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.
How like its new-born state, but sans the gleam,
It stood, atop the mound, for any team.
It passed its years of service, fit and faithful, until the day
A comebacker wing-dang-doodled off the front: the exposed face
The linden leaf spot above the heel; and marked it.
Was this the wound that killed it in old age?
You, dearish reader, said to yourself a season ago or so, “My, but if that Theo Epstein builds a Cubs team that wins a World Series — two famous franchises and two famous ‘curses’ broken? — he’s a Hall of Famer for sure, no matter whom he sexually punches toward the end of his career!” No doubt you and all those who said similar were and are correct. But, ah, the question is: Which hat does he wear?
No, no, unfurrow thy brow, for we at Banknotes Industries know as well as thou dost — if not better — that the executive does not wear a team cap. The choice for young Epstein is pointed or floppy, broad-brimmed or star-topped, solid or patterned; for young Epstein, scion of sweathogs, is a wizard. How else could one unweave such potent ensorcellments as chained the Red Sox and Cubs to historical failure? Otherwise, we should be suggesting that the very notion of “curses” is a silly one, that indeed ours is a world without magic. How dull, how overmodern, how like a Hollywood Injun.
At the outset of these playoffs, I proposed that it should be a fine incident if the Chicago Cubs and the Cleveland Indians were to meet one another in the World Series. This suggestion met with notes of disfavor in some of those to whom it was leveled, amidst complaints secondarily that it would be unexciting or have the appearance of a fix, and primarily as it would create as an inevitability that one franchise’s “curse” should end. Yes, that is rather what I was getting at, I explained but moved none of the complainers. As much as sports championships or their lack mean anything, this year’s contest puts a great deal before us.
Even all these months later, when I close my eyes at night, safe in the enclosures of our modern city, I can still see their torchlight blazing in the dark, still hear the unearthly echoes of their prehistoric instrumentation. Their chants score my very dreams.
Yes, when my crew and I made landfall; pursuing most harrowing fluvial adventures, hard in the darkness of this timeless recess, furthest from any civilization; we knew not what to make of the alien locals who crept with that uniquely mammalian curiosity toward our dugout canoes — nor they of us. Specimens more unlike have surely not encountered one another beneath the eyes of Heaven!
Media outlets throughout the country are already abuzz with the news that faded phenom Kevin Kebap, who despite a sterling youth career failed to find his footing in FIFA events or elsewhere at the top tier of play, is seeking tryouts with minor league baseball teams affiliated with MLB organizations.
With his looks and physique, mixed heritage, pronounced Bahá’í faith, and history of international volunteering, the multilingual charmer always scored strongly with the young and urban demographic, whose heartfelt support tended to overlook holes in Kebap’s game, such as in passing, shooting, running, and knowing which goal was which.
This is a very simple and short post. The other day I was watching the Giants-Orioles game and realized that Manny Machado looks a lot like the O’s cartoon bird logo.
As the Divisions of Major League Baseball seem to have stabilized, we may make note of their similarity to the other item in the world that consists of five contentious parts: the popular rock-and-roll band. Naturally, each team in the division must have its place in the band, the particular alignments to follow. Variations will be noted parenthetically (for example, the AL West is actually a popular C&W band).
Unhygienic and rambunctious, his voracity is demonic and his mania legend; trusted only with the least of tasks and still given oversight; provides nothing in the planning stages as he cannot write, nor even read, music; awakens each morning amidst bottles, bodies, and unidentifiable effluent; burns the candle at both ends to cover for the fact that he is not very good at his job; despite his youth, he will be the first to grave, as his OD is universally regarded as an inevitability.
Drummers: Rays, Marlins, Indians, Brewers, Athletics
You, the people, decreed that Carson Cistulli, Closer’s pre-game ritual is no longer a super elite and inexplicably complicated handshake loaded with Emil Cioran references. After all, why would he interact with lowly Double A buffoons? It never made sense from the start. You also decided that pre-game workouts are horrifically unnecessary for Triple C. Even sunflower seeds were “too corporate”, as a formal denouncing of the sunflower as the Scott Stapp of shell and seed cost Triple C an undisclosed fine.
Frito Lay is the official sunflower seed (yes, actually) of Major League Baseball (and comes in MANY delicious flavors available at MANY fine retailers near you). Much like how the real-life Roger Goodall handles NFL players attempting tributes to their mothers, the digital MLB does not take kindly to any behavior that threatens lucrative digital endorsement deals. Despite the recent MLB trend of wastefully dumping large quantities of perfectly good Frito Lay sunflower seeds all over the ground in a post-game celebration, Triple C felt the wrath of the digital MLB legal team.
So, in a surprise to very few, Carson Cistulli, Closer now begins a pre-game ceremony not unlike a visit to Disneyland’s Enchanted Tiki Room. We just hope his rendition is a bit more “culturally appropriate.”
He switched to the tiki for the advertised extra luck. You could blame what happened on the tiki, but that would be downright unfair.
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!!