Victor Cole may have played in only eight games in the 1992 season, but he maintains the distinction of being one of Russia’s natives to play in the MLB. And though many people love the USSR, he was not the only former Soviet to play the game.
The 1992 season marked terrible year For Russia, still great for Cole.
certainly not , a former KGB agent. Just a solid win for communism
platitudes?
The Brewers of Hot Hard Milwaukee recently held a contest that allowed the Internetter to design a uniform for said Brewers of Milwaukee. The winner — to the extent that anything is won in the this life — would have his or her uniform brandished for a spring training game.
Therein you’ll find any number of fetching entries — notably one that prominently features Bernie Brewer, that disowned Vuckovich brother …
Most excellent! Most excellent if you cow before the threat of Real Talk, that is …
You see, I have no doubt that the Brewers will find a winner that best represents their preference for varnished municipal lore. However, being as I am nightwatchman at the Museum of Truths, I’ll abet no such myth-making.
Milwaukee, as the name of their hometown nine suggests, is a town for Drinking Men and The Things They Drink. One does not go to Milwaukee unless Men Are About to Drink. Business? Conduct it in Dallas. Cultural tourism? New York and Chicago are there for you. Restorative escape? The Bay Area will see you now. Cocaine in a hot tub? The San Fernando Valley serves no other purpose. But Milwaukee exists for the drinking of drinks. “Let us drink these drinks,” people in Milwaukee say, “and then try to throw this clock radio all the way to Michigan.”
In light of those authenticities, this is my entry, Brewers of Milwaukee.
On the front we have a Milwaukee Journal celebration of the Wisky electorate’s decision, in the late 1920s, to embrace wholesome, nutritious alcohol in defiance of both federal meddlers and awful Protestants. The shoulder patch is the regeneration liturgy known well to the Hands That Built America. On the back we have bon vivant, man of letters and drink and secret native of Fond du Lac Kingsley Amis astride a familiar and always near-at-hand cock-and-tail. The cap? The front boasts a rendering of the hepatic rot that will be the death of all of us at the bar — that bar in Milwaukee. And on the back is the shitty omelet you make after a night in Milwaukee, U.S. the fuck of A.
Take me not for a knave, Brewers of Hot Hard Milwaukee. I know the score, and, yes, I’ll have another.
Brazil beat Colombia in World Baseball Classic qualifying on Saturday (box) — giving the Brazilians (a) two total wins in the Qualifier 3 bracket and (b) two more wins than a reasonable person would have expected them to get in the Qualifier 3 bracket.
Notable from their Saturday victory was the relief performance of 24-year-old right-hander Gabriel Asakura, who struck out five of the 10 Colombian batters he faced — including longtime major-leaguer Edgar Renteria. Asakura himself is less of a longtime major leaguer and more of a recent senior at Division II school Cal State L.A.
Here’s Asakura getting a swinging strike on what appears to be his changeup (or maybe a splitter) against Cleveland prospect Giovanny Urshela:
First, Colombia was inhabited by indigenous peoples like the Muisca, Quimbaya, and Tairona. Then, in the 16th century, it was conquered by the Spanish. Then, in 1986, Steve Brown was born in Barranquilla.
The type-written sentiment to follow, which was found taped above Doug DeCinces’s locker during the 1979 World Series, is as 1970s as catching the clap during an urban riot …
There are things the modern gentleman can still say, such as “Please” and “Thank you” and “When in Tangiers, one does what one must.” One cannot, however, utter — in such a precise sequence — the words taped above Doug DeCinces’s locker during the 1979 World Series. But forgive the year 1979 and its discontents; for the music was too loud, the coke and ass too beguiling.
But let us not leave on such a note. Along comes a gentleman — quite possibly Al Bumbry — to redeem team, clubhouse and year of our Lord …
A rogue chooses hat and outwear the color of gold bullion. A gentleman chooses hat and outerwear the color of gold bullion frightened by the possibilities.
I hope you’ve learned something, Inexpedient Decisions of 1979.
(Source material: The YouTube)
If Mike Trout Had Won the AL MVP last night, I would have woken up this morning about 11 minutes later than usual. I would have tried to take a quicker-than-normal shower, and failed. I would have put on a pair of brown, almost houndstooth pants with hints of navy blue. My shirt would have been navy as well, with red and white checks. My socks, shoes, and belt would also have been brown. I would have put a dab of gel in my hair, the kind specifically for curly-haired gentleman.
I would have kissed my dogs and wife goodbye (in that order), put on my pea coat, grabbed my small satchel, and headed out the door for my bus stop. About a half a block shy of my stop, I would have seen the 7 bus drive away. I would have sighed, faced east, and strolled to the stop for the 19 bus, which drops off farther away from my office. I would have arrived at work exactly at 7 a.m.
The other morning, either by accident or out of a need to distract myself from the numerous laments of my daily life, I chanced upon Carson’s Wednesday edition of the Daily Notes.
