The Curious Case of Darrel Boyd

I’m lazing in the broiling sun, drinking a beer and watching players warm-up when the jerry rigged speakers crackle to life. “Will the person who owns the rust-colored 1982 Oldsmobile Cutlass who parked in the handicapped section please come to customer services?”

A man wearing a Led Zeppelin t- shirt and bell bottoms rises from his seat and shuffles slowly to the concourse, an abundance of denim swishing along behind him.

I am in Austin, Texas to watch the Senators of the non-affiliated, amateur, Sandlot Revolution. The main objective here is to see a few bands, have fun with friends and crack open a few beers. It’s well over 100 degrees and my girlfriend is slathering sunscreen on my neck. It seems Latina girls hate when their Caucasian boyfriends have sunburns on their neck because the term “redneck” becomes all too real when a metaphor turns into an unsophisticated visual reality. (her words, not mine)

I’m also here to see first base coach, Darrel Boyd. A batter takes a walk and Boyd pats him on the ass and whispers something in his ear. The now-runner takes a few obligatory steps towards second base before dancing back to his original home.

Boyd is an older man now, but he was once a hot shot “bonus baby,” drafted by the Oakland A’s in the first round in 1973. The aged baseballer has an openness of spirit and an immense hunger for the game. He is a large man of 6 ‘4,  was quick to flash his Colgate-smile, and had the swagger and cadence of 1970’s blaxploitation star Rudy Ray Moore…a combination of bullshit, razzle dazzle and raw nerve. 

“Once I got drafted the pressure was immense”, Boyd said. “I just couldn’t accept that I was a flawed human, and that sort of philosophy will make someone who plays a game of routine failure go mad.” 

Darrel had all the tools…could hit, run and had a cannon for an arm. His teammates had a vivid account that he was traumatized by the murder of his 13-year-old brother who had inadvertently stumbled upon some teenage hillbillies’ dirt weed crop, and this incident loomed large on his psyche. He was a man with a deeply rooted sense of loss, never able to fully recover.

“We were close, my brother and I, but he was in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

He would get into scuffles with umpires, destroy equipment, and often find himself tossed out of the game and taking an early shower alone. He was gaining the reputation as a hot head.  All in all, it was clear that his outbursts were becoming an issue and that he needed to find a more productive way of expressing his emotions.

“The organization didn’t really give a shit about all that nonsense as long as I kept hitting. (He hit 32 dingers for the Modesto A’s in 1975) But a strange thing happened–I just stopped hitting. The game that came to me so easily my whole life just seemed perplexing and my attitude made me dispensable. I felt lost and confused, unable to understand why the game that had once been so simple was now out of my reach. The ball looked microscopic”

Darrel hit around .220 in 1978 for the San Jose Missions and was released. His dream had died without ever getting a major league at-bat. 

“I sometimes think about the coulda-shoulda-woulda, but as long as I’m above ground everything is alright by me. I’m not really the apathetic type, but the world sure is a cruel audience.” 

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Note: this was written in the tradition of George Plimpton’s, The Curious Case of Sidd Finch specifically for this very day.

Kong And Heartbreak

“To be alive is to have scars.”–John Steinbeck

Recently, I visited a friend in Los Angeles, and in a drunken haze (and remorseful weakness) I decided to buy a pack of cigarettes. It was an odd and not well-thought-out move as I hadn’t wrapped my lips around a cancer stick for almost five years. You see, the threads of anxiety started that evening when I had, by happenstance, walked by a movie theater that my ex-girlfriend and I used to go to quite often. And as I passed by, it gave me a lurch in my stomach and dislodged a small pebble that had been stuck in my unconscious.

What makes the scene even more fortuitous is that very morning I found a forgotten baseball card of a side glancing, smirking Dave “Kong” Kingman tucked away in a notebook that I hadn’t laid eyes on since I’d first received it in our shared mailbox many, many years earlier. We had lived our own manufactured, domestic dream on a cactus-strewn, sun-bleached, quiet street and were running late– rushing to the very same theater where the entombed memory would be unburdened many years later. 

I used to play a game in this darkened movie house where I would press my mouth to her ear during a lull in the film and whisper I love you and hold the ouuuuu sound. She would laugh and push me away before subtly holding her face close so I could kiss her cheek. I’ve always had my own tensions, but they seemed to melt away when she was around during that summer of 2012. Of course, I’m going to remember these little things because I’m nostalgic by nature and they could perhaps be the most tender moments of my chaotic and ludicrous life. Perhaps when you recall similar moments you realize that the little things were the big things, and as you age you will lose them in small increments like paper cuts. 

