My grandmother gave me a handful of Astros programs collected by my grandfather and my uncle at the Astros games they attended in 1972. The scorecards in the middle are each completely filled in with the messy hand of a nine year old, making the following advertisement that much more awesome.
So, the obvious question follows: who led the league in taste in 2011?
Last night, I was forced to confront author Dayn Perry about his recent conduct.
Awkward heterosexual man-hug for Jeremy Blachman, who has made an art form of xtranormal.
Recently, after a raucous night of country music and beers, Joe West looked at us, the NotGraphs Investigative Reporting Investigation Team, and wistfully said, “I hate what’s become of the Dodgers.”
Us too, Cowboy Joe. Us too.
It took a while, longer than any of us expected, but Joe West always gets his man.
Frank McCourt: You’re finally, mercifully, thankfully … outta here!
Original image courtesy of Zimbio.
The convention floor is filled with happy, beaten asses. Names have been placed into nomination, and some of those names have been subsequently culled according to the whims of the Parliamentarian with the Lidless Eye. And now, citizens, it is time to vote.
The matter before you: Which player is most worthy of the nickname “I Am Not Afraid of You and I Will Beat Your Ass”? Remember, please don’t enter the voting booth unless accompanied by one of our Election Supervisors, who are here to ensure proper and right-wise outcomes …
Thank you, patriots, for exercising the franchise.
The Mets are facing a couple terrible decisions when it comes to their pair of homegrown stars on the left side of the infield. Given their recent history, Mets fans can be forgiven for being pessimistic. In that honor, here’s a pre-requiem for David Wright and Jose Reyes. Apologies to Walt Whitman.
Out of New York, Endlessly Raking
OUT of New York, endlessly raking,
Out of the Mama’s of Corona, the seven-train shuttle,
Out of the Willets Point midnight,
Over the sterile sands and the fields of Flushing, where the children, leaving their beds, wander’d alone, cap-headed, jersey’d,
Down like the curve of Waino,
Up watching the mystic play of dreadlocks, twining, twisting and jumping as if they were alive,
Out from the patches of blue and orange,
From the memories of the young duo that enchanted us,
From your memories, sad brother —- from the fitful risings and fallings in the standings,
From under that yellow half-moon, late-risen, and swollen as if with tears from game seven,
From those beginning notes of sick speed and excellent pop, there below the LaGuardia jetstream,
From the thousand responses of the crowd, seemingly never to cease,
From the myriad thence-arous’d chants,
From the shouts stronger and more delicious than any,
From such, as now they start, the scene revisiting,
As the fans, twittering, chatting, or on their way for beer,
Borne hither—ere all elude me, hurriedly,
A man — yet by these tears a little boy again,
Throwing myself on the infield dirt, confronting the departure,
I, chanter of wins and losses, uniter of here and hereafter,
Taking all drag bunts and dashing triples to use them — but swiftly leaping beyond the tag,
A reminiscence sing.
The god he does not believe in has never been more absent.
It is not like the time when he thought he saw his father, who had been dead for 20 years, standing in his kitchen in the middle of the night.
But something has grown restless and turned back …
It is nothing he could impart, nothing that even has a name. But the gnaw is enough to tear notches into the strong hearts of oaks rooted forever to the floor of the world.
Clipping old roses from the garden brings him to tears. The skin is mottled not from affliction but from cruelest design. His escaping finger forgets, for a moment, that bones tether it to other bones.
His face is dismal even for a frog’s. Even for an idiot’s. Or a dead emperor’s. His library is but a burnt offering to the man he believes he is believed to be.
He would fear mangling the next grounder, too …
But that suggests an order, a composition, where surely none survives.
(Image courtesy of C.F. Payne, by way of Pitchers and Poets)
José Bautista’s story is truly an amazing one.
But let’s get it straight from the pen of the man himself, complete with, um . . . line breaks?
At his best, he’s Joey Stache, breaker of bats, hearts, and records.
A few footnotes missing from the ESPN article about Mike Quade’s dismissal as Cubs manager.
The Chicago Cubs fired manager Mike Quade on Wednesday, and president of baseball operations Theo Epstein said the search for his successor begins immediately.1
Epstein and general manager Jed Hoyer met with Quade last week at Wrigley Field and spoke again by phone Tuesday2 after Hoyer’s introductory press conference3. Epstein flew to Florida to tell Quade that he would not return4.