Sipping my generic instant coffee, I allowed myself to be regaled by pastel-colored tales of hope and vigor, of prospects whose stories have not yet played out, and will all end well. I had achieved a healthy sense of emotional detachment, an almost zenlike prospecting trance, when my eyes fell upon a single name in the final leaderboard.
I am not accusing M. Cistulli of fabricating these statistics, although it’s of course impossible for them to be true. For this is a list of people who have theoretically done something well, and yet it includes Horacio Ramirez. Based on these premises and the deductive reasoning that renders logic possible, Socrates must be immortal.
Perhaps you smile at my vehemence, dear reader, but my heart is steadfast. Horacio Ramirez is not a man; he is a malediction. He is a negation of goodness. He may not be the only specter who haunts me, but it is his eyes that glow brightest when the lights go dark.
Mitch, some notes on your recent paper for WR 122:
• Your enthusiasm for your subject is apparent throughout. Successful writing requires, first and foremost, the engagement of the author. If he or she isn’t engaged, then the reader definitely won’t be.
• Be careful about rhetorical fallacies. For example, you imply early in your piece that supporters of Mike Trout’s MVP candidacy — and particularly those supporters who offer quantitative analysis as evidence — never watch games. The danger with absolutes (never, all, always, etc.) is that even a single exception to your characterization can dismantle the rest of your argument.
• Your essay includes a number of ad hominem attacks. Abusing a person or group is, at best, irrelevant; at worst, it undermines the nature of your argument by suggesting that you, as an author, are forced to resort to name-calling owing to a lack of actual, substantive material.
• Not entirely separate from the above, but also worthy of note here, is the question of tone. An effective argument relies upon the author establishing a trustworthy tone or voice, the voice of one who would give credit to the “opposition” (itself even perhaps an extreme characterization) when it’s due. The tone of your piece (see: “I mean, did you do the math? I didn’t. I like to actually see the sun once in a while.”) skews shrill with some frequency, which hurts your credibility.
• Regarding your conclusion: your instinct to “mirror” or “echo” your introduction is a good one. It certainly signals to the reader that the piece is nearing its end, and also gives the impression of a meaningful structure. However, it’s also important to avoid the trite. Merely returning to the paper’s opening line (“The eyes have it”) is facile and perhaps even insulting to the reader.
Grade: C+
Note: if you’re interested, I’d be more than willing to discuss your paper at greater length during my office hours. How are Tuesdays for you?
Dispatch from an alternative universe…
BISMARCK, 2020. As the one-term Presidency of Jeffrey Loria comes to an end, we take time to reflect on his accomplishments. The United States in 2016 was of course a far different place than it is now. It’s hard to remember that there used to be fifty states. And the President’s house used to be painted white. And people lived here. President Loria swept into office promising to make the U.S. great again. And, indeed, for the first six days of his administration, he pretended to try to do just that. He hired the leaders of over two hundred other nations to come work for America, offering compensation far greater than they deserved, even to the old and decrepit ones. He appointed Ozzie Guillen to run the State Department. And he designed a brand new flag, with sparkly colors and real live fish on it. (Don’t think too hard about the details there.)
But then some kid somewhere failed his math test, and so Loria decided to cash out before the whole thing collapsed. So he traded our most expensive states — California, Texas, New York, and about thirty more — to Canada for a couple of uninhabited islands off the coast of Newfoundland, fired Ozzie Guillen and replaced him with a backup catcher, and convinced the taxpayers to fund a brand new Capitol Building in Bismarck, North Dakota, with a retractable roof and shiny sculpture that would shoot off fireworks whenever a bill was passed.
C-SPAN also canceled its coverage of Congress, because no one cared anymore.
And now the only remaining American of note, Justin Timberlake, is kinda pissed off.
Good luck to our incoming President, Mr. Fred Wilpon, as he looks to find a way out this mess.
I was a white boy in Jamaica first, and then a Jamaican in Germany. Then I was a Euro in the south.
Even as a nerd in prep school, I was out of place. I flew to Boston with a Colorado Rockies starter jacket for some reason, and very little experience with snow. That jacket, cinched tightly to reveal one eye most days that first winter, was often the object of scorn. Labelled a Jamaican on some paperwork somewhere, I again found myself as a white person at social events full of minorities.
And I was bad at sports. I arrived at Milton Academy a full five-foot-three, 100 pounds. I grew three inches every summer, but left school six-foot-two, hitting a buck fifty soaking wet. My motor cortex thought my limbs were shorter than they were, and so I was uncoordinated and small most years. That resulted in some ridicule, but it also created a problem for me, since I somehow had to satisfy the sports requirement every season. I resisted the wrestling team’s advances to be their super lightweight. Then a couple small bones broke and made me seem brittle. So I turned to other sports. Intramural (hack) skiing. Hack ultimate. Hack squash. I coached the field hockey team. I tried soccer until my ankles begged for mercy.
The only sport I kept trying all four years was baseball.
