I may be a Dodger fan,
but when in these difficult times
it becomes necessary
to find common ground with my rivals to the north,
the first olive branch I offer
is to join in enthusiastic commination
that Tommy Lasorda is a flaming pyre
of human garbage.
Sigh another draft day come and gone well. You know you would think i would be used to it now but it still hurts a little you know. To fell unwanted you know. Its not good. One time i went to the park with my family and was running around out in the open field feeling the wind on my face and in my mouth and when i looked around i didn’t see them (my vision isnt that good) and i thought they left me there and thats kind of what it feels like to not get drafted again but not as bad or scared i guess
I have a lot of really good skills that are really important for playing the sport of baseball which is the sport i like the best. I am super good at catching like wow you really have to see it. I can catch both the bounce or where it’s in the air and it doesn’t hit the ground and i am super good at always bringing the ball back to where it is supposed to go after i caught it which is just as important as catching it tbh. I run really fast like i don’t even know how to say it except that its really fast. I can run to any of the bases too, or around them, it doesn’t matter its still really fast. I can do that while i’m carrying the ball or even without the ball. I can keep the ball away from someone trying to get it to me too. I don’t know how to explain it but teams are totally snoozing on me but thats nothing new.
Anyway what do they say in baseball theres always next year right? Ive been saying that for a few years now ha but i’m still younger than most of those kids taken in the draft but i’m not going to be this young forever i’m starting get some creaky joints its not good but ive still got all my skills. My family has some videos of me playing online so if you are scouting and looking for some undiscovered talent check me out! Ill post a picture of myself below so you can size me up. Anyway well that’s all i wanted to say so as they say in baseball. Happy Baseball!!
Welcome to the first in a series of posts intending to highlight the creamiest comments submitted by anonymous users from across the United States and also the World to any one of a sample of baseball blogs united by nothing but that the author happens to go to those and does not, will not, pay for content. In no small way are these sites held up by a community rooted in comment sections–a community that, by forgoing markers of identity in favor of written communication–a form that usually calls for greater care and consideration than speech–can more effectively satisfy the needs of its reader base to both in engage with their object of interest and also exchange and express thoughts and feelings about said subject without the palette of performances necessary to sustain fleshy encounters with other breathing bodies.
The first entry in our series, by yaboynate, sits in satisfactory isolation. Due to the typical internet user’s lack of scruples or tact, it does not often play out this way, but in some cases a comment is so well executed by measures both aesthetic and comedic that all further discussion is halted to better recognize the moment in the internet’s analog of space and time. In this case, it was the parent post’s relative obscurity that has produced this pleasing state of affairs. The original post, to Instagraphs I guess, was a reacquaintance with Cory Luebke, who, in case you are like me and confused their names, is a nice boy and totally not like ugly, stupid, rapist Josh Lueke. Luebke with a B’s brief career and promising comeback are detailed here: Cory Luebke’s Incredible Comeback, but our honored comment, below the break, might call its content into question, and even throw doubt upon the author’s motives and interests. Someone had to speak up. Continue reading
While you guys have been busy forgetting the original entry in this series, and perhaps my very existence, I’ve been hard at work throwing shit against the wall and finding that only this sorry bunch did anything that even remotely resembled the word “stick.” Behold! The conclusion of this inappropriately titled series!
- The Los Angeles Angels of Anaheim translates to “the the angels angels of Anaheim”. That’s not a thing you didn’t know. You knew that. It’s still funny.
- The Seattle Mariners were the subject of an abandoned collaboration between Herman Melville and Fyodor Dostoyevsky, tentatively titled “The Mariner”, which fell apart due to conflicts arising from, among other things, disagreement about what language it should be written in. The ensuing feud eventually led Dostoyevsky to dismissively refer to his former collaborator thusly: “Herman Melville douchebag.”
- The Houston Astros bring it all to the field every day and then leave it all out there, on the field, right on it, and on their sleeves too, that’s where they wear it, right out there, on the field and on sleeves on the field.
