Leave It To Weaver

The problem with April is that it doesn't last forever.

Although October makes a valiant effort to win the title of "Best Month of the Year," its Halloween hijinks and World Series heroics are no match for what April brings to the table.

It begins with baseball making a triumphant, long-awaited return.

This alone would be enough, but before you can even finish swooning over Matt Kemp, the Final Four swoops in with its buzzer beaters and broken hearts.

But if you're like me and you prefer your action to be fast, loud and slightly homoerotic, then the sports entertainment phenomenon known as Wrestlemania brings a shriek of joy to your curly-headed heart.

Throw in my birthday and the fact that Easter has inexplicably morphed into Summer Christmas and what we have here is overwhelming evidence that April friggin' rocks.

It's also the month when all the pretty girls finally ditch their scarves and break out the sundresses, giving me something nice to look at while I avoid eye contact with them at Walgreens.

Oh, April. Can't you stay a little longer?

Weekly Fake Baseball Video Time

And I thought the Griffs had a bad week...

Oh! The (Last) Places You'll Go!

Listen up, you lousy Griffs.

No time for buts
Or ands
Or ifs!

The season's only two weeks new
And reasons to rejoice are few.

We're not in first, that much is true.
So what, pray tell, are we to do?

We cannot hit, we cannot run,
We're having very little fun.

We often just rely on luck
(Because Grant Balfour really sucks)

We have few steals, and fewer saves.
I fear this may go on for days.

This is why I've called you here,
So grab a seat and lend an ear.

Chow down on some grubble snacks,
Wash it down with wuzzlewhacks,

Then chase it with some floozle beer,
And tell me what I want to hear:

Who will save the Griffs this year?

He's crying inside, I assure you.

Ian Desmond? Oh, where to start?
Your batting average breaks my heart.
At the plate you're overzealous.
Your approach makes Vlad Guerrero jealous.

All things considered, it's very clear
That you won't save the Griffs this year.

"Perhaps it's me?" Chone Figgins asked,
As the rest of us stifled laughs.
"I play two spots. I've got some speed. I could be just what we need!"

Perhaps he's right. He could be great...if this were 2008.

But in three years, how far he fell...
Can't hit, can't field, can't even spell.

I'm sorry, Shawn. It's much too clear
That you can't save the Griffs this year.

BJ Upton cried, "Well then it's me!"
Then suddenly he bruised his knee.

And as he screamed, his ankle sprained.

His lower back began to strain.

His shoulder then became inflamed.

He writhed around the floor in pain.

The injuries that he sustained

Left his broken body maimed.

He tried to move, it was in vain.

Then I heard him softly claim:

"I'm sorry, boss," as he shed a tear.

"Guess I won't save the Griffs this year."

Then who will do it? Who's the one?

Our year's already come undone!

We can't pitch, we can't spell.

Seriously, guys...what the hell?

Our broken hearts and double plays

And maimed and sprained and strained X-Rays

Plus Andrew Bailey's DL stay

Forebode a very dreary May

And confirm what I have dearly feared:

Can no one save the Griffs this year?

Then suddenly from far, far back

Beneath a dark blue baseball cap

There came a voice, and what'd it say?

It nearly blew us all away:

He said, "I know just what this team needs.

I know what we need, indeed!

It's way more simple than it seems

And it will work...it's guaranteed!"

"It's all so simple, gentlemen..."

The man in the blue hat said then.

And then he said the next thing he said:

"We simply must become best friends."

"With best friends, your worries come to an end.

You cannot be sad when you have best friends.

Best friends are the best friends that you can befriend.

So befriend some best friends 'til the losing streak ends!"

And what happened next for the Griffs team, you say?
Ian Desmond's average rose three points that day.

"Best friends will help us not to lose!"
Cried a happy Nelson Cruz.

"Best friends will help me change my luck!"
Said Grant Balfour (who still really sucks)

"We'll be the best!" screamed Mark Teixeira

Because Mark Teixeira is so Mark Teixeira.

Corks were popped on whuzzlewhacks

Buster Posey gorged on grubble snacks.

Clay Bucholz began to dance and cheer

As Tim Stauffer shotgunned floozle beer.

A raging party, oh yes it was.

(Big Papi got naked, just because)

And they shouted loud, for all to hear:

"Best friends will save the Griffs this year!"

So Long, And Thanks For All The Hits

I'm extremely excited to report that earlier this week, I took my first step towards manhood.

Now I can already tell what you're thinking and no...I didn't combine my TV, Internet and phone bill into one low monthly payment. This was even better.

I ate a bagel before work.

