A Love Letter to Opening Day

I like you.

The reasons should be obvious: You make me laugh, you make me think, you've got a good heart and you're so easy on the eyes it's ridiculous.

Like any good American I like a nice, cold beer after a long day of work.

I like dogs, and I like bow ties...but I don't like dogs wearing bow ties.

I like sleeping in on weekends, ordering a cheesesteak for lunch and convincing myself that beating Megaman counts as a successful Saturday.

Not only do I enjoy watching TV, but I'm also really, really good at it.

I'm a maestro with the remote control. Flipping channels like a boss, back right before the commercial break's over, oh no, what channel is TBS again? Don't worry, baby, I got this.

It's a skill.

I like sunsets, long walks on the beach and making obvious jokes.

I like root beer floats, the comedic stylings of Louis C.K. and the Canadian national anthem.

I really, really like grape juice.

If you asked me to have a Liam Neeson movie marathon, I would not say no. We can even watch Love Actually, but only if there's cuddling (at which, suffice it to say, I'm also fantastic).

I like getting the final Jeopardy! question right, but only if all my roommates get it wrong.

I get a chuckle every time I think of the only two jokes my Dad knows, one of which involves food, the other of which I can't print here.

I'm always going to like Return of the Jedi more than The Empire Strikes Back, and you nerds are just going to have to deal with it.

I like watching old wrestling matches on Youtube, and have spent too much of my spare time comparing and contrasting the careers of Albert Pujols and "The Heartbreak Kid" Shawn Michaels.

No, seriously...do you have any grape juice?

I believe that few things are as thrilling as a Final Four buzzer beater, that playoff hockey is just plain awesome, and that the Monday after the Super Bowl should be a national holiday.

I like barbecue in the summer, hot apple cider in the fall and great big hugs every day of the year.


But I love baseball.

I love bases-clearing doubles to the gap. I love going from first to third on a hit-and-run. I love 12-to-6 curveballs and backward Ks.

I love dollar dog nights, throwback uniforms and any player who wears high socks (especially you, Joe Blanton).

I love the sound of 40,000 fans groaning at ball four, trying to convince the umpire it caught the corner when it was really a foot outside.

I love that baseball reminds me of summertime, which in turn reminds me of early Bruce Springsteen records. Baseball is my #1, but the Boss is a close second.

If you're a female with a nice smile and intimate knowledge of the infield fly rule, please email me immediately.

I love watching games with fans of rival teams, then arguing about check swings as if anyone knows what the hell they're talking about.

Mets fan: "That was a strike. Come on."
Me: "No way, bro. His wrists didn't break."
Mets fan: "Oh, really? Well lucky me! 'Breaking wrists' and 'offering at a pitch' are the vaguest and most poorly defined rules in baseball, and we could argue forever about any close call, but lookie here, the one person in the world who can define it just happens to be gracing us with his brilliant presence. So out with it, Doubleday...just what exactly does it mean?"

(This is the part where I retreat into the darkness, drenched in humiliation)

(On a completely unrelated note, fuck the Mets)

But oh Jesus, Mary and Nomar Garciaparra, do I love baseball.

I love watching Aroldis Chapman pitch.

His gangly arms and legs winding up, his right knee lifting to a picture-perfect point like some Czechoslovakian ballerina, all concluding with a blink-and-you-miss-it, record-breaking 105-MPH laser beam.

I love watching Carlos Pena hit.

A summa cum laude grad from Swing Hard In Case You Hit It University, Carlos waits and waits until the absolute last moment before whipping his hands around in a violent motion, his bat ripping through the atmosphere like a man possessed.

I love that so much of the game is set in stone...

The count is 2-0? You're getting a fastball.
Winning by three? Warm up the closer.
First pitch of the game? Don't you dare swing, you heartless bastard.

...but still, after so much strategy follows such a strict template, one or two little things happen every game that I've never seen before.

In fact, the Brewers led off their season with back-to-back homers.

When was the last time Peyton Manning hit back-to-back homers?

Exactly.

Basically, baseball is my favorite thing.

