Abhorrence of Abhorrences lurking behind the potted palm, Brian McCann sees you. If it’s any consolation, Abhorrence of Abhorrences, you are absolutely as mortifying as you think you are. At least to the quaking likes of Brian McCann …
Know this, Brian McCann: whatever you have seen is absolutely not as scared of you as you are of it.
(Thanks to MockSession for the initial image and, thus, the walking tour of the abyss.)
Today’s peculiar tweet comes from the official Twitter feed of the Baltimore Orioles (click to embiggen):
We have all, at some point or another, done things in our younger years that we’re not entirely proud of. Perhaps you bought a Hypercolor T-shirt, or perhaps you bought Hanson’s album Middle of Nowhere. It’s not your fault. Rather, it’s not your fault now; instead, your punishment is to suffer occasional flashbacks to the crimes of your former self, the past you cannot unmake. I understand. I, too, have fought my demons.
Case in point: last weekend as I was rifling through the contents of my filing cabinet, I came upon a rather innocent-looking piece of graph paper adorned with equally innocent-looking handwriting. As I studied the arcane runes, my curiosity was consumed by horror; my initial reaction was to burn the evidence and the filing cabinet that housed it. But as you (dear reader) and I are in the process of building back up trust and familiarity after a long and unexplained absence on my part, I knew that my only choice was to give you the truth you deserve. Thus I’ll share this wayward moment of my misspent youth.
I’m reading Roger Kahn’s The Boys of Summer. It is, for lack of a better word, amazing. I’m taking my time with it because, frankly, I don’t want it to end.
Kahn grew up a huge supporter of the Brooklyn Dodgers. “Within shouting distance of Ebbets Field.” By 25, he was covering the team for the New York Herald Tribune. Yet, after having read Kahn’s prose, which strikes you immediately (pardon the pun, bro), I’m having a hard time thinking of Kahn as a Dodgers fan first, and a writer second. Nobody who writes about baseball today writes the way Kahn did about the Dodgers. (Except masters of prose Carson Cistulli and Dayn Perry.) Today’s baseball writers strike me as baseball fans first, and writers second. Kahn may have grown up a Dodgers fan, but he’s a writer before anything else.
I urge you to read The Boys of Summer. You’ll learn why they were called the Dodgers, something I didn’t know until I bought the book. You’ll read about the incredible racism in the American South in the early 1950s, and what Jackie Robinson went through, and said, as he broke baseball’s color barrier. And, finally, you’ll read 484 of the greatest words I’ve ever come across about the art that is pitching. I’m going to turn it over to Mr. Kahn …
It’s possible that what Bob Uecker has about Kauffman Stadium is not, in fact, a joke, but rather a witticism. If not a witticism, there’s the off chance that what he has, instead, is either a sally or a bon mot.
Those are all fine. Whatever you do, though, don’t believe anyone who says that what Bob Uecker has about Kauffman Stadium is a quip. It’s not a quip, goddammit. Bob Uecker is better than that.
From the official Twitter account of the Chicago Cubs (click to embiggen, if you darest):
The universe is not required to be in perfect harmony with human ambition.
-Carl Sagan
Last night, however, the universe was in perfect harmony with the ambitions of Matt Cain, who, arguably, is more than human.
—
To all those who emailed me about Carl Sagan in various MLB team hats: if I haven’t gotten you a jpeg yet, I will. Twenty teams were requested, so, you know. Also, make sure that when you leave a comment requesting said jpeg that you enter a valid email address in the comment apparatus.
The tenured reader — glistening from freshly completed coitus and trying to remember where he placed his fashion eyewear once passions overtook him — will recall this writer’s enthusiasm for one W.J. Slattery, crafter of prose and invader of boudoirs.
It so happens that, in the process of utilizing the best and most emergent features of the HotBot search engine, I stumbled upon one W.J. O’Connor, who shares not only leading initials with Mr. Slattery but also a dedication to the muscular prose of better days. Mr. O’Connor had this to say of a certain game in 1917, when men were men and women were, at best, “handsome” and “well preserved.” Writeth Mr. O’Connor:
“He [Johnson] first fielded it with his chest, and knocked it silly at his feet. He then laid a prehensile paw on the pill and came up with ample time to assist [George] Sisler with the out. But he suddenly lost his prehensileness, and tossed the ball over his shoulder like a superstitious person throwing salt to avoid a fight.”
Yes indeed, Mr. O’Connor. Yes indeed …
According to reports, the Orioles’ front office was not amused by images that surfaced on the Web today — images that appeared to show Baltimore outfielders cavorting on the exact same trampoline that derailed Yankee Joba Chamberlain’s season.
However, Adam Jones brushed off the incident, noting, “Man, I’m just trying to crack the top 3 on the All-Star ballot. I don’t know what it’s going to take, but I figured if I could nail a Misty 540 and throw in a pike grab, the voters might get on board.”
As for his partner-in-fun Ryan Flaherty, he declined to discuss the impromptu jump session, stating only that “I spend my off-days the way I want to spend them. My off-day is my off-day.”
One reporter observed that that the culture of late in the O’s clubhouse seemed oddly reminiscent of their arch-rivals in the AL East — to which manager Buck Showalter retorted, “Check the standings lately? It’s working.”
Dear NotGraphs,
In my dynasty league, my brother offered me Bubba Starling Castro for Josh Willinghamilton. Do you think it would be worth it in the long run?
Cheers,
7th Place
