The Saddest Saturday Night Ever

Daisuke Matsuzaka almost no-hit the Phillies last night, and lucky for you, I was there (in my chair in my living room) to capture the entire almost-momentous occasion.

With all my roommates away for various reasons, what's a baseball fan to do?

This is my first time doing something like this. I probably won't last long, and it will be super awkward afterwards.

And yes, this is a complete ripoff of ESPN's Bill Simmons and probably many other Internet blogger people.

But on the other hand, now my roommates won't miss any of my trademark hilarious comments and brilliant insights.

No need to thank me, guys. Your friendship is enough.

7:05 FOX airs two American Idol finalists paying acoustic guitars and singing "Take Me Out to the Ballgame." I hate baseball now.

7:08 No Joe Buck or Tim McCarver for tonight's game. They are probably announcing the Yankees-Mets contest. Darn you, New York. You have all the luck.

7:15 I hate Dustin Pedroia. Why? Two reasons.

First, his MVP award was bogus. In 2008 he had 17 homeruns and 83 RBIs in a stacked Red Sox lineup. Justin Morneau had 23 homers and 129 RBIs (49 more than Petey) on a team that featured Justin Morneau, Joe Mauer and Justin Morneau. What a joke.

Secondly, that MVP award tricked people into believing that Pedroia was the best second baseman in baseball. Chase Utley hit 20 homeruns in two months that season before he tore a hip muscle. He never went on the DL, and the Phillies won the World Series that year.

Pedroia grounds out to short. Good.

7:23 Still not sure if it's pronounced "PLAH-ci-doe" Polanco or "pla-CEE-doe" Polanco. The world is full of mysteries.

7:43: Also on television right now: "Ferris Bueller's Day Off", a Star Wars marathon, and "The Godfather Part III." Oh, and it's lovely outside. What would Han Solo do?

"Get off my plane."

7:46 Jayson Werth and his beard strike out. Werth looks so much like the WWE's Edge now that he should use his music, too. Give it a listen. I just did and am so amped I want to kick something. Something named Jason Varitek.

8:04 This is the only sport where skinny, nerdy-looking dudes like Tom Glavine or Phillies pitcher Kyle Kendrick get to be called "professional athletes."

8:17 Jeremy Hermida's sacrifice fly to left scores David Ortiz. The Phillies obviously did not sign Raul Ibanez for his arm. 1-0, Boston.

8:26 It turns out, Jayson Werth comes out to The Who's "Baba O'Riley." Not bad, but my idea is better and involves more steel chairs.

Meanwhile, the Phillies offense has been replaced with my high school baseball team and Dice-K has held them hitless through four. I need a beer.

8:40 The jury on interleague is still out for me. On one hand, keeping the leagues separate (but equal) until the World Series is more traditional. On the other hand, I get to see great players that I normally wouldn't have a chance to see...like Marco Scutaro. It's a toss-up.

8:45 My television picture doesn't look as clear as it usually does. TV Land must be saving all the HD for the LOST finale.

8:50 JD Drew pokes an RBI single to shallow left, followed by an Ortiz RBI double. An RBI double by Adrian Beltre send Kendrick to the showers.

See? If it weren't for interleague, I never would have seen my favorite team's worst starter cough up five runs to an American League club.

This will make me feel better...

This is what a national treasure looks like.

9:05 No hits for the Phils through five. I need another beer.

(Drinking alone doesn't count as alcoholism if you're liveblogging about a possible no-hitter. Look it up)

9:20 Roommate Ginny is home. She claims she doesn't want to watch the baseball game, but I can tell she's lying.

9:26 The only thing missing from this potential no-no is that trademark web gem to let you know you're seeing something special. If Dustin Pedroia makes that web gem, I won't know what to do with myself.

9:32 Oh, no. It just happened. Jayson Werth sent a laser beam straight back up the middle, and Dice-K snatched it with ninja-like quickness. The Phillies are going to be no-hit. Six more outs to go. This is the worst night of my life.

9:35 FOX's Tune-In to Win Bonus Question: "How many hits will both teams combine for in the 8th inning?" They're just mocking me at this point.

9:38 Up until ten minutes ago, Ginny had no idea what a no-hitter was. All she knows is I'm rooting against one. She's loving this.

9:42 Of all the games in all the seasons in all of baseball, my roommates are away for this one, forcing me to witness this terrible event. You're the best, guys. Don't ever change.

