Shipping Up To Pawtucket

Sometimes, the fantasy baseball gods smile on you.

Oh, not on me. They haven't smiled on the Darling Asteroids all season.

I feel like a confused boyfriend: Me and the fantasy gods are apparently in a fight, and I have no idea what I did wrong.

But they've certainly taken a shining to my roommate Kyle.

First his best pitcher, Cliff Lee, gets traded from Seattle to the front-running, offensively-gifted Rangers, ensuring him more run support and many more wins.

And now Dustin Pedroia, his starting second baseman who's currently on the DL, is having a few rehab starts in Pawtucket, RI...just a hop and a skip from us.

What better chance to go and see baseball's fourth best second baseman in action?

Hoping to witness some whacky minor league hijinks a la Bull Durham or Major League 3: Back to the Minors, we piled into a car and were off.

About an hour later we arrived in a suburban Rhode Island town, greeted by a wooden sign reading, "Welcome to historic Pawtucket."

Kyle's bearded face twisted with puzzlement.

"Why is Pawtucket so historic?" he asked.

You know why.

We parked and strolled towards McCoy Stadium as the PawSox prepared to do battle with the Buffalo Bison, the New York Mets Triple-A affiliate.

As per contractual agreement, we weren't within 50 feet of the stadium before hearing the Dropkick Murphys' signature song.

Will Smith did it with "Miami."

Jay-Z did it with "Empire State of Mind."

And now the Murphys have written Boston's default "get-pumped sports anthem," ensuring they live on forever in local lore and are invited to play state fairs for years to come.

Well played, Dropkicks.

We sat in the upper deck along the third base line, the perfect spot to view everyone's favorite diminutive defenseman in action.

Unfortunately, Little Boy Pete was listed as the DH, robbing us of a chance to see his trademark grit and determination in the field.

He doesn't stop grounders with his glove. He stops them with his heart.

Regardless, a mostly sellout crowd was ready for some baseball.

But excitement quickly turned to sadness as Pedroia bounced into an inning-ending double play in the first, weakly smacking a pitch that Brandon Phillips would have scorched off the IHOP sign in right for a double.

Still, minor league baseball remains a great, cheap alternative to the big leagues where you can see stars of tomorrow as well as a few familiar faces.

Former Cubs pitcher Rich Hill was on the bump for the PawSox, and former catcher Michael Barrett pulled backstop duty for the Bison.

And the once great Carlos Delgado, he of the 473 career homeruns, hit cleanup for Pawtucket.

Sadly, he watched two fastballs go by before flailing at an 0-2 slider. It was a grim reminder that when star athletes fall, they fall hard.

Seeing the formerly feared Delgado in the minors just didn't feel right. I kept thinking:

"Does he really think he can still hang in the majors? Or is he holding on for a few more paychecks?"

Either way, the decision to walk away from the game is his and his alone, regardless of how far he falls and how painful it is to watch.

Go polish your Silver Slugger awards, Carlos. Everything will be OK.

Meanwhile, our Napoleonic warrior flies out meekly to right on a pitch that Ian Kinsler would have absolutely roped up the middle for a single.

The game was tied 1-1 in the 5th until Gil Velazquez, a career minor leaguer who definitely did not win the 2007 AL Rookie of the Year award, hit a two-run bomb into the PawSox bullpen to put them ahead 3-1.

Finally things are looking up for 'ole Gil.

The crowd was loving it, especially one little boy seated behind us.

Experiencing the age-old bond of fathers taking their sons to ballgames, Junior was asking the most adorable questions.

"Daddy, who's that man?"

"Daddy, did we win yet?"

"Daddy, how come Pedroia won the 2008 MVP when Justin Morneau had six more homeruns and 46 more RBIs in a lineup that wasn't nearly as good as the Red Sox?"

Kids say the darndest things.

Meanwhile, Captain Shortstack flies out to left, daintily lofting a pitch that Chase Utley would have totally deposited into the right field bleachers.

For those who have not yet realized, Dustin Pedroia is tiny. His 5-ft-9 listing is generous to say the least.

It's a shame he doesn't play shortstop. The jokes would write themselves.

The fans continued to root, root, root for the home team and were rewarded with a 3-1 victory.

We throw on Guided By Voices' "Alien Lanes" and sit in mostly silence on the ride home. As we motor away from McCoy Stadium, frontman Robert Pollard serenades us:

"You can't lie to yourself/That it's the chance of a lifetime."

And that's the best thing about minor league baseball. It's about watching guys who are so close to their dreams, they can feel it.

It's an intersection of careers...up-and-coming prospects sharing lockers with grizzled vets, all hoping for the same phone call.

I imagine Dustin Pedroia in the PawSox clubhouse, smiling to himself, knowing he's shipping up to Boston in a few days.

The youngsters gather around as he regales them with tales of being in the show, where you hit white balls for batting practice and never handle your own luggage.

A faint smirk disappears from Carlos Delgado's face. He knows his best days are behind him.

But hope springs eternal for the likes of Josh Reddick and Lars Anderson, who know their best days are still ahead.

The minors are about learning. They're about listening. They're about taking your hacks and waiting your turn.

As we go up, we go down.

They're Killing Independent Jacob

Despite what your mommy always told you, the world is messed up.

I'm sure when you were little she would tuck you in at night and read you a cute little bedtime story.

Probably some talking turtle and squirrel having a whacky adventure. Probably a lesson about sharing at the end. The details aren't important.

And after the story she'd kiss your little forehead and tell you that you're different, that you're special.

That you can be anything you want to be.

But most importantly, she'd tell you that if you were honest and kind and tried your darndest, everything would always work out.

Well, bad news, Johnboy: Your mommy was a damn fool.

What an idiot.

The truth, friends, is that the world is not black and white. It is often gray and murky, cold and unforgiving.

Sometimes, it's just plain mean.

And no amount of good deeds will negate the fact that someday, we're all going to have to make choices.

Choices with no clear cut right or wrong. Choices which, regardless of the outcome, will leave you feeling hollow and unfulfilled.

For me, that day is today.

A day when my allegiance will be put to the ultimate test.

A day when my moral fibers will be strained, twisted, hung out and beaten worse than the Pittsburgh Pirates on a 10-game road trip.

On one hand, the Darling Asteroids sit ten points out of a playoff spot with four weeks to play. This season is far from over.

With Mo Rivera, Michael Young and Adam Wainwright joining the fray, we believe we have what it takes to make a late run.

We have a fire in our eyes and hunger in our bellies. We are determined. We are strong.

No one can tell us we're wrong.

On the other hand, my hometown Phillies are smack dab in the middle of the NL East hunt, their traditional second half surge pulling them within games of Atlanta.

