Brad Ausmus is the handsome manager of the Detroit Tigers, one of only 30 men in the world who can claim a job managing a Major League Baseball team. That’s a hell of a gig, and you think most people would be happy with that amount of professional success.

Alas, Brad Ausmus is not most people. He wants something much, much more, but much, much less prestigious: to be a standup comedian. Take his comments on Tuesday, for instance:

As most of us know, wife beating jokes went out with the death of Jackie Gleason. Nobody else has been able to consistently been able to transcend the appalling image of a large man beating the hell out of his spouse. We really miss you, Jackie.

Ausmus apologized, both for not being funny and for making light of spousal abuse. In light of his apparently very real remorse, The Royal We are inclined to offer him some form of conciliation. Here’s a list of better possible responses for Mr. Ausmus, should he get the question again: Read the rest of this entry »

I saw you, shirtless man.

I saw you in the stands, a few rows behind the dugout while a professional athlete pitched. I saw you and I shuddered. I saw you and I giggled. I saw you and I pressed rewind, and on your meaty physique I paused the TV image.

I wondered: What possessed you, shirtless man? What possessed you to remove your garment – the lone barrier between your torso and the rest of the civilized world – during a nationally televised game at Camden Yards? Had your man boobs felt confined – perhaps pent-up or even claustrophobic, as if prisoners of our prudish times – by the shirt that you had selected just hours before your display? Had your “huddled masses” yearned to breathe free, to break the weave of oppression and wobble unfettered near our nation’s Eastern shore? Did you crave the libertarian bliss of defying decorum – of rejecting convention – in proximity to our nation’s capital, or merely enjoy the idea of a stranger gazing downward, into the mysterious recesses of your butt crack, and wondering if you had ever enjoyed the ministrations of a Parisian bidet?
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The Diablos Rojos del México play in a fairly crappy ballpark. It’s way too big for the team’s fan base, and the only game that gets near to selling out is the home opener. So it’s nice to go to other parks in the country. On Wednesday, I went to Puebla, a city about 130km southeast-ish of Mexico City. Puebla is where all the cinco de mayo stuff happened. More importantly, it’s the home of mole poblano. And it’s also the home of the Pericos de Puebla, who have a nice little park, called Estadio Hermanos Serdán. Los Diablos were playing the Pericos. And the following is my semi-true account of my time in Puebla, watching baseball.

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July 1, 1990: Andy Hawkins is somehow the starting pitcher for the New York Yankees. He’d been fired a month ago, only to find reprieve in an injury to Mike Witt. Despite pitching well in June, his ERA still floats at 6.49, his record at 1-4.

A different man took the hill that day. After five innings, neither he nor his opponent Greg Hibbard has allowed a hit, and after each third out Hawkins wandered back to the dugout, his jaw aimlessly working a wad of gum, his eyes dull. By the bottom of the eighth, the game still scoreless, Hawkins had conjured two infield pop-ups. Then, the fates cut the string:

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I read Dave Cameron’s post this morning. It was a good note on the dominance of Clayton Kershaw. I had heard about the event, but wasn’t watching it live. Therefor, the embeded video in Cameron’s post — the very video I am about to embed — was the first video exposure I had to the event.

Even at the first watching, I couldn’t help but notice Zack Greinke. You’ll see him try and join the scrum with a genuine look of joy for his teammate. Then, as the crowd compacts and begins to undulate a little more, you can see his hesitation.

Greinke has had issues with anxiety in the past. I imagine, even with a good regimen of medication, those feelings still crop up from time to time. I am certainly not making fun of him for that. In fact, I’m in his corner.

People who have struggled with anxiety, like myself, know this feeling oh so well. Maybe you’re at a party. You could be having a great time, a wonderful time, and you are thinking of nothing but the excellent experience you are having with people you enjoy. And then, somebody bumps you. Nothing violent, nothing malicious, just an accidental grazing. Suddenly, you are snapped back into reality.

“I have to get out of here. There are too many people here. How can I do this cool? Can I just take off? What will people think? Will they think I’m weird? Do they already think I’m weird? Where has all the oxygen gone? I gotta go. I gotta go. I gotta go I gotta go I gotta go.”