9:48 Oh! Wow. Adrian Beltre just makes a great play, diving to his left to make the catch and then doubling Ibanez off first (who reached via walk). I'm not even mad. That was amazing.

9:50 Juan Castro bloops a single to left, the Phillies first hit of the night. Whew!

Easily the greatest moment of Castro's storied career. The crowd stands and applauds Dice-K's effort, as they should.

This was the best pitching performance ever by a player who once dressed up as a Teletubby while crossing the border into Canada.

One hour later, this is still funny.

That's it, we're done here. This has been more emotionally draining than I ever imagined going into it. The rest of the game isn't very exciting, and the Red Sox come away with a 5-0 victory.

Remind me never to do something like this again. Hopefully I can catch the tail end of "Return of the Jedi."

What? I should head out on this Saturday night and do something?

Don't be ridiculous.

Life Lessons for Future Son

It's moments like this that make me happy I'm not a father just yet. I just don't know how I would explain this to Future Son.

I suppose I'd sit him on his bed, adorned with Phillies blankets and matching Chase Utley pillowcases. My bed spread may or may not have the same design.

In a related story, I may or may not be a single father.

"Son, you know I love you, right?" I'll ask as I tussle his hair, a golden blonde, styled just enough to look presentable but with a certain "devil may care" attitude about it.

"Course I do, Pop," he'll say.

"Good. Which is why what I'm about to tell you might not make a lot of sense right now. But sometimes adults have to make difficult decisions. You'll understand when you're older."

He'll furrow his little brow. "Why, Pop, what's wrong?" he'll say.

I begin to choke up. I look around his bedroom for inspiration. He loves the game of baseball more than anything, just like his old man.

His walls are covered with posters of his favorite players. His desk is cluttered with all of his baseball trophies, as well as pictures of his multiple girlfriends.

He's only seven. I'm so proud.

And that's what makes all this so hard.

"Son..." I struggle to find the words as I stare into his piercing blue eyes. "Son, this isn't easy but...I had to bench Hanley Ramirez."

"But why, Pop? I know he's only hitting .293 but that's gonna change. He's the batting champ!"

"I know, I know, son. But you see, last night..." I trail off again. This is the hardest thing I've ever had to do.

"Son...last night, Hanley didn't hustle."

That sound you just heard? That's the sound of a hypothetical seven-year-old's little heart breaking into a million pieces. He flings himself into my arms and cries harder than he ever has before. I shed a tear as well. This is too much.

"But why, Pop, why?! Why wouldn't Hanley hustle?!"

And I don't know what to tell him.

Future Son? Or a Google search of "blonde little boy"?

Not hustling is one of the game's ultimate sins, right up there with stealing signs, swinging on a 3-0 count or ever questioning Tony LaRussa. There are some things you just don't do.

And that's what I have to explain to Future Son, unfortunately...that his heroes are not perfect, that everyone has flaws and tragically, some men choose not to play the game the right way.

Last night against the Diamondbacks, Hanley booted a ball into the left field corner and lolly-gagged after it. You read that right.

Hanley Ramirez: All-Star, Franchise Player, Batting Champ, MVP Contender...Lolly-Gagger.

There are many things in this world that are a mystery to me. How anyone could think "Parks and Recreation" is funny, for one.

Women in general, for another, although my Shane Victorino slippers may hold a clue.

And how a baseball player of Hanley's caliber, with Hanley's speed, can so blatantly slack off like that. The ten Marlins fans in attendance must have been furious.

Hanley was benched the next inning, but how long he stays benched is the real question.

The Marlins have many reasons to play him: namely, he is very good and their baseball is real. The Darling Asteroids, on the other hand, are taking a firm stance.

Hanley, you're benched for the rest of the week. Alexei Ramirez, no relation in name or in heart, will man shortstop for the foreseeable future. After Sunday's games, we'll reassess.

Take this time to think about what you've done. Think about how you've disrespected the game and made Future Son cry.

How do you sleep at night?!

You should be on the field, raking in the hits, runs and steals like the Top-5 stud that you are. But instead, you're in fantasy purgatory with the likes of Carlos Quentin, he of the .180 batting average and stupid face.

Those two names should never be in the same sentence. It's a damn shame.

