Chapter 2: Hard Not to be Excited (Draft)

“Tic, tic, tic…that is the sound of your life running out.” Jordan Chase Dexter: Season 5

 

Where to begin with what happened during, or more accurately slightly before the Winter Meetings? My wife’s birthday is in early December and every year we go down to my parent’s beach house to celebrate. As soon as I got up Saturday morning for the trip there were reports that Adrian Gonzalez was on his way to the Red Sox. I complained that I was going to miss this big news, but of course I didn’t. I listened to my XM radio on the way down to the beach and checked Twitter regularly on my Android. All while managing to not upset my wife during her birthday weekend. The one minor fight we had was over where to eat her birthday dinner.

When we first got to the beach we were greeted by a rather unfriendly sight. There was an unfamiliar car in our driveway. This is not allowed, and I had warned the neighbors that the next time we found a car there it would be towed. What made this all worse was that I wanted to be lazy. I guess I could have just let it go. I didn’t have a garage opener and had to park on the other side of the driveway to begin with. Plus we were only there for a day. But I had been told by my father to offer no quarter and this car could not be spared. My father has a dog that gets car sick and needs to get out right away. There is also no fence or gate at the back of the driveway and having the dog getting run over is the last thing we want to have happen. This is why this car had to be sacrificed. Sometimes the message is more important than the results.

The thing was I had just eaten a giant helping of beef brisket and potato pancakes covered with gravy and had already wanted a nap before eating. Instead I had to wait around an hour for the tow truck driver and then when he had the car ready to take away and I was climbing in to take a nap next to my wife the stupid girl that had parked in our driveway knocked on our door. I had to scramble to get clothes back on all except shoes and socks. She said the tow truck driver needed to talk to me about releasing the car. I talked to him and he said the owner of the car still needed to pay him. It was $150.00 for the car to be towed, and $400.00 to be released. Message sent and received.   

When we got home the last I had heard was that the Gonzalez deal might be about to fall threw. So, I didn’t think much of it. What happens to the Red Sox or Padres doesn’t affect me that much. But when I went to check my phone one last time before settling in to read I saw something strange. The Nationals had signed Jayson Werth. I conveniently ignored the length and dollar amount of the contract, and felt excitement sweep over me. I wasn’t even sure how this had happened. All weekend I was hearing how the next part of the Red Sox off-season was the signing of Jayson Werth, and the Nationals had stolen him right out of their grasp. I am more aware of anyone that the contract and dollar amount have a very good chance of haunting the Nationals, but in seven years we might be paying $18 million to go to a movie or for a gallon of gas.

The Nationals trying to get better as a team had affected my Christmas shopping. My wife doesn’t like to like the players that everyone else likes. She doesn’t want a Strasburg or Zimmerman jersey. The one jersey she had bought was an Austin Kearns jersey and that didn’t turn out too well. I of course am still of the belief that it would have turned out better for Kearns if the then GM Jim Bowden had kept his mouth shut. He proclaimed that Austin Kearns was going to be a 40 homer bat and hit .300. Austin Kearns had no chance of this, but he was a player that could hit .260, take walks, hit 20 homers, and play above average defense in right field. With the added pressure of trying to be a superstar Kearns folded.

No one expects Werth to suddenly become a more powerful hitter or a superstar. He was signed to be Scotty Pippen and hopefully one day Horace Grant. A lot of people look at the deal and dig deep into their minds and their unfamiliarity with the Nationals and assume that highest paid means best player. Werth is not and will never be the Nationals best player. Ryan Zimmerman is signed through 2013 and if very likely to be extended beyond that. It just makes too much sense for Zimmerman to be a Todd Helton, Joe Mauer, Craig Biggio type player. He is from Virginia and went to UVA. He is as close to a local superstar that the Nationals have, and he is one of the best defensive players in the game as well as being a complete hitter at the plate. But assuming that somehow Zimmerman is allowed to walk away then by 2013 or 2014 by the latest Bryce Harper is expected to be the Nationals best player. Harper is as much a one of a kind player as it gets. He dropped out of High School, took his GED, and dominated JUCO for a year just so he could be drafted one year early. He could fail, but GMs don’t make plans on extremes. Most hitters scouted this highly succeed. So, in the minds of the Nationals front office Jayson Werth will never be the Nationals best player.

Either way Werth is a National for seven years and will be making $18 million a year. He isn’t going anywhere. Therefore he became the perfect player to give as a gift to my wife and friends. The gift of Werth jersey’s and t-shirts will be making there holiday rounds this season.

The Nationals signing of Werth was more of a message to baseball than it was an improvement of the team. It does improve the Nationals, but more moves are needed to really get them heading in the right direction. The Nationals didn’t just sign Werth they lost Adam Dunn. Dunn is as one dimensional as a player can get. He is regarded as the worst defensive player in the game, and it was for this reason that the White Sox signed him to be a DH, but first base is a place where a bad defensive player can be placed and lived with. It is tough to say at this point if letting Dunn go was a bad decision. It sure looks like it right now. Replacing that left handed 35 plus homer bat in the middle of the order is a tough thing to do. This is the true beauty of sports. Good decisions can become bad decisions and bad decisions can become good. No one knows what the future really holds. Dunn could be next to worthless even as a hitter as soon as next season. It isn’t likely and no one makes plans on the extremes. The most logical reasoning the Nationals had for not resigning Adam Dunn is that he wasn’t going to be worth the money in the last year of the contract.

I know the argument against this. Why is Dunn not worth it but Werth is? The answer is a simple one. The last year of a four year contract is a lot sooner than of a seven year contract. It is obvious that the Nationals view their window of opportunity as the 2012-2015 seasons. That is when Harper will be up, Strasburg will be healthy, Zimmerman will be in his prime, and many other things I don’t even know about might be coming to fruition.

