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I go through this every year.
Once the World Series is over, my focus lands squarely on the NFL, and more specifically, the sad-sack Minnesota Vikings. With only sixteen games on the schedule, every week is a must win game, and if they’re playing the Packers or the Bears, you want them to win twice on the same day. NFL Sundays are very intense.
Then shortly before baseball season starts, we are treated to the premier sporting event in America, the NCAA Men’s Basketball Tournament. You know how it goes. You fill out a bracket, throw some money to the guy in the corner cubicle at your office, then spend the next three weeks living and dying with the tournament. The one-and-done format makes every game intense, at least for a half. Every game played is the most important one of the season.
So then, just as the Final Four has me whipped into a mouth-foaming frenzy, along comes baseball season. And all that stuff I love about the game – the slow pace, the intricate strategy, and the six-month, 162-game schedule – works against me.
The Yankees just, by all accounts, built the greatest ballpark in history. I will reserve the right to disagree with that notion until I actually see it. Frankly, it better be. They spent $1.3 BILLION dollars on the thing, and remember they didn’t have to buy the land on which it stands. That came from a land swap with the city. So the thing ought to be the Taj Mahal of Ball.
They spent another half-a-billion dollars on three players in December. Remember December? While some people were wondering how they were going to fill their kid’s Christmas stocking and unemployment numbers were gaining a big head of steam, the New York Yankees were throwing around $20 million dollar salaries like they were bricks of government cheese.
Don’t get me wrong. I’m fine with this. If the New York Yankees want to pump $2 Billion into the economy, I have no intention of standing in their way. Hank, Hal, knock yourselves out, boys.
I just don’t think you’re going to get the immediate results you’re expecting.
There’s a lot about Curt Schilling that I really like. He was a member of my absolute favorite team, the 1993 Phillies (Team Fat Guy). He was a key contributor to the demise of the last Yankee dynasty. And when he joined the Boston Red Sox prior to the 2004 season, he brought a culture change with him that led to the best sports story of this decade .
There’s a lot about Schilling that I don’t really care for. The guy loves to hear himself speak. And speak. And speak. And speak. There’s nothing wrong with wanting to be the center of attention, trust me, but this guy takes self-importance to another level.
The best example, of course (and one I’ve referenced before), is St. Patrick’s Day 2005, when Congress called a rogues gallery of (alleged) steroid using ballplayers to testify before them. Schilling was not subpoenaed, but that was a spotlight he couldn’t miss, so he invited himself along.
I have great respect for candor, but quite often Schilling would give his opinions to the press at the expense of his teammates. His first week at Red Sox spring training, he made a point of lecturing Manny Ramirez about dependability right in front of a couple Red Sox beat writers.
My overwhelming memory of Schilling in the ’93 playoffs is him writhing in agony – perfectly positioned in front of the CBS dugout camera – as he watched Mitch “Wild Thing” Williams struggle through another ugly but successful save. Yeah, we all wondered if this was going to be the night that Mitch would blow it for the Phillies, and truth be told he eventually did, but Schilling showed himself to be the greatest drama queen since Jerry Tarkanian, covering his head with a towel, biting his finger nails, and staring daggers at the mound every time Williams went to a three ball count.
It’s not that he was a diva, or that the things he said weren’t true. Or that they weren’t necessary. You just got the feeling that he thought of himself as Baseball’s B.S. police and its moral compass. Please. You aren’t the pope. You’re a pitcher.
But, man, what a great pitcher he was.
So, I have to take real exception to Andy’s assertion that he’s not a Hall Of Famer. It seems that the arguments against him are this – 216 wins, no Cy Young awards, and his numbers aren’t as good as Bert Blyleven’s.
Let’s work backwards on these arguments. No, his numbers aren’t as good as Bert’s. Fewer wins, fewer strikeouts and nowhere close on complete games and shutouts.
So?
Canada was eliminated by Italy last night in the World Baseball Classic. Yeah, I know what you’re thinking.
“So?”