"Hey Pop, didn't Alex Rodriguez once tip pitches to other players, and yell at a third baseman as he tried to catch a pop-up, and cross Dallas Braden's mound on his way back to first one time, and also do steroids, too?" he asks. "Why don't we talk about that stuff anymore?"

Another thing I don't understand.

"That's OK, Pop. I'll always hustle," he says to me.

I've never been prouder. "I know you will, son. I know you will," I reply and kiss his forehead.

I tuck him in. "Hey, Pop?" he asks as I turn around in the doorway. "When's Mom coming home?"

"When I get rid of my Jimmy Rollins bathrobe," I tell him.

He thinks for a moment. Then, with a sly wink, says, "So...never?"

That's my boy.

You Must Not Know About The Asteroids

I am not a perfect person.

I talk too loud, have a terrible memory and am almost always wrong.

But by far, my biggest flaw---and the one that has hurt me the most over the years---is my disgusting sense of loyalty.

We could have gone the distance, Melky. You and me really could have been something. And damnit, I did my best.

But no more.

Oh, don't act surprised. I'm sick of this routine...I write about how awful you've been, you promise the next series will be different, I take you back, you go 0-for-5 in the first two games then ride pine for the finale.

For the last six weeks you have given me nothing but disappointment and a lousy on-base percentage. Don't look at me like that. You did this to yourself.

I've put up with it long enough. It's not me, it's you.

I'm tired of hoping for the old Melky to show up. The one who wanted to hit, wanted to be in big situations, not the one who stands at home plate with a blank look on his face and the bat on his shoulder.

If you liked it then you shoulda put a swing on it.

All your belongings are already packed in a box placed neatly to the left. Your uniform, which never needed cleaning.

The hand-crafted, mahogony pedestal you made, inscription reading, "2010 NL MVP: Melky Cabrera."

Our team photo from the Darling Asteroids picnic, the one where David Aardsma has cake smeared all over his face.

Those were great times. But they were few and far between, and I am a strong, independent black woman who don't need no Melk Man to support me. You had your chance. Don't come back.

Think you're irreplaceable? Please.

I could have another mediocre outfielder in a minute. Matter of fact, he'll be here any minute.

His name's Ryan Sweeney, and he knows how to treat a fantasy team. He can play all three outfield positions and is hitting .295 with 19 runs and 16 RBIs.

And while we're on the subject of terrible outfielders who need to be cut...will Julio Borbόn please report the the manager's office.

Now I'll admit to not knowing a lot about you, Julio, except that your incredible speed basically made you the lovechild of Usian Bolt and Sonic the Hedgehog.

Well, I'm sorry, it's just not going to work out.

You're hitting .213 with only five stolen bases and may literally be drunk every night. If the Asteroids wanted a guy with no power and a lousy average who could only steal bases, we would have drafted Juan Pierre.

So meet your replacement...Juan Pierre.

That's right. Just sitting on the waiver wire was good 'ole Juan and his MLB-leading 17 swipes. His .240 average, while uninspiring, is nearly 30 points higher than our dearly departed Julio.

Also, Pierre looks like JP, the little sidekick from "Angels in the Outfield," a classic which is also Adrien Brody's finest hour.

Start flapping your arms, kid. The Darlings need some magic.

The important thing is that the Asteroids are making fundamental changes. No one is safe from this new regime. You either perform, or you go the way of the Dodo bird. You win, or you're dead to me.

Even everyone's Favorite Man, Chad Billingsley, is not immune to being shopped around or cut if he doesn't deliver the goods.

Sike...I can't stay mad at you.

Our massive outfield shakeups come on the heels of a bit of a wasted week for the Asteroids. On the strength of five Saturday homeruns, Kyle took a 7-5 lead yesterday and most categories are all but decided.

But the Darlings are survivors, and we're not gonna give up.

Next week we tango with our friend Jason and his team, Kenny Powers Mullet. They currently sit in third place, so this figures to be a slugfest.

With two new outfielders to flank the perfect Matt Kemp, there's no way Kenny Powers Mullet is ready for this jelly.

Jason, leave your team at home.

It's Week 7 and the Darlings are jumpin', jumpin'.

Los Lonely Boys

To be on a team like the Phillies or Yankees, surrounded by superstars on a daily basis, is certainly a luxury few get to enjoy. Jorge Posada wakes up every morning with a smile on his face, despite the fact that he's still Jorge Freaking Posada.

Other stars, unfortunately, are not so lucky.