Not my favorite sport, not my favorite hobby, not my favorite way to kill time on a lazy Saturday (after I've beaten Megaman and celebrated with a cheesesteak).

No, it's my favorite thing...period.

And it's finally back.

Like the perfect summer romance it will be here every day for the next few months, make my heart race time and again, provide ample amounts of excitement and disappointment, then fade away like an echo once the leaves begin to change.

But don't worry. It always returns at the first sight of spring...and like the best of pals, we'll pick up right where we left off.

Welcome back, old friend.

The NL East: Joyful, Joyful

I was watching the show-stopping finale of Sister Act 2: Back in the Habit the other day when a feeling I'd not experienced in months crept up on me.

Equal parts "Is this really happening?" and "This is truly incredible," a maddening blur of bright 90s clothes and awful Jesus rapping, I stared incredulously as I tried to pinpoint the previous source of this sensation.

An overwhelming amount of joy, mixed with a sense of disbelief, then topped off with more joy...why was this feeling so familiar?

And then it hit me.

In the hours leading up to the Cliff Lee signing last December, a series of texts and Internet rumors led me to ponder, "Is this really happening?"

And once it was confirmed Lee would be joining Roy Oswalt, Cole Hamels and reigning Cy Young winner Roy Halladay, I couldn't believe it.

"This is truly incredible," I mumbled the next morning.

And the day after that. And the one after that, too.

Even if you don't like the Phillies, even if these five minutes were the highlight of Lauryn Hill's career, even if you think this analogy is a huge stretch (but admit it...you're impressed), the end result is the same:

This is really getting out of hand.

More like Mt. Strikeoutsmore, amirite?!

PHILADELPHIA PHILLIES: As is often the case in sports, I fear this season it will become acceptable--even expected--to hate on the team from the City of Brotherly Love.

Whenever a team gets too successful, a backlash is inevitable.

Fans just get sick of seeing the same faces and same matchups year after year, and begin to openly root for those winning teams to crash and burn.

Luckily, the Phils have been immune to this phenomena so far, mostly because Jimmy Rollins has a winning smile, the whole team plays hard and Roy Halladay is way better than you.

But repercussions are coming. I can feel it.

It's a shame, really. Rather than projecting their own feelings of inadequacy onto people whose only crime is being excellent at their jobs, haters should look inward.

They should be adults about the situation, take a good look in the mirror and ask themselves the tough questions, such as "Why do I do the things I do?" and more importantly, "Should I be nicer to Jacob?"

ATLANTA BRAVES: Another thing I'm worried about: Those pesky Braves.

When the Mets finally usurped them in 2006, ending their amazing streak of 11 straight division titles, I was hoping they'd go away for awhile and let the rest of us have some fun for once.

Nope.

Jason Heyward is a rising star, Tommy Hanson has "future ace" scrawled on his forehead, and Chipper Jones can't imagine a world where he isn't torturing me on a daily basis.

I know he's always hurt, but he knows that I know that.

And he knows how he routinely ruined every summer I had as a child. He just likes reminding me.

Damnit, Larry. Leave me alone! Don't you have anything better to do?

LoL, u mad bro?

FLORIDA MARLINS: Hanley Ramirez has a new friend this season, and his name is Mike Stanton.

And since I don't want to bog you down with "stats" or "hyperbole" or "other words," let me just tell you that Mike Stanton is strong.

Really, really strong.

No, seriously, he's like...so strong, you guys.

Those two should give opponents more than a few headaches, and Josh Johnson is a dark horse Cy Young candidate.

But how will society respond to Chris Coglan and Emilio Bonifacio's interracial relationship?

(You know what? Scratch that. I got real life and Save the Last Dance mixed up again. Happens all the time)

NEW YORK METS: Spoiler alert: I hate the Mets.

But I don't hate them for the reasons you'd think (namely, that they're the Mets).

No, that's too easy.

I hate them because the Phils and the Mets should have waged war for the next decade, two stacked teams playing rivalry-fueled baseball with an intensity only reserved for hated enemies.

