Archive for Actual Thing

I look upon this as I imagine Rilke looked upon that statue of Apollo, or as Frank Sinatra first looked upon the naked bestowals of Ava Gardner.

The image journeys through my eyes, down my throat and into the flame-licked meadow of my guts, and all that is wrong or inadequate or too purple or too loosed from its moorings during last night’s storm recoils. It recoils not for fear of the unnamed something but rather in order to stop and listen to a sound that is at once the annihilation of ancient leaves under Charlemagne’s boot and the fife-and-drum corps that heralds the simultaneous birth and death and spectral presence of a great man. Or perhaps the screams of a pumice stone at the river’s edge.

Swing low, baseball’s chariot: I have laid eyes — yellowed, rheumy eyes — upon The Inside of Dick Allen’s Batting Helmet …

Last night, yours truly attended this Yanks-Cubs ritualized beating at Wrigley Field. While the game was somewhat forgettable, a couple of lasting daguerreotypes snapped by yours truly offer more to the curators of this, our stupid civilization.

First we have a pregnant woman smoking just outside the ballpark!

The pregnant woman smoking: She’s in the background, roughly in the middle in a white top. You perhaps can’t tell from the grainy, sepia-toned image provided, but, yes, that’s a cigarette in her hand and the next generation — quite possibly the Pepsi Generation — in her leathery womb. Trust me. Am I judging her? Of course not. In the service of a reduced and, by extension, less painful birth weight, one must do what one must.

Next we have another awful photo. This one is of a kid in a Milton Bradley jersey!

You perhaps can’t tell from the grainy, sepia-toned image provided, but, yes, that’s a Milton Bradley jersey. Trust me. Why is the photo so terrible? Blame the Boost Mobile product line. Or blame the fact that I was trying to be somewhat discreet. Or blame the wholesome, nutritious alcohol coursing through my organ systems. Still, the fact remains: there’s a Cub fan — a Cub fan who is presumably too young for irony — who still wears a Milton Bradley jersey!

Crappy pictures spoken here!

Letters of Note, which traffics in noteworthy letters, has unearthed a baseball-ing document from way back yonder in 1898, when men were men and diseases were just, just great. The subject of the missive in question? Sporting gentleman John T. Brush wanted to rid our fair game of the maledictions and impieties common to those who were not raised right-wise.

By all means, click, embiggen and quaff deeply:

What is most pleasing about this letter is that Mr. Brush takes pains to quote the salty (yet, to these ears, soaringly beautiful) phrasings of the time. Because of Mr. Brush’s meticulous cataloging, fans of the era would know that when a baseball-ist quipped, say, “I f****d your mother, you sister, your wife,” he was indulging in ruffian’s talk and was quite likely a cad and a masher. Lest there be any confusion about that.

So it turns out that not all about the Gilded Age was gilded. You big asshole.

I’ve long maintained that “Baby Leopard” should be someone’s nickname. And now that the following daguerreotype has been loaded down onto and into my Internet computer keyboard and attached reflective screen, I am even more steadfast in that belief …

You can often identify a Great Man of History by the pearl-handled revolver he keeps tucked in his spats or the unfailing fact that, when posting for photographic images, he places the fingers of his dominant hand, which are sturdy but conclusively not hot-doggish, just within the lapels of his camelhair topcoat, between the fourth and fifth gold lamé buttons. In the absence of such evidence, you can identify a Great Man of History by the heirloom chalice in his grasp, the baby leopard on his arm and the brassy paid whore in his memory. That right-wise John McGraw, he was a Great Man of History!

The lesson, lads? One does not simply walk into Mordor. Unless one is John McGraw.

H/T: The lot of you, really.

Your eyes do not deceive you. That is indeed the box art for the long awaited latest installment from 1K sports, MLB 1K884. And who else could be on the cover than Charley Radbourn, he of the 59-12 record and 1.38 ERA for the ‘884 Grays (talk about video game numbers).

The game includes all the features we’ve come to expect from the masters at 1K sports, including

– Career mode, including offseason mill work!
– Realistic injury handling, including appendage removal minigame!
– Player Ratings!
— Bunt
— Field
— Throw
— Pitch
— Hit for average
— Speed
— Stamina (General; Opiates; Women)
— Fisticuffs
— Mustaches
– Murder!
– The revolutionary Syphillis Tracking Meter!

I also hear the first to throw a perfect game wins a crisp new $10 bill! Such a prize is sure to produce some stiff competition, so put in your pre-orders today!

If the image above is to be believed, then it’s a not-at-all-pleased Vin Mazzaro and not your smiling grandpa who waits for you on the other side. Mr. Mazzaro, of course, is famous in these pages for enduring this particular conga line of indignities.

You may also recall that Mr. Mazzaro was dispatched to the bus-and-roommates league shortly after that impossibly grim turn of events. Well, Mr. Mazzaro is back under the brighter lights and higher per diems of Kansas City, and in his most recent outing he fared quite well. But then there’s this caption …

Royals starter Vin Mazzaro scattered five hits over seven innings and lowered his ERA to 10.80.

