Was that the Chicago Cubs I saw in Dodger Stadium tonight, or a Sears tower-sized turd? I think the latter.
At first, when the whole pre-game thing filled the ball park with instant smog, just to remind everyone where the hell we were, I thought maybe that was makin’ our guy’s eyeballs water, which would explain why they were havin’ so much trouble seein’ the ball. But as the game wore on, it became apparent that what was really happening was the Cubs has succumbed to the whole “Hey, look, Larry King is sittin’ like … RIGHT THERE” thing. Whatever it was, stars or smog in the eyes, Chicago swung the bat tonight like Helen Keller. Blindfolded. I kept hopin’ LA would put a 10 year old girl in to pitch, cuz I know we couldn’t get a hit off a 12 year old one.
It pretty much went like that for most of the night. Then, in a move that makes about as much sense as Donald Trump, Maddon decides it’d be a good idea to pinch hit Heyward for Russell in the 7th. I grant you, right now Addi with a bat in his hand is about as dangerous as Mother Theresa. But I’m at a total loss to explain Heyward as the stick of the moment. You have Wilson Contreras on the bench, who can actually make contact with the friggin’ ball, by the way, but Joe goes with the most over-paid, underperforming player in Major League Baseball. You pull one no-hit bat (Russell) for another, and what happens? What the F do you think happens? He watches a strike 2 meatball go by that Louis Braille woulda tattooed, then wildly swings like a kid at a piñata party at a pitch that was in the next time zone. What’s the logic, Joe?
We can’t even get a friggin’ sacrifice when we need one. Of course if it were up to me, we’d tie Kershaw down on a makeshift altar, sprinkle him with a little Beverly Hills poodle blood or somethin’ and set his ass on fire. There’s your sacrifice, pallie. Maybe that would appease the baseball gods, which seem to be extraordinarily pissed off at the Cubs right now. Even if it didn’t, we’d have at least done something to help our chances against these Hollywood yayhoos.
Rizzo’s 9th inning stroke-of-luck, broken bat, squeeker of a hit was a symbol of what Chicago’s offense has been throughout the playoffs — a shattered remnant of it’s former self. That hit — and it was a helluva lot more like a 50 foot putt than a batted ball — brings Rizzo’s average up to a scorching .077. Watch out!
The Cubs have now gone 18 consecutive playoff innings without crossin’ the plate. Besides being a King Kong-sized, steaming pile of inept crap, that means our offense just broke their previous playoff record of 16 scoreless innings, set during the 1906 World Series … which we lost. I’m just sayin’. When your season is only 7 games long, maybe less, you can only go so far if you can’t hit the damn ball. There aren’t another 155 games to even out the slumps. If the Cubs wanna have a chance at puttin’ the curse to rest, it’s time they started swingin’ the bat like the Chicago friggin’ Cubs, not the Elmhurst Little League Cubs. No offense, Elmhurst.
Joe
Tonight’s fun facts: There are no fun facts tonight. There are facts, but none of ’em are fun. 1) The Cubs were 4 for 31 tonight. 2) We struck out 10 times. 3) We also left 11 guys on base. See what I mean? No fun.
It rained in Los Angeles today. Normally that’s not exactly a film-at-11, David Muir-esque breaking news kinda thing, but then it hasn’t rained in LA since May 5th. (By the way … what the hell does Muir put in his hair … glue? You could do a reverse 3-1/2 somersault off of that do.) Anyway, until today it had been 165 consecutive days without so much as a peep from heaven, unless you count Kobe retiring and takin’ his .350 field goal percentage with him. Not every sign from God is a good one, though. Sometimes it’s more like a No Trespassin’ sign, or a Keep The Hell Off The Friggin’ Lawn sign or, in this particular case, a Closed For The Season sign addressed to the Dodgers.
I found it interesting that today’s sprinkles came right on the heels of last night’s prognostication, in which I predicted a wicked Chicago storm is about to blow through Tinseltown this week. I was talkin’ about the Cubs, of course, but I think the chocolate mess that a few raindrops made outta LA’s freeways today was definitely a sign of what’s about to happen to the Dodgers. Coincidence? I don’t think so.
And they totally deserve it, too. Why? Dave Roberts’ laugh. Last night, when Baez flew out in the 7th about 3 eyelashes from the wall, Roberts unleashed a laugh that coulda gotten him the roll of #1 understudy for Dr. Evil. Michael Clair called it “maniacal,” So true. And I ask you, do normal people laugh like that, or just the possessed, mad scientists, and devil incarnates in the form of Major League managers? I think we all know the answer to that one.