Regardless of who won, we should have witnessed tight division races for the last five seasons or so, with many more classics yet to be played out.

Jose Reyes. Carlos Beltran. David Wright. Carlos Delgado. Jason Bay. Johan Freaking Santana. Where did it all go wrong?

(Probably around the "Jason Bay" part, but that's not important right now)

Instead, it isn't even fun to ridicule them anymore. They're a mess. It's a joke.

It's gotten so bad that I legitimately feel sorry for David Wright sometimes.

Those bastards, how could you do this to me? You think I get excited when Nationals come to town? Seriously? Come on!

We should all be so angry.

WASHINGTON NATIONALS: Oh, hey Washington. I was just talking about you.

Jayson Werth got himself a ring with the Phils, and then decided to go and get his money.

No hard feelings, man. Thanks for 2008. Say "Hello" to Barack for me.

I wish you nothing but luck in the future.

He'll need it.

AND THE WINNER IS: I mean, it has to be Philly, right?

Don't get me wrong, these Phillies got old in a hurry.

Chase Utley's knee issues scare the bejeezus out of me, and Brad Lidge...well, Brad Lidge sucks.

But still, the Phillies have the four best starting pitchers in the division. That's just ridiculous.

They should be able to find a way to win behind such a potentially dominant rotation and a lineup that still features Ryan Howard, he of the oh-so-pretty homeruns.

The Braves are loaded, but I think they're still a little young to run with the big boys.

Or rather, I hope they are.

It should be an exciting race, and it should be a great season.

Opening Day is almost here. The fields are lined, the grass is cut and the beer is already overpriced.

There's only one thing left to say...that timeless catch phrase, the best three words in the English language:

Fuck the Mets.

The AL East: Let's Get This Over With

Under normal circumstances, I can bang out 800-1,200 words about baseball in no time flat.

I sit in my room and yell out an idea, any idea, just to put it out into the world...

"The resurgence of base stealers set against the landscape of a crumbling American economic infrastructure!"

...and within moments the idea has returned to me like a boomerang, only now its bursting at the seams with insight, clever angles and enough bad puns to make Joe Buck's head explode.

But then there's the AL East.

Quite simply, I'm sick of the Yankees and the Red Sox.

I'm sick of the hype, sick of all 18 of their games being nationally televised, sick of hearing it's the biggest rivalry in the game, and sick of Kevin Youkilis and his sad, puppy dog eyes.

If I'm a mathematician, then Joba Chamberlain is the popular early-90s comedian Sinbad.

Wow, that made absolutely no sense.

See, that's what these teams do to me: They sap my inspiration and stifle my creativity under the weight of their four-and-a-half hour games and piles of money.

They are my kryptonite, my anti-muse, the bane of my existence, my single biggest weakness.

Well, that and Jewish girls.

Mazel tAAARRRGH!

NEW YORK YANKEES: Based out of the Bronx in New York City, New York (in America), the Yankees are a baseball team that plays in the eastern division of the American League.

From 1928-2008, they played their baseball games in Yankee Stadium, a structure collaboratively designed by famed New York City architects George Herman Ruth and Art Vandelay.

They now play in New Yankee Stadium, which is a lot like the old one, only newer.

Their uniforms are unique for not having the player's last name on them.

So the next time you meet a Yankee fan wearing an authentic jersey that says "Jeter" on the back, that person is either an idiot or a liar.

Possibly both.

BOSTON RED SOX: Boston was a little late to the "let black people play baseball" party, being the last MLB team to integrate in 1959.

That was over a decade after Jackie Robinson debuted with the Dodgers, a fact I'm sure they left out of the Carl Crawford sales pitch last winter.

But located in the heart of the city, Fenway Park is just a short walk from Boston Beerworks, a lively sports bar and the perfect place to watch a ball game.

Opened in 1992, Beer Works has everything: A friendly staff, a festive atmosphere and a multitude of homemade micro brews on tap to quench your thirst as you root, root, root for the home team.

And with TVs at every turn, you'll be able to catch every Bruins goal and every Ray Allen three-pointer in glorious high definition.