Like Andrew McCutchen, the young outfielder for the Pittsburgh Pirates who has all the tools and no one to share them with.

Or like Zack Greinke, the reigning AL Cy Young winner whose only other star teammate is Joakim Soria, the Royals' excellent closer and owner of the game's best unibrow.

David Wright had it pretty bad last season, what with Johan Santana needing elbow surgery, Jose Reyes' endless injury odyssey, and the career of Carlos Beltran going missing and presumed dead.

But if we're talking about which MLB stars are the most alone, the most in need of a friend, or at the very least in need of a decent contact hitter to protect them in the lineup, the conversation begins and ends with Ryan Zimmerman and Adrian Gonzalez.

Zimmerman's first full year with the Nationals was 2006. I remember drafting him for my fantasy team simply because my college roommate, Ed Han, suggested it. The other options at the time were Aaron Boone and Pedro Feliz.

You're the best, Ed Han. Don't ever change.

He's a career .286 hitter despite being the only legitimate threat in Washington's lineup the last four years. No, Adam Dunn doesn't count. Are you being serious right now?

Now head west, friends, and you'll find Ryan's kindred spirit toiling in obscurity as the faceless, punchless Padres play out another season.

Poor Adrian Gonzalez. He hit 40 homeruns last season despite playing half his games in enormous Petco Park and having David Eckstein and Tony Gwynn Jr. as his "table setters."

And you thought Helen Keller was a miracle worker.

Overrated.

But which one of these poor gentlemen has it the worst? Glad you asked. Let's break it down. This won't hurt a bit.

Career highlight: Zimmerman hit a walkoff homerun to christen the National's new ballpark on Opening Day in 2008. Nothing that exciting comes to mind for Gonzo, but he has turned many excellent double plays in his day.

(Dis)advantage: G-Money.

Future worth: Zimmerman signed away his chance at the playoffs when he agreed to be a National until 2013. On the other hand, he's loaded. I doubt he loses sleep over this, and if he does, he can just pay someone to sleep for him. Well played, Ryan.

But the good news for Adrian is that in the very near future, he will be stupid rich. Based on the five year, $125M deal Ryan Howard just inked, Gonzo can expect close to $20M/year if he files for free agency at season's end.

If he files? Please. He gone.

(Dis)advantage: Z-Man.

Second best teammate: Along with Dunn, Zimmerman shares the clubhouse with Josh Willingham, Livan Hernandez and Pudge Rodriguez.

Not quite the 1927 Yankees, but pitching phenom Stephen Strasburg figures to be in the majors soon. He and ZimDog will be Facebook friends in no time.

Gonzalez, on the other hand, doesn't even want to have this conversation. The Padres have a competent closer, which is about the best thing you can say about any closer these days.

His name is Heath Bell, and he seems nice.

After that? Are you brave enough to hitch your wagon to Jon Garland? Is "brave" even the right word in this situation?

This debate is over.

(Dis)advantage: G-Slice.

And while I can't confirm anything, I'm sure the Padres play a "Yo, Adrian!" clip every time Adrian does something good. That just seems like something they'd do, right?

So we have a winner. But the Padres currently sit in first place in the weak NL West, providing something that resembles a glimmer of hope for the loneliest superstar in baseball.

Look on the bright side, mi amigo...San Diego is a beautiful city with a great zoo, excellent beaches, and Ron Burgundy.

All things you can remember fondly as you're hitting .240 for some American League contender next season.

You stay classy, Adrian Gonzalez.

Speaking of big dummies with silly facial hair, this week the Asteroids tangle with our good friend and roommate, Kyle Allain.

His team is named the Notorious Darlings, which is only super lame until you realize that we're best friends and plan on buying matching BFF pendants soon.

But make no mistake, Kyle, you bearded bastard. Do not take the Darlings lightly. We are a force to be reckoned with

The Asteroids will strike you down in a flurry of changeups and triples until your eyes bleed, until your bones are shattered, until you can stand no more and beg for the sweet release of death to spare you from our devastating path of destruction.

See you at the dinner table.

Melky's Mommy Issues

I get it, Melky.

I feel like I finally understand you. All your struggles, all your troubles, everything that makes you the man you are today.

This epiphany came while watching yesterday's Braves-Phillies game. In celebration of Mother's Day and to raise breast cancer awareness, pink paraphernalia was everywhere.

Ribbons on uniforms. Signs on the bases. And of course, a few of the players were using special pink bats.

