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?
April 29, 2011
April 22, 2011
April 19, 2011
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.
The injuries that he sustained
He tried to move, it was in vain.
"I'm sorry, boss," as he shed a tear.
Then who will do it? Who's the one?
We can't pitch, we can't spell.
Our broken hearts and double plays
Plus Andrew Bailey's DL stay
Can no one save the Griffs this year?
Then suddenly from far, far back
It nearly blew us all away:
He said, "I know just what this team needs.
"We simply must become best friends."
"We'll be the best!" screamed Mark Teixeira
Corks were popped on whuzzlewhacks
Clay Bucholz began to dance and cheer
A raging party, oh yes it was.
And they shouted loud, for all to hear:
"Best friends will save the Griffs this year!"
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.
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.
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.
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)
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:
April 15, 2011
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.
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.
April 13, 2011
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.
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.
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