The Importance of Being Earnest in Wardrobe Selection

This morning, I was watching a Spring Training contest between the Dodgers and the Brewers. In case you were wondering, Jerry Hairston made several sparkling defensive plays, and Chris Capuano looked pretty good on the hill. Enough about that. I'm not here to provide commentary on teams from LA or Milwaukee, for sobbing out loud. You know as well as I do that I train my myopic eyes on the Detroit Tigers 90% of the time.

Anyhoo, my point is that while watching said game, I noticed a couple fans in the stands. There were two guys sitting next to each other, one with a Detroit Tigers shirt on, and the other wearing a New York Yankees tee. This made me smile, because when I attend a contest that does not feature the Detroit Tigers, I too feel the need to wear Tigers gear to proclaim my allegiance. These blokes felt the same way, and I got quite a kick out of it. At least, I projected my feelings onto them, and assumed they also sport team gear in an effort to shout team loyalty and pride.

Last season, I went to a Brewers game in Milwaukee. They happened to be playing the Dodgers then, too. What a quirkly little coincidence. Not really. Back to my intended anecdote. In the bottom of the fourth, Ryan Braun hit a home run to left-center to break up Ted Lilly's no hitter. My husband and his family were cheering and generally going bonkers (although none of them can be called baseball fans), and a guy in the row in front of us turned around and went down the line giving raucous high fives, until he came to me and my Tigers shirt. He stopped cold and turned around. That's right, buster, I'm not here rooting for the stinking Milwaukee Brewers, the most loathsome team in all of MLB. Matt Kemp, baby! Ha.

An extremely fortuitous event occurred before that game. The Brewers stadium is not right downtown. It lies to the south. Due to this relative abundance of space, the Brewers have always boasted their very own parking lot for games. When they tore down old County Stadium, the site became the parking lot for Miller Park. There is even a metal plate memorializing the former home plate. Quaint. Benefitting from bounteous parking, Brewers fans are known for tailgating with their Polish sausages, Bratwurst, and other greasy, cased meat products. Gross. I am a vegetarian, and avoid such gastronomic pollution like the plague.

We were walking past some of the barbecuing revelers, when a guy stopped me. He had noticed my Tiger shirt, and asked me if whether was a Tigers fan. I answered in the decided affirmative. Apparently doubting my knowledge and devotion, he immediately asked me who won the 1945 World Series. I answered correctly, and he queried me as to who the Tigers faced. I knew that too, so I guess I passed his litmus test. We then fell into easy conversation. He happened to be listening to the Tigers game on his radio at that very moment. I listened and chatted for a few more moments, enjoying the Tiger solidarity before the Brewers/Dodgers tilt.

So you see, as a direct result of my wisdom in apparel choice, I got to chat it up with a fellow fan, hear the score of the REAL game, and remind a Brewers fan that I don't roll with his club. A very successful night in all, even if the Brewers did win. In the interest of full disclosure, the Brewers also turned a triple play that night, which I truly relished as a fan of the game, but lamented because the wrong team turned it.

Blog Talk Radio Appearance

I will be appearing on "The Knee Jerks" tonight with Kurt Mensching of Bless You Boys. The Knee Jerks is hosted by Greg Eno and Al Beaton. Tune in at 7:00 pm Eastern as we talk Tigers on the eve of Spring Training!

THE PLAYOFFS ARE HERE

My hands are a bit shaky as I type this. I am awash with nervous anticipation. I'm not nervous because I'm worried about our boys playing the Yankees. I'm just overamped, something I hope Justin Verlander is NOT.

Bring on the stupid Yankees of New York City. Bring on Nick Swisher and his extra large mouth that said that the Yankees would beat the Tigers "hands down." I hope we can stuff those words down his throat along with some sod and dirt and stuff. Bring on Lord Jeter and his overhyped, overrated, overworshipped self. Bring on Alex Rodriguez and his mirror kissing, centaur painting, image obsessed, fake personality. Bring on the whole stinking Yankee roster, and match them up with Justin Verlander. I want to see it.

