Friday, October 31, 2008
Thursday, October 30, 2008
Wednesday, October 29, 2008
No need to put your words into my mouth
Don't need convincing at all
I love this place enough to know I have no doubts
It's a mess, it's a start
It's a flawed work of art
Your city, your call
Every crack, every wall.
Pick a side, pick a fight
Get your epitaph right
You can sing, 'til you drop
'Cause the fun never stops
Tuesday, October 28, 2008
-Michael Radano (h/t 700 level).
Bill Conlin: On a rainy night in Philly, MLB drops the ball
By Bill Conlin Philadelphia Daily News
Daily News Sports Columnist
'ONE DAY it started raining, and it didn't quit for four months. We been through every kind of rain there is. Little bitty stingin' rain . . . and big ol' fat rain. Rain that flew in sideways. And sometimes rain even seemed to come straight up from underneath.'' - Forrest Gump, describing Vietnam rain
Yes sir. Very timely reference there. Continue, please.
It began during Rays batting practice, a fine mist with the texture used to moisten indoor plants wilting from low humidity.
These plants wouldn’t happen to be in your living room, where you’re currently typing, would they?
Then it increased - in dribs and drabs, so to speak - to what I fondly call "Chub Feeney Rain."
I’ve already got a Chub Feeney for this column.
It is rain substantial enough to cause umbrellas to pop open in the stands.
Spontaneously, and on their own. I for one welcome our new umbrella overlords.
And play they did. Or at least they got in five and a half disgrace-tainted innings. It was in the low 40s when Cole Hamels delivered his first pitch to Rays leadoff hitter Akinori Iwamura. A keening wind hammered at his well-stretched back.
Bill Conlin has a Chub Feeney for Cole Hamels.
Before the game went totally to watery hell, Shane Victorino ripped a bases-loaded single in the first for a 2-0 lead off lefthander Scott Kazmir.
I picture watery hell as kind of like a sewer, only crowded. Your boatman is Tim McCarver.
Rays first baseman Carlos Pena arose from his profound lumber slumber with a fourth-inning double off the fence in right high enough to bring rain - were it not already raining.
When lumber slumber strikes, ask your doctor about Cialis.
Fellow slumper Evan Longoria sliced the Phils' lead in half with a single to left that raised a rooster tail of spray aquaplaning to Pat Burrell.
And by the bottom of the inning and with the KPHL Doppler radar showing that South Philly was on the edge of a curtain of moderate rain - stinging rain, thanks to the blustery wind pushing it - half the crowd was waving rally towels, half was drying their faces with them. Not even Forrest Gump himself would play in that kind of weather.
Forrest Gump, however, was not a baseball player. He was a soldier. And soldiers don’t really get to choose the conditions in which they “play”. Hence the term, “soldier on”, which is precisely what the players, the umps, and the fans did. Also… “curtain of moderate rain”? That’s one hell of an oxymoron there. If, someday, I find myself in “watery hell”, I’m gonna be one disappointed damned soul if the rain is only moderate.
Kazmir walked Ryan Howard and Burrell, then left with a pitch count of 103. Longoria stood uncomfortably in a growing puddle behind third base.
Like a child, abandoned by his father at the tender age of 9, waiting for a school bus that he has already missed.
The basepaths were turning into glop. The mound was a skating rink.
Rain + dirt = glop ≠ ice. Try again.
An army of ground-crew ants scurried out with bags of quick-dry clay and tried to stem Mother Nature's onslaught.
Wait, this is Mother Nature’s fault? I thought it was Chub Feeney’s? I’m so confused.
Phillies fan and climatologist extraordinary (sic) Joe Bastardi
Yes, this is actually the guy’s name. In a world of Storm Phoenixes and Hurricane Schwartz, Joe Bastardi stands alone.
had fired off an angry 6:30 p.m. update to his blog on AccuWeather's professional site under the headline: "Cancel the Game Tonight."
Bastardi wrote there was no way in hell or Sea World the rain would let up.