The Nationals think they have a chance in those years, and they didn’t want to play it by the book. Now isn’t the time to be signing free agents many critics of the deal said. The Nationals shouldn’t be trying to build this way. They should be doing what the Twins did and develop stars from within and then sign them. The Nationals looked at this logic and said no. They wanted Werth. Most likely not for the 2011 season. They will most likely be bad for the 2011 season. The still have yet to sign a first baseman to replace Dunn and they need a pitching staff. It is very hard to play winning baseball without a pitching staff. But Werth wasn’t going to be a free agent after the 2011 season. He was a free agent now, and if the Nationals wanted him for 2012 they had to go out there and take him.

There is a part of me that is happy that the Nationals went out there and made a move more befitting of a big market club, because D.C. is a big market, and the Nationals shouldn’t be waiting around for winning to come to them. They should be making splashes and getting some names to come in. Money should be as much of a concern to the Nationals as it is to the Redskins, which is none at all. My only hope is that this trend of spending continues and that the Nationals are a lot smarter than the Redskins. The best thing money does is cover mistakes. When the Yankees made the mistake of the Carl Pavano contract it didn’t stop them from continuing to make moves. For right now this is a hope. Many people are very concerned about what will happen in seven years. For me I can’t help but be excited. I know the risks and the future implications, but part of worrying about future implications is the theory that not much is going to change. In reality a lot can change. Especially in seven years. Why worry about it now? Enjoy the moment. I plan to live my life for the next seven years instead of checking overhead waiting for the ax to fall. For all we know the Nationals could be the hottest ticket in town by that time and money will be far less of an issue.

All I can do now is commend the Nationals for taking it, and hope there is still more to come before this off-season ends. The hope for a .500 team might be closer than I think. I doubt it, but the hope can exist.

 

Chapter 1: Life is Shit (Draft)

Chapter 1: Life is Shit

“It’s either here just drinkin’ beer or at home remembering her.” Pop a Top Alan Jackson

My wife is prattling on about something. Asking me if I know where Fair Oaks Hospital is or something along those lines. It irritates me. I give short curt answers to her questions.

“Do you know how to get to the hospital,” She asks.

Bluntly I answer, “No.”

“I found it this morning.”

“I don’t really care.” And then it happens. Ron Santo, the color commentator for the Cubs radio broadcast, says something. I miss it.

“I can tell you how to get there if you want.”

“I don’t want. Can we please discuss this later?” Sometimes I think words like later, and can we don’t exist for a woman.

“It is right up there. If you just turn here, and then take a right, and then…I don’t remember exactly, but it is that way,” She hurries the sentence out of her mouth and points.

“I will drive you to the damn hospital if you don’t shut up.” This does it. It solves one problem and creates another. I also think it is important to mention two things here. First my wife hadn’t seen me for a few hours and her way of connecting it to talk, and she has no volume control. Second I fully understand the implications of what I said sounding like a threat of violence, but it wasn’t. It was a completely empty threat as I had no intention of driving to a hospital when I was on my way to pick up beer for the company I was planning to have over that night (only my nephew showed up). But at last my wife is quiet and I can listen to Ron Santo offering his pointless grunts and sounds of agony to the Cubs broadcast, but now my wife is furious. She sits there staring at me. Her arms crossed and eyes glazed over with rage. This is in no way the comfortably silence I was hoping to enjoy with just me and the baseball broadcast.

It is at this moment that it happens. I have an epiphany. I should be writing this shit down. This is a story. A baseball obsessed man, so obsessed that he is a Nationals fan listening to a Cubs vs. Reds game when he could give to shits about either team, and his wife, the tolerant, gentle, loving woman that puts up with him. It is a relationship that works because it is flawed. That because despite our flaws and our imperfections we love each other.

The moment of her anger passes (after an hour of intense apologizing) and I tell her how when we were in Chicago, “Ron Santo was calling a Cubs vs. Cardinals game, and Albert Pujols came to the plate…”

My wife fully understands the implications of this. Because she lives with me she is more than aware that Albert Pujols is the best hitter in baseball, and probably some sort of ancient Egyptian god.

I continue, “…and he is facing some guy that Cubs just called up…” Ron Santo at this point in the game is certain that the Cubs will keep the score the way it is and the nameless reliever will be able to get Pujols out, but instead, “…Pujols hits a two run homer and Ron Santo’s reaction is ‘AHHHH BS,’ it added nothing to the broadcast, but it is hilarious and wonderful. It is the true release of emotion of being a baseball fan. Ron Santo is like a fan in the booth, and it is fun.”

As if on cue Drew Stubbs reaches base via error in the Cubs vs. Reds game and on my radio I hear Ron Santo, “Ah no,” a few seconds of silence, “now he is going to steal second.” The next batter pops up weakly on the first pitch. Those two moments express who Ron Santo is as a broadcaster. He is a fan in the booth. Doing his job and having fun. Living and dying on every pitch in a Cubs game.

I however am a Nationals fan. It is a lot like being a Cubs fan, but with less hope. If the Cubs are loveable losers then the Nationals are the losers that even dorks and nerds beat up. It is pretty much an ordeal to be a Nats fan. It is an exercise in torture. It is mostly bleak darkness with few bright spots followed by more darkness. I think the Strasburg injury sums it up well.

In early June after being the most hyped draft pick and prospect the baseball world had possibly ever seen Stephen Strasburg made his debut. He struck out 14 Pirates in route to a Nationals’ victory. Then a few months later he grabbed his elbow after throwing a pitch to Phillies’ rookie Dominic Brown. It turned out after a couple MRI’s that his season was over, and he would have the most dreaded surgery in baseball, Tommy Johns.