Now I can finally be one of those guys at the office who's all, "Donuts in the break room? No thanks, I had a bagel before work."

Great, right?

And as a freshly-minted member of the adult community, I want to assure you that I totally get it now.

I fully understand why not a single Wall Street banker or CEO was prosecuted for decimating the economy, yet Barry Bonds faces jail time for lying and hitting a few extra taters.

Priorities, man.

But that's not important right now.

What is important is this week's episode of "Fantasy Friday," a joyous occasion that's 50% drama, 50% comedy...and 100% man.

High Hopes

After days of rumination and quiet contemplation, I have reached the undeniable and inalienable conclusion that life as we know it is just not fair.

Why didn't anybody tell me?

It isn't fair that after weeks of preparation, multiple pep talks and even Pedro Alvarez doing a few extra push-ups, Hadouken Griffey Jr. still got thoroughly waxed in Week 1.

It isn't fair that we have a 1-10 record and sit in last place, getting an ache in our collective neck from staring up at the rest of the league.

It isn't fair that Pat Burrell has twice as many World Series rings as Chase Utley.

And it isn't fair that after years of practice, I can still never remember if the soda or ice cream goes first in my root beer float.

(Soda, right? I knew it.)

Yes, friend: The universe is a cold, random abyss and we are all nothing more than an assortment of cells, given this curse of consciousness so that we may lay awake at night weeping over Ian Desmond's batting average.

And oh, how you careen through the universe in elegant ignorance, each wandering soul a blip on your life's radar.

Literally every person you see changes your life, if you think about it.

Even passing a stranger on the street changes you, because ten seconds ago you had yet to see that stranger.

Be kind to them all, friend.

Every single one is fighting a tough battle, more than a few of them pertaining directly to Ian Desmond and his awful, awful batting average.

And while all souls are special...some are just a little more special than others.

Harry Kalas is the greatest baseball broadcaster that ever lived, and let me tell you why.

No, it's not just the way he screamed "...outta heeere!!," his raspy voice whipping Philadelphia fans into a frenzy for over thirty years.

And it wasn't just that he knew all the words to "High Hopes," a fact that became embarrassingly clear the day the Phillies won the NL East title in 2007.

I still remember seeing Harry drenched in champagne and more than a little tipsy, effortlessly rattling off what felt like seven different verses, a handful of remaining fans mumbling politely until the chorus.

(What, you're gonna cut the Hall of Famer's mic off? Please.)

The truth is, it was all of these things and more that made Harry Kalas the best ever. When the Phillies won the World Series in 2008, nothing about it felt official until I heard his voice.

I remember Eric Hinske flailing at strike three, but everything after was a little hazy until about ten minutes later.

After games upon games of Joe Buck's monotone drivel, FOX mercifully gave us Philly fans what we really wanted:

They replayed the final out, only this time it was Harry making the call.

"Swing and a miss! Struck him out! The Philadelphia Phillies are 2008 World Champions of baseball!"

And then everything made sense.

I remembered Shane Victorino belly-flopping onto the victory pile. I remembered Eric Bruntlett jumping around, dying for someone to hug him.

I even remembered Brad Lidge dropping to his knees, incredulously screaming, "Oh my god! We did it!"

(Because, let's be honest here: Even Brad Lidge didn't think Brad Lidge could do that.)

The problem is, reminiscing about the past makes me think about the present...a world where Chase Utley has bad knees, Jayson Werth is a National and Brad Lidge is back to being awful.

Then here's the other problem: Think about your favorite player, and there's a 97.6% chance he plays for your favorite team.

We root for whoever is wearing our team's colors, only the men wearing those colors changes all the time.

If Brian Roberts played for the Mariners, would the fine people of Baltimore still give a damn about him? Do they even give a damn about him now?

Free agents sign on, trades happen, players retire and the revolving door keeps spinning.

The constant shuffle can't help but dilute my memory as fewer and fewer players truly feel like dyed-in-the-wool Phillies.

But that was never a problem with Harry.

Players came and went, but Kalas was as constant as the northern star. That's what made him different.

That's why Harry Kalas is the greatest Phillie of all time: Because he really did belong to us.

He really was ours.


Two years ago today, Harry passed away. On a completely related note, two years ago today was one of the last times I openly wept.

I hopped on Internet message boards and saw a tremendous outpouring of emotion from die hard fans, then excused myself to the little boy's room because I needed to be alone.

It's a verified fact that Kalas is not the Phillies all-time wins leader, nor does he lead the franchise in stolen bases.

He's never thrown a complete game, never hit a grand slam and never closed out Game 7.