Apparently, Sea World is now some sort of weather control machine. At last, we can harvest the arcane power of dolphins to mist our houseplants! Bwa-hahahaha!
Indeed, a rapidly developing coastal storm off the Mid-Atlantic States had slowed the progress of a massive upper low funneling cold air across the Great Lakes.
I am 100% certain that this sentence is directly plagiarized from some online weather reportage site.
Result: The worst weather fiasco in World Series history and another stain on the boobs who run the cash-obsessed national pastime.
I’m not so sure… the midge game in the 2007 ALDS might have this one beat. Or, you know, the 1989 world series, if earthquakes and insect infestations count as weather.
Bastardi's take: "Cancel the game tonight, and even tomorrow, and then play this when it's warmer, less windy and there is not precip in the air. It's the World Series, for goodness sakes . . . "
Um, like when, May? This is Philly. Rain, 40 degrees, and windy is the best we’re gonna do for the next six months.
Tell that to the used-car salesman running baseball and a Fox network paranoid over the prospect of being forced to play a Friday night makeup game, when America is off watching high school football in thousands of towns.
High school football: ruining America’s pastime one Friday at a time. Look, when you’re this concerned about the effect that a high school sport will have on your sport’s championship, your sport has already lost.
With two outs in the sixth, a trained seal named Hamels was pitching while surrounded by an infield closer to an Everglade than major league.
Now Conlin has a Chub Feeney for seals. Someone alert PETA.
Monday, October 27, 2008
Wednesday, October 22, 2008
Maybe I'm putting too much on the shoulders of athletes. But in a city where the new (in every sense of the word) Mayor is raffling off his box seats, I feel, for the first time in all my years here, a sense that anything is possible. The audacity of hope, if you will.
In lieu of any attempt at rational analysis, I'll simply say this:
(Thanks PhillyPhellas, via Daulerio)
Monday, October 20, 2008
Junior Chase's Chicks across the 5 county area are rejoicing this morning.
I can unequivocally say that I have never felt anywhere near this excited about a series that doesn't involve los junkees. The Phillies are awesome, Philadelphia is awesome, and made even more so when the Phillies are awesome. Yes, get used to that level discourse, as I am utterly incapable of rational analysis of the Phillies right now. I have tickets to game 3, in Philly Saturday, and will be witnessing postseason baseball in person for the first time. Ever. Suffice to say that I have never seen anything in Philadelphia like last Wednesday night, when they closed out the NLCS. Check it (first video - and note the brief celebrity couple sighting). Philadelphia fans can be positive. Who knew?
So... on to the analysis...
Lots of hemming and hawing around Philadelphia this week, about what to do in the World Series games in Tampa, where they will have to appoint a DH. Against left handed pitchers, the choice is pretty clear - Greg Dobbs, or Jenkins (with Dobbs playing 3B). Against righties, it's really unclear - possibly the 30 year 0ld rookie, Chris Coste (which should also involve adding a 3rd catcher just in case).
Anyway, Philly writers are all aflutter with the possibilities, and of course some are using this moment to break out the anti-DH soapbox. While I find these arguments tired and pretentious (nautral beauty of the game? fuck you), I find myself agreeing with their position more and more over the years, even if I hate the way they build their case.
More importantly, this remarkably useless column led me to a totally fascinating story about how the DH was voted down in the NL, which I had never heard:
"At least real baseball is still alive in the National League, and for that, we can thank former Phillies owner Ruly Carpenter, who was fishing on the Atlantic Ocean one day in 1977 when the DH came up for a vote among the NL teams. (The American League had begun playing with a designated hitter in 1973.)
Carpenter instructed then-executive vice president Bill Giles, who would be representing the Phillies at the meeting, to vote in favor of adding the designated hitter in the National League. The Phillies had two very good hitters in the organization, Greg Luzinkski and minor-leaguer Keith Moreland, neither one of whom could catch a cold.
"But when I got to the meeting, I was informed that even if it passed, the DH would not become effective until the [following] season because the players' union had to approve it," Giles said, in the book Change Up: An Oral History of 8 Key Events That Shaped Baseball.