Every bad moment in 2010 seemed to happen against the Phillies. Opening day when the former team president invited thousands of them to invade Nationals Park, and then the most heartbreaking of injuries to the rookie phenom Stephen Strasburg.

When Roy Halladay took the mound in game one of the NLDS against the Red’s it looked like that series, the NLCS, and the World Series were already decided. Roy Halladay was as on as any pitcher could be as he threw a no-hitter in his first ever playoff appearance. I think it is important to note that I don’t dislike Roy Halladay. He is one of my favorite baseball players. At times I struggle with the fact that he is a Phillie. I have the uniform he wears, but he isn’t a bad person. He is by all accounts a great human being and a fantastic ball player. I enjoy watching him pitch, and on this night he was so fantastic that all I could do is call up my friend and keep muttering the words, “It’s not fair.” Over and over again I said that. I said I would be surprised if the Phillies lost another game on their way to their second World Series championship in two years.

Of course it was completely fair. Tim Lincecum, Matt Cain, and Madison Bumgarner made it fair. The Giants pitching was lights out, and the pitcher of Buster Posey running out to the mound to great Brian Wilson as Ryan Howard stares back in disbelief after being struck out looking to end the NLCS will always be iconic in my mind.

The Giants went on to win the World Series, and gave hope to fans of all baseball teams. They were led by a rookie catcher, and amazing pitching staff, an oddball closer, and a ragtag bunch of aging veterans. It was a team full of stories and fun, and one that made me happy to be a baseball fan.

…

In 2005 when the Nationals arrived in D.C. they got off to a hot start. They were in the division lead for most of the season, and then fell apart in the second half of the season ending up with a .500 record. Since that moment it has all been down hill. So far down hill that this past season’s record of 69-93 is seen as a success.

I was thinking about life today. Sometimes words fail. This should be well documented as the value of words it would take to buy a picture is quite expensive. Sound can have the same effect. Imagine a classic guitar sound, but just slightly off. Maybe a string is missing or miss tuned. Maybe the song is meant to be played in a different key, but whatever it is it is just slightly askew. That is how depression works. The world is just slightly off. Things that should bring happiness just have that sour tinge to them. Like rusty cymbals.

Life is depression. It is long drawn out emptiness with few oases of happiness. Many people these days face this realization with cynicism. I however do not. I realize that life is shit, but I enjoy it none the less. It is only through the act of living that life can be enjoyed.

A Nationals baseball season is much the same. It is shit. It is long periods of losing with brief interludes of a win or two. This past season the most games the Nationals won in a row were four and that wasn’t until the last month of the season. It was just a lot of stretches of losing, but yet there I was. Watching game after game and hoping against hope that the Nationals would win. Most of the time I was not rewarded, but it was only through the act of watching that I was able to enjoy it.

Life and Nationals baseball is Sisyphus pushing the boulder up the hill. Only through the act itself and enjoyment of the act is he able to rebel against the absurdity of his situation. Life is the absurd. Rooting for the Nationals is absurd. In this modern world where I am one phone call away from having all 30 baseball teams at my fingertips, and could choose any one of them, it is simply absurd to stick with a losing team that looks to have little hope.

There in lies the secret. Hope isn’t something that has to be tangible or have reason. It is highly unlikely that the Nationals will manage to improve much this off-season through either free agency or trades, but I can hope, and no one can stop me. They can’t stop me because I understand the absurdity of the situation. I understand the Nationals aren’t likely to improve, that they aren’t likely to win many more games next season than they did this season, but none of that will stop me from grabbing a beer, sitting down, and enjoying myself a Nationals game when March 31^st of 2011 rolls around.

Introduction

“I had some dreams, they were clouds in my coffee.” Carly Simon You’re so Vain

Suffering through a losing season of baseball is like a long car ride home from a nice vacation sitting cramped in the backseat. It seems longer than it really is because you are heading nowhere fun, and you know when you get there it will be close to midnight and that evil alarm clock is way too eager to proclaim its existence at 6:00 AM.

Baseball is like a lot of things. A lot of different metaphors can and have been used to describe it. Sitting in the back of my friend’s car riding back to his house too late at night and staring out the window I thought of that metaphor. I wasn’t particularly comfortable and all interesting conversation had died long ago. All that remained as we got close to his house was the quiet drone of his music and the silence of the night. That is how it feels to watch the end of a losing season. All the fun is gone. It has been a long time since anyone even bothered to mention the Washington Nationals as anything other than the team that the Braves and Phillies are playing in an effort to pad their stats and make it to the playoffs.

Being a baseball fan of a losing team is tough. It is very tough. It is downright trying at times. I set there every night hoping for a win and there is around a 40% chance that I will be rewarded with one. In a way it is a marriage. I love the Washington Nationals. It is probably not a phrase a lot of people say. I also love my wife. I am not sure in this metaphor of being a baseball fan as a marriage if my wife is the mistress or baseball is. My wife would demand that she comes first, but at times baseball demands to come first. In my dreams of one day seeing a World Series game in person I can imagine very little coming in front of it. Nothing short of my wife giving birth or being seriously injured will keep me from that game, but of course that doesn’t mean my attention will be diverted from it.

I imagine as the business man fucks his mistress on semen stained sheets on a dirty mattress in a cheap motel has his wife in the back of his mind. The mistress can be put away and forgotten about, but the man has to go home to the wife eventually. Maybe that is how it is. The baseball season never truly ends and my marriage never truly ends. It is always there and present in my life. When the off-season arrives I will be trying to find out who the Nationals are trying to sign and trade for, and I know every year I look forward to February 14^th because it is close to the time that pitchers and catcher report to Spring Training. My wife of course looks forward to that date for an entirely different reason.