Don’t be surprised if there’s an eclipse or somethin’ over Chavez Ravine tomorrow, or maybe some sort of pagan sacrifice bunting or somethin’ else on the part of the Dodgers designed to conjure the demons of baseball — like Bud Selig — in an effort to skew the game’s outcome through satanic influence.
Joe
PS. By the way, cry me an LA River on the 165 day thing, Los Angeles. You wanna talk drought? I give you the Chicago Cubs, who have gone somewhere in the vicinity of 39,420 days without a ring.
Hey there, drumsticks. Well, that was fun, huh? Now I could be all magnanimous ($10 word bonus) and say what a great game it was, it bein’ a one-run ball game and all, but I’m not gonna do that.
Tonight, Clayton Kershaw and home plate umpire, Eric Cooper, teamed up to show the Cubs just how wussy their offense has been in the playoffs. Kershaw was text book Kershaw, no doubt about it. But the guy behind the plate — not Grandal, the one with the white cane … Cooper — he was masterful, incredible and 100% overpowering with his inconsistency. Look, I don’t mind a guy havin’ a wide strike zone or a narrow strike zone, or a high or low one … but when two balls are thrown in precisely the same friggin’ place, and one is called a ball and the other a strike, it makes me wanna mow the infield with the ump still on it.
And I don’t need the “well, he called it the same for both teams” BS, cuz he didn’t. The strike Cooper called on Bryant in the 9th is pretty much Supreme Court-worthy proof of that, my friend.
I’m not blamin’ the loss on Eric Cooper or Stevie Wonder or whoever the hell that was callin’ balls and strikes. I’m just sayin’ he sucked like a top-of-the-line Dyson. The Cubs did most of the damage on their own; standin’ in the batters box just watchin’ the pitches go by. News flash, Cubbies: This is the NLCS, not Shark Tank. Even Robert Herjavec knows what to do with a good pitch, and just standin’ there like a friggin’ zombie isn’t it.
I’m guessin’ the Cubs strategy goin’ into Game 2 was to run the pitch count up on Kershaw — typical for the Cubs no matter who’s on the bump. Just two problems with that: 1) Kershaw doesn’t walk people and 2) not swingin’ at strikes leads to outs, not gettin’ on base. Perhaps they shoulda rethought this approach at some point. Before the game woulda been ideal. I mean the Kershaw start wasn’t a surprise to anyone, was it? So his track record in the first 6 innings shouldn’t have been an unknown quantity, right, Joe? But, ok, so we go into the game thinkin’ we’re gonna run the count up. When do you reassess and start being aggressive at the plate? How ’bout 4 innings in when Kershaw has tossed a measly 40 pitches? Not then either? Hmm. Ok.
In spite of that, I never once thought we were out of it. In years past, yeah. But not this team. Not this year. In fact, it looked a whole lot like we were gonna show ’em the door again late in the game, thanks to a Rizzo walk, a Little League play by Grandal, and Javi at the dish. Not quite, though. So anyone shakin’ cuz we’re headed to LA for the next two oughta take a Valium. Think about it. Except for our staff, Javi Baez, Bryant and one notable AB from Montero, our bats have been sawing logs throughout the playoffs. And tonight, against LA’s best pitcher, along with the help of Colonel Frank Slade behind the plate, we still almost won.
When our bats wake up — and you know they will — it ain’t gonna be 72 and sunny in LA anymore. In fact, I predict a wicked Chicago storm to blow through Chavez Ravine for the next few days, with all manner of unseasonal disturbances raining down on their little mini-parade. This ain’t over. You’d have to be blind, or Eric Cooper, not to see that.
“It was the best of times, it was the worst of times.” Then it was the best of times again. After last night, Dickens is sorta, kinda, almost startin’ to make some friggin’ sense to me. (At least the part I read.) Especially after Montereo — perhaps the most unlikely of heros — whiffed at a Joe Blanton meatball slider that my grandmother coulda plastered. So what does Blanton do? He serves up the identical pitch, and suddenly Montero — like Dickens’ characters Al Manatte, Chuck Darnay and Syd Carton — is recalled to life, and resurrected in the middle of all the turmoil caused by Adrian Gonzalez. If that’s not, to quote Dickens again, “the epoch of belief,” I don’t know what the hell is.
But this is a tale far bigger than Montero’s bat against Blanton’s arm, or the chess game between Maddon and Roberts, or even the Cubs vs the Dodgers. This is a smack down between two cities — Chicago and LA; the Second City and Tinseltown; wholesome midwesterners and blinged-out dreamers. These two places are about as foreign to each other as a World Series title is to the Cubs.
