The Astros of Houston — I approve of their new uniforms, the progressive bent of the front office and the early work done by GM Jeff Luhnow on the superfund site that he inherited. Still, there is no doubt that when we think of the Astros of Houston these days we think of sadness. Invoking the name of Astros is not unlike summoning the Curtis Mathis to life and seeing overhead news-copter shots of an evangelical stronghold — you know something awful and ridiculous is unfolding.

So it was with a not-insubstantial sense of dread that I entered the search terms “Astros” and “sadness” into Google Images. After first abandoning all hope, please walk with me …

First:

I am confused. I thought a horse was one of the three animals Texans would not kill, the other two being a happy dog not presently on the far corner of your property uninvited and a grandma still capable of making a tasty pie.

For reasons sufficient unto themselves, however, the Astros have decided to drown a horse in mud.

Second:

Tents suggest unwelcome bonding time foisted upon wives and children, or perhaps one last stupid trip with old high-school buddies soon to enter hospice. It occurs to the man who pulls into his garage and sits in the car until the song is over that he resents his choices. So he takes his family camping. The lack of shade and the distinct possibility that Texas is the setting suggest a hot, shitty day. Although it seems unlikely, it’s also possible that this is an outdoor music festival, which is the worst human idea since organ meats.

I can’t imagine why the Astros are making us go to an outdoor music festival.

Third:

Ah, Bull Durham. This is the movie everyone says they like. However, if you watch the movie and pay special attention to things like the words and moving images, you’ll notice that it is a stupid, crappy movie. It might have zero funny parts to it, or fewer, depending on if you have to go to goddamn grocery store later. The mystery is not why it is an insipid film; the mystery is why no one will acknowledge that Bull Durham is as ass-dumb as Tango & Cash.

I don’t know why the Astros insist on watching Bull Durham on surround sound at their apartment yet again, especially when I don’t have a ride home and the Astros are out of weed.

According to its associated Facebook group, Boog City, which probably isn’t named after Boog Powell, “is a small press now its 20th year. It’s also an East Village community newspaper of the same name. The press has published more than three dozen volumes of poetry and various zines, featuring … theme issues on topics ranging from baseball to women’s writing, Louisville, Ky. to The Ramones…”

According a post in said Facebook group, Boog City is putting together another baseball issue; presumably anyone can submit baseball-themed poems or art.

A previous baseball issue of Boog City is available for viewing, the premise of which, in the words of editor David A. Kirschenbaum, was this: “A major league roster has 25 players on it, so I found 25 poets I dig who were willing to write an original baseball poem. I then assigned them each a position on a baseball team, from starting pitcher to backup first baseman, and everything in between. They were then told to pick anyone in the history of baseball who has ever played their position, be it in Major League Baseball, the Negro Leagues, the All-American Girls Professional Baseball League, the minor leagues, college, a kid from the schoolyard, or anyone else and write a new poem about them.”

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“What beats me,” he said with a trembling voice, “is why did it always have to happen to me? What did I do to deserve it?”
–The Natural (1952)

“But I didn’t see it coming.”
“How could you possibly know she’d hurt you? How could anyone?”
“I didn’t see it coming.”
“You think you should have?”
“Yes. But I didn’t. Why didn’t I?”
–The Natural (1984)

The film version of The Natural is saccharine and sentimental, laden with heavy-handed imagery and emotional manipulation. It eschews the dramatic tension of the text for a pulpy, feel-good ending. It is fantasy fodder for middle-aged men. And despite common belief, it is vastly superior to the book in nearly every way.

Bernard Malamud’s novel was published in 1952, and the era sits heavy in the pages. It’s a work about heroes, but at the same time it doesn’t believe in heroes. It’s a book about baseball that captures none of the game’s spirit.  The Natural is a product of its lame times.

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Chris Getz has apparently “added some bulk,” according to Ned Yost.

Since the “best shape of my life” beat is already taken, maybe I can compile the “added some bulk” collection.

Chris Sale

and… that’s it. Or at least that’s all Google can help me find.

Okay, this will not be a big collection. Also, Chris Sale is not very bulky.

“Curiosity is one of the permanent and certain characteristics of a vigorous intellect.”
Johnson: Rambler #103 (March 12, 1751)

Despite this innate curiosity Johnson describes above, there are some things that it’s better for you not to investigate. To forgo your natural curiosity is not a sign of a weak intellect in such cases, but is a testament to your understanding that some shit will straight up kill you, and you should probably not try it.

