Archive for Real Talk

The Tampa Bay Devil Rays. I hate ‘em. All the while knowing that I shouldn’t.

I have to, though. Hate, I mean. It’s in my contract as a proud supporter of the Toronto Blue Jays. When the team you root for hasn’t qualified for the postseason in, oh, almost 20 years, eventually all you’re left with is hatred for those teams in the American League East that do play baseball in October. I hate the New York Yankees. The Boston Red Sox, too. I ignore the Baltimore Orioles, bless their hearts. I used to be able to say the same about the Rays. I miss those days.

I didn’t think it was possible, but, after reading Jonah Keri’s The Extra 2%, my dislike for the Rays has actually increased. And that’s not to say Mr. Keri’s book wasn’t a great one. It was. I found it, most of all, readable; the type of book you start and finish on a four and a half-hour cross-country flight. I mean, from Tampa’s struggle to finally land a team, to all that losing, to the vision displayed in going against the grain in assembling an unconventional front office, which led to the exorcising of so many demons, and, finally, to their rise from worst to first. What’s not to love? And I didn’t even mention Joe Maddon. The unparalleled Joe Maddon, with his glasses, his love of vino, and, of course, “The Danks Theory,” which he repeatedly put to good use against Toronto, when Shaun Marcum was still a Blue Jay.

I’ve found plenty not to like, though. Ben Zobrist, to start with. I should appreciate the likes of Zobrist, a nomad on the diamond, who’s enjoying a 2009-like renaissance at the plate. But I can’t. And, no, I can’t explain why. Hatred is illogical; there’s no rhyme or reason. Then there’s David Price, and his 8-0 record and 1.99 ERA in nine career starts against Toronto. The Blue Jays bore David Price.

After much introspection, I’ve figured it out: I hate the Rays because they’ve become everything the Blue Jays haven’t. I like to think of myself as being self-aware, so I have to admit it: I’m jealous. The Rays have conquered baseball’s toughest division in a market much smaller than Toronto’s, with far fewer resources, in an even more inferior domed ballpark.

That’s why they’ll always be the Devil Rays to me.

Image courtesy Victoria Lucas.

In this space we are duty-bound to pass along great manager tirades. What follows, however, comes to us from the ivory towers of academia, where they call managers “head coaches” but still make them wear uniforms. Texas head coach Auggie Garrido has lots of success at the major-college level, and I’d like to think that’s because he has a mouth that’s dirtier than Pig Pen’s bedpan. (You have probably surmised that the following walking tour of the undesirable neighborhoods of the King’s English is not safe for work, unless your place of employment is just really great.) Behold, respectfully:

At this point we are, necessarily and in abundant awe, left to wonder: which of the following is the most rousing, most soaring, most eagle-winged speech, delivered to the college man in need of a guiding paternal hand, in the annals of time? Your candidates …

A. “Win one for the Gipper!”

B. “If it was a boxing match and each individual took the beating that we took here today, I wouldn’t have to be doing this. I’d just come and visit your ass in the hospital and say, ‘When you get the fu*king wires off of your mouth from the broken jaw, and you can see again because your eyes are swollen now, and you can walk again because the guy just punched you in the gut 55 fu*king times,’ all I’d have to say is, ‘With all that, when you get better, we’ll have a little chat about how this guy just fu*king destroyed you.’ Okay?”

C. “Totally fu*king stupid!”

D. Both B and C.

Born in a blowout.

ottoneu creator Niv Shah wasn’t always a Cleveland Indians fan. In fact, he once cared little for baseball, instead focusing on basketball, football and video games when he had a free moment. Then one day in 1999 a friend gave him some free tickets to the game. Niv called friend Chad Young (currently blogging about being a member of the FanGraphs Experts League).

Any birth is uncomfortable at best, and this one had its ups and downs. I asked the pair about the experience so that we can learn a little more about how a fan is born. Perhaps in a bid to promote ottoneu, it looks like Mr. Shah forsook the capital letter. Poetic license!

Read the rest of this entry »

…but when he is, he prefers to emote in pithy quotes.

Life on the road isn’t always beers, broads, and brats.

There are those other moments, times where the grind gets you down. Those Tuesday double headers, those foggy outfield practices. Those moments of self-doubt. Those existential crises, when, perhaps the day after an oh-fer, you just want to sit on the warning track and emote quietly to the grass.

In those moments, take heart. Emo Juan Uribe knows your pain.

H/T R.J. Anderson

What a Salvo.

It all started so innocently. Or, as innocent as intense sartorial mocking can be.

A fan site for the Cardinals posted a great shirt idea:
Mike Leake STOLE THIS SHIRT FOR ME.

The response came quickly, a surgical strike:
Tony LaRussa WALKED THE LINE AND FAILED.

Then the Cardinals site dropped a T-Shirt bomb of snark on their opponents, including the genius above. With the balance now obviously shifted in the battle, perhaps the underdogs need a little help?

Incredibly important note: I am not taking sides in this inevitably long and drawn out battle. I’m just making gentle suggestions from afar. Gentle. Suggestions.

Tony La Russa WANTS TO SEE YOUR BIRTH CERTIFICATE
Colby Rasmus MADE HIS FATHER PUNCH TONY LARUSSA
Ryan Franklin FOUND YOUR LOST SQUIRREL ON HIS FACE
Matt Holliday IS TOO BLAND TO MAKE FUN OF
Lance Berkman ATE YOUR ELVIS

I came across an article in The New York Times yesterday, by the esteemed Tyler Kepner, about 35-year-old Chicago White Sox slugger Paul Konerko. In it, I learned that Konerko doesn’t subscribe to the “See the ball, hit the ball” mantra so many baseball players have found salvation in. Konerko, as the article points out, is more of an intellectual; a thinking man. And it was Konerko’s final quote in the piece, discussing his future as a potential hitting coach, that in turn got me thinking.