It's unlikely he'll ascend the career doubles list, and a shot at the ERA crown seems altogether out of the question.

But he was the best.

And I'm pretty sure you, too, have a guy on your favorite team that you love a little too much for reasons that transcend baseball and border on legitimate emotional connection.

My guy just happened to have spent his glory days in the booth and not on the field.

And in a perfect world he'd still be around, chuckling with delight at the sight of Roy Halladay mowing down the National League.

But that's not the case, because this big, dumb rock hurtling through this cold, random universe is just not fair.

Seriously, you guys: A little heads up would have been nice.

Gotta Get Down

Life is all about how you frame things.

For instance, I don't get stoned and eat nachos because I'm a loser, a hippie, a no-good punk or any combination of the three.

No, I do it because I'm launching a preemptive strike on the cancer that I assume is growing inside me after years of cell phone and wifi signals penetrating my body on a daily basis.

And I eat nachos because they're delicious.

Similarly, Hadouken Griffey Jr. isn't a shoddily put together, offensively inept squad with no true ace and only Joel Hanrahan racking up saves.

No, no, no.

We're just off to a slow start.

Former manager Gene Mauch once said:

"Losing streaks are funny. If you lose at the beginning you got off to a bad start. If you lose in the middle of the season, you're in a slump. If you lose at the end, you're choking."

So we've had a little trouble finding our bearings but are taking the "wait and see" approach as we head into the weekend trailing The Smother Huggers 8-3.

Trust me, it's the right move. The absolute worst thing you can do is overreact.

It's tempting to run full sprint to the waiver wire looking for any hitter who's off to a hot start, but be patient.

You drafted these guys for a reason. Give them a chance.

Acting too quickly only leads to mistakes and regret, until one morning you wake up on your ex-girlfriend's kitchen floor with cigarette burns on your arms and Nyjer Morgan in your lineup.

In fact, some of the Griffs are off to nice starts.

Mark Teixeira and Nelson Cruz have four homeruns apiece, and BJ Upton has a pair of homers and a stolen base.

Upton's early production is especially encouraging and could signal that he's ready to fulfill his immense potential, a far cry from his current distinction of being the easiest MLB player to make fun of.

Interestingly enough, BJ stands for "Bossman Junior."

It's a name he got from his father, who was nicknamed "Bossman" for reasons I could probably find out but won't, because it'd never be as cool as the reason I made up in my head.

BJ's full name is actually Melvin Emmanuel Upton, proving he's going to have a great season.

With such a nerdy first name and equally mockable nickname, he really has no choice but to be awesome.

"Don't let me down, son."

But while the Griffs stumble out of the gate, it's comforting to know the real season is playing out exactly as I envisioned it would.

Hitting .500 headed into today's action, I absolutely predicted a batting title for Nick Hundley. You have to believe me.

The sun is shining, Fat Joe and the Terror Squad have staked Philly to an early season division lead, and Mariano Rivera is back to getting professional baseball players out with one measly pitch.

In conclusion, all is right with the world.

But none of that matters right now.

What does matter is we're introducing a new feature to Warning Track Power today, and we certainly hope you enjoy it.

Presenting "Fantasy Friday," a labor of love between my roommates Geoff, Kyle and myself.

We'd like to thank you in advance for what we assume will be your overwhelming and undying support.

We'd also like to thank our two female roommates, Kate and Ginny, for being kind enough to mutter "You boys are stupid" under their breath and out of earshot.

(Well, mostly out of earshot. Kyle couldn't help but overhear. He cried forever)

Without further ado, we present the pilot episode of "Fantasy Friday."

Have a great weekend.

Hipster Hunting

Opening Day is the worst day of the year, and here's why:

Seeing the Cardinals reminded me that they won the World Series in 2006, which reminded me that Adam Wainwright closed out that World Series, which led me to think:

"Oh, cool. I bet when Adam Wainwright wins his Cy Young award, he'll be the only guy to have done those two things."

And then I remembered that Wainwright is out for the season and having Tommy John surgery.

And then I remembered how hard it is for pitchers to recover from Tommy John surgery.

And then I got amazingly, impossibly sad.

I'm not even a Cardinals fan...just a baseball fan, and the idea of Adam Wainwright never being the same seems incredibly unfair.

That's the problem with Opening Day: It's the first game out of 162 where all your hopes, dreams and expectations can come crashing to Earth like a misplayed pop-up.

That, and the realization that a svelte Kung-Fu Panda isn't really an improvement.

He doesn't look like Skinny Pablo Sandoval, he just looks like Fat Christian Guzman.

But for now, we have bigger fish to fry.