Well, Mr. Cheney, you aren’t alone. There’s been a lot of criticism of the WBC. That it’s played at a poor time of the year, that it’s not a true showing of international talent, that it’s a superfluous exercise created by the commissioner to do nothing more than line the pockets of Major League Baseball. While it’s hard to argue with some of these points, the critics are missing the bigger picture.
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(I know you have attention span issues. I’ll try to be brief.)
Manny, Manny, Manny. What the hell are you doing? If I’m reading this right, and I’m pretty sure I am, you just turned down $45 million guaranteed.
ARE YOU OUT OF YOUR MIND?
I know you’re the best hitter of your generation, and one of the best right handed hitters ever, but Brother, you need to take some stock of your surroundings. Not sure if you’ve noticed or not, but money’s pretty tight these days.
First I’d like to say that it’s an out-and-out travesty that Bruce Springsteen’s song “The Wrestler” was not nominated for an Academy Award. Now onto the important stuff.
As a keenly interested observer of the Minnesota Twins, I have spent the offseason asking myself one simple question: “How does Bill Smith still have a job?”
It’s not been any big secret that the Twins went into the offseason with major needs at third base and in the bullpen. The Twins made a half-hearted attempt at signing Casey Blake, but recoiled in horror when he asked for a third year. Blake re-signed with the Dodgers.
The man who saved baseball in Seattle is going home, and that’s good for the game. Ken Griffey, Jr. who is without question the greatest player ever to wear a Seattle uniform, agreed to a one year contract to return to – and presumably retire with – the Mariners.
Griffey lead the Mariners to the post-season for the first time in their history in 1995 by beating the California Angels in a one game playoff. They then beat the heavily-favored New York Yankees in the Divisional Series. That dramatic playoff-series victory was punctuated by Griffey scoring from first base on an Edgar Martinez double and flashing a blindingly telegenic smile to the cameras as his teammates piled on top of him. Widely rumored to be relocating to Tampa Bay at the time, Griffey and his teammates are credited with creating the groundswell of support that brought about the construction of Safeco Field, keeping the team in Seattle.
Four years later he told the Mariners he wanted to play closer to home, who then promptly traded him to Cincinnati. Griffey struggled with injuries throughout his eight-and-a-half seasons with the Reds, and was dealt to the Chicago White Sox at the trade deadline last summer.
Pitchers and catchers have reported to spring training, and by the end of the week, the entire membership of the Major League Baseball Players Association will be concentrated in either the state of Florida or the greater Phoenix metropolitan area. For every player in each location, there will be at least two reporters with one question to ask them: “Are you now, or have you ever been a user of steroids?” For the players who have spent more than five years on a major league roster, the next question will be “Are you on the list of 104?”
It’s been seven years since Jose Canseco washed out of baseball. It’s been five years since he published his book, Juiced. It’s been four years since baseball’s Black St. Patrick’s Day, when Congress called Canseco, Sammy Sosa, Rafael Palmeiro, and Mark McGwire to testify before them (Curt Schilling, hoping to get his picture in the paper, also tagged along).
McGwire’s silence that day destroyed his chances of being named to the Hall Of Fame. Palmeiro’s righteous – and fraudulent – indignation did the same to him. Sosa conveniently forgot how to speak English in the committee room, but the guess here is he won’t see the dais at Cooperstown anytime soon, either.
This Sunday is the first good day of 2009. The camps in Arizona and Florida will open, and – finally – we can start talking about lineups, bullpen roles and infield alignments. It means we will have made it through the purgatory of another football season, and can get down to real business. Boys & girls, it’s baseball season.
Football is a fine game, I guess. Like most people who grew up in the 70’s and 80’s, it’s the first sport I really loved. It’s got plenty of action, plenty of strategy, and enough scoring to keep the average sports fan happy and interested. It’s a game uniquely suited to television, which means it can be supplied to the masses without too much effort. On the surface, it’s an easy game to understand. Hell, it’s an easy game to love, which is why in the last 25 years it has become the true favorite American pastime.
That doesn’t mean it’s better than baseball, however.
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