With less than two months to play, every win is vital.

Every double down the line, every seeing-eye single, every late-inning rally could be the difference between an early vacation and October glory.

And therein lies the problem.

Today, the Phillies play the second game of a three game set versus the Los Angeles Dodgers.

If you know anything about me, anything at all, I believe you can see where this is headed.

I just wish it didn't have to come to this.

I hoped this wouldn't happen.

I prayed to Jesus, prayed to Yahweh, prayed to Allah. Heck, I even threw Vishnu and Buddha a bone.

Like Rickey Henderson in his prime, I had all the bases covered.

But it was no use. There is nothing more I can do.

Despite all my best efforts, my two worlds will collide.

Everyone's Favorite Man toes the rubber tonight against the Phillies...and I have the biggest decision of my life to make.

This chick had it easy.

It's a choice every fantasy GM has to make at some point during the season: Who do I root for?

If this contest were early in the season, it'd be no contest at all: Let's go Phils. Sorry, Mufasa.

But these are the dog days of August, and while the game isn't a must-win for Philly, this week is certainly a must-win for the Darling Asteroids.

In a perfect world, Chad would twirl a gem of a ballgame and the Braves would also lose, costing the Phillies no ground in the standings.

Or, in a different perfect world, Chad would go 8 2/3, strikeout 20 batters but lose 1-0 on a Carlos Ruiz walkoff.

The Asteroids would get some stats, but the Phils would get the W.

But spoiler alert, friends: We don't live in a perfect world, and there's little doubt how this saga plays out.

First, Chad will get shelled. Something like seven runs in 2 1/3 innings. The Darlings' ERA and WHIP will skyrocket.

Staked to a comfortable lead, Charlie Manuel will go to his bullpen early to preserve Roy Oswalt, who's no Roy Halladay.

The Dodgers will slowly chip away at the Phils' pen, culminating with a two-run homer off Brad Lidge in the 9th.

I would hope, as a shred of silver lining, that the perfect Matt Kemp hits this tater, resulting in something that resembles good news for the struggling Asteroids.

But alas. It's probably going to be Casey Blake. I hate my life.

No win for Chad, no win for the Phils, and the Braves will likely hurl two perfect games against Houston to boot.

I think back to my worst fantasy defeat, which luckily resulted in a moment of real triumph.

On the last day of the 2007 season, Jimmy Rollins stole two bases, scored two runs and helped secure the Phillies first postseason berth since I was seven years old.

J-Roll's big day, however, knocked me out of first place in a league I'd spent all summer dominating.

I was momentarily furious. Jimmy, how could you do this to me?!

That's what you get.

But of course, I couldn't stay mad at him for long.

Brett Myers soon froze Wily Mo Pena on a knee-buckling curveball in the 9th, and a joyous dogpile of red and white ensued in the center of Citizens Bank Park.

So that's the constant struggle a fantasy GM must endure.

Maybe your fantasy team is cruising towards a title. Maybe your actual team is seated comfortably in first...but the two rarely coincide.

Tonight's game, for me at least, is a win-lose situation.

Regardless of the outcome, I'll likely have a reason to fist pump...but also a reason to sulk. I just wish I could have it both ways.

I wish I could have my baseball cake and eat it too.

I wish Chad could get his tenth win of the season, yet somehow the Phillies end up closer to a 4th straight NL East crown.

But it's not that simple. Love never is.

It's a freaking battlefield, man.

Wheelin' and Dealin'

It's getting late early for the Darling Asteroids.

An overall score of 89-105-10, seated in 9th place with four weeks of regular season play left. Only the top six teams make it to the playoffs.

Last season we made it to the finals, tying Joba Rules 6-6 but losing the ERA tiebreaker.

We could almost taste the immortality,eternal glory nuzzled comfortably against us...but it was a quick wink and a nod before breaking our darling hearts.

What a tease.

This season has been a different story. For the first time in my five years as a pretend baseball GM, we're in danger of missing the playoffs.

They're starting to say I don't have what it takes anymore.

That they appreciate my years of service, but the Darlings need someone who can finally get them over the hump.

Rumors that management interviewed some hotshot fantasy football GM cannot be confirmed or denied, but just last night ownership gave me the dreaded "vote of confidence."

So in a last gasp attempt to save the season---and possibly my job---two blockbuster trades have been made in the last two weeks.

First, we shipped the man who would be King Felix to Antarctic Arsenal in exchange for Rangers 3B Michael Young and Yankees closer Mariano Rivera.

Former Twins closer Jon Rauch was rendered useless and expendable at the reality trade deadline, opening the door for the Asteroids acquire the greatest closer that has ever lived.

Young is having a good year as well, hitting 16 homeruns, knocking in 64 and scoring 74 runs. A nice little upgrade for a struggling offense.

And boy, has our offense been struggling, thanks in no small part to Hanley Lollygagging Ramirez...so it was time for him to go.

His numbers this season have been comparable to White Sox SS Alexei Ramirez (.280-50-58 for Hanley, .289-43-53 for Alexei).

So we sent Hanley and Placido Polanco to the Space Turtles for NL Cy Young contender Adam Wainwright, he of the 2.07 ERA and 16 wins.

There's nothing more exciting than hearing about someone else's fantasy trades, right?

You're on the edge of your seat right now. You love this.

Here's hoping this new blood can inject some life into our Darlings and surge us into the playoffs.

This season is growing old far quicker than we expected.

In a few short weeks it could be over, done with, gone before its time...a brilliant flash in the night sky that burnt out before it could even live its life.

Luckily for us, this is fake baseball.

It should come with a disclaimer: No actual lives or feelings were hurt in the making of these trades.

The same cannot be said for some. Take poor J.A. Happ, for example.

Life was good for the man who finished second in Rookie of the Year voting last season, until Charlie Manuel called him into his office one fateful day.

"Kid," I imagine Cholly said in his slow-paced southern-drawl while chomping on a tuna sandwich, "it's great to have you back from the DL. You were a big part of this team last season and we missed you."

"But don't get comfortable. You live in Texas now."

And just like that Happ is uprooted, shipped to the bottom-feeding Astros, likely never to sniff the playoffs until Houston goes through another "rebuilding year" (probably next season) and he gets traded to a contender.

Can you imagine?

It's easy to not feel sorry for these blokes since they're stupid rich and all, but they've got it rough sometimes.

Do me a favor: Close your eyes and imagine you're a famous athlete.

(No, don't really close your eyes. How would you read the rest of this fine post? Come on, man...stay focused)

But imagine you're an athlete. For argument's sake, let's say you're New England Patriots quarterback Tom Brady.

Congratulations, you're handsome.

But your day at the office consists of 300-lb. men trying to annihilate you at every given opportunity.