It’s not a necessarily fun thing, to have a sudden and unkillable need to remove yourself from a place. But it’s always there — if not at a singular moment, it’s on its way. It could be in a grocery store or a movie theater or surrounded by teammates celebrating a rare achievement.

I get it, Zack Greinke. Other people do too. Godspeed.

As was made mostly clear by way of their 2-1 defeat of Ghana, what the US national team makes up for with pluck and want-to, it probably lacks in terms of overwhelming skill so far as the world’s game is concered. This isn’t entirely surprising, of course: not only is soccer in its infancy, relatively speaking, within the States, but there are also multiple other sports which tend to draw potentially transcendant talent in other directions.

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You’ve read News of the Weird, right? Well, what’s weird is that this news is weirder – so weird, in fact, that fiction is no longer subordinate to truth.

Beginning this week, former slugger Jose Canseco will embark on a 10-week, 17-city tour in efforts to break the official world record for the longest home run. At the same time, former slugger Rafael Palmeiro is embarking on a similar tour in efforts to break the official world record for the longest denial.

As part of its 2014 Series 2, Topps has produced baseball cards that feature sabermetric stats such as TZR and WPA. In a similar marketing ploy, Upper Deck is releasing a series of Cubs cards that feature LOL and WTF.

Early last week, after a contentious weekend game, Baltimore’s Manny Machado apologized for throwing his bat at Oakland third baseman Alberto Callaspo. Later this week, Callaspo will apologize for not throwing it back.

On Sunday, Seattle first baseman Logan Morrison responded to a fifth-inning failure – a pop-up with runners in scoring position – by smashing his bat. Meanwhile, former Seattle forward and 11-time father Shawn Kemp responded to a string of successes by smashing his balls.
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When I was asked by Signore Cistulli if I would consider regularly debasing myself to contribute to NotGraphs, I read between the lines and saw the invisible words “post stuff that appeals to as few readers as possible.” Today, I present something that appeals to a tiny demographic. You, as a NotGraphs reader, are in a small subset of all baseball fans. Discerning, right? Not the normal meathead home run fuck yeah bozos. A smaller subset of you NotGraphs readers are New Order fans. An even smaller subset of you New Order-lovin’ NotGraphs readers are graphic design nerds. This post is for you.

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Ow. That hurt. I’ll be okay, but– ow. And what the **** did I do? I didn’t make Drew-bear pitch like **** or– oh, Drew-bear? Yeah, that’s just my little pet name for him. He’s usually like a gentle, little cub, pawing around my seat, sitting down so delicately and rubbing himself up against my slats. But that’s the way with so many abusers, isn’t it? They lull you into a false sense of trust, of kinship. He told me secrets. He whispered them into my cushion late at night, when it was just the two of us and maybe a table– but you know tables, they barely even have a consciousness, you can’t worry about what a table overhears. We shared so much. I remember the time he spilled water on me. And then he lapped it up, just like a cat.

I mean, I guess there were warning signs. In the heat of passion, he once threw me against a locker — he apologized, he said it would never happen again. I still have a mark — you can see it if you look closely at the grain. I would have gone to the carpenter for treatment but Drew-bear asked me not to say anything. And when he looks at you with those eyes, it’s hard to say no. I just slapped some wood glue on it and kept my mouth shut. He was sweet when he wasn’t abusive. The TV told me Drew-bear hit him too, but you can never believe what the TV says. Hopefully whoever replaces Drew-bear on the roster will have a nice, soft tushie and a calm disposition. I just hope they don’t get that Canseco guy back, from a long time ago (56 years ago in chair-years). He was the worst. And once injected me with termites.

Oh, ****, I think I’m splintering. ****. ****, ****, ****. That means they’re going to put me on the DL too. ****, Drew-bear, why’d you have to **** me up? The players don’t think about it, but we work hard too. I spent a decade in the minors– Stockton, Visalia, Costco– before finally getting a chance up here. And now I’m gonna lose my spot to some couch with good (sleep-)numbers. I was six months from qualifying for a pension! Six months!

**** you, Drew-bear. **** you and all creatures with fists. ****.