Melky Cabrera was not one of those people.

Normally, this wouldn't be an issue. Not all of the players use the bats, after all, so Cabrera alone isn't newsworthy. But if you watched the game, you could tell something was wrong.

In the first inning, Raul Ibanez (who was using a pink bat) flew out to shallow right field with a runner on third. Melky could have easily thrown Chase Utley out as he tagged up...but no attempt was made. Did he forget how many outs there were? Did he not think he could make the play?

Or more likely he saw all the bats, the ribbons, the motherly love flowing from every catwalk on a crisp Philadelphia afternoon...and the emotion was just too much for him.

Pictured: A scared, lonely little boy

It all makes perfect sense. What else could explain how Cabrera, who hit .274 with many clutch moments last season for the New York Yankees, is struggling so mightily in Atlanta? The answer became clear on Sunday.

Melky Cabrera misses his mommy.

It took Mother's Day to finally bring this issue to light, but I'm glad we did. Since we have diagnosed the issue, now begins the healing process. It's time for an Internet intervention.

Melky, your mother still loves you. We all love you, and we want to see you get better. We aren't going to sit idly by anymore and watch you submarine the Darling Asteroids. You might not care, Melky, but we do.

We want the old Melky back, the one with decent range who is eligible for all three outfield positions.

The one who hits for average and can swipe a few bases.

The five-tool Melky who is a contributor offensively so I can finally bench Carlos Quentin and his .172 batting average.

That's the Melky Cabrera that we all know and love. That's the Melky that your mother knows and loves, too. And just because she can't be with you every day doesn't mean she cares any less.

I know you wish she could be by your side at all times, ready to mend your broken heart or cheer you up after grounding into an inning-ending double play. And I'm sure she wishes the same thing.

Being away from Mom all the time is tough. I get it. In her eyes, you can do no wrong, and that's a big boost to one's confidence. She's the first one to chime in, "It's OK, honey. You moved the runner over."

A mother's love is endless and relentless, even when she has plenty of reason to give up on you, like when you can't seem to find a real job, or you're only hitting .192 through the first week of May.

My mother, somehow, some way, raised five children while maintaining most of her sanity. She came to most of my baseball and soccer games, and even my football games...and we went 0-8 that year. And I sucked.

But good luck telling her that. Through my whole life she's been my biggest supporter. She's been my confidant, my cheering section, my role model, and now she's one hell of a Farmville farmer.

And I'm sure your mother feels the same way about you, Melky (even the Farmville bit). She loves her little Melk Man and only wants what's best for him.

So get on out there and be somebody.

And even if you're terrible with runners in scoring position, remember...your mother still loves you, and she'll always be your biggest fan.

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

It's Playoff Time?!

Bad news, friends: This year's playoffs are going to be terrible.

I know this, for I have seen the future. The Cardinals and Phillies just completed a four-game series, dubbed by many experts as a "playoff preview." The results were quite confounding.

Apparently, Game 1 will be started by Phils' righty Joe "Joe" Blanton and Cardinals rookie Jaime Garcia. A curious decision by Tony LaRussa, but who are we to question him? He's forgotten more about the game than we'll ever know.

Charlie Manuel matched the curiousness by keeping Roy Halladay out until Game 4, and superstars Jimmy Rollins and Chris Carpenter were nowhere to be found. This postseason promises to be an odd adventure, indeed.

What's that you say? Managers usually start their best pitchers in Game 1? And calling something a "playoff preview" in early May, when teams still have trades to make, injuries to overcome, rosters to expand, rotations to set and grooves to get into is completely absurd and negates the next five months of baseball?

You can't imagine how stupid you sound right now. Don't let Tony hear you talk like this.

In LaRussa's defense, he hates baseball.

We'll agree to disagree on this point for now as I ask you to close your eyes and come with me on a journey.

It's your wedding day. Your entire family is in attendance, the sun is shining on a crisp, early autumn morning and the leaves are turning a beautiful red-orange, setting the backdrop for your special day.

Fellas, you look dashing. As you stand by your best man and non-denominational religious leader, you catch your mother's eye. She's so proud of you.

Ladies, you look beautiful. Your dress is perfect. As you make your way down the aisle arm in arm with your father, he begins to bawl. What a softy.