Everything is different. The architecture, the culture, the weather, the hot dogs. Like night and day, pal. Most especially the people. And that’s what a city is; it’s the people. It’s the stuff, too, like smog, and traffic and no seasons, if you’re LA, but mostly it’s the people. So when you got a ball club representin’ your city, it’s really a proxy for the fans that live and die with them. Like me. (I may be livin’ large at the moment, but over the years I’ve needed resuscitation 20 or 30 times after somethin’ the Cubs or Steve Bartman did.) So what does that mean? It means that whatever the Cubs are in this series, all of Chicago is, too. Ditto LA. Well, that got my mind doin’ the Chicago River thing — meandering backwards — thinkin’ about what the Cubs stand for and how that reflects on us fans.
Ask most anybody born after 1908 what the Cubs stand for, and usually they’ll tell you that they’re the all-time, ever-lovin’ mascot of futility. And that’s not just on Earth, either. That would include all 9 rocks makin’ rings around the sun, and everyone of their moons. And yeah, it’s 9. Not 8, like National Geographic says. In the Schlombowski universe, it’s still the Sears tower not the Willis tower, and Pluto is still a planet, my friend.
That said, I gotta think that after averaging 100-wins over the last two seasons, and makin’ consecutive trips to the NLCS, some of that baked-on, decades-old crap we’ve been caked in has been chipped away. Most especially cuz we had the best record in baseball this year. But also cuz of how we taunted the Giants by danglin’ that shiney even-numbered year thing in front of ’em right before we snatched it outta their greedy little Donald Trump-sized hands. Ha! A purely orgasmic feeling I normally don’t associate with baseball. Then we bleached the Dodger blue a bit by doin’ virtually the same thing to them last night. Hmm. How far apart can orgasms be and still qualify as “multiple?” Just wonderin’.
No longer are the Cubs the lovable losers, my friend. Uh uh. Who they are now is beginning to unfold in 2 cities, 2000 miles apart. Might as well be 2000 light years apart, though, cuz what LA is known for … well, I don’t even know where to start. But how ’bout I take a shot, anyway?
Being famous.
There are 9 and a half million people in Los Angeles and I’d say only about six or seven of ’em don’t have a star on Hollywood’s Walk of Fame. They hand those things out like hot cakes … or Joe Blanton sliders over the middle. David friggin’ Spade has a star. Hell, half the hawkers at Dodger Stadium probably have ’em! Seems like everybody in LA is famous, or is tryin’ to be famous, or moved there cuz they wanna be famous. And when these honyocks aren’t tryin’ to become more famous, they’re at the Forum Club rubbin’ elbows with somebody else who’s famous, or giving themselves little statues for things like pretending, and rhyming. Isn’t that the height of culture. They even got a particular sorta famous in LA for just being famous. The Kardashians, Paris Hilton, Katie Price? That’s what I’m talkin’ about. The Dodgers are playin’ for them.
Genuine imitation.
Is there some sorta ordinance in Los Angeles requirin’ women to have breast implants? I’ve never seen anything like it. Neither have the laws of physics or Mother Nature, cuz the ones she makes have some kinda built-in movement and all. Those things Dr. Hootermacallitz is bolting onto women are like granite. You could rest your beer on ’em.
And how ’bout the lips. No skinny little white girl from Tarzana is born with a Mick Jagger kisser. That’s not natural either. Add to that the butt implants, fake eye lashes, sprayed-on tan, over-whitened teeth, glued-on fingernails, tattooed eye-liner and you got yourself a real live tummy-tucked, face-lifted, hair-extended Barbie doll. The Dodgers are playin’ for them, too.
Traffic squared.
Sittin’ in traffic is a badge of honor in LA. You hear people dueling about their commutes: “It took me 90 minutes to get here this morning.” “Pfft. That’s nothin’. It took me 2 and a half hours to go from Mulholland to Westwood.” They love to whine about it, but take pride in havin’ the biggest nightmare. Of course everybody’s got traffic. We got our share in Chi-town. But in LA, it’s like herpes or somethin’ — it’s always there. No accident, no construction, no event. It’s just 3 in the afternoon. Traffic is the reason Dodgers fans are some of the lamest in baseball. Why? Cuz they’d rather beat the traffic than stay for the whole game. They show up late, cuz they’re sittin’ — that’s right — in traffic. Then they leave early — even if it’s a 1-run ballgame — cuz it’s more important to beat the rush outta Chavez Ravine than whoever they’re playin’. Pathetic. The Dodgers are playin’ for those guys.
Air-like substance.