The breakup was terrible, heartbreaking, unmerciful and all the other devastating words. As a writer, (or at least someone who moonlights as one) shouldn’t I be able to confront difficult topics without having my psyche shattered? This was an indelible moment that I had hidden for years until that quiet night when it met me on that corner while the illuminated marquee stained my crippled in disbelief body. (In a suburb made famous by the Rose Bowl and a Jan and Dean song: the little old lady from Pasadenaaaaaaaa!) I, unfortunately did what unhealthy men seem to do: I pushed it deep down and forgot about it until the unwanted revisions (this time stoked by a visual thing) rose to the surface in a myriad of emotions–mostly sadness, shame and regrets. 

Will that baseball card still exist in 50 years? I haven’t a clue…I will be long dead, but I do know that the future owner will never know about the history behind it, or the two lovers sharing popcorn and playing footsie on that sticky theater floor while the card sat with us as the projector whirred overhead. The inanimate object of paper ephemera with the mustachioed man and his scrawl would be forever unvoiced about where it had been in that darkened room with two people sharing a silence. A single, thin and insignificant piece of cardboard being held in the purse of a girl who once loved a boy and who once loved her back, fetched from the connected mailbox. 

October Baseball and Other Ramblings

“They used to call it a Texas-Leaguer…then it was called a blooper…now it is called a flare.” –Vin Scully 

I had COVID a few weeks back and the effects were minimal as I only felt sluggish and had a sore throat for about a week. Admittedly, it was a bummer of a time but I have the dignity to laugh at my own unhappiness. In this fever dream/hyper-medicated state, I found that I have no patience for reality television which felt like an epiphany, but it just turns out that I’ve always felt that way. A few times I’d be so jacked up on NyQuil that I thought the quote on a tea bag was giving me a new life perspective. Recovery was inevitable so I’m back to being a cynical, unreflective knob with a penchant for gallons of coffee and shows about wives who murder their husbands for profit. Hallelujah.

 The above-mentioned lollygagging was used to read Vida Blue’s autobiography since I had no energy to do much else, and I enjoyed it very much. (thanks a million, Mark) As baseball fans, we should all know the story…poor black kid from a remote, ramshackle Louisiana town signed by owner Charlie Finley for 12,500 dollars and becomes a SuperDuperStar. To say that Blue was a critical part of that A’s dynasty of the 70’s would be an understatement. His statistics are mind-blowing even to the modern eye. A six-time All-Star pitcher, he’s the only player to win MVP, a Cy Young Award, three championships, and 200 games on the mound. There is no way I  could ever really describe Blue’s impact on baseball, black culture, and the larger American zeitgeist. 

 I’ve been watching here and there the quest for the “worthless piece of metal” as less than esteemed scumbag Rob Manfred so eloquently called the WS trophy. (OK, maybe he didn’t say worthless) Adolis Garcia and Yordon Alvarez were absolute monsters in the wildly entertaining ALCS, just crushing balls with dazzling brute strength. I really didn’t have a preference as to who climbed that mountain to glory. The Snakes and their motley array won a spot in the World Series opposite the Rangers which must be some kind of cosmic joke direct from the baseball gods at the expense of corporate goons. I have a picture of myself in front of Chase Field somewhere, slowly dying in 108-degree heat and flipping the bird to a life-sized promotional display of overpaid hack Madison Bumgarner. Yes, this was the pinnacle of maturity. 

Also, the NPB Japan Series between the Hanshin Tigers and the Orix Buffaloes begins on October 28th. I doubt many people reading this will watch since the games are played at an ungodly hour, (4:00 AM) but those of us with insomnia are kind of jazzed. I was rooting for the Yokohama BayStars in the playoffs (with seemingly vindicated pitcher Trevor Bauer, who as of me typing this publicly wants to return to MLB) but they were eliminated in one of those dastardly 3 game series. The Japanese reward the regular season best record winners with an automatic bye and then a “win” in a best-of-7 LCS. Essentially, they would only have to win 3 games as opposed to the wild card victors’ 4. I kind of like that – giving the regular season actual meaning. 

That’s all I’ve got for now. Perhaps there’s a cautionary tale in there somewhere?