You also have to spend time before and after work answering inane questions from media members who absolutely can't do what you do, yet still have some excellent suggestions on how you can improve.

So that's the life you lead.

You're under intense scrutiny and pressure from various avenues on a daily basis, and it's other men's jobs to make sure you do your job poorly.

But there's one more thing to consider, one thing that gets lost in the shuffle for these poor millionaires.

One thing that makes the life of a celebrity all the more bizarre and, in a way, sad.

If you're a famous athlete like Tom Brady, you can't go to the mall.

You just can't. Not even for a quick stop at Old Navy.

Don't even think about it.

You wish.

A host of the basic activities the rest of us enjoy are off limits to our favorite stars because they're going to be swarmed by fans and photographers the second they show their chiseled faces.

A lot of people won't feel sorry for trade bait like Ted Lilly or Lance Berkman, but I sort of do.

It's a strange, cold life these gentlemen lead sometimes.

Maybe I'm just getting older and wiser. Maybe I'm just more empathetic and advanced than some.

Maybe I'm just trying to deflect the fact that the Darling Asteroids suck more than "The Last Airbender."

Still, if you ever run into the likes of Cliff Lee on the street or in an Applebee's, have a heart. Give him a hug.

He's fighting a tough battle called life, just like you and I.

It will help him sleep better on his bed made of money in his house made of gold.

Oh Happy Day

Twenty-six years ago today, everything changed.

In a little hum-drum town in northeast Ohio, Everyone’s Favorite Man was born into this world.

And oh! What a wonderful world is has been since that day. Food tastes better, colors are brighter. Carl Pavano remembers how to pitch.

For all that you’ve done for me, for the world and for the Darling Asteroids, Chad, I’m going to do my best to give back to you on this, your special day.

Here are twenty-six reasons why you are, simply put, the greatest thing ever invented ever.

1. The only logical place to start is your first name. Chad: cool and hip, yet unpretentious. Not like a Brent, or a Tyler or, heaven forbid, a Guy Fieri.

Nope.

Simple. Concise. Chad.

2. Billingsley: Regal and refined, like and old English king.

3. Your curveball. What can I say? Some gentlemen prefer blondes. Some men prefer wide backsides. I’m a curveball man.

Give me a good breaking ball and I’m yours forever.

4. Your fastball. It tops out in the 95 MPH range and rarely dips below 90 MPH. No showing off from ‘ole Chad. He’s so humble.

5. Your career ERA of 3.62...not bad at all, but like my self-esteem after a night cruising for chicks, we know it’s coming down.

6. Because after your first career plate appearance (a HBP), a weaker man would have surrendered. Would have thrown in the towel and and walked away.

“Baseball is too hard. I’m scared,” this hypothetical mama’s boy would have whined.


Not you, Chad. In your next at-bat you stood tall like the man among men that you are and drove in two runs of your own. You are truly an inspiration.

7. Because you were born in Defiance, Ohio.

Defiance, Ohio?! Are you kidding me?

The only way that’s more prefect is if there’s a Completegameshutoutville, Missouri...and I checked.

There isn't.

8. Because of your one career homerun, a majestic shot off a hanging slider from San Diego's Josh Banks.

You could easily pull a Steve Nebraska and hit one every time up but, as we’ve seen, that just ain't your style.

9. The number of wins you have this season. Also the number of times a day you make me smile.

10. Because you never rush into things. You debuted on June 15, 2006 yet didn’t make the All-Star team until 2009.

I’m glad we waited, Chad. It made that night all the more special.

11. You’ve given up 324 runs in your career, 301 of which were earned.

324 - 301 = 23, the number of Chicago Bulls great Michael Jordan.

Coincidence? No such thing.

12. According to my twelfth favorite website, baseball-reference.com, your career Rrep is 433 and your career Rdef is -2. I am unsure what that means, but it sounds fantastic.

13. The number of runs you’ve surrendered in two playoff starts against the Phillies. Sorry for being so selfish about this, buddy. I’m not a perfect person.

14. Because a few weeks ago, I was in a bad way.

The love of my life, country music star Carrie Underwood, had just gotten married and the Darling Asteroids were on a terrible losing streak.

You were the only one who was there for me. You calmly listened, never judged. You were a shoulder to cry on.

And afterward you took me to Applebee’s. I’ll never forget that.

15. The number of consecutive scoreless innings you’ve thrown. Look out, Orel Hershiser. There’s a new sheriff in town.

16. The number of games you won in 2008, a career best. But heck, we all know a 20-win season is on the horizon someday. Maybe even 30 wins.

That’s what I like about you, Chad. You’re unpredictable.

17. Those impossibly dark brown eyes of yours. I’ve been trying to contact Van Morrison about re-writing his classic hit just for you.

“Brown Eyed Chad” would win so many Grammys. It’s a shame he won’t return my calls.

18. Because of that winning smile.

*ping!*

19. Your west coast games finish too late for me to watch, usually. But it’s always a special treat to wake up and see a “W” by your name. Really starts the morning out right.

20. Dodger Blue. It’s always been my favorite color, yet I never knew why. In retrospect, it seems so obvious.

21. Because of this incredible statistic: Every time you win, the Dodgers are undefeated.

Think about it.

22. That’s how many years it’s been since Jack Buck couldn’t believe what he just saw...Kirk Gibson taking Dennis Eckersley deep in Game 1 of the World Series, hobbling around the base paths, fist pumping like a champ.

That was Dodgertown’s last title, Chad. But with you, that kid Kershaw, the perfect Matt Kemp and company, something tells me it won’t be much longer.

23. Because whenever I’m feeling down, whenever The Man is cramping my style, whenever I feel like pulling a Zack Greinke and freaking out on everyone...I think of your three career complete games. And suddenly, I’m at peace.

24. Because, while I have no way of confirming it, my heart tells me that your favorite song is “My Baby Takes The Morning Train” by Sheena Easton. And that’s just awesome.

25. Because of our past. We’ve been through a lot, you and I have, big guy. But I’ll always keep a spot open for you, and I know my faith will be rewarded.

26. Because of the future.

You have ace potential, Chad. I know it. You know it. Everyone knows it.

In auction drafts, I’ll continue to spend ten dollars too much on you. In regular drafts, I’ll continue to select you three rounds too early.

Why?

Because you have the magic. Because I need to see that smiling face in my lineup every five days.

Because you’re my boy.

Happy birthday, Mufasa. You the man.

The Curious Case of Aubrey Wigginton

Until earlier this year, I wasn’t sure if Ross Gload actually existed.

Oh, don’t get me wrong. I had heard his name before. I had seen “Gload” scrawl across the bottom of my TV screen, followed by “Pinch hit something or other” a time or two.