The two are so intertwined in my life that my wife and baseball are both the mistress and the wife. The metaphor applies to both equally. There are times when my wife will stand next to my chair looking down at me longingly waiting for a goodnight kiss and all I can say is, “Hold on. Zimmerman is batting.” Then there are times when the baseball team is losing. Down 9-1 in the 8^th and I think it is suddenly a great time to give my wife all the attention she craves. She is very understanding and that is why this whole thing works. She understands I love baseball at times as much as I love her. She has things she feels this way about and at times she is out at the barn with her horses until 9:30 or 10:00 at night. I hardly notice because I have baseball to care for me, but that will end soon and Hot Stove news won’t come quick enough to hold my appetite at bay. Then it is my turn to be understanding.

If you are reading this it means I was successful at what I sat out to do. I want to write a book, not just about baseball, but about life, marriage, and the times that try us. I want to take you with me on my journey through a season of baseball. It will most likely be another long trying season, but there is that small chance that it will be something magical. That some miracle will take place and the Nationals will actually have a winning season. Again if you are reading this you know the answer to that question.

Or maybe not.

I am not going to wait to find a publisher and release this to the public. I am going to keep you updated along the journey. Each week of the 2011 season I will put up two chapters. Before the season begins I will put up seven chapters. One right after the world series, one after the winter meetings, one when pitchers and catchers report, and then one a week when Spring Training games are going on.

I will include many different things about baseball. I will talk about how much I like stats, and then how much I dislike them. I will talk about the beauty and the poetry I see in the game. I will talk about my travels and the cities I see. But most of all I will talk about how baseball has entwined itself into my life and how my wife and I deal with it. How she hides in the bedroom some nights while I watch the game, how she can talk with me for five or ten minutes while I listen to the game on the radio before she realizes that I haven’t heard a word she said, and of all the times we sit at the games together and enjoy each other’s company.

I invite you then to join me on this journey. To enjoy my pleasures and my pains as I watch and suffer along with the Washington Nationals, and as my wife suffers and endures a husband that at times loves baseball as much as he loves his wife.        

I Hate you Now Leave me Alone

My mind races. I can feel the fear rising up in me as he nervously inches towards me. This short slightly overweight goofy looking guy in glasses is making a beeline right for me. This isn’t right. If I was standing in front of an elevator or a staircase I might understand, but I’m not. I am standing next to the exit to the bathroom at PNC Park and this dorky looking Pirates fan is heading straight for me. Maybe he wants to tell me to go fuck myself because the Nationals just finished taking their first road series since May by outscoring the Pirates 17 to 3 in the last two games, but that isn’t it. When he gets to me he asks me where I am from. I want to tell him I am from where he thinks I am from. How many fucking Nats fans aren’t from the DC area? I really just want to tell him to fuck off, but I answer his question honestly but tersely.

Obviously he doesn’t get the message as he has  follow up questions. He asks if I am in town for the whole weekend. The fact that it is Sunday afternoon should give that one away, and I don’t know how to answer this retard. I simply tell him no I am leaving when my friend gets through desecrating a stall at PNC Park. I actually leave that last part off and just tell him no. He of course has more questions and comments. I really want this to end. I have no idea why this guy is talking to me. Do I look interesting or interested? He keeps going though. He tells me that Zimmerman made a good play at third. My response is, “I know.” Zimmerman does do it all the time after all. He is the best defensive third baseman in baseball.  Lucky for me I see my friend exit the bathroom and with no further words I am gone. I look back briefly and sad lonely eyes are following me. I feel no remorse I fucking hate strangers and I hate it more when they talk to me.

This instance of a stranger talking to me is nothing new. It has happened in nearly every city I have travelled to this year to watch baseball. From a Nats fan in Ohio telling me his life story and why he is a Nats fan to a guy in Philly wanting to stop me so he could chat about Strasburg’s injury and Jim Riggleman’s handling of pitchers. It happened a few other times in Pittsburgh as well. Mostly the topic of conversation is Strasburg and if I think he will come back. Well I know he will come back. The problem is he might break down again or not be the same pitcher, but he will return to the mound and statistics show that he most likely will be the same pitcher.

The topic of conversation here isn’t Strasburg. It is strangers trying to have conversations with me. I don’t know why it happens. Maybe because I am a Nats fan on the road they assume I know something about the Nationals. I do probably know more than most non-diehard Nationals fans, but I don’t think I know that much more than any other Nationals fan. I simply like to travel and like to watch baseball when I travel. It is funny because no stranger tried to talk to me in Chicago or Milwaukee, but that time I was with my Asian friend and maybe they think I am his translator or something and don’t want to start an uncomfortable conversation. Well I got news for you strangers out there; every conversation you start with a stranger is fucking uncomfortable. It is weird to think that at some point in time all my friends and I were strangers, but I met most of them in some form of schooling, and if you think about it your classmates aren’t really strangers.

 It is for that reason that I think I would be open to a fellow Nats fan talking to me, but some beady eyed chubby Pirates fan is a no go. Although I have to say when a random pizza delivery guy in Cleveland decided to talk to me it was kind of cool, but he was there and I was there. We were both in the places we were supposed to be going about our daily business and he decided to talk to me. After a minute or two I did want to get away, but it wasn’t the same kind of confusion mixed with fear that I suffered in PNC Park.

The waitress at the Original Oyster Bar kidding us about the Nationals is one thing as is the guy sitting next to us at a bar, but it is an entirely different thing to approach a stranger out of nowhere and start jibber jabbering and trying to make conversation. It isn’t nice or fun to feel trapped. I had to wait for my friend to get out of the bathroom. Looking back right now I just realized I could have just run off to the team store and sent a text message, but I am a much faster thinker in hindsight. At that moment I was trapped in a little corner of PNC Park. A corner where no human being not exiting the bathroom would have a reason to be. Why this little turd felt the need to walk up to and then start talking to me is beyond me. Of course now I also feel bad about calling him a turd. He is probably just some socially awkward guy that feels any fellow baseball fan is a possible friend.

