Buried at the bottom of a Kansas City Star article mostly about Mike Moustakas and how he actually wasn’t temporarily kidnapped by aliens who replaced him with someone who looks similar but does not know how to play baseball is this tidbit of news:
Today when I got on the bus
I said to myself,
“It is like I don’t exist.”
At the doctor’s office on a papered table
in my boxer briefs
I was like,
It is like I do not exist.
When I am at home
in an armchair
when my mouth is full of food
or dong
when I pull a well-worn dollar bill
from my Genuine Leather wallet
wherever there are books,
websites, weirdos, women,
or dullards — or ducks, really: ducks
make me feel this way —
whenever I watch a drug dealer
teem w/ existential angst
on TV
I want to be a drug dealer and
it is like I do not exist.
When Joey Votto
wants to break a bat but does not
when Joey Votto curses himself —
in high socks, no less! —
when I noticed the elastic of knee-high knickers
at Joey Votto’s knees
when I closed my eyes
and saw nothing but Joey Votto’s
hairline it is like
I do exist,
am alive, am a part of everything
that there is
to be a part of
which is only one thing:
this world of shit
w/o which nothing would exist.
Would that Joey Votto will want to break a bat
at those moments
when I wonder
if there is life on other planets
for I am not large,
cannot get past
this earth.
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH! Oh, sorry honey. I just the worst dream.
I was in the future, and the Marlins had just won the World Series.
I know. After everything they did. After all the teardowns we did of them, they still won. It was so … so scary.
Fernandez and Ozuna ended up signing long-term money-friendly deals early, and Stanton stayed put. They somehow built a team around a core of young players. Loria was trying so hard to screw it up, but he couldn’t. The Marlins won the World Series.
And nobody knew what to think of it. Like, we were happy for the players for winning in spite of their circumstances, but on the other hand, Jeffrey Loria won. That was the worst part. Nobody really gave two shits about the Marlins, they were way more pissed that the bad guy won. It was like the end of Empire Strikes Back, but we were Luke, and enjoying baseball was our lightsaber hand.
I mean, from the Expos, to blowing up two World Series teams, to the ballpark fiasco, to the 2012 fire sale, to suing season ticket holders … AND THIS GUY WINS?! IS THERE NO JUSTICE?!
And they had this big parade and everything. It was the worst. All these people in brand new Marlins hats lined the streets. People kept yelling “I LOVE YOU MIKE STANTON!”
Talented surgeon and nearly irrepressible lothario, Nicasio Beckett.
Frequently in this life, we do things for reasons that are mysterious. Like marry a woman despite her open contempt for us, for example. Or remain married to her, for example, despite her continued and unwaveringly open contempt for us.
This post represents such a mystery, as well. Whilst composing today’s diamond-encrusted edition of the Daily Notes, the author discovered that, by pairing the surname of a visiting pitcher with the surname of that same contest’s home pitcher, that the resulting name — in really almost every case — resembled those such as are frequently encountered within the confines of America’s most popular soap operas.
What follows, then, is the result of the author not only identifying that phenomenon, but also following through on it in such a way so as to make any reasonable person question the value of this life.
Names listed in order of today’s first-pitch times.
Gee LeBlanc
Of unclear, but decidedly nefarious, French-speaking origin. CEO of corrupt and profitable LeBlanc Pharmaceuticals. Irrepressible lothario.
Diamond Sanchez
Wealthy and brilliant Mexican heiress who suffers amnesia and becomes exotic dancer.
Gomez Burgos
Priest who is constantly tempted by Diamond Sanchez. Also, CIA secret agent.
Watch this here 2 minutes and 3 seconds of shameless advertisement executed by none other than soon-to-be veterans-committee-elected Hall-of-Fame second baseman Bret Boone.
Why, these days, Ol’ Booney is hocking jerky and catching softballs. But when it comes to treating ladies, he plays hardball. “Cracked pepper for ladies!” He bellows between mead gulps. “And original for me!”
“Ooh,” say the entranced womenfolk, “whither can I acquire me some of that fine jerky?”
But they already have a plateful of Brandt’s Beef Jerky. It’s up to us to read the subtext.
This video obviously comes to us via the clammy hands of managing editor Dave Cameron.
April’s over, so it’s time to take a look at the longest-name-of-the-year standings and see who’s shaping up to be a top contender. As of April 30:
1. Jarrod Saltalamacchia | 14
2T. Al Alburquerque | 12
2T. Will Middlebrooks | 12
4T. Chad Billingsley | 11
4T. Joba Chamberlain | 11
4T. Edwin Encarnacion | 11
4T. Paul Goldschmidt | 11
4T. Adeiny Hechavarria | 11
4T. Bobby LaFramboise | 11
4T. Steve Lombardozzi | 11
4T. Darin Mastroianni | 11
4T. Kirk Nieuwenhuis | 11
4T. Brett Oberholtzer | 11
4T. Tyler Pastornicky | 11
4T. Marc Rzepczynski | 11
4T. Nate Schierholtz | 11
Quite a race, as you can see. Saltalamacchia once again seems to be in the lead, although given that it’s only the end of April, we do have to watch out for small sample size. Billingsley’s injury probably takes him out of contention for the rest of the year — it seems unlikely he’ll be able to get back in time to make up two whole letters, even if the rehab goes well.
