Incoherent Streams of Baseball Consciousness

Of late, baseball of the Tiger variety has been making me feel like the Mad Hatter, so I'm going to slosh some tea into a few broken cups and expose you all to blasts of rabid lunacy.

Peavy's blue eyes are rather piercing as he looks out of the dugout in the 7th with a Sox runner on third and only one out in a game that's knotted up at 4.  As Beckham stands in, I fantasize that his hand is broken in five places from that earlier hit-by-pitch.  He's handling the bat fine, so, guess not.

Dotel wears his cap like a trucker--lightly perched atop his head.  I hate that.  Give me Max Scherzer's old school look, por favor.

Tenth pitch of Beckham's at bat.  He loops one out to center, and it is deposited safety into Austin Jackson's glove.  Insert a bunch of strained, but relieved hysterical laughter here.  Aside number two, I was instructed by my 13 year old, who looked over my shoulder and exhaled dragon breath in my face, to change what I had typed as Ajax to Austin Jackson.  I TOLD YOU THERE WOULD BE RAMBLING VAGARIES!

I know people have just had their stuff and lives threatened by a natural disaster and such, but I selfishly can only think of the fact that I still look for Magglio Ordóñez when the camera pans the dugout.

Miguel Cabrera steps to the dish to chants of MVP.  This after being vilified mercilessly last night when he failed to run out a ground ball to end the game last night.   HE IS EXPERIENCING THE SAME WILD SWINGS FROM DESPAIR TO EUPHORIA THAT I AM.

As the Sox make the call to the 'pen, Pitbull's "Give Me Everything" plays over the PA.  I curled up into a ball and rocked it out as I thought of all the runners stranded in scoring position in Victor's absence.

Prince comes up and gets beaned by Thornton in the shoulder.  BASES ARE JUICED FOR DELMON YOUNG AND ZEEEEEERO OUTS.  All I can do is laugh maniacally because I think of the many ways we're going to squander again and strand every duck on the proverbial pond.  DELMON, DELMON YOUNG, I SAY, clears the bases with a gapper to left, but tries to get to third and is out by a mile.  Rod tells us it was "just outstanding coaching there by Gene Lamont sending Fielder home."  Oh Rod, I just...even crazed babble fails me at the moment.

Peavy's brow now contracts rather peevedly (see what I did there) in the dugout and his mouth twists in displeasure.   HA, JAKE PEAVY, HA!  Actually, I kind of like Peavy.  But never, ever tell anyone that.

You see my state of mind, here?  You see the diseased thinking patterns, the freaking out at every turn?   It's all your fault, Tigers.

Avisail Garcia is in this game, y'all.  And so is Joaquin Benoit.   Rod says his numbers this year are outstanding.  Yes, Rod, the number of home runs he has surrendered is nothing short of horrifically OUTSTANDING.  IMAGINARY BLOGGER CAPS COP, COME AT ME, I MAY NEVER TYPE IN LOWER CASE AGAIN.

Benoit gets a nice strikeout of Wise, and sends Youk back to the dugout hacking at the air as well.  I guess he just needed me to yell about those home runs a little.  All that's left in the 8th is DUNN DUNN DUNN, who reminds me of one of my most loathed players of all time:   Rob Deer.  Home run or strikeout.  That is all you get.  Man I hated Rob Deer.  And Dunn better not get comeback player of the year.  Dunn went around, but 3rd base ump Gary Cedarstrom rules he didn't, so Benoit has to throw one more pitch to STRIKE OUT THE SIDE, WOO!  I also dislike when people say that someone struck out the side if runners reached base during that inning.  Even if all the outs are strikeouts, I feel that the term striking out the side should be reserved for retiring all batters on Ks in order.

After a routine defensive play by Ramirez (you expect me give him credit?) to retire Peralta, Omah hits a bloop single, and swipes second.  I will only call Omar Infante "Omah," like the Red Sox fan that always called Nomar Garciaparra "Nomah."  Sorry.  I can't help it.  That's how I always say in in my mind.  Couple Ks for My Ajax tonight, but a triple, too, so just be quiet with your "austinjacksonstrikesout" hashtags.  Dirks could pad our lead here, and we might need every run we can plate.  He pops out harmlessly to Youk.  Sigh.

