A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Chadness

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

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

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

And then I saw it.

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

D.L.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The bigger the head, the darker the secrets.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Acceptance: And here we are.

For the time being, we must press on.

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

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

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

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

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

Felix Hernandez even drew you this picture:


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

Dear Buzzsaw:

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

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

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

Signed,
Strasburger with Cheese

* * * * *

Chazmaster:

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

Signed,

Sexy Alexei Ramirez

* * * * *

Dear Chad,

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

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

Love,

Brad Penny

P.S. I wish you were dead.

* * * * *

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

Basically, you're our Mufasa.

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

Hug It Out

A closed-door, Asteroids-only meeting was held yesterday in an attempt to save a team in disarray.

The Darlings' horrid five week stretch of play has put a strain on clubhouse morale, and the team has become divided.

Fingers have been pointed. Blame has been placed. Mothers have been insulted.

"You haven't hit a homerun in over a month!" Randy Wells screamed at Matt Wieters.

"You've lost your last five decisions!" Wieters yelled right back.

But the biggest scuffle of all was between Cubs starter Ted Lilly and White Sox outfielder Juan Pierre.

Lilly carried a no-hitter into the 9th inning Sunday night at Wrigley Field, and Pierre was called upon to pinch hit. Three pitches later he smacked the ball into centerfield, taking Lilly's shot at glory right along with it.

Even worse, Lilly was immediately pulled for Carlos Marmol, who notched the save. Marmol just happened to be owned by last week's opponent, my roommate Geoff, and that save pulled the week's score even at 6-6.

During the closed-door meeting, Lilly and Pierre had to be separated.

"You son of a &$*%@, you weren't even in the starting lineup!" Lilly roared.

"Maybe next time don't throw an 86-MPH fastball on the outer half of the plate, you joke!" Pierre shouted back.

Ryan Sweeney tried to intervene and is now listed as day-to-day with severely hurt feelings.

As manager of the Darling Asteroids, I take full responsibility for my team's struggles. Truth be told, I haven't been paying as much attention to the team as I should be.

The NHL playoffs sucked me into their enthralling vortex of knucklepucks, flying Vs and triple dekes...and like a ship drawn to the Sirens' song, my eyes were diverted toward Lord Stanley's Cup as my hometown Flyers marched deeper into the playoffs.

Unfortunately, destiny was not on the Fly Guys' side this year and the Chicago Blackhawks won it all, making my fling with hockey all the more fruitless.

Nothing to do now except try to re-establish a relationship of trust with my Darlings, who I've greatly disappointed.

That, and post this former Sports Illustrated cover photo. Not that I'm bitter or anything.

Suck it, Chicago.

And so, fellas, I'm here to beg your forgiveness.

Hockey seemed new and exciting. I got a rush whenever someone was checked into the boards.

Simon Gagne kept me up late on school nights, and didn't always call when he said he would. I was young and foolish. I'm sorry.

I looked...but I never touched. I wouldn't do that to you, baseball.

I can't tell you how sorry I am for the way I've acted, so I'll let the King do it for me.

(No, not Felix Hernandez. I'm talking about Elvis Presley. Come on, Pudge Rodriguez...stay focused)

Maybe I didn't treat you quite as good as I should have
Maybe I didn't love you quite as often as I could have
Little things I should have said and done
I just never took the time...
But you were always on my mind.

I'll take you back to the night of May 7th. The Flyers were down in their series 3-0 to the Boston Bruins, and Jamie Moyer was baffling the Braves.

As the hockey game entered overtime and the Phillies entered the 8th inning, I thought to myself, "Which would I rather see: the Flyers stay alive, or 47-year-old Jamie Moyer throw a two-hit complete game shutout?"

And believe me, fellas...I thought about it for about four seconds. It was no contest. I would have happily traded a Bruins goal for a Phillies win.

You see, boys? You're still my number one. The NHL may have had my attention, but it never had my heart. That belongs to you, Chad Billingsley.

And to you, Matt Kemp.

And to you, Evan Longoria.

Heck, even you, David Aardsma...get over here, you big goof.

Handshake? Put that thing away, bring it in for the real thing. Let's hug it out.

