mr. Verlander, winner of games and hearts.
While, to the untrained eye, these various Cardinal rookies appear to be dressed in a haphazard assortment of humiliating costumes, the discerning reader will note the obvious theme among their respective outfits — namely, that each one represents a different era in David Bowie’s long and important musical career.
The idea, of course, comes courtesy of Lance Berkman, who’s on record as saying, apropos Bowie’s glam-rock alter ego, “Ziggy Stardust really taught me how to just be Lance Berkman.”
Image brought to the attention of NotGraphs via Jesse Wolfersberger.