Sandlot Baseball, BBQ and Hangovers

“Baseball must be a great game because the owners haven’t been able to kill it.” –Bill Veeck

My hangover was so bad that it seemed to have its own scent and even its own material existence. It was putting me in a mood of general malaise, and I decided it was time for an evening Labour Day stroll to get the ‘ol ticker pumping. My head felt like it had been punched repeatedly by pre-Mao-reading, prime-1988 Mike Tyson and I closed my door with the line of thought, Please God, Shiva, Zeus, Vishnu, Ganesh, or whatever the hell lies in the celestial mist…send the doomsday asteroid right away. 

In my neighborhood, there are quaint middle-class homes next door to gaudy, three-story million-dollar compounds. The outgrowth of native greenery feels almost wild–let nature live!–the buzzing and rattling cicadas high in the trees and scurrying lizards summate that untamed vibe. With a wistfulness and stillness, the streets seem to carry their own built-in stream of consciousness accompanied by the pink wildflowers and insect sound motif. I kick around the naive idea that the vegetation here will always prevail over homogenized, domestic appearances. These walks give me time to pay attention to my mind and surroundings without getting lost in the ceaseless static and talking points. Sometimes you just need to simply tell your brain to shut the fuck up. 

I could smell charcoal wafting from various grills, and as I turned a corner I lovingly witnessed the thought-to-be-dead, once customary, suburban kids playing baseball in a weed-strewn lot. There was chattering, rough-housing, dirty knees, and cardboard bases: a game for the sake of a game, simply…play. It looked like heaven to me. I could also hear someone booming Kansas’ “Carry On My Wayward Son” somewhere in the distance, the perfect song for both rocking out and pondering complicated feelings while gnawing on a burger and jawing with your chain-smoking, bored and apathetic mother-in-law. Instant nostalgia dopamine filled my veins. 

The rugrat ballplayers gave me the idea to watch a vintage game from my own childhood, the year chosen was 1988, a year forever embossed on my heart. Conversely, this was before baseball was shepherded by a fan-hating ghoul who is intent on destroying the history and whatever integrity the game had left due to supporting and coddling inept stewardship by a wanna-be billionaire trust-fund clown. But I digress…

Bob Welch was toeing the slab against the Indians, and I soon realized that this was the same field (Cleveland Stadium) that hosted 10-cent beer night some 14 short years earlier; a riotous affair that went down in baseball and hooliganism history. I remember reading somewhere the account of a guy who had attended that game and of people vomiting everywhere in the bleachers. Oh, Cleveland…so much to answer for. I popped a few ibuprofen, washed it down with a Bloody Mary, and then sat back and let the annals of hardball history wash over me. Vin Scully and Joe Garagiola were on the mic, and I got swept away in the witty banter and baseball connoisseur insight before Jose Canseco launched a 3-run homer on a 1-2 jam-shot that looked to be a waste pitch. 

Vin Scully tidbit: the Philadelphia Athletics played the first game at Cleveland Stadium in 1932. HOFer Lefty Grove pitched for the Elephants and won 1-0.

 
I fell asleep and woke up in the bottom of the 7th as Gene Nelson, he of the zany, frantic windup, strutted out of the bullpen. He then proceeded to conjure the ghost (and mustache) of Rollie Fingers to pitch the ultra-rare 3 inning save. Tony LaRussa was very meticulous with his bullpen use so this left me a bit baffled. Was the bullpen overtaxed? Did Nelson need work? I love how sometimes baseball creates a negative space where you can project your own imagination. Have you ever nerded out on something so hard that you want to filter it through your own lens? Sigh. I really need to get a hobby.

Dream a Little Dream

“And it is only after seeing man as his unconscious, revealed by his dreams, presents him to us that we shall understand him fully.“–Sigmund Freud

She said, “I’m pregnant, and it’s yours,” but before I could hash out the details (I didn’t even know her) I was jolted awake feeling like I was holding a pinless grenade in a bleary-eyed, malicious fog before habitually turning on some early morning Japanese baseball. Did I just dream that? Next to the bed was a table with a half-eaten banana split and a few other examples of neurotic excess. There’s the culprit…beer cans and junk food. I think my primal, reptilian brain was trying to tell me something, but what do I know?

Ex-Oakland Pathetic Sheldon Neuse (Noisy) stepped into the box batting a cool .246, just one point below Kris Davis’ mystical and magical average of .247, which he batted an astounding four years in a row. Baseball is an incredibly strange sport, and sometimes you need a sherpa to escort you through its seemingly endless weird-ass peaks and valleys.