And what better way to celebrate a friend's birthday or show your employees a good time than by booking your next event there?

Call 617-536-BEER to start planning today, or just visit them here.

Tell them Jacob sent you.

Go Pats!

TAMPA BAY RAYS: Maybe more than any other team in the division, the Rays play the game the right way.

Their first baseman is routinely 4-5 feet off the baseline, far enough away to help the second baseman with in-between grounders, but not so far that he can't snag a sharply hit ball down the line.

When men are on base, the shortstop always plays a little bit closer to second, making it much easier to turn a double play in the event of a ground ball.

They always know who is up to bat next, and often know who bats after that guy, too.

I swear, Joe Maddon is a genius.

The Rays are also great listeners. Whenever a ball is hit into the air (a "fly ball"), the player with the best chance to catch it always yells "I got it!" and the other guys take notice.

Actually, Evan Longoria usually screams "Mine!", but that's just because he likes to be different.

TORONTO BLUE JAYS: Canada is the country Americans always threaten to move to when the get sick of freedom.

And even though the Blue Jays are a Canadian team, they play in the American League.

Crazy, right?

BALTIMORE ORIOLES: It's been said that nothing rhymes with "oriole," but I think "tutorial" comes pretty close.

Can we get a ruling on this?


AND THE WINNER IS: Whoa, I blacked out for a second there. What the heck is that picture?

And where the heck are my pants?

Anyway, this year the division figures to be a two-team race between...wait for it...the Yankees and the Red Sox.

Oh well.

While their rotation is suspect after Jon Lester and Clay Bucholz, an absolutely stacked lineup means the division is Boston's to lose.

They'll hit the heck out of the ball, and even if closer Jonathan Papelbon falters, fireballer Daniel Bard will be there to pick up the pieces.

And even though Kevin Youkilis never smiles, there's just something about him I find...intriguing.

I never could quite put my finger on it.

...wait, what?

What do you mean he's "of the tribe"?

That he's one of "the Chosen People"?

That can't be true. It just can't be.

That would mean...no...

No...

NOOOOOOO...

Mazel tov, bitch.

Meet the Griffs

I want to take this time to assure you that I've done everything in my power to convey the following message with the heart, conviction, and dedicated sense of grandeur it deserves.

Because that's what great writers do: We put into words the often indescribable twinges and longings that you normals refer to as "feelings."

We scour the English language and navigate the depths of human emotion to collect a series of words that, when organized correctly, form a perfect nugget of truth that rolls effortlessly off the tongue and high fives the soul.

Unfortunately, it was no use.

After countless hours and numerous re-writes, it's become clear that no amount of metaphors, no clever combination of catch phrases, no elegant levels of alliteration can adequately express the following idea.

As is so often the case, the best way appears to be the direct approach.

So here goes:

(ahem)

Ken Griffey, Jr. was fucking sweet.


A prodigal son the moment he stepped on the field, Junior had it all: The defensive prowess of Willie Mays, the power and plate discipline of Albert Pujols, and just the prettiest swing you've ever seen.

In his MVP year of 1997, Griffey turned in one of the best regular seasons by someone probably not on steroids, leading the league in homers (56), RBIs (147), runs (125) and slugging percentage (.646).

He's also the namesake of the best baseball video game ever, "Ken Griffey Jr's Slugfest" for the N64.

A cameo in Little Big League and one winning smile later, we have the makings of the greatest player of all time, the Chosen One, the man who would be king.

But it was not meant to be.

The new millennium would not be kind to The Kid, as his career fell apart practically the moment he was traded to Cincinnati in 2000.

Injury after injury robbed Griffey of his prime, and robbed us all of a world where the homerun champion isn't Barry Bonds.

In an alternate universe where bones don't break, muscles don't tear and I know how to talk to women, Griffey has over 800 homeruns, multiple MVP awards and I can't cat sit tonight because I have a date.

Sorry, bro.

The man should be remembered as the best to ever step foot in a batter's box. But instead, he represents a destiny unfulfilled, baseball's ultimate "What might have been."

Which is why I named my fantasy team after him.