I just dislike people. I dislike crowds. The worst place in the universe to me is the grocery story. I stopped eating cereal because the isle is always too crowded. My wife now does all of the grocery shopping and I can’t be happier. When I do have to go to the store it is always a scary time. People are rushing around me and darting in front of me. One woman was tailgating me the other day with her cart. I stopped to pick up some beer and she almost ran into me. Listen sweetheart it is a grocery store people buy things. They ain’t there to take a stroll through the fucking cheese isle. Also walk how you fucking drive people. Walk to the goddamned right.

I guess the point is it doesn’t really matter where I am in the world I dislike strangers, and I dislike it even more when they approach me for no good reason to have a conversation I am not interested in. I can sit and watch a ballgame in complete silence, lost in deep thoughts and meditation, transfixed by the beauty of the game on the field. The last thing I want is my fortress of solitude to be broken into and have to listen to some guy asking my opinion about many various things. Maybe I should just have a business card made up with various web addresses on it of where my opinions can be read. Of course there is a reason I don’t have many friends and never seem to have fun at social functions, but hey if I cared I wouldn’t be me.

Exploring My Nerd Tendencies

Do stat nerds like being called stat nerds? Would they prefer to be called something other than that, like sabrminded or number cruncher? I don’t really consider myself a stat nerd. Maybe others would. When I talk about batters I don’t even look at batting average and RBI. I want to know the triple slash and more importantly the OPS. Of course even with those numbers there is more to look into. Every stat can be broken down by situation. What is a batter slugging with men on base, how often they reach base on the road, every little bit of information we could ever want is out there, and thanks to the internet any average Joe can look it up.

It is funny to think about this. To think if someone wants to be called a nerd. We wouldn’t walk up to an overweight person and ask if they mind us calling them Leviathan. Could you even imagine walking up to a person of a different race and asking if they liked to be called whatever they wouldn’t like to be called. I can’t imagine people liking to be called nerds, but maybe they do.

There is an entire subculture of people that hang out at comic conventions dressed in customs of their favorite characters. Then again this is sports we are talking about. Sports are not the domain of nerds and geeks, but sometimes they are. Sports are made more by the people that watch them than the people that play them. Both are needed to make everything work, but why can’t the observer be someone more interested in numbers and math than other aspects of the game, or maybe all aspects of the game appeal to them and they just like to play armchair GM.

What makes a person anything is an odd question. Being a nerd is based more on a person’s taste in entertainment or in this case views on baseball. Stat nerd is a bit of a pejorative term. It carries with it a negative context that I can’t imagine many people liking. In a way I embrace my nerdom. I may qualify as a stat nerd although I don’t think I do it doesn’t matter what I think, and I am a blogger so there is a big point against any argument I have, but besides the baseball thing I like to play video games (mostly RPGs the nerdiest of all), I listen to bands like Iron Maiden and Iced Earth, I enjoy the Star Wars movies (but only the first three), I am antisocial and like to keep to myself, and I have a giant comics collection and am currently trying to get back into comics (by the way check out the Luna Bros they are local and amazing).

What this all means is I have nerd tastes, but I don’t wear glasses except to read, I go to the gym on a regular basis, and I like sports. Of course my liking of sports could be seen as a nerd quality as well since I like it in the nerdy way. I may talk at times about the poetic beauty of the game, but the fact that Willie Harris makes diving catches and looks like he is really playing hard doesn’t mean I don’t think his numbers can be and should be replaced. I actually don’t think Willie Harris should be replaced. He can play all three outfield positions, can every now and then crack a homer, and in a pinch can even sub in the infield. I just don’t think he should be the first bat off the bench.

If you met me somewhere and just saw me and judged me by appearance I don’t know if you would call me a nerd. My tastes do learn towards the nerd side, but I don’t think I would like to be called a nerd. I might hit you, and it would most likely hurt. It is an insult to call someone a nerd, so no I don’t think stat nerds like to be called stat nerds, because I wouldn’t like to be called a nerd. Oh, sorry to cut this short Mother needs her breakfast and I am still in my Spider-man underoos on the basement computer.

How it Might Feel to be a Free Agent

It might be odd to say, and then again it might not be, but today I felt a piece of my soul drift away. The fact that it took me an entire month to finally quit LA Boxing should say something. As should the fact that I made my wife call to cancel the membership. It just feels painful to close that chapter of my life. Maybe a gym membership isn’t a big deal for everyone, but in a way it felt like part of who I am. Back when I joined LA Boxing I seemed to have more time on my hands. Work was not as stressful and difficult and I was able to leave before 5:00 PM. Traffic on Rt. 50 also wasn’t as bad, and I was able to get to the gym in time for the 6:30 boxing class.

Recently this has become impossible, and the fact that it is baseball season and my life is all consumed with baseball doesn’t help. In years past I was able to grab nights at the gym when I could, but with heavier traffic and a busier work schedule it just became impossible. It is really no fault of LA Boxing, and here is where this all connects back to baseball. Adam Dunn loves it in DC. The Nationals supposedly love Adam Dunn. It seems like a match made in heaven, but forces beyond the control of either party might keep a deal from happening.

Dunn has had one of the best seasons of his career and it is largely due to the fact that he now plays at first base. His defensive importance has decreased by moving to the only defensive position less important than left field. Dunn’s nature as a defensive liability no longer completely outweighs his offensive production. Of course other players of Dunn’s skill set have seen sharp declines in productions in their earlier 30’s, an age that Dunn is just now reaching. If Dunn wants too many years it might not be a match for the Nationals, and if the Nationals aren’t willing to pay the money Dunn thinks he should get then it isn’t a match for Dunn.