But I had never actually seen him with my own eyes.

Gload was just like Sasquatch, or a scoreless inning from Trevor Hoffman: others assured me it existed, promised me it had happened, and I had no choice but to take them at their word.

But a few months back, on a lazy Saturday when Placido Polanco got the day off, seeing became believing.

Midway through the Phillies lineup, a nondescript, generic-looking gentleman stepped into the box.

My brow furrowed.

A name appeared on the screen and, as if seeing a new color for the first time, equal parts confusion and excitement washed over me. I turned to my roommate Geoff, who was similarly puzzled.

Half surprised, half questioning, I said/asked, “Oh, that’s Ross Gload?”

Geoff stared quizzically.

“I guess so.”

Ross Gload, apparently.

I can hardly be blamed for never seeing Ross in his natural habitat. After all, he is a member of an exclusive and unique club, one which can only exist in the baseball world.

He is one of the many versatile, middle of the lineup or back of the rotation guys who consistently hit .270 or post mid-4.00 ERAs.

These players are good enough to endlessly bounce from team to team, yet rarely find a permanent place to rest their underwhelming heads.

Cody Ross and Wes Helms were charter members before joining forces in Florida a few years ago.

In an emotional ceremony, about twenty-six teams retired Shea Hillenbrand’s jersey after the 2007 season.

Mark DeRosa is the team’s captain and spiritual leader, and Jeff Conine is still spoken about in reverential tones.

It’s an incredible skill to have, being just effective enough to earn a shot ...yet lousy enough that no one will mourn your departure.

And among these mediocre nomads, two men stand above the rest.

Two men who consistently put up numbers that make you say, “Sure. Fine. Whatever.” Two men who, if you saw walking down the street, you wouldn’t even blink.

Yes, there is a tie atop the Lifelong Lousy Leaderboard between two men.

Or so I thought.

The careers of Aubrey Huff and Ty Wigginton have been consistent and unspectacular, and I mean that as a compliment.

They have bounced around both leagues, and have even played on the same team a time or two.

And this is where things get interesting.

Dig deeper my friends, and you’ll find a truth that Mr. Allan Huber “Bud” Selig doesn’t want us to talk about.

He has been pulling the wool over our eyes for far too long, and like Tom Hanks in “The Da Vinci Code,” it is my job to make sure this conspiracy sees the light of day.

Brace yourselves, friends. This bombshell will knock your socks off.

Are you sitting down? Good. Here it is:

Aubrey Huff and Ty Wigginton are the same person.

Busted.

I know, I know. I didn’t believe it at first. But the evidence is overwhelming.

First off, when was the last time you saw Aubrey Huff or Ty Wigginton at all...let alone together?

And isn’t it a little curious that “Ty Wigginton” and “Aubrey Huff” have both “played” for Tampa Bay, Toronto, Houston and Baltimore.

You must admit, the odds of two men sharing such similar resumés is a little peculiar.

Or is it?

Or perhaps “they” have to keep moving, always on the run, because the second “they” stay put for too long someone will catch on to their dirty little secret.

“But Jake, Huff and Wigginton both played for the Baltimore Orioles last season,” I pretend you’re thinking in order to move the plot along.

Don’t be so blind.

“Ty” was a bench player for much of the season. When he did start, he DH’ed or played first base. Do you know who got the day off on those occasions?

Bullseye.

Also, “Aubrey” had a bit of a down year statistically last season, hitting only .253 with 13 homeruns before being “traded” to “Detroit.”

Perhaps he had trouble adjusting to the tough AL East.

Maybe he just had an off year. That happens, right?

Or maybe he had to make quick outs so he could run into the clubhouse, switch jerseys and come back to the plate as a certain Wiggly utility man.

It’s all just so obvious, people. Open your eyes!

I’m sure “Bud” Selig is in his ivory tower right now, wading Scrooge McDuck-style through the $3M that MLB is paying “Aubrey Huff” this season.

Well now the secret it out.

Selig’s goons are probably on their way to my apartment right now, ready to silence me by any means necessary. Well you can silence me...but you can never silence the truth.

Go on and fight the good fight, friends. It’s too late for me.

Goodbye...and good luck.

New But Hardly Improved

Whenever I get an idea of something I want to write about, I jot it down.

Usually in Google Docs, sometimes on scrap paper, occasionally carving into my coffee table if a sticky note isn't at the ready.

And along with the initial idea, I include a few of the major points I want to touch on.

For example, when I wrote about Ubaldo Jimenez's assault on history last month, my notes looked something like:

"Chasing Bob Gibson...baseball harder now than in 60s...evolution of modern athletes...Jon Hamm = dreamy."

You get the idea.

Now I'm not telling you this just to give you a glimpse into the genius mind of the Hemingway of Hardball. That's one goal, but I have ulterior motives.

(By the way, you're welcome)

No, I'm telling you this because a few weeks ago I decided I wanted to write about GameDay, the animated, live-update scoreboard offered by MLB.com to help you track games on your computer.

But when it came to scribbling a few notes, a few key ideas, a few topic sentences or what-have-you, all I could come up with was, and I quote:

"It F*$^%&# sucks"

More like LameDay...am I right, people?!

It used to be so glorious.

You clicked the game you wanted to watch and a concise, well-organized window opened up.

In the center was a silhouette of a batter, and little colored dots appeared intermittently to indicate if the pitch was a ball, a strike, a hit or an out.

Box scores and lineups were to the right, the current pitcher and batter to the left.

That was it. It wasn't complicated and it wasn't flashy.

Much like David Eckstein, it showed up when you needed it, got the job done and left.

Those days, sadly, are over.

Open GameDay now and it gets its own tab in your browser. The days of it being a separate, compact window are long gone.

This was probably written into GameDay's new contract, and I imagine GameDay is represented by Scott Boras.

But wait, there's more.

Where the original GameDay was beautiful in its simplicity, new GameDay is bogged down with pointless animations and an overload of information more useless than Kyle Farnsworth.

First off, it's now in 3D. Hip hip frigging hooray, everything is in 3D now.

And no silly glasses required? You're too good to me, GameDay.

Don't like 3D? You're only kind of screwed.

GameDay throws you a sort-of bone by giving you the option---and I swear to Cal Ripken Jr. I'm not making this up---of switching between "Full 3D" and "Light 3D."

Go ahead and switch between the two when you get a chance. You won't notice the change immediately.

In fact, you won't notice the change at all.

On to the pitcher now...who does not exist.

Seriously, GameDay?

You make all these idiotic changes, yet the ball is being fired from some dark abyss of nothingness?

In terms of good ideas, that ranks just above New Coke and just a hair behind Melky Cabrera.

