I’ve got the spirit of Milton Bradley running through me, and baseball sucks right now

This is “Tar Man” from “The Return of the Living Dead,” the greatest zombie movie of all time. You can thank me later.

In lieu of baseball, I’ve been watching a lot of movies; and you’d be surprised by how many flicks there are about nuns possessed by the devil, nazi zombies, and undead sharks. There is even a film, I kid you not, titled “Killer Sofa,” with the protagonist being a piece of furniture with a mean streak. MLB should take note, especially in modern day, about how many diversions are available to a slack-jawed couch potato like me. I’m a hardcore baseball fan in the average age range of your typical MLB consumer and even I don’t care if baseball comes back in 2020. Something is very wrong here. They say Rob Manfred is a lawyer but does that title still have any meaning after the frontal lobotomy?

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The Red Sox recently released a statement confirming that some of their deplorable fan base uses racial slurs, which was a great first step in race relations, but doesn’t racism begin at home? The Sox didn’t sign their first black free agent until 1992 (!) and still to this day have NEVER had a black manager. If your fans are a “reflection of larger systemic issues that as an organization we need to address,” than why don’t you start with yourselves and whatever dumb ass policies that you adhered to before June of 2020? My guess is that they were too busy stealing signs to even give a shit…the whole “storied franchise” can burn in hell with now deceased, noted racist philanthropist and former Red Sox owner Tom Yawkey for all I care.

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It’s recently come to my attention that some of the “gatekeepers” of baseball writing don’t take kindly to my presence in the grandiose and accolade-laden world of baseball blogging. (insert heavy eye roll here) I’m apparently a pariah among these very same anachronistic baseball writers who learned their trade either by replicating newspaper hacks or idealistic, fluffy poets who want to lovingly reminisce about the “good old days” (ok, Boomer) and never saw the game from a critical perspective. These same writers, who I assume to be literary experts, are compelled to criticize but still can’t pull their eyes away from lil ol’ me. In the end it’s just a pissing contest in which I never wanted to be involved. I started this project for simple enjoyment and to connect with fans of a singular baseball team, not to compare and contrast book deals, MLB connections and dick size. (which I would win anyway because most of you are old, shriveled up fart bags.)

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–Support black owned businesses always, and not just during June 2020.

–Read black authors always, and not just nonfiction books about racism.

–Oh my gosh, please just wear a dang mask.

I don’t really care if baseball comes back in 2020

He came out of nowhere!

These are paradoxical times that would make George Orwell sit up in his grave and vomit from exhaustion. A man, George Floyd, was murdered by police officers and a city is burning. Donald Trump, meanwhile, only seems upset by the fact that he is being censored by a social media app that took away his platform to blather daily with diabolical malicious intent. I really don’t give a shit if baseball comes back in 2020 at this point in time by virtue of the lying, cheating and money bickering that doesn’t seem inclusive to politics or an average earth dweller’s daily social life.

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Greedy BILLIONAIRES (and specifically Oakland A’s owner John Fisher) are refusing to take care of their investments in the minor leagues, most of whom were living hand to mouth. There is an almost schizophrenic pathology in this country that must be addressed before grown men with sticks try to hit a ball and pat each other on the ass. And do we (I’m assuming my readers are vastly working class) really care if the rich get richer as we chase our own tails? Are we not just a clump of self-satisfied, fog shrouded, entitled little shits who cling to technology and the almighty dollar as we regress to the primordial ooze of ethics as a species? You can only take so much before you throw up your hands and say, “enough!” I’ve heard that age deepens all feelings, and I can’t argue with that statement as I have never been more sickened by the actions of this country’s citizens and politicians (left and right) in all of my days.

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It’s all about the small things in life and I could only cherish the moment, albeit for mere minutes, as I found a can of Lysol on the shelf at my local drug store. I am officially voting this single, arbitrary can as MVP of the Oakland A’s in 2020: may he forever live in the heart and minds of fans as one of the greatest to ever wear the green and gold.

Spring Training is here! A’s to win the A.L. West in 2020.

I didn’t even shell out the six bucks for a copy of Baseball Prospectus.