No homo.

I'm back, boys, and it feels like I never left. Hockey season is over, the NBA Finals will be decided by week's end, and I've already stopped pretending to give a damn about soccer.

We need to reconnect, team, and this closed-door meeting was a good start.

And while Pablo Sandoval and Francisco Cordero are doing trust falls in the corner, I want to take this time to reassure you all that something like this will never happen again.

This week we do battle with Inglorious Batters, who sit in third place. It's quite a tall order, but nothing we can't handle if we play as a team and believe in ourselves.

And no matter the outcome, I'm taking you all out for pizza after the week.

I love you, Darling Asteroids. Let's never fight again.

Today Is The Day

Dear Stephen Strasburg:

Hey, kid. No pressure.

All we're asking is that you go out there and do your best. That's all anyone can ask of you.

Kid, every journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step. Now you've got a long road ahead of you, and the journey's going to be rough sometimes.

Heck, there will be some days when you won't even make it out of the fifth inning. I know that's hard to imagine, but it's true. It happens to the best of us.

What's important, kid, is how you react to adversity. Your character, your grit, your determination. That's the true measure of a champion.

Don't try to do too much. Trust your catcher, and trust your teammates.

Don't try to strike everyone out, kid. Strikeouts are boring, they're fascist. Throw some ground balls, it's more democratic.

Remember that the best pitch in baseball is a first-pitch strike.

Remember to be tough. I know you're just a simple farmboy with dreams of makin' it here in the big leagues, kid. But you gotta be a man now, or else Albert Pujols will eat you alive.

Don't back down from nobody. That's your plate. You own it. You can't be afraid to pitch inside.

And don't ever forget where you came from, neither.

Ma and Pa back on the farm are pulling for ya, kid. Heck, Ma barely got any sleep last night. You know how she gets.

And Little Sally, JoJo McGee, Uncle Reemus with the gimpy leg, they all want to see you succeed.

It's a crazy world out there, kid. A world where Martin Prado leads the National League in hitting.

A world where an umpire can wreck a young pitcher's shot at immortality, and even if said umpire is completely and unequivocally wrong and everyone knows it, no one will do anything about it.

Heck, kid, we live in a world where the Cubs' Carlos Silva (Carlos Silva!) is 8-0.

But remember, kid, no one's asking you to single-handedly resurrect a failing franchise, to be the spark that inspires a city, or to be a savior and beacon of hope for a depressed, borderline suicidal fan base.

No, kid, we're just asking that you go out there and do your best.

Ring, ring.

Hear that, kid? It's Destiny calling...and it's for you.

Love,
Baseball

I don't understand it either.

I hope those words are inspirational and helpful to you, Stephen. I really do.

But now I have some bad news for you. Are you sitting down? Good. Here it is:

When I said that no one's asking you to single-handedly resurrect a failing franchise, to be the spark that inspires a city, or to be a savior and beacon of hope for a depressed, borderline suicidal fan base...I lied.

That is exactly what we're asking you to do.

But wait, there's more. Not only do you need to instill the light of hope into a team, city and fan base, but you also need to save the Darling Asteroids' season.

Seriously, Stephen, we're dying over here. We're free falling worse than Tom Petty...and do you have any idea how hard it is to be worse than Tom Petty?

Yeah, it's pretty bad.

We're smack-dab in the middle of a four-week losing streak, kid. We've been outscored 37-11 in that time. The childlike glint in Matt Kemp's eye is gone, kid.

And Felix Hernandez? Heck, he just sits in the corner and mumbles about finishing second in Cy Young voting last season.

We're in dire straits, Stephen, I'm not going to lie to you. We need a hero. We're holding on for a hero until the end of the night.

He's gotta be strong, and he's gotta be fast, and he's gotta have four A+ pitches in his arsenal.

You've done all the training you can do. You've watched all the film, studied all the hitters, and now you've got that Bonnie Tyler song stuck in your head, kid.

Don't worry, it's a great song.

Now all that's left is for you to lace up your cleats, grab your mitt, head out there and be the single greatest pitcher that has ever walked the face of the Earth.

