Super Bowl Hangover

The smoke has cleared, the fans have departed and the confetti has nestled snuggly into the astroturf. Some poor sap has to vacuum all that stuff up, but that's not important right now.

Last night the country took part in America's greatest invention...a day fueled by football and friends, by bright lights and booze, by overindulgence, glory and those tiny hotdogs with the cute little crusts that when you dip them in honey-mustard sauce it's just the best thing.

And as the Green Bay Packers ride off into the sunset, Lombardi Trophy clutched victoriously, the rest of us schlep to work in the morning with a killer Super Bowl hangover.

Eyes bleary, heads aching and with morsels of chicken wings still lodged in our collective arteries, we shuffle slowly and silently towards the break room's coffee machine.

The room is quiet and despondent. No one speaks. Everyone just stares into their mug. Steve from HR looks like he might cry. The mood resembles that of a wake, only worse. Football is gone.

Finally breaking the silence, Steve let's out a long, depressed sigh. With tears welling in his sullen eyes he turns to you and says:

"Well shit, man. What now?"

I'll tell you "what now," bro!

America's favorite sport may be gone, but its national pastime (as in, something to pass the time until football) is right around the corner.

So break out the Big League Chew, brush up on your sabermetrics and don't forget to remember to never step on the foul line...because baseball is back!

Man up, Steve!

Or rather...it will be shortly. Pitchers and catchers report in no time. And while the two month lull between the Super Bowl and the start of baseball is excruciating, it gives us plenty of time to get our minds right for the coming year.

It's no secret that last year, the Darling Asteroids fell apart. With Evan Longoria, Hanley Ramirez and Matt Kemp all failing to have the three greatest offensive seasons in history, the Darlings lacked the firepower to compete through the summer.

When Stephen Strasburg's elbow tragically exploded, injuring 13 patrons at a local Applebees, our season was effectively over.

The team was just too demoralized to contend after that, and we failed to make the playoffs. Pablo Sandoval's head hung low for days. Poor David Aardsma couldn't handle the stress, and by season's end was visibly exacerbated.

Then Michael Young walked in and caught David exacerbating. Things got awkward.

Most preseason predictions I made also fell flat, as I went a lame 3-for-10 in picking division and award winners, nailing only both Cy Youngs (Doc and King Felix) and the NL East.

The actual season had a bitter end as well as the Phillies lost in the NLCS, sending the Giants to the World Series and me into a blackout after too much sadness whiskey.

I think the Giants went on to play the New York Rangers? I'm not sure, I wasn't paying attention. If you actually watched the World Series, shoot me an email and let me know who won.

In a shocking twist, Jacob wins the World Series.

But none of that matters now.

Today is a new day, a new season, a new year! On the back of steadfast determination and laser-like focus, a John Rocker Invitational Championship is headed my way.

I even have the perfect spot in my room picked out for the trophy: On my desk, next to my Chase Utley bobblehead, right underneath my Lady Gaga poster, right beside my reserve stash of sadness whiskey.

And in the actual baseball realm, this season is littered with new questions and answers. A number of stars have relocated during a busy offseason...how will they impact their new clubs?

In a symbolic move, Johnny Damon and Manny Ramirez signed with Tampa Bay, choosing to spend the twilights of their careers in the state most people go to die.

With Adrian Gonzalez and Carl Crawford joining the fray, Boston's lineup rivals the fabled 1927 Yankees, only with more black people (but just barely).

Zack Greinke was traded from Kansas City to Milwaukee, which is more of a lateral move, really.

And a certain Clifton Phifer Lee reunited with his best buddies in Philadelphia, prompting most NL clubs to bemoan, "Well shit, man. What now?"

And these tasty subplots are just for starters. Which lucky souls will be drafted to my squad this year? What will that squad even be called? And what is the over/under on Chad Billingsley-related poems?

While I can't promise any answers just yet, I can promise that this season will be filled with excitement, intrigue and unexpected plot twists at every turn.

Just keep your personal items close and don't make any sudden movements around Prince Fielder, and you're bound to have the time of your life.