I don't know how much longer I can wait for this game to start. The past two days have crawled by at a pace so glacial, it appeared that 8:37 might never arrive.

I really hope tonight's game isn't a nail biter, because I'm not sure my constitution can stand it. I mean, I guess a nail biter would be better than a Yankee blowout, but....please....have pity on me......

OK. I am ready. I want this thing underway already. I want to stop hearing about the Yankee mystique and the Yankee dominance, and the Yankee tradition, and the Yankee post-season magic, and....sigh. All that's left to say is:

We're all behind our baseball team, go get 'em Tigers!

and:

PLAY BALL!

A Run, an Omen and a Piece of Filth

I'm exhausted. I've been expending gargantuan amounts of energy lately on not getting too excited about the Tigers and our playoff chances. Every comeback win has me floating around like an untethered helium balloon, and then I don a lead mantle of caution and superstition to force myself back down to earth. This nine game win streak, involving three straight sweeps of divisional foes Chicago, Cleveland and Minnesota makes me want to break out into a really bad rendition of "Another One Bites the Dust," but I restrain myself admirably. I do admit, I have sung "We're all behind our baseball team, go get 'em Tigers" a couple times, but not the forbidden line. Hey, I'm trying, give me a little credit. But just let me tell you THIS:

The last time the Tigers had a nine game winning streak, the year was 1984.

Cue the shivers and some eerily prescient music. I mean, if that's not a sign from the ghost of baseball's past, I don't know what is.

Also, I am feeling an odd form of torture as well, because I have been saving all my ducats for the possible chance to attend a game that is played after all the regular season games have been played. Therefore, I haven't been to a game since August 2, and I have the shakes pretty badly. It's taken me about an hour and a half just to type up this drivel.

I cannot believe I am about to admit this to you, but I when I heard that the Red Cross was having a promotion on Labor Day weekend in which they gave away a pair of tickets to the last regular season series to anyone who donated blood, I jumped all over it in a moment of unmitigated selfishness. Very sheepishly, I went through the questionnaire, and sat in the vinyl chair gently squeezing the bolster as a pint of my blood slowly left my body. Dirty tickets. I scored 'em though. They're stowed in my game day bag right now. Contaminating it. I don't feel guilty enough not to use them. I am thoroughly corrupt.

Enjoy the afterglow of Fister's latest performance on the mound, ladies and gentleman, and please, for the love of cleats and stitched leather spheres, don't defile yourself like I did.

Let's Talk Rivalry: Detroit/Cleveland

Short notice, but Old English D will be appearing on Battle of Ohio Baseball podcast tonight at 9:30 eastern time. Hosts Dave Mitchell and Mark Donahue will be talking Indians/Tigers. Tune in to hear me speak objectively about the state of Tiger baseball and the upcoming Tigers/Tribe tilt. Ha. Click the link above, and here's another just for good measure.

Old English D humiliates self all over Internet Radio

You can even call in to heckle me, so hope to hear you soon!

The Sparky Patch

As we all know, the Tigers will be wearing this patch to honor Sparky Anderson during the 2011 baseball season.

I got to wondering today whether the Reds would be sporting a Sparky patch this season as well. But of course. Here is their patch.

I like ours better. Call me biased.

Anyway, I'm glad Sparky is getting all proper respect. He deserves it, and the retiring of his number is way overdue, and it's so pathetic that it wasn't done while he was still alive. It's like the Tigers are admitting they were wrong, and are living with regret over the whole thing.

I was hoping that the Tigers would continue to wear an Ernie patch this season, since a partial season hardly seems enough to honor true Tigers royalty such as Ernie Harwell.

Anyway, Sparky, we love you, we miss you, and we thank you for 1984.

A Subtle Rift

Allow me to introduce to you "Winter Jen." She's sensible. She can apply logic and reasoning to a myriad of life situations. She understands the value of a dollar. She's a little depressed about the lack of baseball, the sun rising after eight and setting before five, the layer of blubber that has accumulated around her mid-section, and temperatures that frost her delicate, albeit hairy-knuckled toes. But no doubt about it, she's a gal with her faculties about her.

