Take Me Out

Last night, I took my kids to the baseball game here in town. It was a good time. My daughter has wanted to go to a game all season, but the schedules just never worked out, be it their school/vacation schedule, my being sick schedule or what have you.

As the season ends next weekend, I pretty much had to take them out now or they'd not get to go to a game this season. We got tickets for down the first base line, right by the bullpen. We ate hot dogs and pretzels and sno-cones. We had a good time, except that in the middle of the first inning, a very obnoxious prick came and sat five seats in front of us. He would not shut the fuck up. Amazingly--and I know this might be a shock to some--he wore full UNC regalia: hat, shirt, and pants with the UNC logo stitched into the pockets of the jeans.

I shouldn't make fun, but he had what can only be described as a "messed-up grill", one where his teeth stick out from his mouth at strange, obscene angles. I only make fun because he was, without a doubt, the most obnoxious fan I've ever been around at a game--and I've sat with myself. He kept yelling at the players--the home team Bulls players--all night, and complained about every call the first-base ump made, even though every last one of them was correct. It was made even worse because his words were nearly indecipherable. The first baseman for the Bulls wears number 26, but for a good fifteen minutes I thought sure he was yelling "Hey, Toothpicks!" instead of "Hey, Two Six". In short, he was a douche nozzle, which is understandable given the outfit he was wearing.

Regardless, we had a good time. We left before the end of the game because it was 9:00, which is an hour after bedtime for the kids. Part of the negotiations for "we're leaving now" was that I would turn the game on the radio in the car. We listened to the game on the way home, but since it's baseball, the game wasn't finished by the time we got home, got teeth brushed and faces washed and got dressed in pajamas. So, my son decided he wanted to listen to the game on the radio in his room. I wasn't going to turn it over, but then my daughter found the sports radio station on the FM dial, so I fixed it so that he could listen to the rest of the game on his radio. I tucked him in and went to fix my daughter up for the night. I found her trying to find the game on her radio. So, I fixed her radio up, too. I tucked her in, and returned to my room. A few minutes later, I hear her crying, so I go to find out what's wrong, and I come to find out that she tried to turn the volume up, but messed up the radio settings instead. I fixed them, tucked her back in, and went back to my room. Everyone was happy.

We didn't get any of the extra souvenirs, although a foul ball came our way. Unfortunately, it sailed over our heads into the section behind us. A couple of others fell closer to the field of play, but not really in my reach.

This is not the first time I've almost caught a ball at the ballpark.

Last year, my wife and I took the kids to see a game and to stay for the fireworks afterward. We got bleacher seats. Having never sat in the bleachers before, I thought it was kind of fun. Crowded, but fun.

No home runs were hit that night, but when the right-fielder finished warming up one inning, he tossed the ball into the crowd for a souvenir. The ball just happened to be headed right for my daughter...or my daughter's forehead, to be precise.

Like a dutiful father, I raised my hands up to catch the ball and to spare her. Since it was coming for her face, I was going to give it to my sweet, innocent, happy little girl.

Instead, the ball hit my palm with a meaty smack--I'm not gonna lie, that shit hurt--and then popped up into the air. Before I could grab it, the ball landed in the lap of the crotchety old bitch old woman sitting in front of us. She held the ball up like she had just caught it, gesturing to the crowd and showing it off to her henhouse girlfriends. Finally, the queen of the bluehair brigade turned around and looked at me and said "Thanks". Then she took the ball and held it up in my face--as if I didn't know what she was talking about--and waved it back and forth.

I wanted to kick her in the hip, but I figured I'd just injure my toe--those artificial joints are tough and made of steel. I just turned to my daughter and said, "Sorry, Cookie, but I guess you won't get that ball back."

I don't think she was upset, but she was probably a little disappointed. I bought her a bag of peanuts instead. Everything was made better.

And then I kicked peanut shells into Granny's purse.

Is Your Heart Fonder Yet?

I didn't post yesterday because I was up late Tuesday night doing this whole "research" thing for the story I'm working on. Plus, I was watching Master Shake microwave kittens. Wrong? Sure. Disgusting? Yeah. But the whole thing was disturbingly and irreverently funny.