Gather 'round, Hadouken Griffey Jr, and hear of your first quest. We have a dire situation on our hands, and it requires our immediate attention.

Our Week 1 opponent, my roommate Geoff, is a hipster. This much is true.

He drinks cheap beer, likes lame music and dresses like a gay hobo.

He's also always saying annoying, pretentious things like "Get out of my room" and "Stop taking pictures of me."

These personality deficiencies are fine on their own. After all, he still loves baseball, so it can't be all bad, right?

But then it started.

In a dedicated attempt to win our league, Geoff threw himself into preseason preparation like never before.

Hours of research, mock draft after mock draft, pouring over statistics until the stupid eyes in his idiot head began to bleed.

I thought it was all harmless fun. I was wrong.

A change in his demeanor was obvious. He started to look at the game in a different light. After studying him closely, I'd reached a terrifying conclusion:

Geoff had become a Fantasy Baseball Hipster.

"My favorite stat is xFIP. It's really big in New York."

It started with the numbers.

Used to be if you mentioned any particular player, he'd respond with something along the lines of, "Gavin Floyd? That guy sucks."

But then his answers became more like, "Sure, Johnny Cueto is fine...if you like a starter whose K/9 rate has fallen the last three years."

I began to worry about the path my friend was headed down.

A path filled to the brim with formulas, stacked to the ceiling with ones and zeros, cluttering his mind with VORPs and BaBIPs until he could no longer see the beauty of the game.

A manager like Geoff never would have sent Kirk Gibson and his bad knees to the plate against Dennis Eckersley in Game 1 of the 1988 World Series.

And the manager in Major League didn't say, "I've crunched the numbers and Wild Thing has a 72.3% chance of inducing a ground ball."

No, he listened to the little man in his head and from beneath his thick, lustrous moustache announced:

"I got a hunch he's due."

That's what we're up against, boys: It's stats versus heart. It's that feeling in your gut versus the numbers on the page.

It's the difference between using data to prove Kyle Farnsworth is terrible...or just knowing that he is.

Luckily, I know how to handle this.

The original plan was to locate Bill James, the man behind sabermetrics and the author of the stat nerd's bible, The Bill James Handbook.

We were to find him and take him out, but it's not that simple. He's holed up somewhere in Kansas, no doubt bracing himself for the coming season.

He's probably in his lair right now, stockpiling ERA+ and UZR Ratings and manipulating obscure stats to prove David DeJesus is an MVP candidate.

David DeJesus?!

Oh, Bill James, you vile fiend.

Failing to contact this nefarious villain, we are enacting secondary protocol, tenatively titled "Plan B."

It's a fact that every master has an apprentice.

Emperor Palpatine had Darth Vader, Mr. Miyagi had Daniel-San, and I have Rinaldo, my Lithuanian neighbor who fetches me scones on the weekend.

(Rinaldo even did my taxes this year. I swear, that 8-year-old is a real go-getter)

And after weeks of searching, I have uncovered the identity of Bill James' pupil.

The time has come to do what's right. To stand up for what we believe in, and to save our friend's baseball soul.

Gentlemen, we have to find and kill Shin-Soo Choo.

"Sorry, what?"

Every preseason, the Bill Jameses of the world try to convince you that Choo's 20 homeruns and 20 stolen bases are the key to your season.

They'll say things like "For as late as he's going in mock drafts..." and "He could be a real sleeper...," hoping their awesome buzz words lure you like a hipster moth to the fantasy flame.

In fact, this overabundance of nerd love has skyrocketed Shin-Soo in most rankings and now everyone is aware of what he's capable of.

So now you're not even drafting smart...you're just drafting some dude who bats third on an awful team and hits one homerun every three weeks.

Good luck with that.

But still, Choo is their champion, the man they tout above all others.

So he must be destroyed.

We shall fight on the fields and in the streets. We shall fight on the mounds and in the bullpens.

We shall fight in foul ground and fair, in dugouts and box seats. We shall defend our ideals, whatever the cost may be.

We shall never surrender.

A day may come when the love of baseball fans fails, when we forsake our game and break all bonds of friendship.

But it is not this day.

I know not how long we must endure, but I can see a not-too-distant future where all is right...

The clock slowly ticks away in Round 15 of a fantasy draft as I struggle to make my next pick. Closer and closer to zero we creep.

I turn to Geoff and, panicking, ask, "Billy Butler or Ryan Theriot?"

For a moment, he doesn't speak.

But there is a happiness in his eyes, a spark of hope, a shining light not seen in ages.

As a single tear begins to roll down his cheek, Geoff looks to me and says:

"Billy Butler? That guy sucks."