Then there is "Summer Jen." She's a mite...unstable. I was going to say unpredictable, but her behavior has become all TOO predictable to some. She's liable to ditch her 97 year old granny, whom she promised to help plant seedlings, when she sniffs Tiger tickets for the evening's game. She may find it "reasonable" to say that there is a pressing "need" to attend all three games of the upcoming series. She could rationalize spending funds intended for her son's higher education on box seats. She might hatch twenty crackpot schemes in an attempt to get to Kansas City to take in a ballgame at the lovely, giant-HD-scoreboard-boasting Kauffman Stadium. She would look into auctioning off her Noritake China set for front row tickets.

I cannot be held culpable for this schism in my personality. It's a bonafide disorder. I've got a diagnosis from a reputable, board-certified healthcare professional. I safeguard it in my desk to produce for doubters, to defend myself against those who would like to critique my behavior.

I am a happy Skimpole when it comes to baseball. I don't understand why anyone would want to restrain my enjoyment of it in any measure. I just want to be with my Boys of Summer. I just want to sit under the lights at the ballpark, and feel the night breezes swirl around my ankles. I just want to feel the heat radiating off my sun-warmed skin as I sip a $6.00 Diet Coke. What say you of time, money, duty, skin cancer and stomach ulcers? Why would you bring up such evils when there is baseball to be watched? Why? What's wrong with you?

Stay Tuned for These Messages from our Sponsors

In yet another sign that the end of life as we know it is near, I guest-wrote a Tigers Season preview article for i70 Baseball. In case you are not hopelessly obsessed with tonight's Packers/Falcons showdown (as the rest of my heretical cheesehead household is), here is the link:

Old English D's Warped Preview of the 2011 Tigers

Sorry for the shameless self-promotion.

I do promise to make up for it by providing a scintillating report from TigerFest, where I plan to fan it up with fellow individuals who don't mind braving sub-zero temperatures for a glimpse of some ball players. At least I realize how stupid I am.

Let's Make a Deal

I have to tell you something. The past couple days, after the Tigers suffered successive walkoff defeats at the hands of the Red Sox, I have been afraid to let myself read any articles, or listen to radio, or...anything. I've been petrified, quite literally, into total inaction. I can't figure out what to do with all this. The Tigers are seven games back. We are about to play the White Sox four times in three days. We could either climb back into this thing (however temporarily, setting us up for more heartbreak), or we could get buried.

Best I figure it, Monty Hall has set up:

Door Number One: I can give up the season for lost, sit back and watch the kids, try to figure out whether any of them are future Major Leaguers, start dreaming up a free-agent wish list, watch Miguel Cabrera get walked twenty zillion times, and find some way to go to an Arizona Fall League game. If I do this, and the Tigers end up making the playoffs, I will be Benedict Arnold in my own heart.

Door Number Two: I can keep the faith. I can get my heart stomped every night. I can find some way to deal with the pain (some way that doesn't involve substance abuse or binge eating). I can keep telling myself that we can win this division. Shut up. Stop laughing. Seriously.

Actually, my problem is that I cannot commit to either of these oh-so-attractive scenarios.

I'm looking for door number three.

Anyone....anyone????

Suspend Your Disbelief

If you were off somewhere pretending it was 1901 this past weekend, completely cut off from television, radio and the Internet, and you just returned to hear that the Tigers endured a four-game sweep by the cellar-dwelling Cleveland Indians, who are without Grady Sizemore, Shin Soo Choo and Asdrubal Cabrera, and you think that someone is having a little fun with you...think again.

No, it's not some imaginary nightmare you wake from panting in a cold sweat. It's the stark reality of the past three days. It's the unabated misery of a sweltering hovel in an relentless hot spell without so much as a fan. It's Holly Go-Lightly's pressure cooker gone ka-blow-ey all over her apartment just when she's trying to impress her attempt at domesticity upon Paul Varjack. It's the worst horror movie you've ever seen, one that seems so real you can't sleep at night for weeks afterward. It's...it's..it's the second half Detroit Tigers team of the past four seasons, playing out in HD before your bloodshot, shell-shocked eyeballs. I wish someone would sear my eyeballs with a chemical so caustic I never have to see the likes of this weekend again. I'd be better off.