It’s not important that I bring to task a Spring Training update; personally I find them to be tedious, but I suppose I must write something considering that this humble dissemination has over 2,500 followers and people actually read the thing for crissakes.

After last years embarrassing one game playoff loss to the Devil Rays, the following remarks swirled in my mind: pointless, not again, now what?, same old shit…who in the hell is Yandy Diaz? The ever graceful and future ace Sean Manaea blamed himself for the loss although it was a team effort as the offense was anemic and made to look bush-league. Watching the game was every bit the “Babylonian” experience.  This squad, however, isn’t a “soft reboot” as the youngsters have aged a year and have playoff experience with the following players expected to have a breakout year: Matt Olson, Sean Manaea, Mark Canha and Ramon Laureano. Little was added or subtracted this off-season because of the aforementioned. The template for most prospective playoff teams is a daily set lineup, (depending on L/R matchups, of course) and this team doesn’t have many question marks. Bob Melvin should only have to  do a bit of airbrushing here and there.

No Spring Training review is complete without a contrarian view and the second base/bullpen situation must be addressed here. Second base: Franklin Barreto has proven to be impotent, still can’t lay off the slider, and has spent more time in Nashville than Johnny Cash. He has two things going for him: he is young and the A’s front office refuses to get fleeced in the Josh Donaldson trade. Sheldon Neuse should get a look at the position as well because of the big season he had in the desert for Las Vegas. Bullpen: This was definitely a weakest spot as the ‘pen blew more than 25 saves last year with most of the guys being question marks except for Petit and Hendricks. I wouldn’t be surprised if a couple of non-roster guys made the team. Melvin will be working with patchwork and will be criticized many times this year for how he handled it whether it be his fault or not.

I see no reason why this team can’t pull together, win a roll of the dice in the playoffs and haul the “piece of metal” as Ron Manfred so elegantly called the WS trophy. I think the Nats of 2019 proved that miracles can still happen when you have strong pitching and a lineup that works together without one self-absorbed prick mucking up the works.

Canseco and Cap’n Crunch

I was standing in the queue at the local health food store with my basket full of over-priced, organic, local, vegan, cage-free crap when suddenly I was struck by a haze of fog known as boredom reminiscing. This phenomenon, where synapses are sparked by everyday mundane activities, usually inwardly projects me back to the 80’s and a much more simple time before parents became enlightened helicopters and kids started bringing guns to school to solve their commonplace problems.

While in this haze I’m begging my mother to buy me Cap’n Crunch, if only because of the 2 free baseball cards inside. She obviously isn’t very modern, (alas, this is the 80’s, stick with me here) so the term organic isn’t part of her everyday verbiage, and her idea of a “healthy snack” would be a syrupy granola bar with chocolate chips or a sludgy, faux-cherry fruit cup. The only reason she’s debating this is because she can buy the very same, generic version at a much, much cheaper price by the hideously uninspired name of Crispy Crunch. Well, this was a complication of epic proportions for a 12 year old. There was no chance of getting a fucking Jose Canseco or Mark McGwire card in a box of Crispy Crunch. What to do?

I’m startled out of this mini psychedelic trip by the impatient, too-cool-for-school checker with dreadlocks and a Nirvana t-shirt. She had been calling out to me, and like an idiot I was standing there, in a daze, thinking about the time I wanted to eat a box of sugar- laden crap in order to obtain pieces of cardboard with the likeness of guys who injected steroids in their ass so they could look like Greek Gods, break a bunch of records and hit the ball out of the goddamn stratosphere.

Wasn’t it great?

Raiders of the Lost Ro-ark

The Oakland A’s, in their never-ending quest to acquire all white guys named Tanner, acquired Tanner Roark from the Red-Legs at the 11th hour of the trading deadline for a high A prospect. If Homer Bailey is akin to ramen noodles, I would say Roark is the 99 cent kimchi ramen bowl. (I love to add my own kimchi to these, but that is a story for another time.) This is simply a small-market team with a Wild Card shot trying to hold together their pitching staff with duct tape and popsicle sticks in order to appease their fans and try to pull off another ragtag Oakland miracle. And I agree with it. I’ve bought into the future and the farm system, I drank the proverbial kool-aid and didn’t want to give up high-end prospects. Let’s all raise a glass for 2021!

