I suppose “bombs” might be a slightly overly-dramatic description for Sale’s performance last night in his 3-1 loss to the Cubbies, but hey … one drama queen to another, right?
That’s the problem with drawin’ attention to yourself by bein’ a complete douche bag. Everyone is watching and waiting for you to screw up. Not that he actually screwed up, but anything short of perfection after his Little Lord Fontleroy bit the other day doesn’t cut it. And if anyone oughta know how to cut somethin’, it’s Chris Sale.
The real story was Mr Lackey, who was vintage last night, and a helluva lot more effective than Scissorhands. Yeah, I think the game probably qualified as a duel, but in the end it was the Lackmiester who filleted his 6′-10″ opponent into bite size chunks. Add to that the new Strop, Rondon, Chapman 3-headed bullpen monster and the Cubs (in the movie parlance thing) are startin’ to look a lot like Jason Bourne.
Chapman definitely changes the dynamic. First, havin’ him in the wings has gotta have some kinda super-power effect on starters. I mean if I know that all I gotta do is get through the 6th and the door is gettin’ slammed in the face of the (ANY TEAM NAME HERE) well then it gives me some extra confidence. That’s gotta make a dif. Second, if I’m Strop or Rondon, besides being ecstatic about makin’ stupid money for throwin’ a few pitches now and then, I still have the same basic job. It’s just that my shift got moved up an inning or two. Third, havin’ to face Strop and Rondon while also watchin’ Chapman warm up is a sure fire way to deflate any misguided hope the (ANY TEAM NAME HERE) might get back into a game in the late innings.
You could see that happen tonight. You could literally feel that the decision has been made — the Cubs are winnin’ the last game of the World Series this year and there’s nothin’ anybody, not King Kong, not James Bond, not Ironman and certainly not Sale Scissorhands is gonna be able to do about it.
You know what Chris Sale needs? A good long trip to the woodshed. Unless you’ve been in a coma the past few days, you already know that Sale was suspended for cuttin’ up his team’s navy-collared 1976 throw-back uniforms cuz he didn’t like ’em, and then got into some sorta shoutin’ match with someone from Chicago’s front office. Nice, Chris. Real mature. Oh … and with a ginormous helping of sarcasism, I’d like to say “nice job” to the parents of this major league bratski. Anybody who behaves like a 20 year old John McEnroe impersonating Carlos Zambrano doesn’t deserve to wear a Major League uniform, regardless of what era it comes from.
Temper tantrums from athletes are not new. I already mentioned Zambrano and McEnroe, but that’s just the tip of the ice berg, pal. How ’bout Billy Martin, Jonathan Papelbon, Serena Williams, Ron Artest, Latrell Sprewell, Pacman Jones? Oh yeah, and there’s the ever-lovin’ crown prince of pissed off, OJ Simpson. It’s a deep pool of boiling vitriol that meanders through all sports. But no matter which offending athlete or whatever sport they participate in, the professional equivalent of throwin’ yourself on the floor, screamin’ and kickin’ can likely be traced to a really stellar job of parenting.
It’s not like this was the first time Sale flew off the friggin’ handle in a fully armed F-22. I guarantee you it’s been happenin’ his whole life, without consequence. Spare the rod, spoil the child that grows up to be a Major League asshole pitcher.
B.B. Abbott, Sale’s agent said, “The only thing that matters to Chris Sale is winning. If he perceives that something is distracting from that or being prioritized over that, he is going to have a problem with it.” Uh-huh. Dry that one out and you can fertilize the infield at The Cell. Sale supposedly accused management of puttin’ PR ahead of winning. In this case, PR was being defined as having to wear a throw-back uni. Yeah … boy … that’s a total friggin’ hardship. I’d like Sale to work a couple of overtime shifts in a coal mine to find out the true meaning of dealing with adversity. Better yet, how ’bout a tour with the 2nd Platoon, Charlie Company in Fallujah? Good F-ing Lord, I’m sick and FRIGGIN’ tired of guys like Sale melting down over nothin’, and then havin’ a pooper-scooper like Abbott try and twist what happened into somethin’ rational.
By the way, if Abbott was right, and Sale really has a problem with stuff gettin’ in the way of winning, perhaps he oughta raise a little hell with his team’s general performance — a waaaaay bigger road block than a “fashion don’t.” I’m just sayin’. And if we were to suspend reality for a moment, and say that the ballistic missle, Sale, did activate his launch codes over a uniform gettin’ in the way of winning … I think the Sox are gonna have to start playin’ naked, cuz it doesn’t seem to matter which one they’re wearin’, W’s seem pretty tough to come by.
Anyway, from the cheap seats it looks as though Mr Sale thinks his crap doesn’t stink. Well, I got news for Chris. His particular post-dump scent could knock a buzzard off a shit wagon. He’s not better than the rest of his team. He doesn’t wanna win any more than the rest of ’em do. And wearin’ throw-back uni’s now and then is part of the friggin’ game. Everybody does it, yet he’s the only one who feels the need to melt down like a runway model cuz he’s unhappy with his outfit.
You know, my Dad used to say, “You can tell the size of a man by the size of the thing that makes him mad.” That means Chris Sale is about knee high to a fruit fly. Friggin’ prima donna cry baby.
Of course, I could be wrong. But I’m not.