I sincerely hope that someone in the Tigers clubhouse lost it after today's 7-2 finale. I don't care who it was. It could have been Scott Pickens for all I care. Someone better have been blowing steam out his ears in a fury so violent, the rest of the team was afraid to look him in the eye. I swear, if someone didn't scream themselves hoarse in a fit of rage, I will storm into Comerica Park tomorrow and do it myself.

To say our franchise was embarrassed this weekend would be an understatement I don't care to quantify. Stranding baserunners at a rate that would cause sandlot kids to crawl under the nearest rock has become an art form. Running the bases has apparently become a lost art, and throwing the ball is a skill too difficult to master for our crew. To quote manager Joe Riggins from Bull Durham "This... is a simple game. You throw the ball. You hit the ball. You catch the ball." We couldn't manage to perform those simple elements very well this past weekend, and it hurts. So badly. I want to cry, but I'm too stubborn, so I'm just going to go punch a hole in some drywall and call it good.

Game 14 Stream of Consciousness

Uh oh. Ryan Fields is in the booth with Rod today. His spiky hair is dangerous and could be the cause of scratched corneas. Consider yourself warned, Rod. Check that, Mario must've just been late getting to the park or performing some unknown duties, because Fields was only up there for the pregame. Eyeballs are safe.

For some inexplicable reason, I dislike Scott Kazmir. It may be reprehensible to hate on someone without cause, but I can't help my prejudices. I hope the Tigers can continue the barrage the Yankees began on Kazmir in his other start this season. Unfortunately, our numbers against Kazmir are abysmal. Well, his ERA against us isn't good, but all the people who hit him well must be gone, because Cabrera tops our current lineup at .273 against Kazmir. Um, not exactly confidence-inspiring, but let's hope we can get some RISP home tonight shall we?

Holy chalk lines, it's been 15 years since the Angels have had a rainout at home. That is incredible. I've been soaked at the park on many a night. So much, in fact, that I pack my rain jacket for every game, regardless of the forecast. That's because at one game, I had checked the weather carefully and it said 0% chance of rain. I left the rain jacket at home, and a storm cloud parked itself over the stadium and didn't let up all night.

I finally saw a shot of Damon's mohawk during the pregame, after reading all the stories about it--none of which featured photos. Damon has decided the long hair look's time has passed for him, but he wants to show us he's no longer a Yankee clone. Avila purportedly gave him the cut, and it looks pretty professionally done, actually. My son sports a faux-hawk, so I don't mind them. I'm just not a fan of a true hawk, with the shaved head. I know, you could care less about my opinion. Feel free to click over to Rob Neyer's blog at any time. Mario says Damon will walk into the clubhouse with a new harido every day, and "his teammates love it." Yes, Mario, I'm sure everyone's on pins and needles every day to see how he looks when he walks in.

Kazmir said he didn't have his slider last outing, and he's thrown all fastballs here in the first, so here's hoping that helps our cause. Kazmir strikes out mi Magglio in the first. See, I told you I don't like him. I knew I was right in this thinking.

The Tigers are 7-52 with RISP right now. Viewing that stat made me feel like someone just punched me in the stomach without warning. Please, Carlos, don't make it 7-53. Curses, it's now 7-53.

Pretty Little Ricky looks very, very young tonight. I think it's the fresh haircut.

Bobby Abreu is a very good baserunner. It always amazes me, because he totally looks like he'd be slow. Defying appearances, I like that.

MLB wrote that many clubs are reporting record low attendance so far this season. This makes me sad, regardless of the cause. I don't want too see baseball get marginalized. It already seems like the only thing anyone ever talks about in this country is football. Stop it!

I do not kid when I tell you I took a nap this afternoon in order to stay up for today's contest. Pathetic? Perhaps, but at least I know myself, and prepare accordingly.