"The National League needed seven votes [out of 12] to pass the DH. There were six teams in favor and four against when the vote came around to Philadelphia and Pittsburgh," Giles said. "Harding Peterson, general manager of Pittsburgh, was told by owner John Galbraith to vote the same way as the Phillies because the teams were big rivals at the time. I tried to reach Ruly by phone but was told that he was out on the ocean fishing."
Not sure if the year's delay would affect Carpenter's opinion, Giles abstained, which counted as a no vote, and so did the Pirates. The addition of the DH was defeated by a single vote. It was never brought up for vote again."
I'm so proud to live in Pennsylvania.
Also: David Price was absolutely tits last night. If he's going to sling around fastballs and his own testicles with that kind of dominance, holy shit, the AL East is in serious fucking trouble. I'm a little afraid of how much affection I have for Price. He looks like a cuddler, that Price. I like that, I like to be held, I like to be pampered. Wait, what?
Tuesday, October 14, 2008
Thursday, October 09, 2008
In the last six and a half years, I've accrued three Super Bowls, two World Series titles, and an NBA championship. I've had it good. And as such, I've dispensed with a lot of deep-seated hatred along the way. It's hard to get too worked up about the Lakers or the Yankees or the Colts when you know your team can take them, or has taken them recently.
The only bastion of bile remaining in my sports universe is the NHL. But my options are limited there. We all know the Bruins won't win the Stanley Cup until I'm shitting into a plastic bag (against my will, that is)... with that off the table, what is there for me to root for?
A playoff series victory? Why bother? I'll just end up pissed when they lose in the second round. Give that good feeling to a tough-luck franchise like the Panthers or the Sabres.
Regular season points champion? Seen it... always followed by a prompt playoff exit. Thanks, but no thanks.
There's really just one thing that I want to see. One thing that I know will warm my heart when I go to sleep, and motivate me to get out of bed every morning. One thing that any hockey fan smart enough to tie his own shoes can get behind:
I want every single Philadelphia Flyer to contract botulism and die.
Yes, this is my new quest... rooting for none of the Flyers to make it out of the 2008-09 season alive.
Fuck those clowns. Fuck those cowardly fucking pussies. WE'VE SEEN THIS THREE TIMES NOW FROM PHILLY!!! With two more to come. They are the most despicable sports team to exist during my lifetime.
The real problem, of course, is that their fat, drooling, mouth-breathing fans enable this shit. Flyers fans are, by a country mile, the stupidest fans in major professional sports. And that's including Raiders fans! They've had an awful rough time of it since the 70's, so it's OK to literally attempt to murder the opposing team. Fucking retards. But I won't bother wishing botulism on the citizens of Philadelphia. Living there is punishment enough.
Okay, okay, I'll back off. Mike Knuble... you are hereby pardoned from botulism contraction! Enjoy your summer, Michael, cause you're all right by me.
Further, I will accept major paralysis of the quadriplegic variety as a substitute for death, if absolutely necessary. Maybe I don't actually wish them dead. But the botulism is a requirement. They need to have botulism, and they need to have it as soon as possible. If you want to ramp up to botulism and start small, with some kind of intestinal disease that causes The Shits, that's also okay. But eventually we need to have botulism, paralysis, and mass retirements.
And Philly fans can look on the bright side when my dreams come true: if your dirtbag ass-licking Flyers all die on you, they'll call up the Phantoms to the big leagues... and they'll be a better team! Everybody wins!
So... who's comin' with me?
(Seriously though, I wish only the most painful manners of death upon the Flyers.)
Friday, October 03, 2008
This, folks, might be the last straw. They look like they're having so much fun, nobody more than AO. He is, hands down, the perfect athlete. Impossibly clutch, impossibly talented, impossibly hard-working, and, more importantly, impossibly joyful. And real.
Jealous, when looking at the Bruins' top six forwards, does not begin to describe it. Sighhhhhhhhhhhhh.
(And there's no way Jeremy Jacobs would have sprung for free Six Flags for thirty guys. That's like $1500!)