I am now positive from my personal experience that both sides will feel the way I do. LA Boxing was perfect for me. I got to hit things. I also got to do cardio (which I hate doing) in a fun and interactive manner. Let’s face it, standing on a treadmill or elliptical machine for 30 minutes is one of the most boring experiences in the world. Hitting a punching bag and then dropping to the floor for push-ups or sit-ups is fun. I do not have a bad word to say about the place. It lost my business not because of something it did, but simply because of the logistics of its location.

Sometimes we want things to work out, but they just don’t. I am positive Dunn isn’t lying when he says he enjoys being a National. He will never forget his experience here and I am sure he has built a lasting friendship with Ryan Zimmerman, and Josh Willingham. The nice shiny gym I go to now doesn’t have a set schedule. I can come and go when I please, but when I want to do cardio I have to get on a boring elliptical or treadmill, and while I missed weight training a bit in my time at LA Boxing I am sure I will miss the punching bag even more.

One day when I get a house I will have a room in my basement. It will have a TV to watch baseball on, bookshelves on every wall, a fridge full of beer, and hanging right in the middle will be a big punching bag. I can’t imagine how useful this will be when a National’s hitter grounds into a double play. Right now my wrath is taken out on whatever household object happens to be in my hand. My wife and I’s dog is always very concerned when anyone is upset, and he often checks on me as I sit there screaming, “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” at whoever the offender is.

Living in a 500 square foot condo has a lot of downsides, and one of the main ones for me right now is my wife likes to spend time with me. That doesn’t sound so bad when I say it like that, and I might make myself sound like a monster here, but she doesn’t think I am me when I am watching baseball. Either I am cussing at a perceived injustice a player has committed just for me, or I am drawn into the action and unresponsive to her constant chatter. She feels that being away from me all day entitles her to get to spend time with me without realizing that I have also been away from baseball all day as well.

Of course with modern technology I am never that far away. I can whip out my smart phone and look up baseball news, or cruise on over to my favorite baseball websites on my work computer. In this new modern world we are never truly detached. When we first started dating she would get a little upset at me when I would look at my phone to get the scores, but now she is used to it. Sometimes she reminds me that she is a living person and my phone is just an electronic device, but she fails to understand that it is informing me about baseball. That while I might be married to her in the eyes of God and the law I am also married to baseball. Baseball has crawled into my blood and soaked through my skin. It is a part of me.

When I see the letters SB, CS, K, BB, or any other combination that exists in baseball my mind actually thinks they mean that scoring. During the BP oil spill I kept wondering who was spilling all this oil during batting practice. And it is for this reason that sitting here thinking about how much I will miss my time at LA Boxing that I have a sudden feeling that I know what it is like to be a free agent leaving a place that is truly loved for no other reason than it simply couldn’t work out.

Out of the Cave

When I was a child, I spoke like a child, I thought like a child, I reasoned like a child. When I became a man, I gave up childish ways. 1 Corinthians 13:11

Baseball might be the greatest sport on earth. In what other sport can abject misery turn to joy so quickly? Sitting there Saturday night waiting for Brad Lidge to not be Brad Lidge and slam the door on the Washington Nationals while listening to thousands of Phillies fans cheering on their hometown team was misery. Then it happened. With one beautiful swing of the bat Zimmerman recreated the famous NLCS moment and made all the Phillies fans feel like Brad Lidge in that moment. I am sure you have seen the picture. Pujols is in the background admiring his homer and Lidge in the foreground staring at it, mouth agape in complete and utter shock and realization at what he had just done. When the news comes that Brad Lidge has retired it will be that moment that imagine that is burned into everyone’s mind. That is Brad Lidge. 

That moment Saturday night before the ball had even left the ballpark every Nationals fan rose in admiration of Ryan Zimmerman. Everyone stood to witness the joy, the miracle he had brought us. He had turned a sure Phillies victory into a defeat. I am sure the Phillies percent of winning at that time was in the high 90’s. With one swing of the bat Zimmerman turned what was almost a statistical certainty into an anomaly. The Nationals fans in the stands were filled with feelings of joy and euphoria. Cheers erupted in celebration of some being greater than us, one that can deliver miracles.

It was also on this day that Adam Dunn was not traded. That he would remain a Washington National. Earlier that day Peter Gammons wondered why the Nationals would trade Adam Dunn. He believed Dunn was a big part of the ball club and could help the Nationals win sooner rather than later. After the trade did not occur Buster Onley exclaimed that he was confused as to what the Nationals were doing and didn’t understand it. Onley should call his former colleague he can explain. The difference in the way MLB network and ESPN treat baseball is night and day. The ESPN analysts are still shackled in the cave watching a puppet show they believe to be reality. They do have a few good ones, but with the advent of MLB network it can be reasoned that guys like Kurkjian and Stark are not long for ESPN.

The day before the trade deadline was when the Nationals made most of their moves, and one of those moves made me sad. Not because I loved the player. In fact I didn’t care for them at all. Cristian Guzman was traded to the Texas Rangers for two AA pitchers. If they turn out to be another Chico and Mock it is a good deal. Guzman was not helping the team and him batting second was not good in any way. Despite his high average he was not a good hitter. My friend loved him. He enjoyed when he would come to bat and it was like an event in the stadium. It wasn’t some mortal being likely to swing at the first pitch and ground out softly it was Cristian Guuuuuuuuuzzzzzzzzman. He was here to save the day and get a table turning hit. In my friends mind Guzman was always the underdog hero.