Oh dear, our stranding RISP streak continues at a most painful pace. I begin to fear extreme measures may be necessary here. I am conjuring up a traditional RISP dance as I type. Seriously? Raburn scorches a stand up triple and we fail to bring him around? No. I cannot accept this. /dances awkwardly around the room in attempt to appease the stingy RISP gods. Do not expect video of that.

Apparently my dance has angered some unknown baseball gods, because the Angels have ripped off four straight hits, and now lead 3-0. I am penitent. Shake it off Rick.

I have come up with a new strategy to break the Tigers unfortunate run of stranding RISP. I will get a tattoo of the Old English D. I don't even consider this a sacrifice. I am more than happy to take one for the team. You could expect a photo of my ink to appear on this site at some point.

Haha, Torii Hunter makes a rare mental error and fails to leave the batter's box on a ball hit down the third base line. He unsuccessfully tries to argue the ball was fouled off his foot. Umpire not biting. Haha.

Hard luck for Laird. He hits it hard , but it's speared by the third baseman. I hate to point this out, but he's not cutting down baserunners like he was last year, either. If he doesn't improve on both fronts, we may see calls for Mike Rabelo. Ok. That was probably mean. Sorry.

Ajax strikes out for the third time tonight. Sigh. Long sigh.

At this point in the game, I am called away for a family emergency, so I was unable to view any more of our latest defeat. Actually, I just fell asleep, but that's a pretty embarrassing admission, considering I told you I took a nap in order to stay up for the game. Sorry I suck. I will try again tonight to keep the eyelids propped open.

Sucker...

I am truly one of those born every minute, bait for sleazy snake-oil salesmen the world over, gullible fools. Just when I said I was through with the stupid, meaningless "pretend" games of Spring, I sat watching the Cards/Twins game today on ESPN. A promo spot for MLB comes on called "This is Beyond Baseball." It starts out with video of Joe DiMaggio, and says your grandpa may have told you how he saw Joe play the field, then it goes on that maybe your dad tells stories about seeing Hank Aaron go yard. Then it ramps up to the finalé--now it's your turn to tell your kids you saw Albert Pujols do...everything. Sentimental music plays in the background. And I actually FALL for this! I find a smile curving my lips upward despite myself. Just the thought of baseball greats and watching the drama of a terrific game or play unfold turns me into a sappy, sniveling idiot.

Wow. MLB. They had me at play ball.

With such power at its hands, there is bound to be abuse. Go ahead, lose 119 games, I'll still buy tickets. Sure, trade Curtis Granderson, I'll still pay outlandish prices for officially licensed Tigers gear at the MLB store. Raise ticket prices? No sweat, I'll just raid my son's college fund to make up the difference. Player strike? Well, that kept me away for all of one year, and I came crawling back like the addict I am.

Sucker...

A Watched Pot...

Every time I click on the Tigers web site, the stinking countdown to Opening Day stares me in the face. It does not seem to be moving toward Opening Day at a rate I can bear. I am done with these Spring Training affairs. They are meaningless and stupid at this point in March. I'm ready for REAL baseball. Seven more days? I'm expected to wait seven whole days more to witness regular season ball?

To make matters worse, we open on the road, and the Opening Day game has first pitch going at 4:10 pm. Not the familiar 1:05, or even an acceptable 2:05, but four-freaking-ten. Even in Kansas City, you'd think an earlier start time would be preferable in early April. Whatever.

Who is going to the home opener? I am not, but I am going on Saturday, April 10 and Monday April 12. If either of those gets rained out, expect a tirade here. I kid, but I was in a huge funk last year when my first game got PPD. In 1997, I attended a frigid opener at Tiger Stadium. It was in the low 30s and the concrete beneath my boots turned my feet into ice chunks. I sent the husband out to get some hot chocolate, in hopes of warming my hands and insides. It was stone cold by the time he got back to our seats. Nice. I'm prepared for any weather, as long as the game gets played.

I have begun my daily rendition of the Opening Day Song. My family is already begging me to stop. Too bad. They've got to wait seven more days, just like I do.

