12/14/2007
Why, Cody, Why?
However, I usually follow it up with: "But, say what you will about Cody McKay... Sure he only had 19 total bases in 76 plate appearances in 2004, and it is true that for a catcher he had an unbelievably hard time actually catching a baseball, and maybe he broke the all time record for transferring ones profession from "Major League Baseball player" to "real estate agent", and, yes, his dad does have a ridiculous attraction to grab a mans ass with one hand, rub his shoulders with the other, and whisper gently, delicately, lovingly into their ear *, but, God damn it, there is no way in hell that motherfucker took steroids!"
Now, that saying is shot to hell. Will the
Also named:
At least we know Taguchi was clean. Or do we?**
*That had to be really weird the first time Cody reached first base in the majors and his dad made it to first base with him.
** Yes. Yes we do.
[have a great weekend, folks. enjoy the pure, driven, midwestern snow.]
Labels: Based Balls, Dave McKay kind of creeps me out, Steroids
12/07/2007
I Should Have Been Born in 1870
I'll let the REA blog describe it further:
"Reading this document started out very drab for a sentence or two, but then quickly got our attention as the language used became very unexpected for an official Major League baseball document, let alone one devoted to demanding players not use "any indecent or obscene word, sentence, or expression." It turned "blue," and, well, got "bluer."
This piece is ironic as it provides many examples of exactly the kind of "brutal language" that was being outlawed. In fact, it is so over the top that at first we thought it was some type of a joke. But as we examined the paper, found that this language did exist in the 1890s, considered that general rowdiness and the use of obscene language by players were big issues in baseball in this era, and noted that the accompanying items were all from the same era, we soon realized that that this was not a joke at all.
This was actually a fascinating and historically significant baseball document, distributed to National League players, that captures an aspect of professional baseball from the rough-and-tumble single-League 1890s era that is not well documented. Granted, in terms of language, it is also the most offensive official Major League baseball document that we have ever seen.
That makes it all the more amusing to us, but we also recognize that maybe this is a piece that isn't for the entire family. Truck drivers, yes, sailors, yes, ballplayers in the 1890s, obviously yes. But probably not everyone."
The entire document can be viewed here, with it broken down into two sections for easier foul language reading top and bottom.
The document begins with (and was apparently inspired by) the following anecdote:
"In a contest between two leading clubs during the championship season of 1897, the stands being crowded with patrons of the game, a gentleman occupying a seat in the front row near the players bench asked one of the visiting players who was going to pitch for them. The player made no reply. He then asked a second time. The gentleman, his wife who sat with him, and others of both sexes, within hearing distance, were outraged upon hearing the player reply in a loud, brutal tone, 'Oh, go fuck yourself.'"
That is fucking awesome.
Other outlawed phrases included: "You cock-sucking son of a bitch", "You prick eating bastard", "You cunt lapping dog," and a litany of others.
Just thought one or two other of my fellow baseball history dorks might find it interesting.
And, of course, I'd be remiss not to include a link to the most informative video on Olde Tyme Baseball ever produced.
(Also, if Rolen thought La Russa's letter was too rough, imagine if TLR would have said: "A dog must have fucked your mother when she made you." Olde Tymes sound awesome.)
[have a great winterly weekend, boys and girls. enjoy the x-mas parties and pugilistic exhibitions.]
Labels: Based Balls, Stuff You Probably Don't Care About
9/28/2007
The Chicago Cubs Are Trying To Ruin My Life
A good chuck of my primary childhood/adolescent years (1988-1999) were pretty rough on both teams -- what with only three playoff appearances during the combined twenty four seasons -- and if I was ten years older or ten years younger, perhaps I would feel some more vitriol towards my friends who cheer on the Northsiders. But I don't. It's all apathy, (almost) all the time. Maybe things would be different if I didn't grow up when Mark Whiten and Felix Jose were among the "stars" on the team; I don't really know.
So with the Cubs pushing to win the NL Central earlier this week, I was perfectly content with it. "Let the baby have their bottle" was a mantra I could get behind, especially after winning the fucking World Series last year (If, in fact, that really did happen). I'd be happy for my Cubs fan friends, that they get to enjoy some cold baseball for the first time in four years, get their nerves racked and their livers punished. They're great fucking times, the playoffs (although I am looking forward to a stress free one for the first time in a while).
Then, in Miami earlier this week, the fucking wheels fell off of the Cubbie wagon. They lost their first two games against the Marlins. Meanwhile, the Brewers were beating up on the hapless Cardinals. The magic number would have remained at four for four consecutive games had not Brewers manager Ned Yost made one of the most idiotic managerial decisions I have seen in a fortnight and put an insurance run for the Cards on base in the 8th inning instead of -- I don't know? -- trying to win the fucking game. So the magic number fell to three.
Last night, the Cubs finished off getting swept by Florida. But the Brewers (and Ryan Braun) threw their game (literally) away and lost to the Padres. So now the Cubs magic number sits at two. With three games left.
Where am I going with all of this? My bachelor party is Saturday. Every guy going -- sans myself -- is a Cubs fan.
Which means that either the party could be an absolute complete fucking downer (if the Cubs somehow blow this) or it could be kicked up like nineteen notches (if the Cubs clinch). If something drastic happens and the Brewers move into a tie with the Cubs Saturday night, I would not be surprised if my best man, Nate, knifes me. And that's on the low end of the outcome scale.
Tonight the Cubs have "Bat Shit Insane" Carlos Zambrano going up against "Noted Crap Rocker" Bronson Arroyo of the Reds. Saturday's matinée will feature Cubs rookie Rich Hill battling based balls with Aaron Harang, who recently escaped from a zoo. In the same two day span, the Brewers will be throwing Chris Capuano (who hasn't won a game since the Ford administration) against future Hall of Famer (and one heck of a scotch drinker) Greg Maddux and Dave Bush against Chris Young, respectively.
I have no idea who's matchups favor whom -- honestly all four look like decent matchups -- but for the first time in my adult life, I will be pulling for the Cubs this weekend (we had a brief tryst back in 1984; what can I say? Leon Durham was a heck of a ballplayer and a surprisingly sensitive lover). So, go Cubs.
(shudder)
Because if they keep losing they could, in all actuality, ruin my bachelor party.
And if they do that, well, I don't know what I'll do, but it will probably involve an upper decker and Ron Santo's toilet.
[have a great weekend, everybody. enjoy the penn state v. illionis game. oh wait, you probably can't, because the big ten network is also trying to ruin our lives.]
Labels: Based Balls, I Feel Dirty, Stuff You Probably Don't Care About