In Chicago, we got air. Lots of it, usually movin’ along at a brisk pace. Hence the nickname. In LA, I don’t know what that stuff is that covers everything, but I’m pretty sure you’re not supposed to be breathin’ it. It’s not just regular smog either, it’s some kinda super smog that has the look of Joe Blanton’s shorts after the Cubs’ half of the 8th last night. You’d think Bashar al-Assad was in town or somethin’. They have days when they don’t want anybody goin’ outside cuz it’s so bad. So they don’t. The Dodgers are playin’ for those people, while Chicago fans somehow seem to get around when it’s 40 below zero or a scorching 100 degrees with 95% humidity. Which reminds me, when it’s 67º out, LA thinks it’s cold.
Lots and lots of cars.
Public transportation? What’s that? As much as Angelinos like to moan about traffic, they looooooovvvvvee to spend time in their cars. They drive everywhere. Walk? Are you friggin’ kidding me? Even if they’re goin’ to a neighbor’s to watch famous people get a statue for pretending, they’ll drive cuz who knows … they may need to suddenly go somewhere they haven’t thought of, and in the million-to-one chance that happens, it’s good to have the car close by. And these people — that the Dodgers also play for — they wonder why the smog is so friggin’ bad.
You call that a river?
So long as I mentioned the Chicago River earlier in this tirade, I don’t think I can finish this up without also bringin’ up the LA River. First, there’s no water in it. It’s got the occasional abandoned car, old mattress or whatever grows and multiplies in random puddles of inch deep runoff, but no water. And second, it’s made outta cement. CEMENT! The Chicago River, on the other hand, used to flow in one direction but was engineered to flow in the other. That’s friggin’ Einstein brain stuff, pal. Plus — and this is huge — it turns green on St Patrick’s Day.
Any way you slice it, it’s hard to imagine two cities any further apart than Chi-town and Tinseltown. In a few more days, one of the teams that represents ’em is gonna be doin’ another champagne shower and headin’ to the World Series, while the other will be watchin’ it on the flat screen just like their fans. I’m betting that Binny’s is gonna be makin’ a couple more deliveries to Wrigley this year. Hope so, anyway. Seven more wins. Seven. Damn, that’s close.
Joe
Fun facts: 1) Montero’s slam was the first ever pinch hit, go ahead, grand slam in postseason history. 2) The Cubs now have a 1-0 lead in a best-of-7 series for the first time since the 1945 World Series. Go Cubs!
Today it was announced that Bob Dylan has won the Nobel Prize for literature. If there was ever a sign that the Cubs are gonna win the World Series, this is it.
I don’t know what they smoke in Stockholm, but I’m pretty sure it’d be banned by Major League Baseball. I mean Bob Dylan and Nobel Prize in the same sentence? Really? This is a guy who wrote lyrics like:
They’ll stone ya when you’re at the breakfast table They’ll stone ya when you are young and able They’ll stone ya when you’re tryin’ to make a buck They’ll stone ya and then they’ll say “good luck” Tell ya what, I would not feel so all alone Everybody must get stoned.
Now … maybe if he’d penned “Go, Cubs, go” I could get behind this. But as it is, and as much as I like Dylan, this one’s got me scratchin’ my head.
I’m guessin’ that the 18-member Swedish Academy had taken Mr. Dylan’s advice when they decided he should be a Nobelaureate. Who is on this committee, anyway? Cheech and Chong? Spicoli? I mean, these guys compared Dylan to Homer and Sappho. In baseball terms, that’s like comparin’ Mario Mendoza to Ted Williams. And awardin’ him the Grand Poobah of literary prizes is like puttin’ Pete La Cock in the Hall of Fame. By the way, unlike Robert Allen Zimmerman, who changed his name to Bob Dylan, La Cock has gone through his entire life with that handle. That takes balls. (Yes, that pun was intended.) Of course maybe that’s why La Cock was never a rock star.
Anyway, I’m takin’ the Dylan Nobel Prize thing as a positive sign for the Cubs. Why? Cuz it means that whatever floats around out there in the universe that you can’t see — dark matter, gravity, Jimmy Hoffa — is in some sorta weird flux that’s turnin’ the world as we know it on it’s keister. Can you really argue with that? Does Donald Trump runnin’ for President seem normal to you? This is why I’m absolutely certain the Cubs are a lock for World Series Champs. And maybe for more than just this year. Stuff in the universe is pretty big and powerful. Like the Force. A cosmic oil tanker that’s goin’ in one direction isn’t just gonna turn on a dime, my friend. In the Nobel Prize world that means it might not be that crazy to see Sir Mix A Lot pickin’ up a $100,000 check in Sweden. But it also means the Chicago Cubs could be a team to be reckoned with for some time to come.
We’re gonna find out if this Schlombowski Theory of Relativity looks like it can hold water startin’ Saturday. Dylan might say, “The answer is blowin’ in the wind.” And given it’s Chicago – the Windy City — I think we’re gonna hear that answer loud and friggin’ clear, my friend.