I didn't get a chance to post over lunch because I was busy wrapping up stuff at work so that I can take the remainder of the week off. I'm taking the boy to a baseball game today--Durham is home to America's favorite minor league team, after all--and tomorrow I'm taking off because, honestly, who wants to come back from a day at the ballpark and work, especially on a Friday? Not me, that's for one.

So, I'm not really posting today because I was, again, doing research last night followed up by a little bit of *knowing laughter* with the wife. Apparently, blog posting comes somewhere behind Norse gods and wild monkey sex. I figure it's good for you guys to know where you fall.

I thought I'd show you this, though. When I joined the Facebook, I tried to resist the urge to play some of those stupid games, and then I got hooked on one or two of them. Again, I apologize if I let something slip from time to time and spam your pages. Honest. I'm sorry.

However, this happened to me the other day and I found it so amusing that I felt compelled to share it.


Nothing sates your megalomaniacal thirst for power like fighting the Son of God and winning! Awesome.

Now that I've appeased my inner Jacob, I thought I'd take this new-found power and tell you all to skip out on work and go take in a ballgame today, like me. It's Thirsty Thursday, after all, so you should celebrate it. Go on. You've worked hard. You deserve it. It's not like you sit around all day reading blogs or anything.

*sigh*

Sometimes...I hate being right.



No, I take that back. I love being right. It does depress me sometimes, though.

Batter Up!

So, today, baseball starts its "second season", or what I like to call, "the only part I really give a damn about and which will probably cause me to curse a lot...more". Everyone--and I mean, everyone--seems to think that the Scrubs can shuffle off 100 Years of Infortitude and bring the World Series trophy back to Macondo Wrigley. Despite the well-worn Die-Hard Cubs Fan card in my wallet, I ain't drinking the Blue Kool-Aid served up by Sweet Lou just yet.

That being said, let me offer up my prognostications--the way I'd like to see it happen, and the way I think it will happen. First, let's trip delightfully off to that fantasy world I like to visit every once in a while. We'll call it Matt Land.

In Matt Land, this is how I see things working out:

NLDS:
Cubs over Dodgers in four
Phillies sweep Brewers

ALDS:
Angels beat Red Sox in four
White Sox over Rays in five

NLCS:
Cubs beat Phillies in six

ALCS:
White Sox beat Angels in six

World Series:
Cubs sweep Sox, I dance naked somewhere

Now, I'm going to set the crack pipe down and tell you how it's really going to happen:

NLDS:
Phillies beat Brewers in four
Dodgers beat Cubs in four

ALDS:
Angels beat Red Sox in four
Rays beat White Sox in four

NLCS:
Dodgers over Phillies in six

ALDS:
Angels over Rays in five

World Series:
Angels over Dodgers in seven

I'm not one to believe in curses, but I know the Cubs' faithful do. It's not that I don't think the team is talented, it's just that I think the grind of the long season is beginning to wear on the Cubs, especially their starting pitchers. If the Cubs lose today, it's over. They'll start to panic because there's all this pressure put up on them, and then they'll pop under it. I hope I'm wrong; I'd love to be wrong. I just can't see it.

I think the Brewers expended too much energy to get to the playoffs and will be rolled under the Phillies. The Brew-crew has no pitching outside of some portly future Yankee named Sabathia as Sheets has been less than remarkable in the past couple of weeks of the season--an injured arm might have something to do with that.

The Dodgers, I think, are built for the post season, and Joe Torre has experience and a sort of post-season magic about him. The Dodgers are in the playoffs, and the Yankees aren't. Coincidence? Probably not. The late-season acquisition of Manny might have helped. The Phils, I think, are a bit underwhelming, as well--they finished just a couple of games ahead of the Brewers, and the Brewers are the Wild Card winner.

In the AL, sorry Sox fans, but the Red version has some issues with Beckett not being 100%. Yeah, you have some quality pitchers not named Beckett, but at the same time, those guys are well-worn. Also, you're missing a big bat in the middle of the line-up, which means Ortiz isn't going to see a decent pitch during a clutch situation. The White version has had to play three different teams in three different days in order to get into the playoffs. Fatigue will wear them down, and the Rays are still riding their feel-good high into the first round. Not to mention, Bud Selig and the World Wide Leader both hate Ozzie Guillen, so they're going to make sure that the Sox don't get far while he's still at the helm. I said I don't believe in curses; conspiracies involving Bud Selig and the World Wide Leader, I'm all aboard on those.