What, you have something better to do?

You can't be serious.

Shipping Up To Pawtucket

Sometimes, the fantasy baseball gods smile on you.

Oh, not on me. They haven't smiled on the Darling Asteroids all season.

I feel like a confused boyfriend: Me and the fantasy gods are apparently in a fight, and I have no idea what I did wrong.

But they've certainly taken a shining to my roommate Kyle.

First his best pitcher, Cliff Lee, gets traded from Seattle to the front-running, offensively-gifted Rangers, ensuring him more run support and many more wins.

And now Dustin Pedroia, his starting second baseman who's currently on the DL, is having a few rehab starts in Pawtucket, RI...just a hop and a skip from us.

What better chance to go and see baseball's fourth best second baseman in action?

Hoping to witness some whacky minor league hijinks a la Bull Durham or Major League 3: Back to the Minors, we piled into a car and were off.

About an hour later we arrived in a suburban Rhode Island town, greeted by a wooden sign reading, "Welcome to historic Pawtucket."

Kyle's bearded face twisted with puzzlement.

"Why is Pawtucket so historic?" he asked.

You know why.

We parked and strolled towards McCoy Stadium as the PawSox prepared to do battle with the Buffalo Bison, the New York Mets Triple-A affiliate.

As per contractual agreement, we weren't within 50 feet of the stadium before hearing the Dropkick Murphys' signature song.

Will Smith did it with "Miami."

Jay-Z did it with "Empire State of Mind."

And now the Murphys have written Boston's default "get-pumped sports anthem," ensuring they live on forever in local lore and are invited to play state fairs for years to come.

Well played, Dropkicks.

We sat in the upper deck along the third base line, the perfect spot to view everyone's favorite diminutive defenseman in action.

Unfortunately, Little Boy Pete was listed as the DH, robbing us of a chance to see his trademark grit and determination in the field.

He doesn't stop grounders with his glove. He stops them with his heart.

Regardless, a mostly sellout crowd was ready for some baseball.

But excitement quickly turned to sadness as Pedroia bounced into an inning-ending double play in the first, weakly smacking a pitch that Brandon Phillips would have scorched off the IHOP sign in right for a double.

Still, minor league baseball remains a great, cheap alternative to the big leagues where you can see stars of tomorrow as well as a few familiar faces.

Former Cubs pitcher Rich Hill was on the bump for the PawSox, and former catcher Michael Barrett pulled backstop duty for the Bison.

And the once great Carlos Delgado, he of the 473 career homeruns, hit cleanup for Pawtucket.

Sadly, he watched two fastballs go by before flailing at an 0-2 slider. It was a grim reminder that when star athletes fall, they fall hard.

Seeing the formerly feared Delgado in the minors just didn't feel right. I kept thinking:

"Does he really think he can still hang in the majors? Or is he holding on for a few more paychecks?"

Either way, the decision to walk away from the game is his and his alone, regardless of how far he falls and how painful it is to watch.

Go polish your Silver Slugger awards, Carlos. Everything will be OK.

Meanwhile, our Napoleonic warrior flies out meekly to right on a pitch that Ian Kinsler would have absolutely roped up the middle for a single.

The game was tied 1-1 in the 5th until Gil Velazquez, a career minor leaguer who definitely did not win the 2007 AL Rookie of the Year award, hit a two-run bomb into the PawSox bullpen to put them ahead 3-1.

Finally things are looking up for 'ole Gil.

The crowd was loving it, especially one little boy seated behind us.

Experiencing the age-old bond of fathers taking their sons to ballgames, Junior was asking the most adorable questions.

"Daddy, who's that man?"

"Daddy, did we win yet?"

"Daddy, how come Pedroia won the 2008 MVP when Justin Morneau had six more homeruns and 46 more RBIs in a lineup that wasn't nearly as good as the Red Sox?"

Kids say the darndest things.

Meanwhile, Captain Shortstack flies out to left, daintily lofting a pitch that Chase Utley would have totally deposited into the right field bleachers.