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More trade deadline crap: I’m not one to criticize the fans of my own team, but if you are going to be the proprietor of any sort of media platform concerning a baseball team, you should at least know a simple thing like…who is the general manager? I read numerous cases of people slandering Billy Beane about the recent acquisitions/lack thereof with David Forst being the actual GM making the big, important board-room decisions. Are baseball fans really smarter than the fans of other sports? Is it really so difficult to take 10 seconds out of your obviously busy life to google something? And if the answer is “no,” should I even care about what you have to say? That being said, it was satisfying and hilarious to see Yankees and Red Sox fans (probably the best example of toxic masculinity) having tantrums over the fact that neither team made a significant move at the deadline. This probably also means neither team has a shot in the playoffs because, well, you know…pitching.

Read all about it! Oakland A’s interested in acquiring an Avenger from the Mutts!

“Baseball opinions are like assholes, everyone’s got one and most of ’em stink.” –Harry Caray

With the trade deadline approaching there were rumors that the pitching-hungry A’s were interested in Noah Syndergaard aka “Thor”. The Mets asking price for the demi-god was a bit too steep and personally I think I’d pass–although Thor is a solid, arguably top-tier starter, I just wouldn’t give up the farm for another shot at a Wild Card game and a chance that Odin’s son wouldn’t even take the hill in such game. The ‘Fro has been (rarely) wrong before but I’m hoping that the ball-club acquires a less sexy, and ultimately more humanly, Mike Leake. (Yes, I like to start my own rumors.) Leake would come at a much lower trade price because of his pedigree, and with the Athletics bullpen imploding from overwork, an innings-eater such as Leake might be undervalued. The Mariners, as always, aren’t opposed to being fleeced on the “minimal interest” trade market and sometimes even welcome it.

I, in a blushing moment of boredom, was checking my WordPress statistics the other day when I noticed that someone had stumbled upon this very blog by googling the search term, “Bob Geren smelling his own ass.” Curiosity got the best of me and when I googled the same sentence the blog before you was the first thing to pop up. Geren, of course, was the Oakland manager that everyone (including his players) loved to hate and he and his forever constipated looking face is now in Los Angeles as bench coach of the Dodgers. Good luck this year, Bob. Once a Yankee always a Yankee.

All Star breaks, home runs and anti-social disorder.

Hates egoists and wants to be alone.

It’s the All Star Break and I’m not really sure if I will watch the HR derby tonight even though A’s favorite/clandestine in the baseball world Matt Chapman is competing. I have unadulterated “pachyderm pride,” I just don’t care too much about one of my guys winning a home run contest. That being said, I did enjoy watching the old black and white 1960 episodes of Home Run Derby as a kid with Mickey Mantle, Duke Snyder and Willie Mays so perhaps I will tune in tonight just out of curiosity. These kind of things can be tricky, of course, because by my estimation if I’m not entertained within the first 5 minutes than I will give up all together and move on to another activity. There was just something cool about guys from the 60’s hitting dingers in an empty, creepy stadium rather than into a mosh pit of “ooohing” and “ahhhing” fans biting and clawing at each other for something they unrealistically think they can sell on ebay to put their kids through college. Plus, you know, Cleveland. Yuck.

I was reading random blogs when I was thrust into a magical internet wormhole, stumbling upon whentoppshadballs.blogspot.com and a write-up on the anomaly known as Mark Williams. I have always been intrigued by the more eccentric side of baseball and it’s players, and here is what I found: Mark Westley Williams is a former professional baseball outfielder. He played in three games for the Oakland Athletics of Major League Baseball in 1977, going 0-for-2 with 1 RBI. Born in Elmira, NY the last of three children for Virgina and David Williams. Retired in 1977 after losing interest in baseball after finding out that he suffered from anti-social disorder and allergic to egoistic inflation. Later attended West Point Military Academy, and Elmira College receiving a masters degree. Now can be found hiking numerous trials in upstate New York under trail name “Let Me Be!”