Old English D on Blog Talk Radio

I'll be making an appearance on Blog Talk Radio tonight at 7:00 pm Eastern, along with Tigers blogger Lee Panas of Tiger Tales. Fellow bloggers Greg Eno and Al Beaton host the show, and we'll be talking Tigers, so tune in and check it out.

Johnny Damon Makes Us All....

Oh, Johnny Damon. You need to just keep your mouth shut until you make a decision on which of the lucrative, although less lucrative than you'd wish, offers on the table you will accept. Comments have been made. Feathers have been ruffled. Fans have alternated between wanting you to make our offense more left-handed and potent, to wanting you to fall into a volcano in Hawaii.

You'd love to play in Detroit and make us a winner.

Detroit isn't cosmopolitan enough for you and your wife.

You're a fan of Steve Yzerman and you eat octopi.

You and Beelzebub (I mean, respected agent Scott Boras) play us against our division rival the Chicago Black Sox.

You make us feel like our heads are spinning, and they are, because of all your spin.

Just stop it now. Just make your choice. Just pick a freaking city to play for 2010, then go out and play the free agent auction to the highest (and most cosmopolitan) bidder again in 2011. Just shut up and get ready to report to Spring Training. Just...just...stop toying with our emotions, which have been shredded up like so much confetti.

Turning the Page

I'm not a person that likes making pre-season predictions. Even if I did enjoy sooth-saying, I wouldn't bore you with my stupid opinion here. I'd just make some wagers and try to fatten my wallet. It's such a crap-shoot anyway, players go down with injuries, teams overachieve or tank inexplicably...what's the point? I guess it could be satisfying to successfully predict a player's resurgence...or flop, and some of it is based on good analysis of previous years' stats, like a pitcher's BABIP. But, it's just not for me. Many experts will make their picks known, so go check those out if you're into it.

I prefer to savor the drama that unfolds for me over 162 glorious games. Now, it's 2010. The horror show of 2009 is fading from the rearview mirror. Pitchers and catchers, that most magical of phrases, will be reporting in two days. Spring isn't just a mirage in the desert that is winter anymore. It's now tantalizingly within reach. In a couple weeks, actual games will be played on sun-warmed ballfields in Florida and Arizona.

On March 20, I will no longer be a Spring Training virgin. I'm going to my first Spring game in Lakeland this year. I'll see our boys take on the Phillies. I'll be drunk on sunshine and baseball. The sight of my Tigers in the Old English D will only intoxicate me further. Don't let your jealousy get the best of you here. I wish I could take every Tiger fan with me. Every fan deserves to be there to end the baseball fast that lasted four long months.

On a side note, Ernie Harwell continues to be our voice of baseball. Although the inoperable cancer is taking its toll on his body, he decided to keep writing a column for the Detroit Free Press as long as he is able. I look forward to that column every week. I plan to savor every word.

Fever Pitch

Remember the scene from "Fever Pitch" after Jimmy Fallon's character and Drew Barrymore's character break up and it looks like the Red Sox are tanking? He is found by his friends sitting in his darkened apartment, watching the Bill Buckner error over and over again, while the Carl Yastrzemski song plays hauntingly in the background. He's unshowered, unshaven and sitting next to a pile of chicken bones stacked up on a newspaper.

I think I may have reached that point. You will find me sitting in my darkened living room, watching 2009 Game 163 over and over again, muttering, "Brandon Inge's jersey was hit by that pitch," and listening to "April in the D." I haven't shaved my legs in weeks, and the side table is littered with Thai take-out boxes. Too graphic for you? Sorry.

Thankfully, pitchers and catchers report in three weeks, so I may yet be saved from utter ruin.

So I took my son to basketball practice this week, which happened to be at a local elementary school, and lo and behold, what did I find on the hallway bulletin board? It was a public service poster featuring none other than Curtis Granderson and Paws. Curtis was running out of the center of the poster clad in his Tiger uniform (sob), and Paws was featured around him engaged in various fitness exercises: leg lifts, lunges, stretches and pushups, all set on the Comerica Park grass. Repeat after me, Opening Day is only two months away. Sigh.