This will all be undone by the Angels, who are a quality team. Scioscia has the team playing like a team, and, sure, they didn't have much of a threat from the AL West--the ACC football conference of MLB--but they've been on cruise control for a long time. Oh, yeah, and they have a solid bullpen.

As for the Scrubs...yeah...everyone has a bad century every once in a while. Prepare to enter your second.

Let the Games Begin

Okay, I haven't done a sports post in a long time, party because some people were whining about it, and partly because it's baseball and MLS season here. While I love soccer, not many people give a damn about it here in the states, and pretty much the rest of the world plays soccer during the winter. So, there you go. The soccer of any import isn't being played now, and what am I going to do with baseball? Tell you how the Cubs will find a new and inventive way of screwing it up this year? Place odds on whom the next Bartman will be? With football season just over the horizon, I thought maybe I'd do a few quick little stories that have popped up recently. You might have heard a few of them. One of them is about a guy named Brett. Screw you, Milwaukee Bait and switch, baby. The first entry is about the Cubs, mostly because they're rolling off a four game sweep in which they dominated the Milwaukee Brewers. I really don't have too much against Milwaukee, and despite the title, I kind of like them (Jesus, they're the Brewers...how can you truly hate them? Their mascot makes beer and happiness!), and they play in one of the finest ballparks in the majors. Still, screw you, Milwaukee. Nothing like seeing your hopes disappear in one second and suddenly turn into five games back in another. I think the true joy in all of this is that I read some obnoxious White Sox fan talking about how, after the series in which the central leaders in both leagues were playing the second place teams, only one of the Chicago teams would still be in the lead. I guess he was right. So, I guess I should be saying, "Screw you, stupid White Sox blogger!"

I'm a Sports Radio Whore It's true. I'll admit it. And here's why. All summer long, I have faithfully been listening to the two AM stations here in the Triangle, 850 the Buzz and 620 the Bull. The big draw was 850 had Bomani Jones covering their afternoon drive home time slot, and I've been enjoying his take on things since he was writing for the World Wide Leader. Well, now he's down here, and I've been loving it. Unfortunately, Friday is his last day, and August 4th we get ACC Douchebag David Glenn back. It wouldn't be so bad if Glenn wasn't a horrific ACC Homer (I get it, he loves it, yay for him), but his voice is annoying AND he asks hard-hitting questions to coaches and players along the lines of "If you were a tree, would your leaves be green? Unless of course you were a pine tree, then would your needles be green? And, if you don't want to talk about the color of your leaves and/or needles, feel free to tell some other cutesy story, and I'll guffaw like a senile old man with my teeth in my pocket." The biggest thing that gets me about this asscock is he's willing to give Roy Williams and Mike Krzyzewski as pass on every little negative blip on their radar, but he talks about what an asshole Bob Knight is. Yeah, I get it. Coach Knight was a dick. But you know what? He's also the winningest coach not named Pat Summit in NCAA basketball. So, eat dick already.
Couple the fact that David Glenn comes back with the obnoxious Billy-show run by Mark Packer, son of nefarious h8er Billy Packer, that plays in the afternoon on 620, and I start thinking of things I'd rather be doing than listening to sports talk radio around here, like having my testicles pulled slowly out of my nose with a crochet hook, for starters. Ugh.
Then, however, I turned over to the FM radio show today just in time to hear that they've picked up a contract with Westwood One radio. Do you know who is on Westwood One radio for football? That's right. Notre Freaking Dame. The guy announcing this promised every Notre Dame game every week. I about had to pull over and rub one out right there. Of course, 850 and 620 have to counter, so they are carrying...Duke football and North Carolina high school football games. Wow. The high school football games will be more interesting. So, there. Guess what, 99.9 the Fan? You've just picked up a new faithful listener. And you didn't even have to put on fishnets.

Speaking of Billy Packer... CBS got wise and told that antiquated curmudgeon to hit the road. Billy, of course, complained about how they got it wrong, declared it was over, and then shuffled off to eat his bran flake ice cream cone with extra prune. Good riddance.