Bobby LaFramboise is a surprise contender — his name just doesn’t look that long until you start counting the letters! That’s a hidden skill that his team will hopefully take advantage of. Once again, Jeff Samardzija shows promise, but misses out on the leaderboard when you really start adding up those characters. Like we always say here at long-name-central headquarters, it’s not about how hard it is to pronounce, it’s about the actual count. So no extra points for Rzepczynski or Nieuwenhuis. Their letters count just the same as the ones in Goldschmidt.
Smart money is on Saltalamacchia holding off the contenders, especially with this early-season lead. Always have to watch for someone like Hechavarria adding some consonants in the midseason heat, or someone getting married and deciding to hyphenate, but for right now, these are the standings. We’ll check back in a couple of months and see if anything’s changed.
1. Electric – Reliable standby, well supported by existing infrastructure. Invented by Ben Franklin when he was struck on the biscuits by thunder atop America Mountain in Texas. Can be used to cook unopened can of frank-and-beans on a hot plate while sobbing.
2. Solar – Sourced from giant, fiery, unblinking eye of Quetzalcoatl that looms above us. Uninterrupted service requires quarterly sacrifice of virginal wet nurse. Can be brought down from the sky in glorious immolation by repeated musket fire.
3. Dirty coal – Clean coal gets most of the attention these days, but don’t sleep on dirty coal. Ideally, you’ll use religious texts as kindling — the texts of the objectively incorrect religions not your own, natch. Dirty coal reads the Kama Sutra and eats Crab Rangoon on the toilet, largely as a consequence of being dirty. Black lung can be cured with prescription frank-and-beans.
4. Hydroelectric – Pleasing mix of high voltage levels and water. If there’s not a New Deal-era dam near you, bear-hug a space heater and have a friend lower you into the municipal sewer. When sinewy gondolier asks for password, say “password1.” Not case-sensitive. Take to drinking cognac while using public transit and loudly referring to yourself as “The Hennessy Valley Authority.”
5. Battery – Purchase vinyl press of Mel Torme’s album of American-songbook standards, “Shake Your Shitty Fists at the 9-Volt.” Back-mask side two. Follow instructions on switching North American power grid to battery standby mode. Whisper “Hail Satan” to the children of strangers.
Miguel Olivo thought his bat could have done a better job Tuesday, so he told him so.
Apologies to Carlos Perez, but Brian Wilson’s feedback to the water cooler on July first, 2011 — that has a touch more Hulk in its smash.
Not impressed? Wilson’s final judgement is directed at you, then.
Pity the poor Ismael Valdez, whose pitching so uninspired the photographers at Upper Deck that they denied him his very livelihood on this circa-2000 baseball card. It’s like they knew his career was about to go into the proverbial turlet thanks to shoulder trouble, and were suggesting that discerning fans would derive more joy watching him hit in the first year of the new willenium, rather than pitch. No one should have to endure such an indignity, to have his accomplishments so cavalierly tossed aside and misrepresented.
When our memories fade, and we look back on his career, will we remember him as he was, or as Upper Deck would have us remember him? When untold generations come wondering about Ismael Valdez, and they find this card, what will they think about a man so inconsequential that no one saw fit to document him doing what he did best? What he loved best? How could we have allowed this to happen?
Ismael Valdez deserves what any man deserves, to be remembered for what he was. Not canonized or marginalized. He averaged 199 innings from 1995-1999 with an ERA+ of 117. He was a fly ball pitcher who faired well in Dodger Stadium, but who struggled when he hurt his shoulder and moved on to Wrigley Field. He never again reached the dizzying heights he experienced as a 23 year old. He finished one game under .500 for his career, at 104-105, with a 4.09 ERA. He was not a Cy Young candidate. He was not cannon fodder. He was part of baseball’s great faceless middle class, about whom no one is ever going to write a biography and who few will ever talk about again. He will not be remembered, at least not as he was. The world is a cruel place for men such as these.
Elimination number: 128
Boiled down to the bones of it, it’s just you and the game. You try to exert your will, but you ultimately bend to its own. You are at the mercy of the game. The Gods and the numbers have conspired against you. Your fate has been written.
Not many things are on your side. Your opponents aren’t on your side. The writers are not particularly on your side. Recently, history has not been on your side. There are still some fans and some interested parties with a rooting interest in your achievements, but — now more than ever — you are alone in your journey.
Save for chance. Chance will always be your companion. Chance will not always be welcome, mind you. He will be fickle. Ground balls will grow eyes. Wind patterns will change. Umpires will miss calls. Chance will seem like your enemy.
But it is not always a parasite — a leach. Sometimes it will buy rounds all night. Chance knows that if it only took, and never gave, it would cease being itself. It would be something else. Damnation, perhaps.
Others seem to be in better graces with it. For some, it lays nothing but golden eggs. For you, it is as inefficient as a 100-year-old house.
But it still gives. It has too. It gave last night, for what it could. Chance doesn’t always come to aid at your greatest time of need, but it still comes.
Chance knows there is no Goliath without a David.