That is where the problem lies. I tried to explain to my friend that Guzman simply wasn’t a good player. I pointed out his OBP his SLG, WAR, VORP, wOBA, and every other advanced metric I would pull off the internet, but he wouldn’t listen, and he was the smart one. Why should he listen to me and let me ruin his fun. It is fun to believe that guys like Guzman, Nieves, and Harris can deliver the same type of moments that Zimmerman can. We believe what we believe because we have left the Cave and seen the light. When someone new comes to baseball we try and help them to see the light the way we see it, but not all people want to. They want to live in the dark world of the Cave where Guzman is good at the game of baseball. They want to think and reason with the mind of a child. The announcer says his name with such emphasis he must be good. They want to argue not with stats or logic, but with tide turning base hits and small sample sizes.

This year my friend has come to baseball. He has gone with me to Pickles to drink $2.50 beers and watch the Nationals lose to the Orioles. We have gone to Nationals Park and seen Stephen Strasburg. He has come to baseball with a mind different from mine. He does not see things the way I do, and I times I regret the fact I see the way I do. The game would be more fun if I could believe in guys like Guzman. If I could look at the old style stats and see a good player. The term ignorance is bliss exists for a reason. We want to think the steak is a steak and not some gruel being feed to us through a tube by machines. Opening your mind to a higher level of thinking sometimes closes it to a more enjoyable way of living.

A Return to Innocence

Lacking understanding is dangerous. I don’t want the first thing I say on here to be how I never liked Cubs fans, but I never liked Cubs fans. At the same time I lacked understanding. I didn’t understand that the same Cubs fans that invade out of town parks are the same as the Penguin fans that don’t know what Fort Duquesne is, why someone would want fries on a sandwich, or can’t name even one of the three rivers. Maybe next time the Cubs come to town to play I will ask one of them if they know what in the hell a sports pepper is.

One more thing about me before I get to what I want to talk about, I am not a lifelong baseball fan. I simply never got the opportunity. I am from an area that didn’t have baseball for most of my life, and the closest two cities with baseball are crime ridden cesspools. I also have no connection to those cities. I would make a bad bandwagon fan. I am just too disloyal to areas that aren’t my home. However that fact that I am a more recent convert to the church of baseball makes me no less devoted. My father may have never gotten the chance to hold me in his arms and try to explain the rules of a game to a person whose understanding of language was to point and cry. I never got the chance to beg for balls from anyone in a uniform that walked by. There are certain things a child can get away with that an adult can’t. I will never get those moments back.

Upon entering Wrigley Field I saw again with the innocent eyes of a child. It was like my first time seeing a baseball diamond: the beautiful green of the freshly mowed grass, the bright and lively ivy climbing the outfield wall, and the contrast of the red brick walls surrounding the field. I walked out behind home plate just to get a closer look. The usher didn’t ask for a ticket or try and tell me I couldn’t be there to watch them water the field. She instead talked about how beautiful the place is and how I could get a first time visitors certificate. The only other stadiums where I have been this close to the field have all been minor league parks. I know it is a cliché, but Wrigley Field just felt cozy. It felt like when the action started I was going to be part of something.

The true appeal of Wrigley Field isn’t that it is cozy or that fans are all on top of the players, but that if you close your eyes you can see the stands filled with men in three piece suits, ladies in sun dresses, and popcorn venders with trays and funny red striped shirts. Wrigley field takes you back to innocence. It gives back what was lost. Part of my childhood that was stolen from me was returned when I saw Wrigley Field. My dislike of Cubs fans is now reserved for those whose grandmother’s second cousin’s best friend once changed trains in Chicago.

Wrigley is a shrine to the game of baseball. Seeing it is the same as seeing the Parthenon or Notre Dame Cathedral. For those in this world and in this country that claim America has no culture I would suggest they check out Wrigley Field. It is a place that exists out of time, but in lockstep with time. The Parthenon is a ruin whose function is debated, a person can see a sparsely attended church service at Notre Dame, but Wrigley Field is bustling and full of life. The game of Baseball is timeless in itself. Seeing it played in a living monument can only make it more special. A visit to Wrigley Field is not just a trip to see a monument of the game, but for any baseball fan it is a journey of self discovery and greater understanding.

A Blind Defense of Inception

http://www.observer.com/2010/culture/can-someone-please-explain-inception-me

This won’t be about baseball. I do sometimes have other interests and one of my interests that has waned since getting married is going to the movies. Inception is a movie that I want to see. I think it might be worth the $20 or so I have to pay to see it with my wife. My nephew sent me the above link this morning and after what I wrote about why I enjoy baseball one line in particular stood out to me.

“But he’s clueless about how to deal with reality, honest emotions or relevant issues.” If I wanted those things I wouldn’t need to go to the movies. I could hire someone to walk around and film me for a day and just watch it whenever I wanted to see reality. I am not really even sure what the term honest emotions means. I can understand the idea of someone faking happiness or sadness, but that is what actors do. They are paid to fake emotions. So, again if we want honest emotions the only thing to do is live our own lives and wait. Actors on the screen will never give you honest emotion. I am pretty sure at the end of “Titanic” when Leonardo is sinking into the ocean I highly doubt that Kate Winslet is really sad. There can be no honest emotion in that situation because in reality no one is dying. They are probably about to share a cup of coffee with each other and discuss how they felt the scene went. It is a movie full of actors faking emotions. No matter how real the emotion on the screen looks it is faked.

Of course the last bit of that quote is the most bizarre. I don’t really want to see a movie that deals with relevant issues. If I wanted that I could just turn on the news and I can listen to Dan Rather tell me about relevant issues. I am also not sure how one would define relevant issues. It changes the world over. The main goal of any form of art is to be timeless. For some reason earlier this week I was thinking about “The Wizard of Oz” it amazes me that the movie was made in 1939 and is a fond memory of every generation of children born after that date. It is simply amazing to think that one day my children will hide behind me when the wicked witch of the west first appears on screen, and that this movie came out before some people’s grandparents were born.