Speaking of Good Riddance... Jesus, Red Sox fans, why did it take you this long? Let me back up. I passionately hate the Red Sox, mostly because the only Red Sox fans I've met in real life redefined the word "obnoxious". I believe it now means, "fat, ugly, and loud in a ball cap with a red 'B'". Of course, I've only ever met one Red Sox fan I can stand...probably because he kicks so much ass...mine, too, I'll assume, if I keep ragging on his team and 'nation'. But, don't worry, Red Sox nation, there is another group of fans who take obnoxious to a whole new level. Sorry, Hap. Anyway, it seems the annual drama has been shipped out West. The fact that Theo Epstein could convince anyone to take that mess of his hands is a major coup. I thought it was a deal when the Cubs dumped Sammy Sosa after his little tantrum...and Manny's been throwing these for years. Good riddance, I'd say. The mess that is Manny Ramirez was traded to the Dodgers today as the trading deadline came to an end in major league baseball. You got a decent pitcher outfielder (sorry, I was confusing him with Zach Duke) out of the deal, Red Sox nation, but I imagine the sudden relief of the migraine disappearing is better than Jason Bay. Unfortunately, David Ortiz is never going to see another hittable pitch in a clutch situation, but there you have it.

Stop me if you've heard this one... Danica Patrick picked a fight with another driver in the pits recently. This one with fellow female driver, Milka Duno. However, Milka, not having to abide by the by-laws of chivalry, threw a towel in Danica's face...twice...and then told her to leave the pits. This, of course, is not the first time Danica's picked a fight with someone. Famously, in the Indianapolis 500, after she wrecked out...again...she got out of her car and stormed down toward Ryan Briscoe's pits to confront him. She's had a history of punching other drivers--all male--knowing full well that they can't hit her back, and then when the guy talks about it, she insults his manhood. Also, ever notice how none of these wrecks are ever Danica's fault. I guess that's what you get when you have a bitch storming around with a false sense of entitlement. She keeps talking about making the jump to NASCAR, and I'd love to see it, because I can't really see Chocolate Myers taking her shit for too long before he hauls off and knocks her jaw loose.

More False Sense of Entitlement I see Michelle Wie is taking some more solid career advice from Daddy Dearest and skipping the major event on the LPGA tour--the tour on which she was won exactly zero events--to once again compete in a PGA tour. This will be her fourteenth attempt to play with the boys. She's made the cut in exactly zero of these competitions, but continues to play in them. If you'll pardon me, I'm going to go tell my daughter to enjoy being a little girl for as long as she wants. Look, I'm all for equality and all, but, seriously, Michelle...maybe you should focus on winning an LPGA event rather than just trying to make the cut on the PGA tour. If that's too much for you, maybe you can focus on signing the right scorecard for once.

A Man Named Brett George Brett, that is. We passed the 25th anniversary of the "Pine Tar Incident", wherein Brett showed the world that he was crazy. If not crazy, then he showed the world what a crazy face looks like, at least one without make-up and nasty scars on the cheeks. In case you forgot about it (or weren't born yet), basically Ole George used the sticky too high up on his bat and was called out after hitting a go-ahead two-run home run. His was the last out of the game. George came tearing out of the dugout to confront the umpires in a scene that was played over and over again during the opening scenes of This Week in Baseball throughout the entirety of my youth.