For you, for me, for the Nationals, and most importantly, for the Darling Asteroids...good luck, kid.

Seriously, though...no pressure.

History Is A Liar

Once again, the Darling Asteroids are limping into the weekend, this time trailing Royalston Rumble 6-4.

Royalston Rumble's GM is my old BU friend Nate, who is one heck of a guy with one heck of a tragic flaw. In the John Rocker Invitational, Nate is The Guy Who Makes A Lot of Trade Offers.

Now, I'm all about trades. Anything that can upgrade the Darlings is welcome, and the chess match of offers and counter offers is downright exciting.

But Nate, buddy, you go a little overboard. Your offers are frequent, they are constantly one-sided, and they always prominently feature Dan Uggla. So let me say this, just for the record:

I do not want Dan Uggla and I never, ever will.

In real world news, Ubaldo Jimenez toes the rubber tonight, bringing his absurd 0.78 ERA and league-leading ten wins with him.

And, as is often the case, the historical whispers have begun.

Usually it's something like, "Hey, so and so is hitting .500 after one month...do you think he can hit .400 on the season?"

Or, even better, "Johnny Whats-His-Face has hit in 20 straight games. He's less than half way to 56! Can he do it?!"

These whispers are always premature and completely ridiculous, but hey, it keeps Tim Kurkjian out of trouble.

Don't do drugs, kids. Do baseball!

In Ubaldo's case, he appears to be chasing Bob Gibson's hollowed ERA mark of 1.12, set in 1968. And the whispers are all asking the same question:

"Is Jimenez's season more impressive than Big Bob's?"

Allow me to save you some time, whispers, and answer that question for you. It's a two-parter, so stay focused.

Part One: Yes.

Part Two: You are all idiots.

Why? Because Gibson season happened over forty freakin' years ago, when the game was much different.

Specifically, the pitcher's mound was higher. Five inches higher, to be exact, and this gave pitchers a big advantage.

So much so that 1968 is sometimes called "The Year of the Pitcher," and the mound was lowered from 15 to 10 inches the following season to give hitters a fighting chance.

Imagine if LeBron James set the single season record for points...but did so because they lowered the rim by one foot. Suddenly, this record seems a bit skewed, no?

The problem is that baseball historians try to play by their own rules.

Sports in general now operate in the realm of "Yeah, but..." with all its happenings being beaten to death and overanalyzed to the point that nothing is certain and no one is great.

Phil Jackson has won ten NBA titles as a coach.

Yeah, but...he got to coach Jordan, Shaq and Kobe. Anyone would have won with those guys!

Tom Brady has won three Super Bowls.

Yeah, but...he lost one Super Bowl to the Giants, and he's nothing without Bill Belichick!

The Undertaker is a perfect 18-0 at Wrestlemania, even though he's died a few times.

Yeah, but...wait, really? 18-0? That's amazing.

I knew you'd see it his way.

Yet for some reason, "Yeah, but..." doesn't apply to baseball.

Discrepancies like mound height, or the entire twenty years known as the "Dead Ball Era," don't get brought up because historians want to pretend that the game hasn't changed and the numbers transcend generations.

They'd like you to believe that you can compare players regardless of eras.

"Babe Ruth is obviously the best player ever. Just look at his stats!"

Give it a rest, whispers. Every aspect of humanity has progressed at a break-neck pace. Science, technology, travel and medicine have all made leaps and bounds in innovations, and the only thing that hasn't evolved over the last twenty years is my sense of humor.

Farts are still funny, and they always will be.

So if an athlete accomplishes a feat nowadays, it's safe to assume that it's more impressive than a similar feat achieved back in the '60s.

Modern ballplayers are much better conditioned, and they're playing against the best competition in the world. I feel very comfortable asserting that baseball today is much, much harder than it was in Don Draper's time.

If Ubaldo's ERA is even comparable to Gibson's by season's end, there is no doubt about which is better.

Just like there is no doubt that we are going to Hulk up, say our prayers, eat our vitamins, and hit Royalston Rumble with USA-powered leg drop this weekend.

Whatcha' gonna do, Nate, when the Darling Asteroids run wild on you?