Neuse now plays for the Hanshin Tigers who were beating the Yomiuri (Tokyo) Giants, both currently battling for first place in the Central League. I then recalled that he had tore up the PCL in 2019, sending 102 hombres home and sporting an outstanding .939 OPS. Of course, his numbers were inflated by the warm and humid air in Las Vegas, presumably why Neuse didn’t win the MVP. Ty France of the Mariners holds the honor. It took a few years for the A’s and the Dodgers to figure out Neuse lacked power and was a AAAA player at best–-so off to The Land of the Rising Sun he fled, seeking riches and sushi he could never dream to obtain in the bush leagues. 

I suppose writing this was trying one’s hand to make sense of things in that darkened room, and even if that sense was in monochrome, at least I have an incredibly stupid, albeit funny narrative. The game was fun. I made coffee. Life was ok with the understanding that it only takes a small drift of wind to push our ship this way or that, often with a subtle and elegant mystery slowly revealing itself.

Backyards to Ballparks

A few months back I mentioned that I was going to be published in a book called Backyards to Ballparks. I decided to re-print the essay. If you’re interested in the book, the link can be found here.

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At 12 years old, along with everything Star Wars related, there was, of course, baseball with my friends. Random broken windows resulted from batted baseballs, so we began to make balls with newspaper and duct tape, in retrospect a genius move. We couldn’t care less if we lost the ball, and there were no more broken windows along with the inevitable grounding and ass-tanning that came with them.

I went to my first Major League Baseball game on September 26, 1987.  My grandfather took me for  “Reggie Jackson Day,” and Reggie was his all-time favorite player. Details have been blurred through time, yet I remember–confirmed through research–being disappointed that Reggie batted only once in a pinch-hit role, popping out with runners on second and third in a 3-2 loss to the Chicago White Sox. After the game Reggie was in a bad mood.“I’m not into talking about how wonderful things are for me when we’ve lost four in a row,” he said. “I’m embarrassed. If we had won, it would be different. But right now, my esteem is low. My self-importance is microscopic.”

I remember little of the game, but my memory was refreshed by looking at the box score. I recall my 12-year-old self wondering, “Who in the hell is Walt Weiss?” Just 1988 Rookie of the Year. I don’t recall Curt Young pitching 7 strong innings, or any feelings or ballpark details, except the expansiveness of the field, my grandfather chain-smoking Marlboro “Reds”, and pissing in a trough for the first time. I do, however, remember Reggie’s at-bat. This probably destroyed my belief in pre-destiny and prepared me for the heartbreak and disappointment of being an Athletics fan for many years to come. 

Without my grandfather’s fondness for Reggie–his brash attitude and high strikeout rates aside–I probably would have never found my love for baseball and the A’s. To me, Reggie was a legend and a mystifying figure who was on the cusp of retiring just as I was learning to love and appreciate the game. He was a Ruthian figure, honored by someone I loved; which made me open my eyes to try to figure out just what made this guy so special.

When my grandfather died, I sadly watched his children argue and bickered over his possessions. I decided right then and there that I didn’t need an earthly remembrance of this man who was the biggest father figure in my life. A couple of months later, my grandmother came to me and handed me an autographed Reggie Jackson ball. I knew it well; it had the most prominent spot in the case where grandpa kept his baseball memorabilia. It was the gem of the collection. “I saved this for you,” she said. “Grandpa would have wanted you to have it.”

I love when the baseball existentialists come together to sing their songs of praise about the serene rhythms and mystic qualities of the game. It gives me a warm feeling. And as much as I love and adore the game, sometimes I feel as if these are all illusions because of a time and an innocence that I love and cherish — and that I’ll never see again.

Pathetics Swept In Beantown

Thank goodness the All-Star break is finally here…meaning the John Fisher Deep Dive Into Hell is halfway over. The abomination known as the Oakland A’s were swept by the Red Sox over the weekend and I watched with a sense of schadenfreude, taking a sort of sick pleasure in watching bonehead plays (of which there were many) and chuckling out loud as one reliever after another poured gasoline on a dumpster fire before skulking off the field looking like someone had shot their dog. These games were like a train wreck in slow motion; while it was horrifying to watch, you just couldn’t look away. One would have also thought that this humdrum Boston team was comparable to the 1927 Yankees if you squinted really hard and were drunk enough. Is that Babe Ruth or Christian Arroyo? 

I was foiled, once again, by the unpredictable nature of matter. This was thanks to alcohol and a team full of refugee bush leaguers and bottom-of-the-barrel FA signings that go up and down and back and forth to that homeless-infested hellhole in the middle of the desert. (founded by Bugsy Siegel who took a bullet to the head for his efforts) It’s almost like rearranging the deck chairs on the Titanic. This pathetic monstrosity is hampered by its lack of talent, as evidenced by the signing of the scrapheap banjo hitters they trot out every day. Their roster was so underwhelming that even when the team managed to win 25 games, respected analyst Peter Gammons remarked that they may have “overachieved” given their circumstances.