For those who have not yet realized, Dustin Pedroia is tiny. His 5-ft-9 listing is generous to say the least.

It's a shame he doesn't play shortstop. The jokes would write themselves.

The fans continued to root, root, root for the home team and were rewarded with a 3-1 victory.

We throw on Guided By Voices' "Alien Lanes" and sit in mostly silence on the ride home. As we motor away from McCoy Stadium, frontman Robert Pollard serenades us:

"You can't lie to yourself/That it's the chance of a lifetime."

And that's the best thing about minor league baseball. It's about watching guys who are so close to their dreams, they can feel it.

It's an intersection of careers...up-and-coming prospects sharing lockers with grizzled vets, all hoping for the same phone call.

I imagine Dustin Pedroia in the PawSox clubhouse, smiling to himself, knowing he's shipping up to Boston in a few days.

The youngsters gather around as he regales them with tales of being in the show, where you hit white balls for batting practice and never handle your own luggage.

A faint smirk disappears from Carlos Delgado's face. He knows his best days are behind him.

But hope springs eternal for the likes of Josh Reddick and Lars Anderson, who know their best days are still ahead.

The minors are about learning. They're about listening. They're about taking your hacks and waiting your turn.

As we go up, we go down.

They're Killing Independent Jacob

Despite what your mommy always told you, the world is messed up.

I'm sure when you were little she would tuck you in at night and read you a cute little bedtime story.

Probably some talking turtle and squirrel having a whacky adventure. Probably a lesson about sharing at the end. The details aren't important.

And after the story she'd kiss your little forehead and tell you that you're different, that you're special.

That you can be anything you want to be.

But most importantly, she'd tell you that if you were honest and kind and tried your darndest, everything would always work out.

Well, bad news, Johnboy: Your mommy was a damn fool.

What an idiot.

The truth, friends, is that the world is not black and white. It is often gray and murky, cold and unforgiving.

Sometimes, it's just plain mean.

And no amount of good deeds will negate the fact that someday, we're all going to have to make choices.

Choices with no clear cut right or wrong. Choices which, regardless of the outcome, will leave you feeling hollow and unfulfilled.

For me, that day is today.

A day when my allegiance will be put to the ultimate test.

A day when my moral fibers will be strained, twisted, hung out and beaten worse than the Pittsburgh Pirates on a 10-game road trip.

On one hand, the Darling Asteroids sit ten points out of a playoff spot with four weeks to play. This season is far from over.

With Mo Rivera, Michael Young and Adam Wainwright joining the fray, we believe we have what it takes to make a late run.

We have a fire in our eyes and hunger in our bellies. We are determined. We are strong.

No one can tell us we're wrong.

On the other hand, my hometown Phillies are smack dab in the middle of the NL East hunt, their traditional second half surge pulling them within games of Atlanta.

With less than two months to play, every win is vital.

Every double down the line, every seeing-eye single, every late-inning rally could be the difference between an early vacation and October glory.

And therein lies the problem.

Today, the Phillies play the second game of a three game set versus the Los Angeles Dodgers.

If you know anything about me, anything at all, I believe you can see where this is headed.

I just wish it didn't have to come to this.

I hoped this wouldn't happen.

I prayed to Jesus, prayed to Yahweh, prayed to Allah. Heck, I even threw Vishnu and Buddha a bone.

Like Rickey Henderson in his prime, I had all the bases covered.

But it was no use. There is nothing more I can do.

Despite all my best efforts, my two worlds will collide.

Everyone's Favorite Man toes the rubber tonight against the Phillies...and I have the biggest decision of my life to make.

This chick had it easy.

It's a choice every fantasy GM has to make at some point during the season: Who do I root for?

If this contest were early in the season, it'd be no contest at all: Let's go Phils. Sorry, Mufasa.

But these are the dog days of August, and while the game isn't a must-win for Philly, this week is certainly a must-win for the Darling Asteroids.

In a perfect world, Chad would twirl a gem of a ballgame and the Braves would also lose, costing the Phillies no ground in the standings.

