Joe Sez

TOMMY LA STELLA? OFF WITH HIS HEAD? SERIOUSLY?

· 2016 Cubs, Joe Sez, Uncategorized · , , ,

ROBINSON-AND-LA-STELLA

Hey, if there’s anyone out there willing to drag the Cubs through the mud when they deserve it, it’s me, my friend. Sometimes, fingers need to be pointed (or in the case of the Mets, flipped) and, now and then the Cubs deserve to be on the receiving end. Why? Cuz In my mind, it serves no one’s purpose to “Hillary Clinton” things whenever the Cubs start conducting business on a private server. When they do that, I call ’em on it. But HOLY FRIGGIN’ CRAP! … What the hell is up with you guys wantin’ to string Tommy La Stella up by his Draymond Green target area?! Especially Jesse Rogers, who follows the Cubs for ESPN. I mean, it’s easy for us yay-hoos to mouth off from the cheap seats, but a pro callin’ a kid out cuz he fertilizes the infield grass a couple of times seems a bit harsh.

Maybe I’d feel different if we’d lost. Probably. I’m pretty good at blamin’ a loss on a guy’s brain fart. In fact every time I hear the name, Bartman, I still break into a sweat, and it’s a good 45 minutes until the facial tic goes away. So I get it. La Stella has had better days. But it’s not like anyone is whinin’ about our pen (which does finally have some bulls in it this year, but today, and a fair number of other days this season, they’ve looked more like veil calves). What about their roll in today’s near collapse? My point is, it’s a friggin’ team … and no single guy is gonna win or lose a game all on his own, although that’s what it looks like sometimes. It really doesn’t help La Stella to settle down when he gets skewered in the Twittersphere cuz of one bad day at 3rd.

Besides, anyone who is a true baseball fan — and I don’t give a crap how young you are — knows the name, Brooks Robinson. If you don’t, you’re not a fan. Maybe you’re somewhat interested in the game. Maybe you like pin stripes. Maybe you were dropped on your head as a kid … I don’t know … but you’re not a real baseball fan unless you know the name Brooks Robinson and what it stands for; perfection. Without question, the best third baseman to ever step inside the chalk. Period. (You Phillies fans who are at this moment callin’ me names cuz you think Mike Schmidt was better … go get your shine box.) Brooksy had no equal. Never will. He was called “the human vacuum cleaner” and “Mr Impossible.” And his glove — that golden extension of his left arm — was like a black hole; a singularity with a gravitational pull so strong not even light could escape his grasp. It was a place where doubles down the line met a swift and early death. As a hitter, you stood a better chance of havin’ a threesome with Miss July and August than hittin’ a ball past Robinson.

If there is a God, he played 3rd base for Baltimore.

And you know what? Mr Robinson made 263 errors at the hot corner. I grant you, that was over a 23 year, Hall of Fame career, but that averages out to over 10 a year. In fact he booted 21 in a single season once. Still, he was — if you haven’t yet grasped this — the best. So, before all of you “fans” remove every last shred of flesh from Tommy La Stella’s carcass, consider the possibility that his glove could end up as golden as Robinson’s someday. Go ahead and dish it out when someone deserves it, by all means. I’ll be right there with you. But could you try to not be such Yankees fans? Please?

Joe

HOW OLD IS TOO OLD TO PLAY BASEBALL?

· Joe Sez, News · , , ,

PAPI-AND-ICHIRO

Baseball, like every other sport on the planet, except bowling, pool, arm wrestling and darts, is a young man’s game. I’d throw in competitive eating, too, but 1) I’m not sure it’s really a sport and 2) the older you are, the more practice you’ve had so, technically-speaking, you should have an advantage. Take me, for instance. I money-back guarantee you that I can eat any 20-year-old you want into a coma. And the only thing I have in common with an athlete (other than Bartolo Colon’s waist line) is ESPN — I watch it and they’re on it.

Seriously, most highlight reel stuff in baseball is done by guys under 30. Mike Trout, Bryce Harper, Giancarlo Stanton, Clayton Kershaw, Andrew McCutchen, Chris Sale, the Chicago Cubs … I could go on. It’s a ridiculous list of super-human mutants that do wicked good, mind-blowing things with bats and gloves and arms with monotonous regularity. (Uh, that means “all the time”, White Sox fans.) Yeah, sure, I know … baseball has guys as old as rocks, too. Sometimes you see ’em in the dugout. Guys like Koji Uehara, R.A. Dickey, David Ross, the aforementioned Bartolo Colon, and A-Rod. (Those last two are jaggoffs … but so far, Manfred, in his one man quest to remake baseball into shuffleboard with a clock, hasn’t instituted any mandatory retirement age for jaggoffs. Yet.) But most old baseball guys, that aren’t in the booth, are scouting or coaching or managing other guys; younger ones who don’t make grunting noises when they get out of a chair.