What washed up player do you think the Tigers will target next? I was so thankful to see the Brewers sign Jim Edmonds to a minor league contract.

I Can Laugh at Myself

I think every baseball fan has just about had it with the offseason. There is no baseball. We are sad shells of our summer selves. Even though many clubs just had their winter fanfests, we are pining away, perhaps with an intensified longing, since our baseball tastes have been whetted. I did not attend TigerFest this year, but I watched some of the live feed on mlb.com. It was quite entertaining. Justin Verlander and Gerald Laird were very funny, messing around, trying to one-up each other. Jim Leyland joked about Fernando Rodney faking his lack of understanding of the English language at times.

So, I'm about to offer myself up as a sacrificial lamb of sorts here. Everyone needs a laugh, a distraction right now. It could help some poor soul make it through the off-season. OK. I will provide the humor by admitting something REALLY embarrassing, which is sure to be used against me. I'm just that kind of selfless person, who is willing to help others in their time of need.

Here goes.

A couple years back, my husband, son and I were staying at one of those indoor water park places. So we're frolicking in the chlorinated humidity, and my husband decides to have a little fun with me. He says, if you go stand under the 1000 gallon bucket of water (that tips over once every fifteen minutes) four times in a row, I'll go to a Tiger game with you. I jump at this offer without a moment's hesitation. I may have mentioned before that I have no pride. So, every fifteen minutes, I have to drop what I'm doing, run over to the giant bucket, and endure a 1000 gallon deluge. My husband was rolling in hysterics that I would sacrifice decorum and abase myself so willingly. I laughed at him in turn, smugly thinking to myself that I scored myself a night at the ballpark with very little effort. See? We both walked away happy.

OK, you've had a chuckle at my expense. Now, use that to try and make it through to February 18, when pitchers and catchers report.

Upcoming Series

I finally came up with an idea for an off-season series that should prove interesting (well, interesting to me at least). I score all the games I go to with very few exceptions (like when my ten year old joins me at the park). For this series, I'm going to analyze all the games I attended during 2009 based mainly on my scorecards (supplemented with information from Baseball Reference).

My current estimate is that I went to approximately 25 games last season. We'll find out more specifically as I get into the scorecards. It should be interesting to see how many times I saw each starter pitch, and how they did at games I attended. If any trends emerge, I'll be sure to superstitiously follow along for next season. For example, if Justin Verlander pitches atrociously when I'm in attendance, I'll eschew the park on days he starts, promise. I'm all about superstition now that I've got a stash of unused playoff tickets stacking up in my desk.

Watch for the first installment of the series soon.

For Pete Rose's Sake...

Please, please please give me some baseball. I'm not making it here. The offseason's a whiteout blizzard, and I'm disoriented, hungry, and desperate. I'm contemplating leaving my stranded vehicle to face the elements, only to wind up frozen solid, dug out by a St. Bernard with a barrel around his neck. I've tried distracting myself with some good literature, only to find myself at the bookstore with some bargain book about the World Series, poring over the Tigers' entries with a fervor akin to Mrs. Robinson sizing up young Benjamin Braddock.

I'm seriously out of control. Now, I'm without MLB Network, where one Peter Gammons now holds forth in sagely wisdom. The Tigers web site sees fit to tell us about the holiday traditions of one Zach Miner. I get the idea, but it fails to satisfy the need for BASEBALL, you savvy?

Ugh, it's not even January yet. I suggest you send in some comments to salvage what's left of my ever-dwindling faculties. Give me some off-season activities, like sorting through a gallon jar of buttons, alphabetizing my husband's basketball card collection, or knitting a thousand dish cloths. Maybe a unique and challenging charity project to help some suffering little children. Perhaps Grandy would accept a mildly addled fan's assistance in putting the finishing touches to his coda in Detroit, the charity hoops event.

I'm reduced to learning trivia like no starting pitcher for the Padres in the 1984 World Series made it past the fifth inning. Sigh.