Or, in a different perfect world, Chad would go 8 2/3, strikeout 20 batters but lose 1-0 on a Carlos Ruiz walkoff.

The Asteroids would get some stats, but the Phils would get the W.

But spoiler alert, friends: We don't live in a perfect world, and there's little doubt how this saga plays out.

First, Chad will get shelled. Something like seven runs in 2 1/3 innings. The Darlings' ERA and WHIP will skyrocket.

Staked to a comfortable lead, Charlie Manuel will go to his bullpen early to preserve Roy Oswalt, who's no Roy Halladay.

The Dodgers will slowly chip away at the Phils' pen, culminating with a two-run homer off Brad Lidge in the 9th.

I would hope, as a shred of silver lining, that the perfect Matt Kemp hits this tater, resulting in something that resembles good news for the struggling Asteroids.

But alas. It's probably going to be Casey Blake. I hate my life.

No win for Chad, no win for the Phils, and the Braves will likely hurl two perfect games against Houston to boot.

I think back to my worst fantasy defeat, which luckily resulted in a moment of real triumph.

On the last day of the 2007 season, Jimmy Rollins stole two bases, scored two runs and helped secure the Phillies first postseason berth since I was seven years old.

J-Roll's big day, however, knocked me out of first place in a league I'd spent all summer dominating.

I was momentarily furious. Jimmy, how could you do this to me?!

That's what you get.

But of course, I couldn't stay mad at him for long.

Brett Myers soon froze Wily Mo Pena on a knee-buckling curveball in the 9th, and a joyous dogpile of red and white ensued in the center of Citizens Bank Park.

So that's the constant struggle a fantasy GM must endure.

Maybe your fantasy team is cruising towards a title. Maybe your actual team is seated comfortably in first...but the two rarely coincide.

Tonight's game, for me at least, is a win-lose situation.

Regardless of the outcome, I'll likely have a reason to fist pump...but also a reason to sulk. I just wish I could have it both ways.

I wish I could have my baseball cake and eat it too.

I wish Chad could get his tenth win of the season, yet somehow the Phillies end up closer to a 4th straight NL East crown.

But it's not that simple. Love never is.

It's a freaking battlefield, man.

Wheelin' and Dealin'

It's getting late early for the Darling Asteroids.

An overall score of 89-105-10, seated in 9th place with four weeks of regular season play left. Only the top six teams make it to the playoffs.

Last season we made it to the finals, tying Joba Rules 6-6 but losing the ERA tiebreaker.

We could almost taste the immortality,eternal glory nuzzled comfortably against us...but it was a quick wink and a nod before breaking our darling hearts.

What a tease.

This season has been a different story. For the first time in my five years as a pretend baseball GM, we're in danger of missing the playoffs.

They're starting to say I don't have what it takes anymore.

That they appreciate my years of service, but the Darlings need someone who can finally get them over the hump.

Rumors that management interviewed some hotshot fantasy football GM cannot be confirmed or denied, but just last night ownership gave me the dreaded "vote of confidence."

So in a last gasp attempt to save the season---and possibly my job---two blockbuster trades have been made in the last two weeks.

First, we shipped the man who would be King Felix to Antarctic Arsenal in exchange for Rangers 3B Michael Young and Yankees closer Mariano Rivera.

Former Twins closer Jon Rauch was rendered useless and expendable at the reality trade deadline, opening the door for the Asteroids acquire the greatest closer that has ever lived.

Young is having a good year as well, hitting 16 homeruns, knocking in 64 and scoring 74 runs. A nice little upgrade for a struggling offense.

And boy, has our offense been struggling, thanks in no small part to Hanley Lollygagging Ramirez...so it was time for him to go.

His numbers this season have been comparable to White Sox SS Alexei Ramirez (.280-50-58 for Hanley, .289-43-53 for Alexei).

So we sent Hanley and Placido Polanco to the Space Turtles for NL Cy Young contender Adam Wainwright, he of the 2.07 ERA and 16 wins.