Well played, indeed.

The Infinite Chasm of Space and Time's pitches now come with a little red or blue line so you can see where they started from (Heaven?) and where they wound up.

(Spoiler alert: If Mark Reynolds is batting, it wound up in the catcher's mitt)

And in case you're interested (which you aren't), you can check each pitch's type, release speed, result speed, pFX and break.

So now I know everything I never wanted to know about Dan Haren's cutter, and I can watch Prince Fielder hit it from any angle I please?

Darn right, I can. This is America.

USA! USA!

I'm sure I sound like some old curmudgeon railing against kids these days with their tight jeans and rock music, but I just loved the old GameDay so much more.

I suppose I'm not angry, baseball. I'm just disappointed.

You're losing popularity, and it just perplexes me how you can continue to make such boneheaded, self-destructing decisions.

Last week's Homerun Derby was kicked off with a performance by the band Train. At least four people probably had to greenlight that move, and they should all be fired.

You take any and all classic clips off of YouTube in an attempt to control the copyrights.

Add it all up, throw in a dash of playoff games not starting until 8:30pm and ending before midnight if we're lucky, and how exactly is the game supposed to attract new fans?

How is any ten-year-old boy supposed to fall in love with David Ortiz if said boy is in his pajamas before the third inning of Game 7?

You've got some work to do, baseball, but I believe in you. Fixing GameDay so its "improvements" don't slow my computer to a crawl is a start.

But beyond that, you need some rebranding. You need to paint yourself in a new and exciting light.

You need some fresh ideas to help rekindle America's love affair with its national pastime.

I know just the man for the job.

You're welcome, baseball.

Just Dance

I know what you're thinking.

You're thinking the Darling Asteroids start the second half with a 76-87-5 record, good for ninth in the league.

You're thinking that we have one win in the last two and a half months, which is downright embarrassing.

And you're thinking that the only way out of this funk, the only way to shake the cobwebs from the Darlings, to rattle their cages, to make them feel alive...is with a three-act interpretive dance.

You're right, my friends. I was thinking the same thing.

This can't fail.

Act One, "A Love Letter to Opening Day," begins with a flourish. A low rumble in the distance slowly grows, finally exploding with trumpets as hope springs eternal for our baseball heroes.

Ryan Sweeney prances about with sweeping hand gestures and leaps galore as the energy of a new year flows through his veins. He has never been happier, and cannot contain himself.

Ted Lilly and Matt Wieters stand face to face. A testament to the bond between pitcher and catcher, they are one.

Lilly raises his left hand, the hand that guides his fate and the fate of the Cubs. He stares at Matt.

They are one.

Wieters raises his right hand, which will throw out baserunners for years to come. He stares at Ted.

They are one.

Jon Rauch emerges behind Lilly, Orlando Hudson behind Wieters. All four men stand silently for what seems like an eternity.

Suddenly, without warning and all of a sudden, they break dance. A glorious blur of popping, locking, moving and shaking.

Rauch busts out a mean robot. Someone had to.

Through the magic of dance they have come to understand and respect each other.

However, the end of the act closes with a jolt. The music stops as Sweeney is mid-pirouette. He stumbles.

The stage goes dark. A man arises from the darkness, bringing with him a bloated ERA and damaged ego.

Thus begins Act Two, "The Death of Frank Francisco."

Frank rises achingly, painstakingly, heart-breakingly slow. Each movement is a triumph of will power.

Sirens wail. Red lights, the color of passion, flash like a discotheque.

All the while, our hero moves slowly. He is unaware of the chaos and destruction around him. It's all very meaningful. You probably don't get it.

Pictured: symbolism.

The music stops. He comes set, winds up, and delivers a pitch. We hear the crack of the bat, followed by slow, melancholy violin strings.

Bathed in purple light, our hero is wounded. He crawls slowly toward stage left as the strings build.

Finally, he collapses. The strings fade away. The spotlight is off.

After what feels like forever, we see movement. A soft light appears at center stage.

On all fours, our hero crawls into the light and into Act Three, "The Ballad of Ryan Howard."

This act, like Mr. Howard every season, begins slowly. Our hero rises. His wobbly knees make us nervous...but do not fear, friends.

A career resurgence is in the works for our new hero, Mr. Vladimir Guerrero.

Suddenly horns are blaring from every direction.

He bounces around the stage, violently kicking and punching through the music, beating back the midsummer slumps that threaten to derail a season.

After minutes of flailing about, the tension builds. Vlad has burst through the dog days of summer and emerged in a groove. Nothing gets by him.

In a brilliant crescendo, more and more horns roar as he stands, defiant and victorious, socking each fastball, each curveball, each hanging slider back from whence it came in a tornado-like spiraling of energy.

He flips, he lunges, he dives around the stage.

Lovers cry. Poets dream. Pablo Sandoval wails with joy like a housewife at Oprah's "Favorite Things" special.

"It's a tale of redemption...and you're all getting one!"

The music builds and builds and builds until finally exploding with one loud, resounding note as confetti rains over our hero.

Evan Longoria and Stephen Strasburg, our hope for the future, descend from the heavens. Each carries a World Series trophy.

Drenched in sweat and victory, the three round the bases together.

When they reach home, the rest of the Darlings roster is waiting for them.

Our three heroes throw off their helmets and leap triumphantly into the joyously bouncing mob. Order has been restored, the battle has been won.

You were right, friends. That was just what the Darling Asteroids needed.

The Non-All-Stars

The great thing about baseball is that something new happens every night. Something historic, something you won't ever see again.

Something that makes Buster Olney and John Kruk chest bump each other.

Take Saturday night for example. Travis Wood, in only his third major league start, was thiiiis close to throwing a perfect game against the Phillies.

Problem was, nine perfect innings wouldn’t have even notched him a win...not with Doc Halladay toeing the rubber for Philly and tossing up zeroes of his own.

So this 23-year-old kid is outs away from doing something only 20 other men have done, and one of those 20 men just happens to be trying to stop him.

What are the odds?

Wood falls short, and the Phillies go on to nab their third straight extra-inning walkoff win, the first time they’ve ever done that...and they’ve only been around since 1883.

Baseball’s the best, I don’t care what you say.

And as we all settle in to watch the All-Star Game tonight, it’s time for the best game to honor its best players.

And Omar Infante, for some reason.

Festivities got off to a redundant start last night as baseball’s greatest sluggers vied for the homerun derby crown.

I just hope you all set your DVR.

You’ll always want to remember the night immortals like Nick Swisher, Corey Hart and Chris Young waged an epic battle for the absolute worst trophy in sports.

"How long do I have to hold this thing?"

But tonight, it matters.