Purple Number 4? So, Brett Favre is...quasi-retired? What a fucking circus this has turned out to be. At first, I was like, "Brett, just walk away." But then the whole thing came out that Ted Thompson, GM for the Packers, and Mike McCarthy, head coach for the Packers, pushed Favre into retiring. If that's the case, then they should either let him come back, or outright release him. If it's false, and Brett really wanted to retire, then he should stay gone.
However, I can't understand the Packers' position here. They are rock solid, dead set on Aaron Rogers taking over in Green Bay. McCarthy has said there's no quarterback controversy...Aaron is our guy. Wow. Versus a hall-of-famer who owns ever passing record? Really? I mean...every team in the league has quarterback competitions, except Green Bay, Indianapolis and New England. To tell me that Aaron Rogers is on par with Peyton Manning and Tom Brady is fucking ridiculous. I mean, you've seen this guy on the field, right? Not to mention, he's a Jeff Tedford quarterback. Those guys always turn out to be great NFL stars, right Akili Smith and Joey Harrington?
Yeah, it's gotten ugly and comical, but my favorite is when Favre was going to call the Packers' bluff and show up at training camp. Thompson talked him out of it, saying "If you show up at camp, Brett, I'll lose my job." Okay, yeah, because when you're not making the playoffs this year with Rogers, and Favre is leading some team to the playoffs, your head isn't going end up on a pike in Green Bay. Good luck with that, buddy.
Honestly, if Brett ends up in Minnesota, I will root for him to beat the Packers. I know, my loyalties should not lie with one man, but the Packers bungle-fucked this long ago. I want to see Rogers fall flat on his face and I want to see McCarthy eating shit pie. Sauerkraut is optional.
Check it out. I just switched allegiances again...and still no fishnets. Although, I'm thinking someone out there might need to put on a pair to help cement my ties to the Purple People Eaters.

I think that should just about do it for alienating every one of my readers.

LooKKKKKKKKKKing BacKKKKKKKKKK

Do you remember what you were doing ten years ago, today? I don't remember, either, except that I know I was four days away from graduating from St. Joseph's College. I'll hazard a guess and say that I was drinking beer while on the toilet shitter in the Gallagher 1st middle stall, drinking a beer in my dorm room, Gallagher 117, doing something stupid and druken with partner-in-crime Will Shannon, and probably planning another clumsy, awkward pass at Jamie Bach[1] later in the day. I think I might have also destroyed a phone against the exterior of Gallagher Hall later tonight, and I'm also going to guess that there was, at some point, a drunken trip to the Trail Tree in or Grandma's late in the night for either a Big T Trucker Sandwich or Biscuits and Gravy (and an eggy sandwich if a certain priest-to-be came with us).

The reason for waxing nostalgic is that today is the 10th anniversary of Kerry Wood striking out 20 Astros in Wrigley Field. This instantly put his name on the baseball map and made us all wonder just how many World Series rings he would bring to the North Side of Chicago[2]. Unfortunately, as productive as Wood was/has been striking guys out, he's been just as productive when it comes to injuring himself. Elbows, wrists, shoulders...everything on Wood's body seems to have broken down at some point during his career. Blame Dusty Baker if you want to (and I do), but some of Wood's injuries have been completely non-baseball related, such as injuring himself in a hot tub.

Despite all this, Kerry Wood remains one of my all-time favorite Cubs players. I don't know why, either. Maybe I'm still locked in the nostalgic hope of seeing him achieving his potential. Maybe I keep thinking that some day he'll wake up, hop out of bed and decide that today is the day he's going to strike out 20 batters again (which would be really difficult, since he's been relegated to the bullpen these days). Maybe because his marvelous feat of 20 strikeouts came in those waning days of my college career, when things were looking most hopeful and promising and I had the whole world figured out. Maybe seeing Kerry Wood pitch takes me back to a happy place that I have locked away inside of me. I don't know, but he is, without a doubt, my favorite baseball player. Here in the Triangle, there is a city called Cary and, in Cary, there is a road called Cary Wood Dr. Ever since I saw that, I have looked for an affordable house on Cary Wood Drive, just to say I live there, because that would be so fucking cool, and all because of Kerry Wood.

Wood's career has been one of unfulfilled potential. However, if you look at the recent spate of baseball news and think back, Wood (from Texas and a high-strikeout pitcher) was compared to Roger Clemens (from Texas and a high-strikeout pitcher). It was thought their careers would follow similar paths and Wood would be racking up Cy Young's along with wins and World Series titles. Fortunately--thankfully!--it seems that Wood is nothing like Clemens, as the injury-prone body and extended stays on the DL would point toward a lack of using steroids and HGH, and, well, there doesn't seem to be a string of trashy women with hordes of skeletons stashed in their closets following Wood around.

For all the bad that has surrounded Kerry Wood's career, I'll never forget looking up through my Miller-Genuine-Draft-inspired haze and saying, "Holy shit, Will, this guy's struck out 20 batters. Hand me another.[3]" So, Kerry, here's to you, man. Happy Anniversary.