“When I joined the Cubs last week, I knew that Mike had a reputation as an outstanding baseball guy5, as a tireless worker6, and as a first-rate human being7,” Epstein said in a release. “After spending some time with him this past week8, it became apparent to me that Mike’s reputation is well deserved9. His passion10, knowledge of the game11, commitment12, and integrity13 stood out immediately. While Mike is clearly an asset to any organization14 and any major league staff15, Jed and I believe that the Cubs16 would benefit long-term17 from bringing in a manager for 2012 who can come in with a clean slate18 and offer new direction.”19
1In fact, it already began last week. Shhhh.
2They called collect.
3Formally known as the “Pre-Mike-Quade’s-Firing Press Conference.”
4Epstein was also spotted riding Space Mountain. “Who’s Theo Epstein?” he said to the fan who recognized him.
5Also an outstanding baseball guy: the Cubs batboy.
6Keeping Carlos Zambrano from killing the rest of his teammates is an endlessly time-consuming task.
7Rumors that Quade is an invertebrate have been proven untrue.
8Except for that half-day at Disney World, riding Space Mountain.
9It should be obvious by this point: Epstein, like everyone else who wasn’t on the Cubs payroll, had never heard the name “Mike Quade” before taking this job.
10Passion for retirement, hopefully.
11The game of shuffleboard.
12Commitment counts a lot in shuffleboard.
13Someone picked up a thesaurus yesterday, am I right?
14Except for this one.
15Except for this one.
16Well, the team formerly known as the Cubs, soon to be known as the Chicago Red Sox, with manager Terry Francona, third baseman David Ortiz, ace starter Curt Schilling, Ted Williams’s unfrozen head playing the outfield, fried chicken and beer in the clubhouse, and an Ivy-covered Green Monster (also known as Carlos Zambrano’s Halloween costume).
17And short-term, and medium-term, and every other term.
18Mike Quade, for all his positive qualities, like an ability to respire, and two-handed-ness, had a very dirty slate.
19Especially since the old direction seemed to be “down.” Oh, Mike Quade, I’m still not sure how to pronounce your name, and now I guess it doesn’t really matter, does it?
Our ongoing quest, in the manner of a noble knight-errant, is to assign cool nicknames to players rather than indulge in the tired paradigm of assigning cool players nicknames. Before we launch the latest installment, however, a trip through our Hall of Honouur, which is so stately, so regal, so much itself a celebration of the Norman Conquest, that an extra British-English unstressed “u” is required for proper spelling. …
“Bad Miracle” – Wily Mo Peña
“Captain Black Tobacco” – John Danks
“$45 Couch” – Yuniesky Betancourt
“Liván Hernández” – Liván Hernández
“Frog in the Pot” – Carlos Zambrano
“Aqua Velva Man” – Chase Utley
“Victorian Sex Rebel” – John Axford
“Good, Round Friend” – Prince Fielder
And the nickname now hanging perilously in the balance? It’s “I Am Not Afraid of You and I Will Beat Your Ass”!
Denotations, Connotations, Implications, Intimations, and Incriminations:
While this scribe is something of a Yo La Tengo agnostic, there’s no disputing the heaven-sent, maiden-kissed, dandy-fondled perfection of this album title. It would, I attest from atop the pile of my basest urges, make a fine, good nickname.
What does it mean? It means an absence of fear where fear should dwell. It means defiance of human — nay, animal — bounds and limits. It means that there is a very certain type of shit that, anymore, he’s not going to take.
I am afraid of you and it is thus deducible that I will not beat your ass. But this Player to be Nicknamed? He is not afraid of you and he will very much beat your beautiful ass.
Prototypes from Baseball’s Gauzy Past:
Billy Martin surmounted modest skills and a slight build to carve out a major-league career and sucker-punch scores of legions of many. Jackie Robinson was courage and noble bravado writ awesome (if, that is, we wish to take this in a direction that’s actually inspiring on the merits rather than, you know, rich with amusements). David Eckstein was certainly unafraid. He wasn’t going to beat anyone’s ass, but, really, the willingness and confidence to beat an ass is more important than actual beating of asses, even beautiful ones such as yours.
Guiding, Determinative Query:
What current major-league player should be nicknamed “I Am Not Afraid of You and I Will Beat Your Ass”?
The convention floor, which is larded with asses — consenting asses — looking to be beaten, is now open for nominations …