- The Texas Rangers wear uniforms woven from the finest silk, squeezed from the fattest, juiciest, grass-fed, cage-free, non-GMO, garden-of-goddamn-Eden spider babies
- The Oakland Athletics are among millions of invisible sufferers, suffering in silence, in silence subjected, subject to a sickly specter, expecting no relief, no belief in deliverance, dealt devilish cards, indelibly scarred, marred, jarred by some disease related to pooping.
- The Kansas City Royals have better things to do than sit here and listen to this trivia. The Kansas City Royals then hop into a running convertible, and as they drive away, without looking back, flick a lit cigarette into the terminal point of a gasoline trail.
- The Cleveland Indians is the team you’ve forgotten about when you try to list all the teams in your head and get stuck after 29.
- The Chicago White Sox have found that Walt Whitman, in his a-little-bit-too-famous Leaves of Grass—like I get it, it’s good, but do you ever feel like there is only so much space for things to be known, like if this book wasn’t so ubiquitous there might be more copies of Fight Club on the shelves and we’d be reaching more disenchanted beta-males in need of plausible fantasies for weathering a quarter-life crisis—basically exactly described the way that, er, I seem to have lost my train of thought.
- The Detroit Tigers all use PEDs… Performance Enhancing Drawers! These soft undergarments are a pleasure to wear, like being hugged around the pelvis by a friendly raccoon! Is he running the bases or floating on a cloud? Ha ha! For millionaires only!
- The Minnesota Twins didn’t watch Arrested Development when it was on TV, but now that it’s online, well now they have time to watch it, don’t they? Thanks Twins, I’m totally glad that instead of more seasons of AD we have Michael Cera’s Career.
- The Boston Red Sox were not supposed to win the World Series when they did. Stan, look at this. We didn’t code this. Someone is subverting the timeline from the inside. But who could get their hands on the procedure codes while also bypassing the encryption scheme, except… oh god…
- The Tampa Bay Rays are currently being investigated by the SEC for trying to create a stock panic in baseball manufacturing in order to crash the market and then buy up baseballs for cheap in order to save money. That’s how deep these new Wall Street front office kids are going. Is this what you wanted?
- The Baltimore Orioles have released a new brand of wine called ‘if you can’t win, might as well wine, right?’ or something like that, whatever, I think it was worded better.
- The New York Yankees read a book about phenomenology and now would rather just sit down and think forever but alas, that don’t pay the bills, gotta go out and hit some balls mang, that’s life.
- The Toronto Blue Jays’ remains will be discovered by a future civilization, who will assume that they were a primitive tribe, in which the leader held a large wooden club to enforce order, who wore helmets and gloves because they were scared that the stars would fall out of the sky onto their heads, and who ran in circles around a square as a ritual to please the milk god which, ha ha, they will think, how funny, it’s crazy that there was a time people didn’t realize that Dairy Gary, the God of all that is and will be, is placated only by chugging a week-old gallon of unpasteurized whole milk until your eggy breakfast adorns the floor of your unvarnished elmwood deck.
Trick sat up in bed. The smell of bacon and the sizzle of eggs were too present in the air to feign sleep. He had been up for much longer, thinking, worrying. It was the day of this year’s camp, but he wanted to sleep all day, through the whole thing. Let them come, the field will still be there, the bats and balls still there, the old coaches still old and eager. He had lent his name, was that not enough? He wrestled to his feet and looked at his uniform, lying flimsy and impeccable on the dresser. It was an old man’s uniform, made somberly with rounded edges, to be worn only as a callback to better days.
He plodded downstairs, adjusting himself this way and that, as the uniform demands of a man. Abby Whitmore was in front of the stove, still in a robe, hair tied and pulled over one shoulder. Trick was deeply, deeply grateful for baseball, even–no, especially–on this day. This day brought with it many revenant feelings, memories of green fields and combed dirt, and despair. He felt vividly the throbbing dread of suiting up on “his day” during those months when his arm dangled from his body like an overcooked noodle. He remembered dazzling nights in August, when fourteen innings weren’t enough, and no one else in the pen could be sacrificed. He remembered that time he promised half his career to a team, only to practically detach his elbow for them, to crawl back through gyms and clinics, not from will to play, but to escape from that city as anything other than the most hated man ever to have ascended the sacred hill with a crowd of thousands on his back. Continue reading
“PAUL!” Billy bellowed.