[1]: In case you were wondering, she looks a lot like the Snorg Tees girl, just with a smaller chest and incisors and a stronger proclivity to wearing knee-high stockings and very short skirts.
[2]: That would be a big, fat 0 and counting...
[3]: Obviously, nowadays, it would be most appropriate to toast Kerry's feat with a 120 Minute IPA from Dogfish Head Brewery, as it's 20% ABW. That's 1% ABW for every strikeout. I can do math, me.

A Goose, a Hawk and a Steaming Bowl Full of Rice

Yesterday, Richard "Goose" Gossage was voted into the Baseball Hall of Fame. Behind him were Jim Rice and Andre Dawson, whom many of those "in the know" think will be voted into the hall next year.

Now, if you've read this blog at all, you know that I treat baseball season like a prolonged pecking by an annoying little bird while I make an "ow" noise over and over and over again. Think Peter Griffin on this one.

However, the Hall of Fame intrigues me because now I actually remember some of the guys who are being voted in (or not, in the case of Mark McGwire). I'm not sure how to take this. I don't feel old in many ways, and yet, players I loved as a kid are now up for induction to the Hall. Sheesh. That's an age marker right there.

Goose Gossage was a reliever for the Cubs for a few years (among a slew of other teams), so I always enjoy it when a former Cub makes it in. I also enjoy it when a member of the Facial Hair Hall of Fame makes it in, and Goose's mustache was nothing short of epic. I remember him being a typical Cubs reliever, though. Good at stretches, but enough to rip your heart out. I'm sure every team with a closer (that would be, every team) has the same thoughts on closers. Of course, not every team as Ryan Dumpster...er...Dempster.

I also remember having a lot of Jim Rice's baseball cards as a kid. Being that I can't stand the Boston Red Sox, I'll just say that he deserves to be in the hall. He was a good player. Fin.

The man I want to see in is Andre Dawson. His year in 1987 when he tied for the major league lead (with rookie sensation Mark McGwire) captivated me unlike any other season that I've toiled through as a Cubs fan. It was amazing because they ended up in last place, and yet Dawson came out and gave his all every freaking day. And though he was older and relied on for his power (which is funny now as you see the bulked up power sluggers like Bonds, Ortiz and M. Ramirez compared to the stick figure that Dawson seemed to have), he was still good for a dozen to two dozen stolen bases a season. Yes, he's not an overwhelming numbers guy when you look at his career, but his charisma and effort and never-say-die attitude were important for a team (the Cubs) that constantly was used to and expected nothing but mediocrity and below. He acknowledged the fans and, of course in Wrigley, was loved because he returned that love to the people sitting in the seats. Andre's Army was created because of his stint with the Cubs. I definitely feel he's Hall-worthy, and hopefully he will make it in. Granted, I'm looking through a filter and viewing only his time in Chicago, but when he was in Montreal, he was just as exciting and steady as he was in a Cubs uniform.

I was sad to see that Shawon Dunston won't be back on the ballots as he received less than 5% of the vote. Not that he deserved to be in, but he did have a cannon for an arm and excellent range at shortstop. Most of his errors came from over throwing the first baseman.

Tim Raines, while not a Cub, did play for a while on the South Side. He, too, I think, is hall-worthy, for much the same reason as I think Andre Dawson should be in. I just really liked Tim Raines and had hoped, for a while, that the Cubs could recreate that Dawson/Raines outfield, but it never came to be. Oh well.

Now back to the pecking. Owowowowowowowowowowowowowowowowowowowow.....

A Note to Mike McCarthy

If you have your foot on someone's throat, don't pick your foot up. If you rack up 340 yards of offense against someone with a banged up secondary you go with the pass more. You don't give a steady diet of draws and end arounds that the defense constantly sniffs out. Your painfully conservative playcalling in the second half and clock mismanagement in both halves was positively Willinghamian. You're a moron. You won four in a row to start the season by unleashing Favre's arm. Mixing in the run was nice, but when the run didn't work, don't be effing bullheaded and keep going back to it when it doesn't work!

And for the NFL: Teach your damned referees to count to twelve already.