Words are said, rings are exchanged. You kiss. Cue the organ, it's honeymoon time. You two lovebirds turn to make your way back down the aisle, eager to start a new life together...but a man is blocking your way.

You have never seen this man before. He was not invited. He stands between you and the exit, microphone in hand, wearing a tacky, brightly-colored suit and tie combination and sporting an embarrassing head of hair.

His name is Craig Sager, and he has a few questions for you.

"Hi! Mind if I interrupt the happiest day of your life for a sec?"

Imagine what should be a moment full of pure joy ruined by the likes of this man, pulling you away from the excitement in order to ask you such basic questions as "How do you feel right now?" and "What does this mean to you?" A real bummer, right?

That's what athletes face these days. As soon as the final out is recorded, as soon as the final seconds tick away, as soon as the last shot is made, some imbecile with a camera crew is all up in they business, tryna' get the 411.

(Did I do that correctly?)

I understand the importance of a post-game press conference, as well as media members doing interviews in the clubhouse/locker room. (Even though the newspaper industry is dying. See exhibit A: my journalism degree)

But come on, guys...stay off the field. Let the men who have worked so hard celebrate with each other, hug and scream at each other, shoot strategically placed champagne at each other.

Ya know...genuine, organic, ecstatic moments so everything in sports doesn't seem so orchestrated and manufactured...

"Hey Alex, where'd all the plastic wrap and goggles come from?"

The same goes for mid-game interviews with coaches, managers or anyone else. They contribute nothing in terms of actual strategic knowledge and only serve as a distraction from the real game.

I can't imagine someone like Sager interrupting famous curmudgeons like Ty Cobb or Bobby Knight mid-battle, although I would certainly like to. We'd finally answer the age old question, "What happens when you light a sideline reporter on fire?"

In any case, we learn about as much from these in-game Q&A sessions as we do listening to Tim McCarver call CC Sabathia's 93 MPH fastball "an excellent changeup." Which he does. All the time.

Besides, the first rule of journalism is to show, not tell.

Are you reading this, TV Land? You can show us what winning means to a team by simply filming the celebration and shutting the hell up.

And then you can tell Craig Sager to get a professional wardrobe consultant. Seriously, bro...does your blind wife dress you in the dark?

Baby, There's No Other Superstar

This should be a wonderful day to be a Darling, but Emery Markles has ruined it.

We have many reasons to celebrate. Buoyed by monster weeks from Hanley Ramirez and Evan Longoria (combining for seven homers, 12 runs and 13 RBIs), the Asteroids dispatched Antarctic Arsenal 8-3 and find themselves in second place.

In first place is Joba Rules, a team we tied earlier in the season. It stands to reason that since the Darling Asteroids and Joba Rules tied, those two teams are equals.

Ipso facto, the Darling Asteroids are in first place.

It's called math. Look it up.

However, we must temper our enthusiasm. While Joba Rules sits in first place, the other three teams we have played currently reside in the league's basement. The Asteroids may be formidable...or maybe not.

There's no way to know just yet as we've played a cupcake schedule, beating up on the Astros and Orioles of the John Rocker Invitational.

Which brings us to the curious case of Emery Markles, GM of the best named team in the league, Mr. Lady Gaga.

The Darlings were far too excited to start May by squaring off against him. His team combined two of our favorite things: fantasy baseball, and pop music's evil step sister.

This week will be chock full of extra bases and poker faces, and if Chad Billingsley fires a complete game, the excitement may cause me to seize uncontrollably.

Want Your Chad Romance.

But then the Darling Asteroids took a look at Mr. Lady Gaga's roster...and we were appalled.

A serious question for you, Emery...just who the heck do you think you are? The pure arrogance on your part, sir, is sickening.

You think a team that employs the likes of Ryan Doumit and Asdrubal Cabrera is worthy of being named after the one and only Gaga?

How dare you, Mr. Markles. You should be ashamed.

Lady Gaga is more diva than Ervin Santana will ever be. It is an affront to her genius to be associated with your team of scoundrels and Kansas City Royals.

For her name to be dragged through the mud along with players of John Danks' ilk is an insult, and one which will not stand.

How do you sleep at night?

This week the Darling Asteroids will right your wrongs, Emery, and be Lady Gaga's knight in shining, post-apocalyptic, techno-couture armor.

After all, if the Gaga is to be associated with anyone in this league, that person must take the time and effort to surround her with the highest of caliber players, which she so rightly deserves.