Top nine.  Papa Grande.  Two quick outs, but I'm scared to even think we might finish this thing off here.  Of course, A.J. Pierzynski is up.  Of course, we would love nothing more than to strike this turkey out and see his walk of shame back to the dugout as we point in the faces of the putrid Sox.  But Valverde can't find the plate and its a four pitch walk.  I look around for things to break, but there's not much left, honestly.  I'd like to avoid grabbing the fireplace poker and smashing out the glass fireplace doors, because we've had some critters come in through the chimney before, and I don't particularly care to have another bat land ON MY FREAKING FOOT IN THE HOUSE AND I'LL BET MY NEIGHBORS COULD DO WITHOUT THE BLOOD CURDLING SHRIEKS.  Yes, that was an actual thing, and I won't describe to you how I was awakened in the night to this wild creature.  But, if you want to send me consolatory gifts, feel free.

Hahahaha, Valverde gets Viciedo on a pitch that was actually quite a bit inside, IMO.  YUP.  THAT's ABOUT RIGHT.  Rip that jersey out of your uniform pants, and dance.  DANCE PARTY, USA!  Yes, I am decrepitly old, and I'm sure you've never heard of Dance Party, USA, which was an actual show when I was a teenager.

I think I've traumatized everyone enough for one evening, and the Tigers won, so, you know, high fives all around.

Walking It Off

A good friend of mine hung up his blogging cleats.  This makes me rather sad.  I'm not so secretly hoping that it's a temporary hiatus, and not goodbye forever.  But who knows?  I haven't been posting much myself lately, but can't quite bring myself to put the shutters up.  It's hard to give such a thing up.  I might even have to choke back a tear or something.

Scott told me a little while back that he was going to be punking out quitting the blogging game.  I kind of didn't believe him.  He was churning out a lot of great content, so it really didn't seem possible.  Also, he lies a lot.  I thought he wouldn't be able to pull the trigger when it came down to it.  Even I can be wrong once in a while.

Anyway, I just wanted to say thank you to Scott Rogowski for entertaining us for the past four years.  Many times when I was bored, I'd beg him to write something.  He's also been my shoulder to cry on whenever the Tigers make me crazy.  Designate Robertson will stay on my blog roll indefinitely.  Feel free to browse the archives, and check periodically to see whether Rogo has come out of retirement.

Take care, my friend, and accept my gratitude for a spectacular blogging career.  Way to go out on top.

When the Yanks Come to Town

I would like to begin by thanking the old man and kid for taking me to the park on Tuesday for my birthday.  I didn’t even have to beg!  I fear I will never again receive this best of all gifts, because the guy sitting behind my husband spilled beer on him, not once, but twice.  The first time was relatively benign, because it spilled at his feet, and he was able to avoid much more than sticky soles.  The second time, a fly ball was hit to left, deep, and the guy jumped up in a rush of excitement to witness the ball land safely in Ichiro’s glove, depositing his beer down my husband’s back in the process.  Now, a person who does not drink is possibly the worst one to douse with suds, and although he accepted the abashed apologies of the overzealous fan with as much equanimity as he could muster, he was rather put out--on the inside--you know?  The worst part was that the guy was awkwardly dabbing the spouse’s back with wadded up stadium napkins.  I tried to intervene and do it myself, but the whole thing was a shambles at that point.  Thankfully, the whole evening was not ruined, and I have to say that the old man shook it off quicker than I might have.

There were a couple of Yankee fans in front of us, quiet, on the down low Yankee fans, who sported no Yankee gear, and did no visible cheering.  In fact, I didn’t realize they WERE Yankee fans, until Andy Dirks tried to stretch a double into a triple.  I lamented that the scoreboard will not show replays of negative/controversial plays.  The guys turned around and said “negative?”  To which I responded in the decided affirmative, YES, NEGATIVE.  They laughed and one guy asked in a rather surprised tone “you’re keeping books?”  It’s a sad commentary that folks are still taken aback by a girl keeping score.