Baseball rants with the spirit of Milton Bradley running through me.

“Fuck yo couch!”

If anyone denies the “baseball is juiced” conundrum one just has to look at the career of Eric Sogard who had 11 career home runs in over 1,500 AB’s entering this season and 9 this year alone. More home-runs were hit in June than any other month in baseball history, including the steroid era. If MLB wanted to put this “shameful era” on the back-burner it sure isn’t displaying remorse as I’ve read numerous accounts of the baseball and its inner core being compromised after scientists with way too much time on their hands x-rayed and analyzed two different sets of baseballs, one of modern day and one before 2015. It seems like 40 home runs, once a milestone, will be humdrum, and which begs the question–who will be the next Brady Anderson? Shall we also judge and slander modern day players for HOF consideration because they played during the “juiced ball era?”

The baseball season can be summed up by the opposite theater masks of tragedy and comedy and the Yankees/Red Sox London Series was quite the definition of both. I watched the first game out of curiosity and was instantly turned off by both teams scoring 6 runs in the first inning. What some people see as an exciting, high-scoring game I just saw as bad pitching and a clown show. The first half of the first inning took 27 minutes alone. I’m not sure what kind of individual wants to watch a game with numerous pitchers entering to throw gas and dynamite on an open flame over a 4 hour period but I certainly don’t. I watched about 2 innings before the novelty wore off and I immediately changed the channel in order to watch old Twilight Zone episodes which were infinitely more interesting. I suppose the Yankees and their fans will be on the tongue of baseball fans everywhere until their eventual elimination by the Astros, the Twins or some random Wild Card team. The last sentence garnering a resounding “touche” or “you suck” with little discernible sway.

A’s call up Brian Schlitter, bullpen still in the shitter.

The perfect Oakland Athletic.

The Oakland Athletics ball-club, in a perpetual battle to dazzle, put Blake Treinen on the injured list Saturday essentially digging up 33-year old journeyman Brian Schlitter from the searing Nevada desert to red-carpet onto the Oakland faithful.  The move was so immaterial it is rumored that the Las Vegas Aviators clubhouse boy didn’t even notice that Schlitter was gone.

“You mean the guy with the beard?”

–He played in Japan in 2017, learning the art of tidy minimalism and sushi rolling among other things only used in conversation at cocktail parties. His season with the Seibu Lions was solid, and after having a strong start to the season, Schlitter struggled in the final six weeks and finished 2017 with a 1-5 record, 32 holds and a 2.83 ERA.

–He showed up to Dodgers spring training in 2018 throwing the media into a fervor for about 5 solid minutes until they realized he wasn’t Jake Arrieta. “What kind of shit is this!? I just thought I had a front page headliner and now I got the page in the back next to the sporting good ads,” one reporter was overheard saying.

–While with the Cubs he was sent to the minors for drilling notable douchebag (just ask the Astros!) Carlos Gomez in the head. Ok, well maybe this Schlitter guy isn’t so bad.

–Schlitter was the closer in Las Vegas and is a ground ball pitcher who relies heavily on his sinker. When the brain trusts and scouts were sitting around and discussing free agents his name popped up in the conversation as “cheap” and “organizational depth” which are the two comprehensive attributes of the organization. To put it simply: He is the perfect Oakland Athletic.

 

 

Jessica Canseco gives the 411 on Jose’s dong.

The following was taken from Jessica Canseco’s book, “Juicy: Confessions of a former baseball wife.”…we kissed for awhile and I relaxed a little, but then I looked down and saw his weiner. It didn’t look like any weiner I had seen before. It was big and uncircumcised, and I thought it was one of the strangest things I’ve ever seen. But as soon as it got hard all the skin pulled back and it looked pretty magnificent. I don’t remember much about the sex. We made love in the standard position. I’m from a farm in Middle America. We didn’t get a lot of Latinos with uncircumcised wieners there. I also thought about his testicles, but it seems Jose’s were unusually small. (editors note: this is called testicular atrophy and can be linked to steroid use)