Lunkhead manager Mark Kotsay did himself no favors by inauspiciously batting Seth Brown in the 3-hole against a lefty, (he hit .033 against them this year) in the Sunday game, and predictably and like clockwork he proceeded to fly out with the bases loaded. Billy Martin, he ain’t. Kotsay also thought it was clever to have a guy, Tyler Wade, bunt after popping up on his first sacrifice attempt. He then proceeded to, you guessed it, pop up again. My thought is this: if you don’t have faith in a guy to the point where he’s bunting TWICE in a game, maybe he’s not the kind of guy you want around. Tyler Wade’s back-to-back sacrifice attempts were a clear demonstration of Kotsay’s lack of faith, making his presence on the team questionable. Just a thought. 

P.S. I’m not even planning to discuss the perfect game against the hated Yankees which was emblematic of everything wrong in the world. 

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Dosteovesky was once quoted as saying, “The cleverest of all, in my opinion, is the man who calls himself a fool at least once a month.”

Can I make it once a day!? I don’t know how ultimately clever I am, but it probably wasn’t a wise idea to drink a bunch of coffee around midnight as I was up and wide-eyed at 5 o’clock watching the Yokohama BayStars vs the Yomiyuri (Tokyo) Giants. By the time my favorite player, Shugo Maki, hit a game-winning homer in the 12th inning, this barely articulate dead-eyed dipshit was ready to hit the pillow.  It’s like the old saying goes: “What goes up must come down,” and I was a testament to that as I suddenly went from a caffeine-fueled ball of energy to a sleep-deprived zombie. Goodnight everyone.

Baseball Is Kind of Awesome

“Marcel Lachemann may be the greatest pitching coach in the history of the game.”–Jim Leyland 

I’d like to give a cheerful and warm thanks to Mark over at Retro Simba for sending me some various Oakland A’s baseball cards in the mail, although one piece of cardboard was more conspicuous in a particularly nostalgic way–the Marcel Lachemann pictured. I remember him fondly as the pitching coach for the then-California Angels in the early 90’s. My grandparents lived about a 10-minute drive from Anaheim in nearby Buena Park, so my grandfather and I attended quite a few Angels games. They enjoyed going to flea markets on weekends and would sometimes drop me off in the “Big A” parking lot where I would buy tickets from scalpers (who my grandpa taught me to lowball if it was close enough to game time) and then once inside stand around under the S. California cornflower-blue sky chatting with 90-year-old bench coach Jimmie Reese–who was once Babe Ruth’s baseball roommate–on the third base line. I was always tickled by Reese’s answer when asked what life was like rooming with The Babe. 

“I roomed with his suitcase.” 

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I usually don’t watch Pirates/Cardinals games, but I love early morning “get-away” baseball and these two teams squared off the other day as I was enjoying my coffee and rubbing the crud out of my eyes. It was impressive to watch 43-year-old Dick Mountain (who had sucked in his previous 4 outings, so he must have eaten his Wheaties and balanced his chakras) baffle the Cardinals hitters with an array of off-speed pitches. Mountain grunted and groaned his way through 6 ⅔, throwing everything but the kitchen sink, giving up 1 ER, and helping the Buccos complete the sweep of the RedBirds.

I have a friend (a Mariners fan) who would always sing the praises of Jamie Moyer, and this game brought me major “Moyer Vibes.” We decrepit old guys love it when old farts succeed on the ball field as we can live through them vicariously and exclaim, “Well if he’s still got it then so do I goddamn it!” And that morning was one of those days for Mr. Mountain–a successful day on the hill that gave me renewed hope in crusty old dudes everywhere with back problems, fussy wives, and a 9 o’clock bedtime.

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Here’s a short Vida Blue vs Hank Aaron video. Do yourself a favor and check it out.

Baseball Cards With Curious Stories to Tell

“No artist tolerates reality”–Nietzsche

My girlfriend told me that a man had tried to hang himself in the tree out in front of her house with his tie. Apparently, he had decided that his life was to be consummated right then and there in front of her 1940’s, white stucco, Spanish-style bungalow until someone called the proper authorities and he was taken away wearing what I’d imagine was a starched shirt and a face full of confusion. 

“Look, the tie is still on the branch,” she said.