“Goddammit, I’m coming. Calm down. Fuck.” Paul grumbled as he turned away from the monitor.
“Do you want to do this or not?” Billy’s eyebrows flared, his lower lip drooped, turning his typically soothing, blank expression – one which was so etched into the shape of his skull as to seem, when he was calm, the only expression he was capable of making – into a ghoulish mask. It did not suit him, this expression of rage both suppressed and fertilized, but it was one he was exercising with ever-increasing enthusiasm. The more others were lulled into comfort by his good moods, which they always were, for he was capable of becoming more relaxed in response to others’ anxiety and also of making physical contact in exactly the way people all secretly wish someone would, the more they were alarmed and, significantly, motivated to action by his bad ones.
His firestarter, his weapon of shock-and-awe, was directed, full-frontal, into Paul’s own ineffective face, always betraying some confusion whether there or not, and at that moment betraying a hint of fear, a little boy’s fear of the school principal, or of a friend’s parent, the authority figure that he does not, deep down, know has his best interests at heart. Paul was used to these moods of Billy’s, but also, not really.
“Yes.” He replied, the dispirited grunt of a resigned teenager. Billy had a way of making Paul both outwardly younger and inwardly older.
“Then stop wasting time.”
“Alright!” Continue reading
More than a dozen times a year, our boys descend the mountain
when they return, they’ve forgotten how to breathe
their bats flail towards flying saucers
a bloop triple, a pensive dinger
cheers freeze in our throats.
We’re only down 5
in the seventh
it’s a game.
The insubstantial air
takes no side
but free agent pitchers
hate our guts.
Cargo hits another 40 bombs
fangraphs says he’s declining
Walker was the Bonds of Denver
BBWAA says anyone could hit at Coors.
Kyle Kendrick agrees
though no one asked.
deep purple knuckles reaching up to paint the sky
are their sanctuary
and their enemy
their home field advantage and curse
the reason great teams visit
but never stay.
I think we lost that game
down 4 in the eighth
bases loaded in the ninth.
Whatever, it’s sunday, and winter
Let’s watch Peyton die a little bit.
- The Los Angeles Dodgers have a mascot, but he has been in solitary confinement in a maximum security ward since 1970.
- The Arizona Diamondbacks were Peter Jackson’s first choice for the role of Aragorn in the Lord of the Rings series.
- The Colorado Rockies are not literal mountains. No, they’re a baseball team. No, they- no, wait, listen. No, really. Listen, I’m telling you, mountains can’t play baseball. Yes, I’m serious. Would you give Mom the phone?
- The San Francisco Giants protest every game they play. It was once a symbol of something, a great and noble gesture, presumably intended as an act of defiance of against oppressors everywhere, but it has become nothing more than rote repetition, a tradition that has lost all meaning but survives due only to inertia. So, in that sense, it is still a symbol of something.
- The San Diego Padres did that one thing that one time. Or I might be thinking of someone else.
- The St. Louis Cardinals are nearly at the end of a long journey. There is one final piece that must fall into place, one item still to acquire, but they know where it is, they are so close they can taste it. Soon, the world will be ready.
- The Chicago Cubs did not invent the hot dog, but they first had the idea to use asbestos as a preservative.
- The Pittsburgh Pirates got a perfect score on the SAT and they still suck lmao.
- The Cincinnati Reds were once known as the “Red Legs” for how deep flows the blood of the enemy on the Great American Battlefield.
- The Milwaukee Brewers are actually owned by a Chinese mafia family that is also a circus troupe, so, you know, be careful.
- The Miami Marlins of 2145 become the last baseball team to exist when their only remaining opponent, the All-Of-Kansas-And-Missouri Magical Promises, calls it quits, tired of the Marlins’ obnoxious streak of 87 straight Solar Series titles.