Oh yeah, fuckin' Cubs.

...

My friend Pat, of Notre Dame fame, had a room mate in college named Gerard. Gerard was from Jersey, and as such, he was a fan of the Jets. Of course, it's not easy being a fan of the Jets, so whenever they (the guys living with Pat and Gerard) were watching Sportscenter or something, win or lose, whenever the Jets score came on the screen, Gerard would shake his head and simply say, "Fuckin' Jets."

I've adopted this with my own sort of twist to it.

Being a Cubs fan is not unlike being a Jets fan. No matter what, no matter how much love or disdain you give them, they end up breaking your heart in the end.

That's why I've started muttering under my breath "Fuckin' Cubs" whenever I watch the games or see the scores at the bottom of the screen. Win or lose, it's always "Fuckin' Cubs" (when my children are around, it gets censored to "Stinkin', lousy Cubs").

Here's an aside: The other day, while I was watching the Cubs put together a perfect season against the Marlins (9 games played, 9 losses), I dropped my head when Jacque Jones struck out with the bases loaded and the Marlins' relief pitcher unable to find the strike zone. I muttered "Stinkin', lousy Cubs". My daughter (the six-year old) Cookie (pseudonym; a clever person will be able to figure it out) said to me, "Daddy, when are you going to stop being whiney about the Cubs?"

Yep, that daughter of mine is one Smart Cookie (that's not the reference, but it fits).

I stayed up to watch the game last night (knowing full well the outcome well before the first pitch was thrown). I had to retreat to the upstairs because my mother-in-law is here for a visit, and I didn't want to have her overhear my habitual swearing. However, all I have to say about the game is this:

"Fuckin' Cubs".

Popcorn and Crackerjack

Baseball season is finally upon us. Really, I consider baseball season as that long, lonely time between the end of the college basketball season and the beginning of football season (both forms of the American game) sprinkled in with some random MLS action on weekend afternoons. You see, I grew up a sCrubs fan, but after 2003 when Dusty Baker rode Mark Prior and Kerry Wood into the playoffs and then threw Prior under the bus after the Bartman incident, not to mention ruining both Prior and Wood's arms (Zambrano...you're next) all the while mismanaging the bullpen and not effectively using Kyle Farnsworth throughout the season...and then STILL being employed the following season, I've given up. I watched a sum total of one sCrubs game last season, and that was while I was shooting pool with my dad. Turned out, that was the only game the sCrubs won at home during the month of June. Let's all say it together: "pathetic".

Also, in the subsequent years, the World Series was won by the Red Sox and the White Sox and I haven't yet stopped throwing up from the Red Sox winning and I'm still bitter about asshole Sox fans who, when offered congrats from a sCrubs fan responded with "Fuck you, we won it first, ha ha ha ha ha!"

Ah, thank you for my rant. Now, back to regularly scheduled programming.

It's baseball season in the minor leagues, too, and I happen to live in the home of "America's favorite minor league franchise, the Durham Bulls!". In case you were wondering why they have that moniker, I believe it has something to do with the movie Bull Durham. If you watch it, you actually can see some of the buildings near my old work in the downtown tobacco warehouse district. It's since been (mosty) cleaned up, and the area around the ballpark is really nice. (Incidentally, while Bull Durham was shot in Durham, I couldn't identify anything familiar in The Rookie, which did, allegedly, spend some time in Durham...also...the old ballpark from Bull Durham is where the World Beer Fest is held in the fall).

So, last night, as a special Easter/Spring Break treat for my kids, we bundled up and headed out to the old ball park to take in the game against the Syracuse Sky Chiefs. Happily, the Bulls won, but since it took longer to wake my little boy up than I planned, we missed the first inning (which featured a two-run-dinger for the good guys) and didn't get a chance to score the game, which is something I love doing for some reason. However, the true fun was all the stuff the kids got. Since it was chilly, I went ahead and bought them both hats at the team store and, since they were getting hats, I bought a hat for myself. Then we went and found our seats, hung out for a little bit, and then we got peanuts (my daughter LOVES to crack the peanuts out of the shell and eat them) and a pretzel and some drinks and then later split a funnel cake (although my little boy just licked it to get the powdered sugar off...hopefully that strain of strep we've been sharing is good and dead). During the course of the game, a guy came by with baseballs that he retrieved from behind the Bull (the Bull's eyes light up and smoke comes out its nostrils when a Bulls player hits a home run...if you've seen Bull Durham, you know what I'm talking about) and he gave each of my kids a ball.