Seven scoreless and the ERA is still 10.80. Not even the steady urine stream of a giant god-man can extinguish these smoldering embers.

Dodger rookie pitcher Rubby de la Rosa left this past Sunday’s game against the Rockies with what appeared to be some kind of hand injury. If the above report on same has any verity to it, de la Rosa possesses some anatomical curiosities that could land him in Ripley’s or the equivalent — and would certainly go some way to explaining why his stuff is so filthy.*

*Denotes joke.

Merci to our man Jeff Zimmerman, who found this guffaw-inducing news item all up on the internet.

In case you were watching any of the other 28 teams in action last night, you may have missed Nyjer Morgan apparently having the night of his goddamn life last night. First, he hits a walk-off double for the Brewers against the Mets. That’s pretty awesome, and he shows it in the celebration. Then he has this incredible post-game interview with FSN Wisconsin:

As if that wasn’t enough crazy (again, the good kind) for you, check out his post-postgame radio interview with Bob Uecker’s right hand man, Cory Provus.

It really isn’t any wonder that “Tony Plush” — Nyjer Morgan’s alter ego and “name on the field” — has become such a hit in Milwaukee. Combine his antics with his performance (1.2 WAR in 74 PA!) and you have the most legendary platoon player Wisconsin has ever seen.

What you see above is Cliff Lee’s “Players Choice Signature Series T-Shirt,” designed with input from the man himself, and you too can own one for just $24.99. According to the MLB shop, the design was “inspired by Lee’s love of hunting.” In the humble opinion of this blogger, however, your money is better spent elsewhere, as this article of clothing is an abject failure on each of two important fronts for evaluating such matters: form and function.

Form:

I am aware that beauty is believed to be fundamentally subjective, but this shirt tests the limits of that understanding. It is as close to an objectively hideous shirt as can possibly be produced. This shirt is so ugly, it looks at Pete Rose’s ugly jacket and feels self-conscious. This shirt is so ugly, it wouldn’t even sell at a thrift store in Brooklyn. This shirt is so ugly, it will be shipped in bulk to an impoverished country (along with the “Texas Rangers 2010 WS Champs” merchandise)…and it will be returned to the sender along with a note reading “We tried. Sorry…” In an epoch of human history when our fashion choices represent a very basic facet of how we define ourselves as individuals, there is simply no rational person who would want to be defined by whatever it is this shirt says. Okay, I exaggerate. Let me just put it this way: Cliff Lee is a master of FIPpery and xFIPpery. Sartorial aesthetics? Not so much.

But all is not lost, you see. An ugly shirt is not necessarily a useless shirt. Indeed, Bartolo Colon is hardly George Clooney, but the Yankees have found a use for him. This brings us to…

Function:

By the most rudimentary definition of a “shirt” — an article of clothing that covers the upper body — this one performs its function adequately. Because it is camouflaged, though, it is clear that this shirt aspires to be more than just any shirt. Say, for instance, you were to wear this shirt into combat (one possible use for camouflage, not that I endorse combat of any kind) to blend in with your surroundings. You would almost certainly be killed. The large red Liberty Bell right on your chest would both expose your position to the enemy and would provide him with a nice big target at which to aim. Even if you assume that the enemy possesses just middling marksmanship skills (on the comprehensive Ankiel–Zaytsev continuum), you can rightly expect to go home with a few more holes in your chest than you set out with.

Form and Function:

And finally, there is the nexus of form and function. Consider: you are in the woods hunting deer or some other medium-sized game. Consider also: you are stranded in those woods, having not had a substantial meal in a week, and the lives of you and your family depend on a successful hunt. You don the above shirt to attempt to gain a competitive advantage over your prey. Well, my friend, you’ve just made a deadly mistake. The deer have spotted your shirt and fled in horror at its sheer ugliness. You and your family starve. It is a great tragedy. At your funeral your mother says “He was a great son, but he always did have questionable taste in T-shirts”.

Conclusion:

This shirt is ugly and it will likely get you killed.

The righteous blog-folk over at i09.com have assembled a scientifically rigorous ranking of “10 scenes from the most ridiculous sports comic ever published,” and it should surprise no one that our fair game comes out on top! Congrats, cowhide and maple, and roll tape …

Indeed, why did Satan challenge a World Series team to a game of baseball? Considering his obvious mechanical flaws, could this possibly be wise? Given his stride length toward the plate, he’s surely overloading his shoulder muscles. Is it a cloven-hoof thing? Does having creepy beast feet lead to an unnatural landing point when airing out the four-seamer? In any event, I worry about our archfiend.

Still and yet, mechanical concerns will not stop me from giving the Angel of Darkness a doughty heckling!

Huzzah, black-hearted belly itcher, huzzah!