- The Atlanta Braves don’t pay for saves, they’re making waves, those wily Braves.
- The Washington Nationals is the cover identity of the Montreal Expos, who entered a witness protection program after exposing and testifying against an illegal Montreal foie gras harvesting ring.
- The New York Mets of 2024, after being bought by Bruce Springsteen, become the first MLB team to be owned by a rock star, and the second US professional sports team, after only the LA Galaxy, who were bought and subsequently eaten by Gene Simmons.
- The Philadelphia Phillies fill a well full of ill ease. Their last GM is a 1B coach now, lol. Sucks.
Stay tuned for hot American League facts!
Ray: What’s up people, this is Sports Talk Iowa, KICB, home of the Fort Dodge Musketeers, I’m your host, Ray Cleaves, on the air with you until the top of the hour, coming off a disappointing loss to Chatsville to open the homestand, wasting a stellar effort from Navarro in his first start back from the disabled list, going six strong innings allowing just two runs. The Musketeers bullpen woes continue, with Davis giving up a bases-clearing double to Carlos Torres in the top of the eighth after Penbroke walked the bases loaded with nobody out to start the frame. Just a reminder that when the Musketeers lose at home, Anderson and Sons Security Systems remind that you that you don’t have to lose your home to a home burglary. With state-of-the-art features like motion detectors, pressure sensors, and infrared cameras, no threat goes undetected. You and your family can sleep soundly know that Anderson and Sons are always watching. Anderson and Sons: It only takes one.
I’m about to open up the phone lines in just a minute, but first I want to remind our listeners that fan appreciation night is tomorrow night so head on over to section G of the parking lot before the game and say hi to us at the KICB booth where we will be grilling vegan hot dogs courtesy of my producer Danielle and not me. I know the fans do a great job all year, always listening and calling in and supporting the station, and we here at the station want to join the Musketeers in saying a big thank-you. Come by and stuff your gullet with delicious meat-free dogs – no really, we will have more than we could possibly know what to do with. I might set up some games, how about hot dog juggling? How many of these hearty weiners can you keep in the air at once? Or pin the meatless hot dog tail on the donkey? Danielle is shaking her head. I’ll make sure it’s a vegan donkey. I’m sorry Dani, they are great, I’m sure everyone loves them.
Alright we have some callers queued up, while we wait for Dave to come back from the clubhouse let’s go to the phones and take a call, we have Steve on line three, go ahead Steve you’re on the air. Continue reading
I don’t get ballet; and with a handful of taps on a keyboard I have dismissed a centuries-old art form. I see it performed and the neural activity I get might compare to sitting in the waiting room at the dentist, listening to Journey at subliminal volume over muffled speakers. Not only that, but I’ve no idea what I’m supposed to be seeing either, so my appreciation is neither visceral nor academic. I guess, rather, I appreciate the other things I could be doing with my like, really valuable time.
Now, that being said, the same is not the case for other select contemporary forms of dance. Occasionally a video finds its way onto whatever video aggregator I’m perusing of some human-shaped thing doing something indescribable with its body and I can’t help but be impressed. The less the maneuver resembles the natural movement of the human machine, the more tingly feels I get. I don’t know if there’s a name for the feeling, but it’s as delicious is to food, wonder is to observing nature, and nerdgasm is to when a world-weary writer-director subverts a dramatically cohesive storyline to resurrect a fallen character because he got too many tweets about killing him off.
The source of these feelings I don’t know how to dissect. I’m touching on the very root of how we are able to vicariously enjoy and appreciate anything at all, a topic that is too vast for my tiny brain to even maintain the illusion of intelligence when talking about. There is undeniably an aspect of it that comes from the pure, physical difficulty of what is being done. Why we should feel a base pleasure when observing a person simply intentionally do a thing that most people cannot do, for no other reason than that, is a question I have never seen answered to any degree of my satisfaction. Is it cultural or innate? Could we have developed in such a way that watching a five-foot-tall gymnast do a double backflip on flat ground would cause us to gag? We might think, why can’t she do something more sensible with her time, like update her resume? Continue reading