Like Griffey, this team I've assembled has the potential to be not just good...not just great...but the single most dominant fake baseball team Yahoo.com has ever seen.

Carlos Gonzalez has that look in his eye. So does Anibal Sanchez.

Buster Posey got a taste of glory last season and is hungry for more.

And Chad Billingsley?

Oh, you best believe he has what it takes.

With the hypothetical G.O.A.T as our inspiration and spiritual leader, we have all the pieces in place: A stacked lineup with power and speed, a deep rotation and a team name that is almost perfect.

We just need something more.

A cherry on the fantasy moniker sundae. Something strong and powerful.

Something to make the rest of the league stand up, take notice and make a collective "gulp" noise in an exaggerated, comical manner.

We need a hadouken.

A what, you say? I'm so glad you asked.


It begins as a spark.

A faint, flickering light buried in the deepest, darkest caverns of one's soul.

B.J. Upton has it. So does Joel Hanrahan.

Slowly, it starts to grow. A tiny, pulsating ball of energy, it ricochets through your body like a pinball, surging exponentially in strength until it reaches the tips of your fingers.

Building and building in intensity, it explodes from your hands.

A swirling, concentrated fireball of your very own life force, it rips through the universe with the reckless abandon of a drunk-driving senior citizen, destroying everything in its path.

The very fireball that Max Scherzer bullets into the strike zone at 95 MPH.

The same pulsating life force that David Ortiz routinely deposits into the Fenway seats.

We are the fantasy team you deserve, but not the one you need right now.

We are the meteoric spark of life, an unstoppable force of limitless potential, a destroyer of worlds and a defender of truth, justice and the American pastime.

We are Hadouken Griffey Jr....and we will wreck your shit.

The NL Central: Old Faces, New Fears

The secondary goal of human existence is to dress animals up like people, but that's not important right now.

The primary goal is to make memories.

We dress up, we go out, we have fun and we photograph the entire occasion.

As a society, we've done an excellent jobs of creating designated checkpoints to observe and celebrate these moments.

Holidays, weddings, theme parties...all provide ample opportunities to kick back and enjoy life.

(For any non-Caucasian readers out there: First of all, welcome. Second, a "theme party" is where white people dress up in similar costumes and pretend to be clever. It's like Halloween, but in May. Don't ask why we do it. No one knows)

But for all these forced interactions fueled by alcohol and the desire to not die alone, one stands above the rest as the perfect mix of nostalgia and schadenfreude.

One event brilliantly toes the line between "reliving the good 'ol days" and "the social equivalent of a six car pileup."

I'm talking, of course, about a high school reunion.

You dress up nice and arrive fashionably late (and fashionably drunk).

You slowly head to the door, silently praying that your ex is fat and married with an ugly child.

And oh! How the memories come flooding back as you see a giant banner above the entrance, lovingly decorated by some spinster who couldn't score a date.

There is no division in baseball with more familiar faces than the NL Central.

There's just something about the mid-western anonymity that makes it the perfect place to fade into obscurity.

ST. LOUIS CARDINALS: And if the NL Central is your high school reunion, the Cardinals were the prom queen.

A lot of history, championships and accolades in her early years, she was voted Most Likely to Succeed in a landslide.

But now she's gotten a little older, one of her aces (Adam Wainright) is out for the season, and that meal ticket she's been riding all these years (Albert Pujols) could be looking for a divorce soon.

You may have wanted the prom queen's life for the last ten years, but the next ten seem rife with uncertainty.

In fact, just the sight of the once-great Lance Berkman riding pine is enough to fill me with a sense of impending doom.

Still, a strong rotation and the best player alive would be enough to win the division in most seasons, except...

CINCINNATI REDS: ...some previously frumpy band geek ditched the glasses, took a yoga class, got her hair did and showed up to the party as a stone cold hottie.

(You're in love with this analogy, right? Right?)

On the back of Joey Votto's MVP season, the Reds came from seemingly nowhere to knock the Cards off their perch atop the division last season.