The stars are out in (sort of) LaLa Land as MLB presents FOX Presenting the 13th Straight American League Beatdown Except for That One Tie And It’s Also Probably Sponsored by Sbarros or Something.

Hey, you know who probably won’t make an All-Star team any time soon? These guys.

In the much anticipated follow up to the best fantasy team ever, I submit to you baseball’s worst Starting Nine.

First base: Daric Barton, Athletics: Mr. Barton’s numbers are actually pretty solid. Overall, this position is probably the strongest in the game, so it makes sense that the worst everyday first baseman is still decent.

Consider yourself the Ringo of baseball, Daric: Maybe not the most talented or the most handsome, but hey...you’re still in the show.

Second base: Chone Figgins, Mariners: I picked the Mariners to win the AL West and the signing of Figgins was a big reason why.

Three months and a .235 batting average later, I’d like to humbly offer you all a “My bad.”

Team him up with Daric Barton and we’re on our way to the least productive, worst-spelled infield imaginable. Don’t even act like you aren’t having fun.

Shortstop: Everth Cabrera, Padres: Although a quick Google search reveals no relation between Cabrera and the infamous Mario Mendoza, a look at his box scores tell a different story.

His .199 batting average is laughable, but wait, it gets better.

Jerry Hairston Jr. is second on the SS depth chart but happens to start RF, meaning we’ll soon see the day when the Padres get fed up with Everth’s ineptitude, start Hairston at short and leave right field empty for the whole game.

That’s how depth charts work, right?

Third base: Aramis Ramirez, Cubs: There was a time long, long ago when Ramirez was one of the more feared hitters in the game.

No, it’s true. You have to believe me.

Now his .207 average and ten homeruns make his $16M salary look like highway robbery.

Hey Sweet Lou, I have an idea: Sign me to replace him.

I’ll play for 1/16th his salary, will laugh at all of Ryan Dempster’s lame jokes, and even help sneak Starlin Castro into R-rated movies.

Think about it.

Catcher: Jason Castro, Astros: Who?

Exactly. Let’s move on.

Left field: Melky Cabrera, Braves: Boy, this is awkward.

So, how have you been, Melky? Uh huh, yeah. A five-game hitting streak back in June, you say?

That’s great. We’re really happy for you.

Oh, hang out this Friday? Gee, we can’t...we have a thing. Maybe some other time.

Nice seeing you, though. Tell Bobby Cox we said “Hello.”

He drunk-dials us at least once a week. It's not OK.

Right field: Randy Winn, Cardinals: A .220 average, one homerun, and Randy isn't even his real name.

His full name is Dwight Randolph Winn. Let this be a lesson to you, "Randy."

Nobody likes a liar.

Center field: Trevor Crowe, Indians: I’d regale you with tales of his one homerun and 20 RBIs, but Cleveland has had a rough week. The poor things.

Pitcher: Carlos Zambrano, Cubs: A 3-6 record, a 5.66 ERA, a demotion to the bullpen and finally, mercifully, being indefinitely suspended.

He even guest starred on the Darlings for a few weeks, taking the place of an injured Chad Billingsley. And like dating the bad boy in high school, it was exciting for awhile.

Him in his leather jacket. The long motorcycle rides. Bar fights, posting bail, staying out late.

Ultimately, though, it just wasn’t for us. The Darlings aren’t that kind of girl.

Closer: Goodness. Where to start?

Chad Qualls is somehow still throwing the 9th for Arizona despite an 8.60 ERA. Brad Lidge’s ERA is about half that, but Philly fans are still twice as nervous when he shows up.

Frank Francisco ceded his job to Neftali Perez after about a day, and David Aardsma is 0-6 and showing glimpses of his true, mediocre self.

So give any of these fellas the benefit of the doubt. Give them your undivided attention.

Gladly give them one dollar tomorrow for a hamburger today.

Give them your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free.

Just don’t give them the ball.

Double Dipping

The dog days of summer have barrelled into the baseball season with the force of a Prince Fielder home plate collision.

As the sun hangs higher and the nights grow shorter, July brings two things with it: squelching, suffocating, ungodly heat...and the truth.

The heat is one thing.

Those poor millionaires play in thick wool uniforms. To even wear those things for three hours in the Cincinnati night---let alone in the Texas sunshine---is punishment at its cruelest.

The heat is bad...but the truth can be so much worse.

Eventually, the heat will subside. August will slide briskly into September. Leaves will change, and parkas will become the norm.

But the truth and it's cold, indifferent apathy is constant.

And the truth that has been revealed about our team stings worse than any sunburn.

The truth, I’m afraid, is that the Darling Asteroids suck.

Last week’s 10-1 victory over Joba Rules, our first win in eight weeks, catapulted the Darlings from tenth place all the way to ninth place.

Matt Kemp is hitting .266.

Felix Hernandez has six measley wins.

And only three of our players (Evan Longoria, Vlad Guerrero and Hanley Ramirez) made the All-Star team.

So while those three jet to L.A. in a few days to pretend that the All-Star game somehow matters, the rest of the roster sits at home embarrassed, confused and ashamed.

If the Darlings were a real team, we could swing trades, dump veterans and build toward a brighter future.

But the Darling Asteroids are not a real team.

We’re more like Old Yeller...and Pa’s cleaning his rifle, soon to be taking that long walk behind the shed.

So you might be asking yourself, “Why isn’t Jacob more upset about all this?”

That’s an excellent question. You’re so smart. I always liked you.

The reason, friend, is that I have a dirty little secret I’d like to share with you. Come a little closer. If Pablo Sandoval hears me, he’ll be heartbroken.

Here it is:

I have another fantasy team.

"Did he say we're getting ice cream?!"

My other team is called The Fellowship, named for it’s nine warriors bravely uniting behind a common, noble goal...and also for its GM’s hobbit-like appearance.

Anchored by Captain America Josh Hamilton and homerun machine Ryan Howard, The Fellowship sits in fourth place in an 11-team rotisserie league.

Now, I’m not saying that managing The Fellowship makes me appreciate the Darlings any less. I love them both, in the same way parents claim to love their children equally.

(Side note: Cut the nonsense, Mom. Court’s your favorite. You’re not fooling anyone)

But the Fellowship is in the top tier of their league, has six All-Stars, and Ryan Howard’s eventual second half surge promises to yield championship dividends.

Most importantly, having two fantasy teams opens up the “In My Other League” phenomenon, which is one of my favorite aspects of fantasy sports.

Basically, if I’m King of the Fake Sports Mountain in one league, I’m a bottom-feeding lottery team...in my other league.

If Jorge Cantu has a big week for the Fellowship, he’s probably killing me as a member of this week’s opponent...in my other league.