Slump Busting

Apologies are in order to all of Warning Track Power's faithful readers for the Darling Asteroids' unexpected hiatus.

Sorry, Mom.

And a super sorry to our pal Keith, GM of last week's opponent, The Blouses. A lack of posts meant no one got to find out what a truly maniacal, annoying psychopath you really are. My bad, bro.

But our week and a half vacation was necessary. The Asteroids needed a little time to themselves. Needed to clear their collective heads.

Needed to watch our favorite Sandra Bullock movies on the couch with a gallon of Peanut Butter Ripple and figure out just what is going on.

Did we miss anything important? Not much, just...

-On Monday, Everyone's Favorite Man struck out a season-high 11 Diamondbacks and lowered his ERA to 3.74. He's won his last five decisions and has six wins total, good for fourth in the league but first in our hearts.

Chad didn't get the W on this night, but the Dodgers eventually emerged victorious on the 173rd most exciting play in baseball...the walk-off balk.

-King Felix finally showed glimmers of his true self, going eight strong against the Angels. He got a no-decision, though, and the Angels won on a walk-off grand slam from Kendry Morales, who broke his ankle in the ensuing celebration

Let that be a lesson to everyone out there: Never have fun.

Kendry eats a Failburger, extra failsauce.

-And of course, Mr. Roy Halladay fired a perfect game on Saturday, only the 20th in history. I missed the game but did receive several text messages from elated friends and family, none of who love baseball as much as I do, but who all still got to witness history with my favorite team.

I'm not bitter. Nope, not me. Not even a little.

A special shout-out to my sister, who sent me the following texts somewhere around the 7th inning...

Court: Hey, are you watching the Phils game?

Me: No, why?

Court: I'll tell you later.

Big ups to Little Sis for knowing and respecting the first rule of a perfect game...don't talk about a perfect game. You're the best, Court. Don't ever change.

Three homeruns by Albert Pujols capped off the week, and The Blouses beat the Asteroids 10-2.

Which brings us to the here and now, and the here and now is not pretty.

What's happening to the Darlings happens to a lot of great teams. Heck, it's happening to the Phillies even as we speak. It is often unavoidable and always inexplicable.

No, not the fact that David Spade keeps finding work. I'm talking about something worse (but just barely).

The Darling Asteroids are in a slump.

We started out the season with two straight ties followed by a three week winning streak. Everything was perfect. The sun shone brighter, and Placido Polanco's giant head bobbed happily. All was right with the world.

And then, quicker than a Rajai Davis triple, things went south.

A 8-4 loss to the Notorious Darlings. A 9-3 loss to Kenny Powers Mullet. Last week's 10-2 annihilation. Hanley Ramirez not hustling. Melky Cabrera sucking in general.

And Juan Pierre, picked up for his speed two weeks ago, has exactly two steals since joining the team. Thanks for nothing, JP.

If slumps are a mystery in the world of sports, the bigger mystery is...how do you bust out of one?

Some players try new socks. Others try new batting stances, new routines, not shaving...whatever. Humans are superstitious beings, and athletes in particular.

Anything that might give you that spark you're looking for can't be discounted.

Well, my friends, have I got great news for you. I know the secret for slump busting, and I'm going to share it with you.

His name is Stephen Strasburg, and he will save us all.

Come with me if you want to live.

Highly touted and anticipated, The Chosen One will make his professional debut on Tuesday, June 8th versus the Pittsburgh Pirates.

After blowing through the minor leagues, posting a 1.43 ERA and 60 strikeouts in 50.1 innings, it is time.

Mark you calendars, dear friends, for this is a day that will change everything. Not only the fate of the Washington Nationals but the fate of the Darling Asteroids themselves.

You will always remember where you were when you first saw Mr. Stephen's 100-MPH Wild Ride.

In fact, the Darling Asteroids' season is officially broken into two parts. The first era, Before Stephen Strasburg, was marked with inconsistent and disappointing play.

But the second era...oh, the second era will be magical.

Defined by greatness. Marked by triumph. Stamped by glory. The world is our oyster as we dive full-speed ahead into the second era...After Stephen Strasburg.

From here on out, it's all about A.S.S.

This guy knows what I'm talking about.