So, they got ballpark food, baseball hats, and baseballs. But then, on Sundays, the groundscrew allows the kids to come out and run around the bases after the game. So, we decided to do that, and since both of my children fall under the 7-and-under group, they got to run together. I asked my daughter if she wanted me to go with them, and she said no, that she would take care of her brother while they were out there (she's five, he's two). Well, they herded them together, and I think my little boy was confused as to what was going on, so when they sent my daughter running, he got left behind and then kind of fell back in the pack. Finally, he figured out what to do and took off down the first base line. However, since it was Easter, the Easter Bunny was about halfway between home plate and first base, handing out high-fives. My little boy ran up, gave him a high five, and kept going...for about five more steps. He then turned around and tried to get the Easter Bunny's attention.

Now, the heir to my vast empire is following along nicely in his father's footsteps in that he shows an equal amount of fascination with pretty blonde girls in tight khaki pants. Fortunately for him, just such a creature appeared and took his little hand and ran with him around first base and down to second base, where she handed him off to Wool E. Bull, the Durham Bulls mascot. I'm sure this was part of his plan all along. He's an evil genius. I feel sorry for the girls at Notre Dame in 16 years.

Here, Wool E. Bull took my boy's little hand and ran with him down to third base...and this was broadcast on the big scoreboard screen in left field. So, there was my child, running with the Bull, down to third. The camera stayed on him as he rounded third and Wool E. Bull trotted back to the nearest china shoppe second base while my little boy brought it home to score the run. There, my daughter was waiting for him, we were all reunited, and everyone had a wonderful time. If the video ever pops up on YouTube or some other outlet like that, I'll be sure to post it.

All-in-all a good night. We're headed back tomorrow night. Hopefully, it will be warmer.

Quick Thoughts

Just a few thoughts that ran through my head over the past few days. I'll have a more full review of the beer fest later (it was a blast), but in the meantime, here's this.

- I've pretty much decided that, if I can either get someone to watch Thomas for me or if he settles down a little bit, I'll probably coach Madeleine's soccer team next fall. Maybe this spring, if she wants to do spring soccer. I think Coach Doug's son will be moving on to the 7 & 8 year olds next year, so that would leave no one to coach what is now her team (apparently, there's no guarantee that you'll get the same players next year...harumph). Anyway, I guess I'm mad with power. My robot genius mind needs to teach kids.

- Joe Girardi interviewed with the Cubs. Offer him a contract. Now.

- If you discover a half of a watermelon in the back of your fridge that you forgot about, don't assume those big, black, sunken-in areas are seeds. That's probably mold eating away at the flesh of the fruit.

- There's not much more disgusting than mold growing on hot-dog chili. That's literally a "pick yer poison" matchup right there.

- I was reading up today about who would win in a fight between Brock Samson and Wolverine. Naturally, it's Brock Samson. Only Jesus can defeat Brock Samson, but only just barely.

- Speaking of Brock Samson, don't look him on the internet while at work. Apparently, there's a porn starlet whose last name is Samson, and her big old fakies pop up on the screen. Just a warning.

- No, seriously, get Girardi a contract.

- College basketball starts this weekend. Why the hell must the two best sports in the world coincide like this? Can't we push basketball back just a hair, so that March Madness becomes April Madness, and it takes up more of baseball?

- I really need to update my beer list.

- In fact, I need to update my webpage as a whole. Expect major overhauls within the month.

- I need a digital camera to better track my drunkenness at beer fests. And other worthy pictures.

- I've decided not to do NaNo this year. I was going to try and slam together the finish of The Boar War in order to get to the NaNo project. However, Boar War is coming along nicely, and I don't want to rush it. I'd rather take my time and do Boar War right and try to shop it. If that takes up part of November, sobeit. Overall, it'll make me a happier person.

- Never, ever, drink Steel Reserve. Ever.

That is all.