Archive for Actual Thing

The Giants called up Juan Perez, a 26-year-old center fielder in Triple-A who had never seen the bigs before, because they were short on center fielders with Angel Pagan out. The young man has tools and strengths, but he knows the former and is working on the latter.

To wit, two things he said to me before last night’s game:

1) “I got a good arm. I just made a good throw in a perfect time in the game.”

Then he did this Tuesday night.

2) “This year, I’ve been working on my two-strike approach, trying to be more selective and get the ball in play.”

Then he did this on a 3-2 count in the eighth inning Tuesday night.

Well done, young man. Well done.

He's arrived. Wil Myers called up to the #Rays. #WelcomeHome

— Tampa Bay Rays (@RaysBaseball) June 16, 2013

Hey. He lost his big feather.
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This is a screen shot taken from my computer at 11:46 Eastern Time last night.

There is a game between the Padres and the Dodgers. It is the sixth inning. The pitchers are Clayton Kershaw and Jason Marquis. There is a no-hitter in progress.

The pitcher with the no-hitter is Jason Marquis.

My brain has just exploded.

Twitter is also very confused.

Anyone that thinks Marquis can complete a no hitter is a moron and likely voted Braun 2011 MVP. #Dodgers #Padres

— Jorden (@DodgersGuru) June 6, 2013

Jason Marquis is going to throw a no hitter tonight at age 74.

— Kevin. (@KFayPSU) June 6, 2013

Jason Marquis has a no-hitter going? #TwilightZone

— Matt Eurich (@MattEurich) June 6, 2013

If Jason Marquis throws a no-hitter, I will believe I can fly.

— AlwaysSunnyInDetroit (@Tim_Goergen) June 6, 2013

Who knew Jason Marquis is better then Clayton Kershaw. #DodgersSuck

— Nexus Dave (@NexusDailyPicks) June 6, 2013

Marquis confusing me <<

— IG: _yarsmas_(@phew_phewchu) June 6, 2013

Baseball: Anything Can Happen.

Roger Maris, what have you done? WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?

You’ve cashed in your fame and fortune for a laboratory of horrors — to perform your monstrous and unethical experiments. You’ve crudely melded man and beast, and for what? What is your end goal?

Why must you dabble in the dark sciences, Roger Maris? What possible motivation do you have? Look at that poor thing to your left. Look in its eyes. Well, pick an eye, I guess. Explain to this jumbo rodent why you did what you did. Tell it why you sewed a belt to its skin. Tell it why you grafted what appears to be some sort of 2×6 to its chest. Why the thigh implants? Did you give it a watch so it could track exactly how long it’s endured excruciating pain and suffering? Your cruelty is as sharp as that thing’s widow’s peak.

Wipe that shit-eating grin off your face, you fink. There is no joy to be found in this dugout. You have done heinous things.

Your skills at the plate do not match your skills in genetics, Roger Maris. You sicken me.

(h/t to Chris Mottram for the original link)

My wife and I, being healthy and productive members of both society and the working class, often spend our evenings pursuing projects that imbue our lives with a sense of fulfillment and personal satisfaction. So was it on the evening last, as I typed words about baseball and my wife digitized photographs of our collective youth. These two spheres collided tragically when  my aforementioned and charming wife uncovered photographs of my own baseballing pursuits, in the form of fake baseball cards devoted to my Little League team.

I present to you the backs of said cards. I do not present their fronts, because as you are perhaps aware, the Internet is a swarthy port-tavern of a place, and the present author may have, in his youth, worn the sort of spectacles that put Ron Kittle’s to shame.

I also present them to you in order to confess the sins of a foolhardy youth. Judge as thou wilt, Internet. I shall emerge the stronger for it.

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Recall former major league catcher Charlie O’Brien, backstop for eleven Cy Young Award winners, personal catcher to Greg Maddux, inventor of hockey-style catcher’s mask.

And, in his retirement, deer odor salesperson.

That’s right, I have stumbled across Charlie O’Products, O’Brien’s unique (or maybe not!) line of sprays, creams, and beads that will make deer come closer to your guns so you can shoot them. Actual text on web site:

WARNING: Animals may be prone to attack you while using this product.

So, yeah, that seems like a great idea. But I guess if you’re wearing a hockey-style catcher’s mask while the deer mauls you, at least your face will be protected.

O’Brien is apparently also a member of the cast of Deer Thugs, a television program on the I REALLY NEED TO STOP WATCHING TV BECAUSE IT IS ROTTING MY BRAIN television network.

Deer hunters among you, feel free to explain in the comments why it makes good sense to rub yourself with perfume that makes deer think they should mate with you. I have all sorts of frustrations about living in New York City — construction noise, garbage, the high cost of living, subway cars that smell like urine — but at least I don’t have to worry that a deer is going to try and mate with me.

Within these very dog-eared pages, David G. Temple, freelance sexecutioner, noted that baseball as a social phenomenon lends itself to culminating hubba hubba.

Among the instances of such was this:

The sexual enthusiast will be pleased to know that the obliging Mr. Met, whose dirty protuberance is at all times veiny, boing-boing and purpled, consented to the madame’s wishes.

On the shores of Far Rockaway, amid the medical-waste flotsam, love was made …

You must change your life.

In general, I feel okay in the clubhouse. Obviously, I’m the low man on the pole, and when I get the brush off, it’s fine. Nobody knows who I am. I understand. And when I feel a little awkward standing there fiddling with notes among half-dressed young men, I just have to look around and look at how awkward half the rest of the room feels and I’m more comfortable again. At least I’m not lugging heavy television equipment around or tugging at a tie.

All of that is not to say that I didn’t feel my heart in my shoes on Monday night in the Padres clubhouse:

Monday night in the Padres’ Clubhouse

In my defense, dude’s mustache is a full beard now, and he wasn’t sitting at his own locker. But, yeah. Still. I know. I know.

John Gibbons’ return to managing the Toronto Blue Jays this past off-season was greeted with skepticism by some. After all, didn’t he sink the ship five years ago? Why, with the Blue Jays re-making their roster with a couple of huge trades, would they bring back a manager whose tenure had been, to put it kindly, a bit tumultuous? Sure, there were those who thought that Gibbons was pretty good when it came to in-game strategy (not much bunting). Still, could he really be comfortable enough to command the clubhouse?

During the broadcast of last night’s Blue Jays-White Sox game, I saw something that made it clear to me that whatever else is going on, John Gibbons is definitely comfortable.

[Thanks to mysterious Twitterer Paul S, who heeded my immediate request for a screen cap and provided the above.]

North America responded fulsomely.

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I would like to see a collage of smiling baseballs right about now.

I would like rounded edges and a background hue that suggests an institutional sense of calm. I would like for whoever assembles the collage to be as undaunted by clip-art watermarks as Cartier before the St. Lawrence. The glimpse of a wee penguin might help, too.

I would like to see a collage of smiling baseballs right about now.

That was disappointing.