That person needs to understand the essence of the Gaga...the Je ne sais Gaga, if you will. And if that person happens to hail from New Jersey, even better.

That person needs to be a visionary. A revolutionary. Someone ahead of his time.

That person needs to be the voice of his generation.

Sound like anyone you know?

Who's that handsome fella?

And so it's come to this. The Darling Asteroids do battle this week not just for themselves, not just for the millions of children around the world who say their prayers and eat their vitamins, but for the honor of one special lady.

I wish it didn't have to come to this, Emery. You know I love you like a brother. But you have crossed the line.

By week's end, your team will look more like Ke$ha...a joke, a cheap ripoff, a disgrace, a talentless hack riding the coattails of a true artist.

Tick tock on the clock, the Asteroids won't stop.

One Month Later, Everything I Say Is Still Wrong

The Darling Asteroids awoke this morning to a 7-4 lead over Antarctic Arsenal with two days left to play. Evan Longoria continues to be the man, hitting .412 for the week with six runs, two homers and four RBIs.

And in a heart-warming show of camaraderie, three Darling pitchers started on the same night for the third time this season. Randy Wells, Brad Penny and the Talented Mr. Billingsley combined to go 2-0 with 15 strikeouts last night. A catchy nickname is in order for these new best friends. It’s great to see them forming such a bond, and this can only boost team morale.

That…or they’ll get too cliquey, start wearing matching clothes on off days, only talk to each other, make fun of David Aardsma behind his back, have their own corny inside jokes, and sit at the cool kids’ lunch table without inviting Pablo Sandoval.

PABLO WANT FISH STICK

Such behavior would certainly cause a rift in the Asteroid clubhouse. Let’s hope it doesn’t come to this.

In real world news, today is the first day of May. Or as I like to call it, May 1^st.

What a perfect time to reflect on the first few weeks of the season, to analyze some early storylines, and ruminate further on why Melky Cabrera is so freaking terrible.

So what have been the big stories in baseball’s opening month? Well…

Defense is stupid: With their signings of Adrian Béltre, Mike Cameron and Marco Scutaro, we were beaten about the head with “Boston will win it with defense!” stories this off-season, and Karl Ravech is contractually obligated to orgasm whenever the Sox turn a routine double play.

One month later, the Red Sox are in fourth place in the AL East. They are seventh in the league in runs scored while committing the third most errors.

Coincidence? Nope.

Slick fielding is excellent if you want to win Gold Gloves, the second most useless award in sports (the first being a WNBA championship). But this is America. We want taters. And the Sox can easily afford some big bats but opted instead to get cute, prove how strategically clever they are, and sign Bill Hall.

Well played, Boston.

Let this be a lesson to all aspiring GMs out there: Defense doesn’t put runs on the board, and neither does Jason Varitek.

Every NL pitcher is awesome: We knew Roy Halladay would be a formidable foe for Tiny Tim Lincecum. While the Doc has been great (going 4-1 with a 1.80 ERA), Timmy has been even better, going 4-0 with a 1.28 ERA and 43 strikeouts. Criminy.

But it’s the party crashers that are making this race interesting. The Mets Mike Pelfrey is 4-0 with an absurd 0.69 ERA, and everyone’s favorite Ubaldo (Jimenez, that is) is 5-0 with a 0.79 ERA, already has a no-hitter to his name and hasn’t surrendered a run in his last three starts. Even Barry Zito is 4-0, and Johan Santana appears to be back in business.

Keep your eyes on the NL Cy Young race. This figures to be epic.

Livan Hernandez will destroy us all.

Albert Pujols is a Baseball God who walks among us and we should all bow down before him: But we knew this already.

I am a complete idiot: Ditto.

My preseason predictions, which you can re-read here and here for comic relief, have been terrible. If the season ended today, I would have gone a solid 1-for-10 with only an Albert Pujols MVP to help me sleep at night.

One out of ten. That equates to a .100 batting average, which is only slightly worse than my AL MVP pick of Mark Teixeira (hitting a cool .136). To add fantasy insult to my pretend injury, absolutely none of my projected division winners currently sit in first place.

But that’s why baseball is the best game there is. It’s completely unpredictable. Pudge Rodriguez is hitting over .400, for crying out loud. Nothing in life is certain except death, taxes, and Melky Cabrera sucking the life force out of my body on a daily basis.

You have to admit...I nailed that one.