Never say never. But I’m thinking the game might only get one crack at me.

As someone who’s only ever been a recreational athlete, and having watched baseball my entire life wondering what it might be like to play the game at the elite MLB level, I was a bit taken aback by the quote. Baseball might only get one crack at Paul Konerko. Not the other way around — i.e., Paul Konerko might not get a second crack at the game.

I have to admit, I never thought of it that way. I always figured someone who plays baseball for a living — someone like Konerko, who’s made millions upon millions of dollars while doing it, and doing it well — was taking a crack at baseball.

But perhaps Konerko’s right. Baseball, after all, is a game of failure. It beats men down. And as I grow older, and I hope a very little bit wiser, I realize more and more that it’s that very aspect of baseball — failure, and overcoming it — that I love most about the game.

Paul Konerko, like so many others, chose to try and make a living playing baseball. It’s a tough road, with no guarantees. So many don’t make it. Konerko did. Baseball took its best shot, a fastball, at Konerko; it’s “crack.” Konerko recognized what was on the way, squared up, and slammed it down the left field line for a stand-up double.

Image via Curved White.

There are certain situations into which we’re thrust in this life that cause us to take stock of things, reassess our understanding of the world, and ask the big questions.

For example, the high-school senior, upon getting accepted to multiple universities, must wonder, “Do I follow my sweetheart to X, or forge my own way at Y?” Alternatively, while on a cross-country flight, one is sometimes forced to ask — at least once in his life — “Is it objectively worse to end my own life, or the life of this spoilt child?”

Without taking too many liberties, I believe we can safely conclude that reader Michael is currently experiencing one of these existential episodes.

For it’s in a recent email to Team NotGraphs’ Hot Hotline that Michael wrote the following, under the subject “Mustache for Your Consideration”:

Not sure if you’ve covered this one yet, but one MLB mustache that’s been bothering me is the one sported by new Seattle manager Eric Wedge. I’m a Cleveland fan, so know Wedge from his (mustache-free) days there, so it’s kind of compelling that he’s launched his career in Seattle with this rakish Stacy Keach-style number.

For reference, I’ve included below pictures of both the Cleveland-era Wedge and Stacy Keach. Good luck telling them apart!

As a lifelong Blue Jays supporter living on the east coast, in Toronto, I’ve always had an affinity for the western road trip. The western swing: games in Oakland, Anaheim and Seattle. And as I inch closer and closer to 30 — Dirty Thirty — there isn’t much I enjoy more than a Blue Jays game that begins shortly after 10:00 pm eastern time on a weeknight, when all the duties of the day have been completed.

Tonight, the Blue Jays kick off their first western swing of the young season in Anaheim, against the Los Angeles Angels. Ervin Santana is scheduled to throw the first pitch at 10:05 pm. And tonight, along with Monday and Tuesday nights next week when the Blue Jays are in Seattle, I’ll be kicking it old school, like I used to do so many years ago — I’ll be listening on the radio.

Back in the day, in the late 1980s and early 1990s, I don’t remember if every single Blue Jays game was televised, like they are today. I don’t think they were, but it hardly mattered, back then. I was young; I’m talking between seven and 12 years old. I had to be in bed. But I remember those late games. I remember catching an inning or two on the telly, if the game was on, and then retiring to my quarters, where my Walkman and headphones awaited. I remember falling asleep to the “Voice of the Blue Jays,” Tom Cheek, and his partner, Jerry Howarth. Tom and Jerry, yo. The voice of my fleeting youth. The best.

Read the rest of this entry »

I went through a boatload of photographs last night from Opening Day. The above, courtesy of the fine folks at The Associated Press, is definitely my favorite. Is there anything better than a walk-off home run on Opening Day, in front of your home crowd? No, there isn’t. I dare you to argue otherwise.

Look at the Reds’ faces. Go, look. The picture is a reminder of why I love baseball. And a reminder of how much I missed baseball over the winter. Nothing brings out the inner child in a Major League Baseball player, or a fan at the game, more than a walk-off home run, and the customary wait at home plate for the man’s man who saved the day.

I draw your attention above to #43, Miguel Cairo. The ageless Miguel Cairo, now in his sixteenth Major League season, with his tenth team. He’s not even looking at Ramon Hernandez. He’s got his eyes on the prize, home plate, for when Hernandez leaps on it. And he’s also making sure Jonny Gomes doesn’t get too close. You see, that’s why Miguel Cairo’s lasted so long in this beautiful game of baseball. He gets it. And, years under his belt, having surely gone through the drill before, the look on Cairo’s face suggests he’s enjoying the walk-off experience for only the first time.

Read the rest of this entry »

Japan continues to tremble. The new footage that comes in, almost daily, of the incredible destruction wrought by Mother Nature, serves as a humble reminder of the power of forces beyond our control.

The recovery effort continues. So, too, does life. Just not the way it once was. And the Japanese, our baseball-loving cousins, much like the United States after 9/11, “are contemplating whether baseball can play a role in comforting a reeling nation.”

I believe baseball — professional sports, in general — is most effective in times of tragedy, and crisis. For a short while, baseball can serve its purest of purposes: distraction; respite.

Once upon a time, I was a proud supporter of the New York Yankees. For six and a half weeks, from September 18, 2001 until November 4, 2001, I rooted for the Yankees as if they were my own.

Read the rest of this entry »