Just because your brain wonders how it feels to jump out of an airplane, or mix cotton candy and Scotch, or get hit in the face with a t-shirt fired from a mascot-wielded t-shirt cannon, doesn’t mean you’re going to do it. That’s where I come in. To resolve, then, the conflict between your natural innate curiosity and the wiser angels of your nature, I am offering myself as your avatar to try things on a semi-regular basis that you should not, and to tell you about the results. That way, your curiosity is satisfied, and the only one in harm’s way is a 34 year old father of two who should really know better.

And so it was that a couple of weeks ago I was getting lunch and playing nerdy baseball board games with Gentleman of the Internet and Shame of the BBWAA Carson Cistulli and the impossibly young Jackie Moore when Carson laid out three packs of tattered, ancient baseball cards before us. “Take one,” he murmured, seductively. Read the rest of this entry »

In an effort to bone up on ballparks a little bit for an upcoming radio episode, I ventured to my local public library to peruse the stacks. I came across a promising work aptly titled Ballparks of North America by Michael Benson.

With a little time on my hands, I sat down and started to thumb through this. I skimmed through a little until I came upon the first entry listed under Atlanta, Georgia.

Some thoughts:

1. All ballparks should be built near or on cemeteries.
2. I consider any team named [City Name] Nine to be the best team ever.
3. I think the use of the phrase “emerged victorious” is a bit of an understatement, considering the 98-run differential.
4. Related: 156 total runs.
5. I love MLB.tv and GIFs and wOBA and the Winter Meetings, and many other things involved with the current game of baseball. But, sometimes, it’s pretty cool to think about how the same game was played and viewed in an unnamed park, next to a cemetery, for four and a half hours and 156 runs, a year after the God-damned Civil War ended. The addition of Bo Jackson is the only thing that could have made this story better.

Good job, America.

Young Hank Conger is more of a lil’ Hank Conger.

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You know Henry Aaron, who was born on this very date in 1934, for his legendary assault on the most cherished record in baseball. You know Carl Pomerance, who was born in 1944, for his legendary quadratic sieve algorithm and his nearly-as-legendary Adleman–Pomerance–Rumely primality test. But did you know that the lives of these two legends are forever intertwined? Consider:

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The Royals announced their 2013 slogan on Monday: “Come to Play.” Inspiring. SB Nation has a post that collects some of the most ridiculous slogans over the past 15 years. “Come to Play” was also used by the 2004 Rangers, who actually didn’t play so badly. The historically bad ’03 Tigers: “We Come to Play.” Okay then. The 2002 Orioles: “Give us an O!” The 2001 Brewers: “It’s All Here Under One Roof.”

Made me want to try and invent some of my own. Add yours in the comments and we’ll vote on the best later in the week!

“We Have Players!”

“There Will Be Games!”

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In which Pete Rose translates towering works of poetry.

In today’s episode, Pete Rose will translate “A Poison Tree” by Romantic luminary William Blake from the original English into Pete Rose American.

Mr. Blake’s original:

I was angry with my friend:
I told my wrath, my wrath did end.
I was angry with my foe:
I told it not, my wrath did grow.

And I watered it in fears,
Night & morning with my tears;
And I sunned it with smiles,
And with soft deceitful wiles.

And it grew both day and night,
Till it bore an apple bright ;
And my foe beheld it shine,
And he knew that it was mine,

And into my garden stole
When the night had veil’d the pole:
In the morning glad I see
My foe outstretched beneath the tree.

Mr. Rose’s translation:

I was angry with my friend:
I told my wrath, my wrath did end.
I was angry with my foe:
I told it not, my wrath did grow.

And I watered it in fears,
Night & morning with my tears;
And I sunned it with smiles,
And with soft deceitful wiles.

And it grew both day and night,
Till it bore an apple bright ;
And my foe beheld it shine,
And he knew that it was mine,

And into my garden stole
When the night had veil’d the pole:
In the morning glad I see
My foe outstretched beneath the tree.

Hey, 7-11 clerk,
Let’s make this shit work.
My rebuilt Dodge in the handicap spot,
The .38 in my hand that I have not yet shot,

And an autographed, severed finger of mine
For 10 Powerball tickets (for which I typically stand in line),
And enough Schlitz my thirst to quench.
Anybody asks, my name’s Johnny Fucking Bench.

This has been “Poetry, Translation by Pete Rose.”