There's nothing more exciting than hearing about someone else's fantasy trades, right?

You're on the edge of your seat right now. You love this.

Here's hoping this new blood can inject some life into our Darlings and surge us into the playoffs.

This season is growing old far quicker than we expected.

In a few short weeks it could be over, done with, gone before its time...a brilliant flash in the night sky that burnt out before it could even live its life.

Luckily for us, this is fake baseball.

It should come with a disclaimer: No actual lives or feelings were hurt in the making of these trades.

The same cannot be said for some. Take poor J.A. Happ, for example.

Life was good for the man who finished second in Rookie of the Year voting last season, until Charlie Manuel called him into his office one fateful day.

"Kid," I imagine Cholly said in his slow-paced southern-drawl while chomping on a tuna sandwich, "it's great to have you back from the DL. You were a big part of this team last season and we missed you."

"But don't get comfortable. You live in Texas now."

And just like that Happ is uprooted, shipped to the bottom-feeding Astros, likely never to sniff the playoffs until Houston goes through another "rebuilding year" (probably next season) and he gets traded to a contender.

Can you imagine?

It's easy to not feel sorry for these blokes since they're stupid rich and all, but they've got it rough sometimes.

Do me a favor: Close your eyes and imagine you're a famous athlete.

(No, don't really close your eyes. How would you read the rest of this fine post? Come on, man...stay focused)

But imagine you're an athlete. For argument's sake, let's say you're New England Patriots quarterback Tom Brady.

Congratulations, you're handsome.

But your day at the office consists of 300-lb. men trying to annihilate you at every given opportunity.

You also have to spend time before and after work answering inane questions from media members who absolutely can't do what you do, yet still have some excellent suggestions on how you can improve.

So that's the life you lead.

You're under intense scrutiny and pressure from various avenues on a daily basis, and it's other men's jobs to make sure you do your job poorly.

But there's one more thing to consider, one thing that gets lost in the shuffle for these poor millionaires.

One thing that makes the life of a celebrity all the more bizarre and, in a way, sad.

If you're a famous athlete like Tom Brady, you can't go to the mall.

You just can't. Not even for a quick stop at Old Navy.

Don't even think about it.

You wish.

A host of the basic activities the rest of us enjoy are off limits to our favorite stars because they're going to be swarmed by fans and photographers the second they show their chiseled faces.

A lot of people won't feel sorry for trade bait like Ted Lilly or Lance Berkman, but I sort of do.

It's a strange, cold life these gentlemen lead sometimes.

Maybe I'm just getting older and wiser. Maybe I'm just more empathetic and advanced than some.

Maybe I'm just trying to deflect the fact that the Darling Asteroids suck more than "The Last Airbender."

Still, if you ever run into the likes of Cliff Lee on the street or in an Applebee's, have a heart. Give him a hug.

He's fighting a tough battle called life, just like you and I.

It will help him sleep better on his bed made of money in his house made of gold.

Oh Happy Day

Twenty-six years ago today, everything changed.

In a little hum-drum town in northeast Ohio, Everyone’s Favorite Man was born into this world.

And oh! What a wonderful world is has been since that day. Food tastes better, colors are brighter. Carl Pavano remembers how to pitch.

For all that you’ve done for me, for the world and for the Darling Asteroids, Chad, I’m going to do my best to give back to you on this, your special day.

Here are twenty-six reasons why you are, simply put, the greatest thing ever invented ever.

1. The only logical place to start is your first name. Chad: cool and hip, yet unpretentious. Not like a Brent, or a Tyler or, heaven forbid, a Guy Fieri.

Nope.

Simple. Concise. Chad.

2. Billingsley: Regal and refined, like and old English king.

3. Your curveball. What can I say? Some gentlemen prefer blondes. Some men prefer wide backsides. I’m a curveball man.

Give me a good breaking ball and I’m yours forever.

4. Your fastball. It tops out in the 95 MPH range and rarely dips below 90 MPH. No showing off from ‘ole Chad. He’s so humble.