Every now and then, though, you get one of those Hank Aaron, Jamie Moyer, Cal Ripkin, Ted Williams kinda years; the kind where guys that oughta be walkin’ on a beach with a metal detector are doin’ things in Major League ballparks normally reserved for the bat-flippin’ coverboys who shave stuff not meant to be shaved. This year, for me, that would be Big Papi (real name not required) and Ichiro (last name not required).

The first time I laid eyes on Ichiro (sorta … I mean he got to first base quicker than a sailor in a whore house) it was at Ho Ho Kam during his first spring training with the M’s. The guy hit 2 completely routine ground balls to short. You know … regular, 3 or 4 bounce, boring, run-o-the-mill, 6-to-3 sure-fire outs. Safe on both of ’em. The first thing I did, after I picked my jaw up off the ground, was call a buddy who bleeds fantasy baseball and tell him to draft the guy. 15 years later, with the clock at 42, Ichiro’s hittin’.417 and is gonna pass the 3,000 hit mark if he gets enough at bats. And that’s his American numbers, cuz if you add in the 1,278 hits he had in Japan, he’s already over 4,000. And why wouldn’t you count those? I think the guy has proven he hit Major League pitching as good as Japanese pitching. Plus … if you’re gonna count anything done by Barry Bonds after he got to San Francisco, or McGwire or Sosa or anyone else who dropped trou and crapped all over the game, then I think you gotta count all of Ichiro’s numbers.

Papi is the other ancient phenom this year. His numbers are unreal; like some sorta hacked video game character that can only be kept off base by tossing the damn Playstation in the lake. If he was playin’ for the Cubs you can bet your sweet megaphone that we’d be subject to the obnoxious decibels of Stephen A. Smith accusing him of juicing. Papi is the heart and soul of the Sox, and it’s difficult to imagine that he won’t be there next year makin’ pitchers half his age work around him. If you’re on the hill, Ortiz is the last guy you wanna see step into the box … especially if the game is on the line. You might as well just turn around and throw the ball into the gap or into the right field bleachers, cuz that’s where it’s headed.

Point is, baseball is a kid’s game. It’s played by men, but the further they get from childhood, the more difficult it becomes to keep playin’. Here’s to the guys (and as a Cubs fan, I include David Ross among them) that have enough kid in them at age 36, 40, 42, to still do stuff that amazes all of us, even those half their age.

Joe

SAN DIEGO HITS A SOUR NOTE.

· Joe Sez, News · , ,

As far as the National Anthem snafu in San Diego goes, I’m thinkin’ everybody oughta step back for a moment, un-wad their panties, take a deep breath, count to 10 and get a friggin’ grip on reality before the entire sky (and the rainbow that’s in it) falls to pieces. Seems like one got away from them, rather than a decision on the part of the Padres organization to throw a little chin music at the Gay Men’s Chorus. I mean, seriously, is that something they’d do on purpose?

And how about the reaction by Buster Olney, demanding that MLB “investigate what happened with the National Anthem in SD and, if necessary, come down with full weight of discipline.” Geeze … how ’bout calling out the National Guard, Buster? Maybe a Senate hearing is in order. Perhaps a couple of years in Gitmo for the Padres’ front office. Nobody was kidnapped, held at gunpoint, or had their head chopped off. A little perspective would be nice.

Seein’ as how this happened at a ballgame, I personally think it shoulda been handled the way all bad calls are handled in baseball; The head Chorus guy shoulda got in the face of whoever was runnin’ the show on the field and given him his best Earl Weaver imitation. I mean right in his face — screamin’ and kicking dirt, and yelling at the top of his lungs (which gotta be like Lou Piniella lungs cuz the guy’s in a chorus, after all) and spittin’ on the guy until he got tossed. Woulda made for a much better show, and I’m pretty sure everybody that has anything to do with baseball would be on the side of the Chorus … but in a realistic way, instead of acting like Donald friggin’ Trump.

Of course, I could be wrong. But I’m not.

Joe

IS THAT A BONE IN YOUR HEAD, OR ARE YOU JUST ROB MANFRED?

· Baseball Rules, Joe Sez, News · ,

BONEHEAD-MANFRED

Take a knee, Cubs-lovers.

So I’m watching Jake spellbind the Giros last night, wondering if he was facing a real Major League team or the consolation bracket in Williamsport, when, during a commercial break, I flip channels long enough to hear two jock-sniffing windbags calling a meaningless game in Boston or New York or You-Take-Your-Pick mention that the Commish is now considering — get this — a proposal from the owners’ competition committee that will do away with the intentional base-on-balls as soon as next year. No, hey, if you’re rubbing the eye boogers from your peepers right now wondering if you just read that right, believe me, I get it. I nose-farted Old Style all over the barcalounger! Oh, and that’s not all, sports fans. They also want to raise the strike zone to the top of the knee, probably because there ain’t a warm body on the planet that can hit Jake this year. Since Alex Cartright spit out is last chew, the only problem with the strike zone is that the boys in blue can’t seem to read it any better than a book of French poetry. Leave it alone, I say.