The culprit was gray with blue vertical stripes and dancing in the breeze as the sunlight glinted off the synthetic fabric. Eventually, the tie created a life and mystique of its own, ceasing to be an inanimate symbol of economic good faith and encouraging me to acknowledge its insistent sadness–as I did almost every time I walked by.

I pointed out that the branch (which was about 8 feet off the ground) was inadequate for such an undertaking as it would break instantly under the weight of even an average-sized man.  The scenario was like trying to hang a piano from a piece of string – it’s a fool’s errand and doomed to fail from the start.

“How should I know what he was thinking…just another weirdo,” she said in a hard and detached manner.

We were headed to the Mexican swap meet where I was to find myself as the only gringo who had even bothered to show up that broiling day. The girlfriend was tickled by this. She bought an elote (corn) with chili powder, and I bought a random, mysterious, and seductive box of baseball cards and a Mexican League (Toros de Tijuana) baseball cap from a large, sweaty, ungainly man who clearly didn’t want to be there. He grunted in an undistinguishable language, too remote to be interpreted. I wasn’t sure if we were in accord with the price so I just held up a 20-dollar bill and he nodded in agreement. I took a cursory glance at the cards and then shoved them under my arm. 

Later that night we were at home watching a Charles Bronson movie when I decided to thumb through the dusty, frail cardboard. 

“Will you look at that…a Rickey Henderson rookie card!” I said, startled that dizzy with excitement is no mere phrase.

“Is that good?” 

She didn’t even look up as Bronson blasted another scumbag in the chest with his metaphorical cock, a .475 Magnum. I was elated to discover the all-time greatest thief as the other thief on the tube was getting his life snuffed out by a chain-smoking germophobe.

“Yeah, it’s good I’d say…real good.”

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Hey guys…please give Disaffected Musings a look if you get the chance. it’s an interesting blog written by a “Moneyball” pioneer with a focus on baseball, cars, and opinions on other various topics.

More Baseball Stuff That Makes Me Lose My Mind

“I opened my eyes and saw the real world, and I began to laugh and I haven’t stopped since.” — Kierkegaard

Statistical guru Bill James recently laid bare that Tony Phillips has a higher career WAR than Braves poster boy Dale Murphy in a shocking (to me at least) expose. To be fair, James has said that the WAR statistic has its problems (personally, I think OPS is a far superior stat) stating that “the REAL problem with WAR is that it is a Comparison Derivative—thus, highly sensitive to small errors. The problem is that when working with Comparison Derivatives, a 1% error can manifest itself as a 20% error, a 50% error, a 90% error, or a 200% error.” It’s like the old saying: a chain is only as strong as its weakest link. A single error in the statistic can have a huge effect on its overall accuracy. Nevertheless, I found it cool that Phillips was on James’ list of highly underrated players and I agree that he didn’t get the recognition he deserved. To whom it matters: Murphy had a higher career OPS– .815 to .763. and no, I don’t think he deserves to be in the HOF despite seemingly unending arguments to the contrary.

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Oakland Pathetics Rookie Mason Miller tossed 7 no-hit innings against the Mariners a few nights ago before being pulled by numbskull manager Mark Kotsay for, and I kid you not, Dick Lovelady, (recently plucked from the Braves shit heap…but he’s CHEAP!) who tossed 5 pitches before giving up a game-tying homer to .113 hitting AJ Pollock–essentially blowing the game and all the positive free-flowing, rolling in the mud, hippie vibes. Talk about a buzzkill! And so it goes with the A’s bullpen aka “The Gas Can Squad” as Oakland fandom continues with this maudlin (thanks to carpetbagger John Fisher) baseball season. I guess the saying still holds true: You get what you pay for.

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My insomnia and existential terror returned the other night (go figure) so I decided to watch some NPB and lo and behold, there was the recently disgraced Trevor Bauer on the hill pitching his first game in just over 22 months! The social media creep scattered seven hits in seven innings, allowed one run, struck out nine, and threw 98 pitches in the Yokohama Baystars‘ 4-1 victory against the Hiroshima Carp. I guess it’s safe to say that I didn’t get much sleep and was kicking myself as I wearily watched the post-game Bauer interview before a board of corporate sponsors and clutching a stuffed animal in the Japanese kawaii tradition. I’ve got to say, Bauer definitely had the “Bear” necessities to get the job done. (and there it is…I’ve been reduced to dad jokes. I’m not sure if this blog is uncharacteristically and abstractly cool or increasingly uncool and mentally ill) Sweet dreams everyone!