A Puma Pummelling

I realize this is so last week, literally, but I didn't have a chance to write after the game. On Wednesday night (of last week), June 1st to be exact, my friend Nicole and I went down to the CoPa to see our boys take on the downtrodden Twins. Apparently, this year's Twins are a not a huge draw, because we were able to score two front row seats for the thrifty price of $5 per ticket. To sweeten the deal, the tickets were on eBay, and there were no service fees, processing fees, shipping fees, etc. To say I was excited may be the understatement of...last week. I love nothing more than to stop Ticketmaster and Stubhub in their grifting tracks.

Anyway, Nicole and I apparently have amazing powers to inflict injury. Wednesday was our third game of the season together, and in each game, a member of the opposition has been injured. In the first game, Josh Hamilton broke his shoulder in an awkward slide into home plate. The second game, the Yankees' Eric Chavez was our victim. He broke his foot. Yes, donations are being accepted if you have a most hated player and would like us to attend a game in which he is playing.

I can't explain it, but it's starting to feel a bit eerie. I mean, it was kind of like a joke the first two times, but I felt really badly when Thome left the game with a strained hammy. Thome is a guy that nobody hates. Noone wants to see him hurt. The guy's about to get to 600 home runs for sobbing out loud. Who wants to stop that train? He'll probably get laudatory gifts from everyone in the league when he gets his 600th jack. Geez. I would like to issue a personal apology to Jim. I meant you no harm, big fella.

Now I am conflicted, because I really want to go to the game on June 26th when the Tigers play Gibby's Diamondbacks and retire Sparky Anderson's number. I'm afraid, though. I don't really want to injure one of the Dbacks. I want Gibson to flourish as a manager. Please advise.

Enough about our hex. On to the game. Mainly, Miguel Cabrera launched a three run shot that was the game winner. This guy is just too much for the average pitcher. He cannot be stopped. I love it. I wish we could see the opposing pitcher's stream of consciousness running across the bottom of the screen when facing the Puma. It can't be pretty. Expletives laced with fear -- that would be my guess.

Brandon Inge struck out in all three of his at bats. Sigh. Although this comes as no surprise, it still disgusts. Now Binge is on the DL with mono, so everyone explains away his suck with viral malaise. I cry foul. I would be willing to bet my worthless house that he hits just above Mendoza when he gets back. Same as always. Same suck, different year.

Our seats were all the way down the third base line in the corner. Scott Pickens and some generic bullpen catcher guy came out to play catch with Don Kelly in left. A little boy came over the wall every time and asked for a ball. I told him to call out Scott Pickens' name and maybe that would help his cause. No. This poor kid tried all night to get a ball and came up empty handed. Pickens did eventually toss a ball up to a fan in a different area. Generic bullpen catcher guy was impervious to all requests. He was stonefaced and made no acknowledgement of the poor kid. Nicole and I tried to get his attention on behalf of the boy, but to no avail. Why? Why do you deny a young boy a ball? I see no valid line of reasoning here. Rude.

Delmon Young dropped a couple foul balls. It was fun. We jeered. He made this face back at us.

Papa Grande closed out the game for us in his usual fashion. Check him out as he makes his way out to the 'pen before the game. Priceless.

All photographs are the property of Nicole Maitland, and may not be used without expressed written permission.

We took two of three from the Black Sox, and are now 2.5 games back of a suddenly scuffling Cleveland. Smile.

A Herald for the Unheralded

During last night's game, I mean during today's early morning game, Jose Valverde had finished his warmups and was kind of just standing around, warming his hands, waiting for the top of the ninth to end. The camera zeroed in on Papa Grande several times, and each time, standing next to him in his gear, was bullpen catcher Scott Pickens. You may have missed this because it was after 1:30 am Eastern Time. I am currently evaluating my own sanity after staying up. It was worth it, don't get me wrong, but today I am like the walking undead.

I have always been intrigued by the bullpen catcher. When I first became aware of the existence of the position, I had many questions I needed answered. Is this person on the roster? (No.) Is he on the coaching staff? (No.) How is his position defined? (Non-roster personnel.) How much does he make? (The Wall Street Journal states that most make less than $60,000 per year, and many much less. Many supplement their incomes with other jobs in the off-season, and the Diamondback's bp catcher Jeff Motuzas does many strange feats for money--like eating contests and Jackass-style stunts.)

Also, I kept thinking, this must be one of the coolest jobs on the planet! You get to be at the ball park at all times. (I must ask you, is there anything better than being at the ball park? Many of my waking hours are spent scheming up ways to be at the ball park more often.) You are working with the players. You are seeing every game up close and personal. You are important. You throw batting practice. You get to play catch with pitchers. You tell them if their arm slots are consistent.

Detroit bullpen catcher Scott Pickens was personally selected by Magglio Ordóñez and Brandon Inge to pitch to them during their respective appearances in the All Star Game's Home Run Derby. Is this not all kinds of awesome?

Now, I may well be romanticizing this position, and the bullpen catchers may feel underpaid and unsung, and they may tell us it's a whole lot of grunt work for minor ducats. They may be afflicted by the unflinching reality that they weren't good enough to make the major leagues as a "real" catcher. I don't know. But I do know that I find bullpen catchers supremely cool.