Thursday, October 9, 2008

Regarding October 4, 2008: Part II of XIV.

Picking up where we left off…
Oh, right. Baseball.
Bottom of the first: So, Cam walks on four pitches, and Bill Fucking Hall, apparently moved by Cam's performance, battles the Ancient One to a full count before drawing a walk of his own. And then Moyer uncorks a 55-foot breaking ball, moving the runners up to second and third. Prince brings one home with a Skittles-fueled flyball to right, and, miracle of miracles, Jim Jerry plates another with the rarest of all birds for the 2008 Milwaukee Brewers – a two-out hit with a man in scoring position. Saints be praised!
This is probably a good point to mention that I may have been wrong about James Jerry Hardy being a pantywaist. I'm not taking back my indictment of his defense – though he did manage to get to ANOTHER ball hit to his left in Game 3. But he's demonstrated that I was off when I said he was Khalil Greene minus the flashy defense and mullet. I'll take .275, 25, and 80 from my shortstop (and from my third baseman) any day of the week and twice on the Sabbath.
Oh, right: Corey Hart struck out to end the frame. Urge to boo … rising … RISING …
And speaking of Corey...
Bottom of the third: Hardy continues to show that I don't know what I'm talking about, lacing a two-out single to right. And then – what's this? Corey with a nice piece of hitting, taking the ball to right field to get the runner to third with two …
Nope. Nevermind. Corey takes an absurdly large turn at first base, despite the fact that Man Mountain Ryan Howard is standing on the bag when the right fielder gets the ball. The next few moments seem to happen in slow motion: Werth fires a laser back to Howard, while Corey half-stumbles, half-falls back to first, while the crowd, rising as one, screams "You dumb motherfucker!" Corey's toast, Moyer is spared for another inning, and my hand tightly grips the battery that SB's Tony Gwynn missed during the pat-down.
By this time, though, you kind of have to feel bad for Jon Hart. With the amount of bad ju-ju that's following him around, he must have pissed on an Indian burial ground or something. I haven't seen a dude get nabbed at first like that since Little League. At this point, watching Corey Hart trying to play baseball is like watching a four-year-old trying to do his income taxes.
Top of four: The Elf Lord Craig Counsell in at second, which causes mass confusion amongst the masses. For a second, I suspect that Doug Melvin may have actually followed my advice and cut a player in the middle of a game. But no – Rickie's just hurt, again, and joins Ben Sheets in the clubhouse to ice his vagina.
And, if there's a God in this universe, this is the last time that I will have to write about Rickie Weeks on this blog – except for when he gets traded to Baltimore and I get to use the "I have EX-OR-CIIIIIIZED the demon!" tag.
Top of five: It's finally Philly's turn to have a pitcher go less than five innings in a game. Eat shit and die, you androgynous-named fuckface. Sadly, I will not get to use the AARP jokes I had ready for the bottom of the fifth.
Anyway, Matt Stairs hits for Moyer, and I decide that I'd like to have a beer or eight with Matt Stairs. First of all, Matt Stairs looks like he likes beer a lot. I, too, like beer a lot. Matt Stairs is also Canadian, which means that he might be able to explain that fucking dance that the Blue Jays' fans do during the seventh inning stretch. Thirdly, I haven't had a Labatt since the Toronto trip, and I bet Matt Stairs only drinks Labatt. Finally, I'd like to see if anybody calls Matt Stairs just "Matt." "Matt Stairs" is one of those names that needs to be said in its entirety any time you're addressing the man. "Another round, friend?" "Yes, thank you, Matt Stairs." "Doesn't my mustache kick ass?" "It certainly does, Matt Stairs." "Those guys over there are hosers, eh?" "Agreed, Matt Stairs."
Top of six: File this one under "When It Rains, It Pours": Corey almost makes a great catch, but slams into the outfield wall, tumbles to the ground, and the ball pops out. (That's what she said.) Mind you, I wasn't witness to this event, as I was taking a glorious piss in the men's room. But I heard the call of the play on the radio in the loo, and Ueck sounded an awful lot like Harry Doyle when Hart dropped the ball: "Hart going back, at the walllllll…heeeeeeee's got it! Wait, no. No, he doesn't."
Then the Ghost of Ned Yost makes his first appearance during Game 3: for some reason, Sveum leaves Bushy in to pitch to Utley, despite the fact that Stetter is up and ready in the 'pen. But, after Bushy gets Utley to pop up, Sveum decides that now is the appropriate time to go lefty-lefty and brings in Mitch. It is now five days after this game was played, and I still don't understand the thinking. Maybe this was Sveum's version of tipping a 40 to his homey.
Bushy gets a well-deserved ovation after showing, once again, why Doug Melvin should be publically flogged for giving $40 million to Jeff Suppan. Dave Bush is Jeff Suppan 2.0 (with a little better 'out' pitch and better conditioning), and yet costs four times less than Shitpan. Think about it this way: paying Suppan $40 million when you already have Dave Bush on your staff is the equivalent of buying Windows 95 for $500 when you're already running Windows Vista.
Yeah, that analogy didn't work. Whatever, we're at 1000 words again.

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