Let me ask you this, cheese doodles: is there a novocaine drip that leads directly to Robbie Womanfred’s ball bag? He’s pissed cuz the game is taking seven minutes longer this year. Seven minutes? Um, what’s the problem? The fans in Atlanta may not want to endure the pain any longer than they did last year, but at Wrigley we’re real fans who say, the longer the better. Hell, I can savor two more Old Styles and another Smokie in seven minutes! Let’s face it, hammer heads: either you’re a baseball fan, or you’re not. Don’t like being at the yard? Don’t friggin’ go! Besides, it’s not the stuff on the field that chaps my ass. It’s all the commercials and promotions and electronics and other “fan experience” crap required by the average Dodgers fan that brings the game to a screeching halt and sends me into sensory overload. Not to mention instant replay, which I hate as much as Steve Bartman must.

Now that MLB has adopted the NCAA’s sissy, college-boy slide rule, its next act could be simply signaling the intentional walk from the dugout without requiring the pitcher to make four pitches outside the zone. Is it me, or did somebody just fart? Look, pal, if you’re the Atlanta Braves and somehow find yourself in a close game with guys on second and third, one out, and — God, this is hard cuz that bunch of slapdicks doesn’t have a single good hitter — oh, I don’t know … let’s pretend that Chipper Jones is still playing, and Chipper is due up, and you know they’re gonna walk him, and (since we’re pretending) Mitch “Wild Thing” Williams is on the mound. Wouldn’t you want him to throw those four pitches and pray that one gets past the catcher so you could actually win a game? That’s real baseball, Cubcakes, not the cotton candy-suckin’ ballerina puss-chip thing Womanfred wants.

Let’s see, we already have a girly slide rule and a time limit on mound visits, thanks to the Commish. On the horizon is a new strike zone that will be even harder for the Cincinnati Reds to hit. And now we’re going to use the high school rule for intentional walks. That ought to speed the game up.

What’s next, Robbie, seven-inning games?

Joe

AT&T PARK, JAKE ARRIETA, AND THAT MELTED CHEESE CRAP.

· Ballpark Food, Joe Sez · , ,

2012-GIANTS

The Cubs are in San Francisco for the start of a 3 game series with the halloweenies. Given that english is now a second language in California, this probably won’t be necessary, but I’d like to point out right now that Arrieta is Spanish for “no hitter.”

San Francisco’s AT&T ball park — home of the Giants — is where Mr Arrieta will be notching his 8th win tonight. I hate to admit this, but I have a soft spot for the Orange and Black. It’s cuz they so dutifully rolled over for our broom last August, almost single-handedly ensuring the Cubs’ spot in the playoffs. Mind you, this soft spot is very tiny … and it’s not located in my heart, like most soft spots. It can be found on the caboose of my digestive tract, my friend, which always makes me think about Barry Bonds, and is why I’ll never forget who’s soft spot it is.

Excuse me while I meander back over to my original subject — AT&T ball park. I’ve been there a dozen times or so over the years. Meh. You’ll hear people from the Bay Area talkin’ about it like it’s a friggin’ holy shrine to baseball, cuz it supposedly has characteristics of the pre-Astrodome era. Personally, I’d say that if Wrigley is the Friendly Confines, then AT&T is the Hair Salon. It’s all a little to polished and schmick — not that it doesn’t get properly trashed during a game — but it’s missing whatever it is that Wrigley and Fenway have that make you feel like you’ve gone back far enough in time that baseball is still a game. Before free agency. Before ball girls and designated hitters. Before $14 beers, and idiotic mascots, and obnoxious music blarin’ so loud it almost breaks my ear drums. And certainly before Rob Womanfred’s nad-clipping 2nd base slide rule. AT&T sits squarely in the middle of “right now.” It’s a ball park. Nothin’ more, nothin’ less. Where it’s got it over Wrigley, though — and you have no idea how nasty these words taste in my mouth — is the 3 World Series Championships that have been hosted there. Credit where credit is due, pal. Still, the steroid inflated cheat, Barry Bonds played there, which in my mind sorta cancels that out.

They also serve lattés at AT&T. This, my friend, is like servin’ caviar and champaign at the rodeo. I mean you’re there to watch a friggin’ baseball game, not the Yves Saint Laurent fall collection at Fashion Week. This is not to say they don’t put out some damn fine, artery-chokin’ ball park junk food at AT&T. They do. My personal fav; a Sheboygan brat from Doggie Diner on the Promenade level. I recommend takin’ it to where they serve that melted cheese crap, slippin’ a fiver to the staff, and having ’em drown the brat in it. You may have to go to 2 or 3 until you find someone who wants to play ball, but it’s damn well worth it.

Anyway, it’d be real nice of the Giants to do an encore performance of last season’s August series. Might have to write a thank you note to Brian Sabean, Bobby Evans and the rest of those yay-hoos over there if they do. Better yet, I could send ’em a gift certificate to somethin’ like Hot Dougs or Pizzaria Uno, so — with all due respect to everyone who thinks San Francisco is foodie central — they can find out what real food tastes like.

Joe