Best of all, if you have at least one friend who has two fantasy teams, every single Baseball Tonight highlight elicits joy from someone.

Bro #1: “Oh, yeah! Jose Reyes scored two runs and stole two bases!”
Bro #2: “Dude, Billy Bob has Jose Reyes, not you.”
Bro #1: “I have him in my other league.”

It never fails. When one team is up, the other will be down.

Owning two fantasy teams means straddling dimensions, caught between the real and Bizarro worlds where things are always backwards and nothing is as it seems.

Of course, the prospect of owning players on both teams, while enticing, is extremely dicey. When the flourish, you’re the man.

When they flounder, it’s a double whammy.

Both Jon Rauch and Everyone’s Favorite Man occupy roster spots on both my teams.

Wins and saves double my pleasure and double my fun, but crooked numbers leave an extra sour taste in my mouth.

And only the most vigilant of GMs can juggle two separate lineups, and it requires an intense amount of dedication...dedication which could be put to use elsewhere, say, I don't know...a social life?

Trust me, the confusion that results from forgetting who’s on what team, who’s on the DL and what pitchers are throwing today rivals some zany plot from a “Boy Meets World” episode.

Your attempt to acquire Topanga has been rejected.

The best part of this phenomenon is it has few real-world parallels.

No one ever says, “It’s fine that Spot ran into on-coming traffic. I have another dog...in my other family.”

Just know, Darlings, that it’s nothing personal. I had the choice of chronicling either team at the season’s outset, and like my favorite Pokemon, I chose you.

The Fellowship isn’t a backup, isn’t a rebound team, isn’t a late night fantasy booty call waiting to happen.

You will always be my number one, fellas.

So, to recap: I have two fantasy teams, one blog writing about said teams...and zero girlfriends.

There are no such things as coincidences.

Performance Review

Hello, Darling Asteroids. Thank you for coming. Please come in, have a seat.

Sorry to keep you waiting. I was on the phone with my housekeeper. Something about our newborn baby and the microwave. I'm sure it's nothing.

I didn't actually expect you all to come to this meeting. I don't believe I have enough seats. Some of you will have to stand.

Maybe you should let Brad Penny and Chad Billingsley have the seats, Randy Wells? They're on the disabled list and all.

You called it? When did you call it? You just walked in the door.

Nevermind.

Anyway, gentlemen, the reason I called you here is very simple. We're half way through the fantasy season and as is our policy, we've asked you to fill out a performance review.

It's fairly standard. Nothing to get too worked up about.

We're just looking for some feedback on the season so far, what you've liked and disliked about management's decisions, and what changes you would like to see in the future.

QUESTION 1: On a scale of 1-10, how would you rate this season so far?

Not a hard question at all, gentlemen.

But Pablo Sandoval, you just wrote "No," Juan Pierre gave it four thumbs down, and David Aardsma...where's David?

Ah, yes. Hello, David. It appears you just drew a picture of a sad kitten wearing one of those hats with propellers.

I'm afraid none of your answers are helpful. How are we to assess the team's...hey, put that down, Alexei Ramirez. That's a picture of my wife.

Yes, she's very beautiful, thank you. No, she doesn't have a sister.

No...I've never seen the show "Wife Swap." Why do you ask?

Let's move on.

QUESTION 2: What has been your favorite moment of the season so far?

Vlad Guerrero, you wrote that it was when you became RF eligible because you felt this would allow you to help the team more.

That's a great answer, Vlad, and I want to take this time to commend you.

Your 15 homeruns and 57 RBIs lead the team. You've been a real bright spot and I just wanted to say we truly appreciate all you bring to the team.

Alexei, you wrote, "My performance this season has been awesome, just ask Ryan Sweeney's girlfriend."

Stop with the high fives, gentlemen. Let's try to keep this professional.

Lastly, many of you put "When we dropped Melky Cabrera." It's nice to see something that resembles team chemistry on the Darlings.

QUESTION 3: What has been your least favorite moment?

Mr. Longoria, you wrote, "When we traded Bobby Jenks. He was my best friend and gave the best hugs."

I'm glad you wrote that, Evan. Sometimes management has to make difficult decisions, and trading for...

Wait a moment, what's that noise?

Pudge! Pudge Rodriguez, can you please cut that out. This is important. I need you to stay focused.

"Sorry."

This is why we fill these out, gentlemen. The Darlings are in 9th place. If the season ended today you wouldn't make the playoffs, and your best pitcher hasn't even had four starts.

By the way, thanks for volunteering to bake brownies for this meeting, Stephen. That was very thoughtful.

QUESTION 4: How can we improve team morale?

Now, many of you put...you don't have to raise your hand, David. This is an open forum.

Yes. Yes, I see.

Well, David, you're right. A fresh batch of balloons in the clubhouse every day would brighten things up, but I'm afraid it's not fiscally possible.

It is a better suggestion than many others, however.

Ted Lilly, your idea of trading Juan Pierre for Willie Mays is idiotic and, as it turns out, impossible.

And Mr. Kemp, you wrote, "We should steal Albert Pujols' toothbrush then use the DNA to create an army of clones but not bad clones like in I, Robot but more like nice clones like in Michael Keaton's Multiplicity."

Actually, we're looking into that. I'll keep you posted.

And Alexei, you just wrote, "No fat chicks."

Finally, we asked for any last comments and suggestions. Mr. Penny, you wrote:

"I'm going to murder Chad Billingsley. I'm not even kidding. I have a spot behind Busch Stadium picked out to hide the body and a getaway car for Mexico already waiting. I'm super serious. Ha ha ha. Ha ha ha."

Now I've never gotten your sense of humor, Bradley, but this is a real problem.

It doesn't seem as if any of you are taking this seriously.

The rest of the league is laughing at you. Do any of you even care?

Just know that management is going to be making some changes in the coming weeks. Suffice it to say, none of your jobs are safe.

You are playing the Space Turtles this week, a team you tied 6-6 back in Week 1. Now I suggest you all resolve to finish the week strong. Your job security may depend on it.

Now, before we go, is there anything else?

Get out of my office.

That's Neat

My first sports memory, unfortunately, is of soccer.

Running around, golden hair bouncing in the summer sun, fun and fancy free. My brother Kyle, Jake Garrison, Jimmy Grace, Joey Mathis...all the favorites were there.

But I remember one time especially when the coach was really riding me, and mid-way through the game he pulled me aside as I was huffing and puffing something fierce.

He crouched down like a catcher and spoke to me. "Jacob, take the ball upfield and score," he said.

I was understandably confused. Shouldn't I pass the ball? Shouldn't I incorporate my teammates?