5. Your career ERA of 3.62...not bad at all, but like my self-esteem after a night cruising for chicks, we know it’s coming down.

6. Because after your first career plate appearance (a HBP), a weaker man would have surrendered. Would have thrown in the towel and and walked away.

“Baseball is too hard. I’m scared,” this hypothetical mama’s boy would have whined.


Not you, Chad. In your next at-bat you stood tall like the man among men that you are and drove in two runs of your own. You are truly an inspiration.

7. Because you were born in Defiance, Ohio.

Defiance, Ohio?! Are you kidding me?

The only way that’s more prefect is if there’s a Completegameshutoutville, Missouri...and I checked.

There isn't.

8. Because of your one career homerun, a majestic shot off a hanging slider from San Diego's Josh Banks.

You could easily pull a Steve Nebraska and hit one every time up but, as we’ve seen, that just ain't your style.

9. The number of wins you have this season. Also the number of times a day you make me smile.

10. Because you never rush into things. You debuted on June 15, 2006 yet didn’t make the All-Star team until 2009.

I’m glad we waited, Chad. It made that night all the more special.

11. You’ve given up 324 runs in your career, 301 of which were earned.

324 - 301 = 23, the number of Chicago Bulls great Michael Jordan.

Coincidence? No such thing.

12. According to my twelfth favorite website, baseball-reference.com, your career Rrep is 433 and your career Rdef is -2. I am unsure what that means, but it sounds fantastic.

13. The number of runs you’ve surrendered in two playoff starts against the Phillies. Sorry for being so selfish about this, buddy. I’m not a perfect person.

14. Because a few weeks ago, I was in a bad way.

The love of my life, country music star Carrie Underwood, had just gotten married and the Darling Asteroids were on a terrible losing streak.

You were the only one who was there for me. You calmly listened, never judged. You were a shoulder to cry on.

And afterward you took me to Applebee’s. I’ll never forget that.

15. The number of consecutive scoreless innings you’ve thrown. Look out, Orel Hershiser. There’s a new sheriff in town.

16. The number of games you won in 2008, a career best. But heck, we all know a 20-win season is on the horizon someday. Maybe even 30 wins.

That’s what I like about you, Chad. You’re unpredictable.

17. Those impossibly dark brown eyes of yours. I’ve been trying to contact Van Morrison about re-writing his classic hit just for you.

“Brown Eyed Chad” would win so many Grammys. It’s a shame he won’t return my calls.

18. Because of that winning smile.

*ping!*

19. Your west coast games finish too late for me to watch, usually. But it’s always a special treat to wake up and see a “W” by your name. Really starts the morning out right.

20. Dodger Blue. It’s always been my favorite color, yet I never knew why. In retrospect, it seems so obvious.

21. Because of this incredible statistic: Every time you win, the Dodgers are undefeated.

Think about it.

22. That’s how many years it’s been since Jack Buck couldn’t believe what he just saw...Kirk Gibson taking Dennis Eckersley deep in Game 1 of the World Series, hobbling around the base paths, fist pumping like a champ.

That was Dodgertown’s last title, Chad. But with you, that kid Kershaw, the perfect Matt Kemp and company, something tells me it won’t be much longer.

23. Because whenever I’m feeling down, whenever The Man is cramping my style, whenever I feel like pulling a Zack Greinke and freaking out on everyone...I think of your three career complete games. And suddenly, I’m at peace.

24. Because, while I have no way of confirming it, my heart tells me that your favorite song is “My Baby Takes The Morning Train” by Sheena Easton. And that’s just awesome.

25. Because of our past. We’ve been through a lot, you and I have, big guy. But I’ll always keep a spot open for you, and I know my faith will be rewarded.

26. Because of the future.

You have ace potential, Chad. I know it. You know it. Everyone knows it.

In auction drafts, I’ll continue to spend ten dollars too much on you. In regular drafts, I’ll continue to select you three rounds too early.

Why?

Because you have the magic. Because I need to see that smiling face in my lineup every five days.

Because you’re my boy.

Happy birthday, Mufasa. You the man.