And while it may seem like there's no difference between starters Edinson Volquez and Johnny Cueto---both being young and Dominican with career ERAs around 4.30---you must dig deeper.

Volquez is a power pitcher with a tight slider and a lively fastball, but Cueto relies on location and worships the dark lord Sauron while feasting on the souls of the damned.

Edinson was an All-Star in 2008 and started Game 1 of last year's NLDS, while Johnny has roamed the Earth for 7,000 years and bursts into flames when doused in holy water.

Lastly, Edinson Volquez really loves House, but Cueto thinks it's overrated. And he can never die.

"The plot is really formulaic, that's all I'm saying."

Incredibly, manager Dusty Baker failed to shatter Aroldis Chapman's arm into a thousand pieces last season, prompting many to wonder if he had lost his patented, career-obliterating touch.

I'm not worried, though. He has big plans for Homer Bailey and Travis Wood this year. I can feel it.

Don't let me down, Dusty.

CHICAGO CUBS: Aw heck, who doesn't love the Cubs?

The Cubs are the guy who everybody just liked in high school, either for his affable nature or the fact that you never felt threatened leaving your girlfriend alone with him.

And with a roster chock full of Carlos Penas and Ryan Dempsters, who wouldn't want to root for this little guy?

Problem is, it's tough to imagine them putting up much of a fight this season.

Former superstar Alfonso Soriano still patrols left field, Aramis Ramirez is over the hill, and resident loose cannon Carlos Zambrano is good for three headaches a season (at least).

It's a shame, too, because baseball is just more exciting when Chicago is contending.

The Cubs are like pizza, or sex: When they're good, life is great. When they're bad, they ruin my 9th birthday party.

MILWAUKEE BREWERS: The older kid in class who got left back a few times, you only paid attention to him because he could get you booze.

Which is great, because that's the name of the damn team.

This analogy is incredible, I keep telling you.

But nowadays we're paying attention not just because Ryan Braun and Prince Fielder are awesome, but because the 1-2 punch of Yovani Gallardo and Zack Greinke are so good they'll make your spell check explode.

And with Yuniesky Betancourt and Rickie Weeks as a double-play team, we'll finally have an answer to the question, "Is it possible to win if you're just awful?"

All (hilarious) jokes aside, the Brewers are a deep team with a lot of veteran presence off the bench.

Mark Kotsay is great for clubhouse morale, and Craig Counsell wants nothing more than to be your friend.

Throw in a potentially dominant closer in John Axford, and Milwaukee is no longer just a team with a mascot that haunts my dreams.

"You can't stay awake forever."

PITTSBURGH PIRATES: But it's nice to know some things never change.

The Pirates were losers back then, and they're losers today.

With Adrian Gonzalez and Ryan Zimmerman getting new friends this offseason, Pirates centerfielder Andrew McCutchen is officially the loneliest superstar in baseball.

Congratulations, Andrew. I'd drop the trophy off at your birthday party, but I'm not coming. Nobody is.

But chin up, pal. At least you have some sweet digs.

PNC Park is picturesque, basically making it the sweetest parents' basement of all time.

HOUSTON ASTROS: An artsy loner whose Dad made him play high school football, the Astros just don't belong.

During pigskin season in the Lonestar State, it's tough to remember these fellas even exist. Which only makes things more difficult, because it's tough to remember they exist in the first place.

Don't waste too much time on them this season, but do check in periodically as Bill Hall, Clint Barmes and Humberto Quintero play everyone's favorite game, "Let's see who can get benched first."

My money's on Bill Hall.

A decent player a few years ago, he's bound to lose interest after Hunter Pence's annual Memorial Day Totally 80's theme party.

AND THE WINNER IS: Before Wainwright went down, I was ready to pick the Cardinals to bounce back.

But now? I'm going with Milwaukee.

Few teams are lucky enough to have an offensive duo the likes of Braun/Fielder or the dueling aces of Gallardo/Greinke, but the Brew Crew has both.

This was probably the toughest division to call so far. But it's like I always say:

When in doubt, go with the terrifying Hulk Hogan Muppet.

That's just smart baseball.