Miguel Cabrera, ladies and gentlemen.  If you live in the area and don’t get off your keester to see the guy in person, you must not like baseball that much.  All Miguel does is go out there and put up MVP caliber numbers year after year.  Ho hum.  He doesn’t make a lot of himself.  Doesn’t appear to relish talking himself up, as evidenced by him bodily dragging Austin Jackson into the post-game interview the other night.  I don’t think I exaggerated by once saying that there would be “mobs of teary-eyed fans barreling toward him, jumping into his arms, and suffocating him in the clutches of gratitude.”  He’s that good.  Enjoy the show.  Players of his caliber don’t come along every draft, you know.

Ok.  Let us chat about the 9^th, shall we?  I want to try to describe the feeling I had while watching runners at second and third, with Curtis Granderson at the dish.  I was standing up, but probably should have sat down.  I had a queasy, slightly unsteady sensation flowing lurchingly through my body.  I kept blinking my eyes looking at those baserunners standing forebodingly in scoring position, and my mind couldn’t get away from the fact that Grandy could easily launch one out on the very next pitch.  I was sitting behind the Yankee pen, and David Robertson had begun warming.  He paused to bend down and watch the next pitch when Curtis let Papa Grande off the hook by popping out to Fielder.  Geez.  Witnessing Valverde flush a win down the toilet isn’t on my bucket list.

Bring Me a Higher Club

Sadly, my baseball writing drive has not been very, um, virile lately.  I think of something to write about, but never quite get to the climactic posting moment, you know?  However, our latest string of suck shocks me out of my torpor.

I hereby demand that we bring this latest bout of inefficacy to an immediate halt, okay?  I mean, there is no rational reason that this team should lose 6 out of 8 games.  We have not been gutted by injuries.  Our roster is not full of glorified AAA guys.  Ahem, well we have some ball players that are not glorified AAA guys. You are acutely aware of the grossly underperforming nature of some of our roster.  Yes, this is well-travelled territory.  I will make another wagon rut in the trail of tears that is Delmon Young’s career.  This is an overall number one draft pick.   I defy you to find a bigger bust.   Slight hyperbole perhaps, but every baseball great from Ty Cobb to Ted Williams has rolled over in his grave 1000 times over this bloke’s underachievements.  Dmitri himself probably holds his head in his hands every evening over drinks as a dirge plays hauntingly in the background when he reflects on what might have been with his brother.

Last night.  I can hardly put words to my blind rage.  The game should never have started, in all seriousness.  The rain was AUDIBLE on the broadcast, it was coming down so hard.  Noone could function properly, and it’s a blessed miracle tendons weren’t torn all over the diamond.  In a show of class and sportsmanship beyond all reason, the Tigers have not protested the game.  I’ll speak no more of it, then.  Grumble, whine, gnash.

To change the subject, I’ll whine some more about how I am suffering from severe Tiger baseball withdrawals.  And due to the inopportune indisposition of a friend, I won’t be at this weekend’s series, either.  /Sobs.

To top everything off, so-called Tiger fans have been belly-flopping off the band wagon by the hundreds.  It seems every caller in to sports talk radio now believes the Tigers will not make the playoffs.  Let us wish a good-riddance to these block-heads and fortify the band-wagon with electric wire to prevent them from attempting to climb back on at a later juncture.

I swear, if tonight’s contest is rained out, and I am forced to watch Olympic water polo instead, things may get rather desperate around here.  I’ll put the fireplace implements out of reach as a preemptive measure.

Oh yes, a word about the trade deadline.  I know many of us were hoping for another acquisition, due to the afore-mentioned lack of production from certain players.  But what could we possibly hope to gain with such players as trade chips?  A bag of rosin and some pine tar?  I mean, sadly, the value of a Don Kelly or a Brennan Boesch is rather bottom of the pickle barrel right now.  Our only real hope is that someone, ANYONE begins to perform at a rate more befitting a major league ball player.  /grabs megaphone.  I’M TALKING TO YOU, DONNIE, DELMON, BRENNAN, JHONNY, RYNO.  HELLO?   YOU DON’T VIEW ME AS A VOICE WORTHY OF YOUR ATTENTION? oh.  Ok then.  See you next year when you’re toiling away in the obscurity of the minor leagues.