Coach had been on my case all game and my seven-year-old self couldn't take it anymore. Breathing heavily and starting to whimper, I somehow managed to eek out a "Why?"

And I'll never forget what you told me, Dad.

You pointed at my chest, stared me straight in the eyes and said:

"Because I know you can do it."

As the years fly by, it's become obvious that I'm more like you than I ever realized. Why just yesterday I let out a huge yawn followed by bellowing, "Oh, s%*^!"

I've also started falling asleep in my recliner on Saturday afternoons.

Heck, I even chuckle just like your Dad does, that high-pitched, staccato hee hee hee. I had no idea giggles were genetic.

I also remember the first time I made you laugh, a seminal moment involving swim goggles and a bunch of clothes pins on my face. My life-long attempt at humor can likely be traced to that day.

Basically, this is all your fault.

LOOK WHAT YOU'VE DONE.

During my senior year of high school, the local newspaper wrote an article about how jaw-droppingly incredible I was at sports and learning and books and stuff.

(No, seriously...it happened. You have to believe me)

Anyway, the reporter asked me who the biggest influence on my life had been. I told him it was you, Pops. I meant it then and I mean it now.

Whenever I struggle out of bed in the morning, I think to myself:

Dad worked from 4am to noon for years, came home, did Dad Things and still found time to coach your baseball team without complaining. Get up and quit whining.

And of course, you introduced me to baseball.

You were in the dugout or stands for all of my biggest triumphs, of which there are a few. If memory serves, I have six career homeruns.

Two of which came in the same game...Hank Aaron Who?

Anyway, I hit one against Millville which was especially satisfying.

I rounded third base and saw the crowd, and among the clapping hands and screaming heads was one set of arms, raised straight up in the air, fists clenched in excitement, clearly happier than everyone else in attendance.

It was you, and it was awesome.

But you were also there for all of my failures, of which there are considerably more.

I've had my fair share of game-ending strikeouts. I've been known to hit into an inning-ending double play or two. I've botched a few fly balls in my day.

But you were always there, telling me to pick my head up, promising me I'll get 'em next time, assuring me that you cannot, in fact, win them all.

Everything I know about baseball I learned from you, Dad. You taught me all of the game's important lessons: Don't swing 3-0, always run out a grounder and never, ever give up.

You're the one who pushed me to try harder, run faster, do better.

You're the one who believed in me even when I didn't believe in myself.

You're the reason I get a little misty at the end of Field of Dreams.

What? No, I just have something in both of my eyes.

Still, it's not humanly possible to thank you enough for everything you've done for me, tell you how much I love you or let you know that you're the man I aspire to be like every day.

I don't know where I'll be in five years and I don't know what I want to do with my life.

But someday when I have questions of my own on how to be a good father or how to fix Future Son's batting stance, I do know who I'm calling first.

You're the best, Dad. Don't ever change.

A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Chadness

A distracted Darling Asteroids trail Inglorious Batters 8-3 this morning as our hearts and minds are understandably elsewhere.

It began like any other Wednesday. I awoke promptly at 7:15am. After a hot shower, I threw on some Kenny G while examining how the Darlings fared the previous night.

We actually had a good haul on Tuesday, hitting three homers, knocking in eight and scoring six runs. Everything seemed excellent.

And then I saw it.

Next to the player profile of Everyone's Favorite Man, in a bright red that burned into my very soul, sat that two most heartbreaking letters a fantasy GM can imagine:

D.L.

My heart pounded out of my chest, pulled a quick U-turn and divebombed into the pit of my stomach. I couldn't see straight. The room began spinning. I needed to sit down.

Chad Billingsley can't be injured. He just can't be. There must be some mistake.

I began to hyperventilate and eventually passed out on my bedroom floor.

(By the way, did you know some employers won't let you take a mental health day when your fantasy pitchers go on the DL? I'm sorry, I thought this was America)

I came to twenty minutes later. After a quick shot of Jack Daniels and a good cry, I decided to break the news to the rest of the team.

They took it only slightly better than I did, and in the ensuing chaos we tore through the seven stages of grief at a breakneck pace.

Shock: Placido Polanco took it pretty bad, freezing up worse than when he walked in on his parents doing it that one time.

The bigger the head, the darker the secrets.

Denial: Matt Kemp refuses to take the field without you on the hill, Chad. The Dodgers had to start Reed Johnson in center. Yeah, it's pretty bad.

Anger: Blinded by rage, Pablo Sandoval beat Carlos Quentin to death with a rosin bag. No one seemed upset.

Bargaining: Ryan Sweeney offered to rub Chad down with exotic oils to expedite the healing process.

"Trust me," he said. "It's science."

Depression: Poor Jon Rauch just sits by his locker and listens to The Cure.

Testing/Reconstruction: This stage is marked by attempts to move on. We've picked Carlos Zambrano off the waiver wire to replace Chad in the interim, bringing us to...

Acceptance: And here we are.

For the time being, we must press on.

Many times in the face of tragedy, you are told to go about your daily life as if nothing is wrong. "That's what so-and-so would want," they tell you.

And like the selfless warrior that he is, Chad has asked---nay, demanded!---that we move forward.

(That's not how I roll, though. When I go, drop what you're doing and mourn for weeks. And if at the funeral you want to throw yourself on my casket and wail, "Don't put him down there, take me instead," by all means, feel free)

But Chad, buddy, pal, we can't just pretend you aren't here with us. You're too important to the team. So everybody chipped in and we got you something nice.

No, no, stop. It was nothing. We're happy to do it. Hanley Ramirez ordered the bouquet, it should arrive in the morning.

Felix Hernandez even drew you this picture:


Everybody signed the card, too. Here are a few excerpts:

Dear Buzzsaw:

Hey man, hang in there. The guys really miss you. Heck, I miss you. I'm a mess without you.

I miss your laugh. I miss your musk. I think when all of this is over we should get an apartment together.

I'm still working on those t-shirts we talked about. I think "Chadburg" is a killer name. Talk to you later, bro.

Signed,
Strasburger with Cheese

* * * * *

Chazmaster:

Groin injury, huh? Bet I know how that happened!! LOL! You the man! Rest that groin! ;-)

Signed,

Sexy Alexei Ramirez

* * * * *

Dear Chad,

Fun fact: I'm on the disabled list, too. Yep, been here about a month with a back injury. No flowers or blogposts or poems for 'ole Brad, though.

No big deal. I've just started an All-Star Game and won a World Series. Hurry back, Chad. God knows we need you.

Love,

Brad Penny

P.S. I wish you were dead.

* * * * *

As you can see, Chad, it's rough without you. You're the straw the stirs the drink. The captain that steers us through rough waters.

Basically, you're our Mufasa.

So get well soon, big guy. We miss you already.