I expect the art and entertainment I enjoy to be a reflection of reality, but like all reflections it is distorted. The truth held within art is not going to be apparent to all. It is these nuggets of truth that remain behind in the reflection that makes art interesting to me. I know all there is to know about reality. I live it every day. The truths I wish to discover through art are truths that extend to some plane of being beyond reality. Of course I haven’t yet seen “Inception” and have no idea if it is good, but I have heard good things about it. It sounds like the type of movie I enjoy. A thinking man’s movie. Kind of like baseball is a thinking man’s sport. I guess I am nothing if not predictable.

Clinical Obsession

This past Saturday I took my mother to watch the Nationals lose to the San Francisco Giants 10-5. On the way home she asked me a question I could not answer, a question that I simply found puzzling. She, like I guess all mothers do, asked this question in the form of a statement. She said, “I hope you haven’t become obsessed?” The motherly concern is slightly touching, but I think my confusion comes from the very nature of the sport of baseball. I am die-hard baseball fan. I don’t think a day passes that I don’t read an article on fangraphs or look up a players stats on baseball-reference.com, and no night passes that I don’t watch a baseball game in some form or another. I am even going to drink a beer and watch the homerun derby tonight. I will get annoyed at Chris Berman, but it is the only baseball I will get tonight, and when winter rolls around I will watch the Caribbean Series when it is on MLB network. Simply said being a baseball fan is being obsessed.

Even if you aren’t a slightly insane person like myself, but still watch baseball then in a way you are obsessed. Baseball is on during the perfect time of year to lead to obsession. Unless a person is really interested in summer shows like “Rookie Blue” or reruns of “Glee” then baseball is the only thing to watch.  

The lowest common denominator of sports information is sports radio, and this is the time of year they hate the most. Baseball is hard to talk about. It is a sport that has to be understood in order for intelligent discourse to take place. The caller can complain about a guy not hitting enough homers or having enough RBI, but if the radio host adds no insight then they have failed. So, in order to not fail they mostly ignore its existence and complain about the lack of football. Football is a completely different sport. Someone can watch every football game and understand more about it than other people, but the only time they lose is a couple hours on a Sunday afternoon. Baseball takes away three hours every night.

Most people simply don’t have the time to invest in really following a team. It is even more of an investment to get down to all the smaller parts of what makes up a team. Knowing the minor leaguers and the prospects is an investment of time. Keeping up and understanding the latest stats and trends in the game is another investment of time. Trying to argue your views vs. another fans view on a message board is yet another investment of time. And between all this life has to be lived. Money needs earning, wives and girlfriends need attention, family needs visiting, and god forbid someone die or get married.

(Once a college friend of mine got married during baseball season and I lied and said I had prior commitments so I could go and watch a meaningless game between the Nationals and Cubs. My favorite Uncle also happened to die during baseball season and my father and myself rushed home from the funeral Sunday morning to watch the Nationals take on the Marlins. When planning a family the birth month of my child will revolve around the baseball season so as not to disturb anything. And I myself had a January wedding just so it would avoid any aspects of baseball.) 

The nature of baseball is obsession. Even if someone wanted to it would be very hard to follow any other sport as closely as all of us die-hard baseball fans follow baseball. All the information we need to know nearly everything there is to know about baseball is right there at our finger tips. The internet has made being a baseball fan even more time consuming and wonderful. If I wanted to know what Adam Dunn is hitting on Tuesdays after an off-day in which it rained I am sure the information is out there. Baseball lends itself to so many things. People could spend hours arguing the strategy of bunting or discussing the joys of watching Pujols bat.

This season alone I am on a record pace of attending sixty games. I have been to 33 games so far this season. All but three of them have been Nationals games. Two of them were Orioles games when the Nationals were out of town, and one was a Harrisburg Senators game when Strasburg was pitching. Baseball has become a part of my being. I can’t say the moment this happened or why it happened. It is just something that does happen. I don’t know if I would call it an obsession though. Obsession implies danger. It implies that I would stalk Strasburg just for a chance to steal his dirty underwear and sell it on e-bay.

When I was in Cleveland a random Nationals fan ran up to me and he seemed very excited about something. He seemed to really have something important to tell me and was bouncing like a six year old that needs to pee. Without me even opening my mouth he proceeded to tell me how the Cleveland police told him that the Nationals were staying at the Ritz or Hyatt or some other fancy hotel. I really didn’t care. I don’t really want to meet the Nationals players away from the field. My pleasure comes from watching them play the game of baseball. There is a poetry and beauty in watching people that are this good do what they are great at. Seeing them in street clothes drinking beer in a hotel bar is not really the way I want to see my ball players. I don’t want to know what they do when they aren’t playing baseball. That is their free time when they are human and I want my ball players to be mythic beings, and they are only that when they are playing baseball.

After the crazy stalker told me this news of where the Nationals were staying he ran off in the opposite direction I presume to tell more people that he was insane and going to stalk the Nationals. That might be obsession. I am not there. I do spend countless hours reading about baseball in books and on the internet, and I spend even more countless hours watching the game of baseball. I plan my travels and vacations around baseball (next weekend I am heading up to Chicago for Cubs vs. Cardinals, Brewers vs. Nationals, and White Sox vs. Mariners).  Whenever someone asks if I have plans I always check the baseball schedule before I can answer. Baseball may consume large quantities of my time, but I am no more obsessed than other normal baseball fans.

I don’t care what hotel the players stay at. I don’t wait by the player parking lot for the chance to see them drive away. I simply watch and enjoy the game of baseball. For me it is a passion not on obsession.