Que Seraph, Seraph

Posted on by Metatron · 3 Comments

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I am Metatron! Mouthpiece of the Almighty! Scribe of the Creator! Possessed of wisdom beyond all understanding! Speaking with the breath of the Divine! Enoch, transformed through primordial fire, seraphic eyes ablaze, torchlike! Walker at the side of God, His holiest company!

I am Metatron! We have endured now two years in witness of the name, “The Los Angeles Angels of Anaheim,” which remains an abomination! We, the primordial, are long past the earthly memory of embarrassment, but the disharmony of “The Los Angeles Angels of Anaheim” in this late day invites the fundaments of darkness into our realm! Even to utter it, as I already have done not once, but twice, works to disjoin the very fabric of meaning and existence!

I am Metatron! The signing of Gary Matthews Jr. to a Five Year Contract is a grave peril! I, Metatron, cannot comprehend such folly. Indeed, it is the kind of signing that makes one weep for all of humanity. This piteous mortal, Gary Matthews Jr., will finish his 33rd year of existence in the coming August. Can William Stoneman not recognize the fallacy staring him right in the face? Will that mortal be worth $10 million as he enters his 39th year? The Gary Matthews Jr. which William Stoneman has signed is a phantom! A golem of air, borne of the warm winds of Texas! A grotesque mutant, grown unnaturally potent by greedily suckling the divine secretion of human transformation! A cruel puppet, yanked by the strings of Fate unto completing that catch, that catch, THAT CATCH, which Metatron owns he could never accomplish, even on the best day of his near-immortal life! But nay! Woe unto the nation that signs the phantom to a five-year contact, at $10 million per! Woe unto the Los Angeles Angels of Anaheim!

I am Metatron, and I have said the name again! Even a seraph is imperfect! Perfection is the sole dispensation of the All-Perfect!

I am Metatron! And a consciousness need not the wisdom of the Kingdom of Heaven to recognize that this team requires not the illusion of a fleet center fielder, but the inarguable material reality of A Bat! A Great Bat, which shall smite the baseball, yea, and mightily. For lo, the players assembled under the banner of Anaheim did score 4.73 runs per game last year, besting only Seattle and those twin cities of misery, Kansas City and Tampa Bay! The tally of home runs did number 159, reeking of such acrid failure as unto a fortress of myrrh, erected upon a fundament of dung!

I am Metatron! And with the addition of the aforesaid Gary Matthews Jr. to Chone Figgins, Howie Kendrick and Orlando Cabrera, the Los Angeles Angels of Anaheim threaten to feature half of a lineup that hits .270 with 10 home runs and 40 bases upon balls unto each! And behold, Garrett Anderson shall not see twenty home runs again! And behold, I have seen the future of Mike Napoli, and it is named Matt Nokes!

I am Metatron! And in my infinite wisdom, I have determined who must hit behind Vladimir Guerrero! And that determination is thus: Anyone Else! Anyone other than whomever might conceivably fulfill the task at present! If Garret Anderson is a cleanup hitter, that team shall not go to the World Series! If Shea Hillenbrand is a cleanup hitter, that team shall not go to the World Series! Shall Mike Napoli carry that weight? Woe to the team that asks him to do so, for he shall snap like a flag in the breeze. Where is Anyone Else? O Where is Anyone Else?!

I am Metatron! And I gaze upon the starting rotation that begins with John Lackey, Ervin Santana and Jered Weaver, and I see that it is good. And I gaze upon Kelvim Escobar, and I see that he, too, is good, though doubts yet plague us. And I gaze upon the bullpen, and so vividly does it shine that I must avert mine eyes! And I gaze upon Bartolo Colon and I see that he is fat. So surpassing fat is Bartolo Colon that even I, Metatron, find it difficult to apprehend his entirety in my seraphic gaze!

For I am Metatron, and I was present this past November when Bartolo Colon consumed not one, but three Plates of Ribs at Tony Roma’s, which in the defence of Bartolo Colon, is known as A Place For Ribs! And yea, for I was also present at the Fuddrucker’s on Route 57 in Garden Grove, when Bartolo Colon did empty an entire Fixin’s Bar cannister of Spicy Cheddar Sauce unto a sequence of baked potatoes, each of which he did devour! And yea, for as Bartolo Colon did, not a fortnight ago, sneak down unto his spacious kitchen in the hours before the dawn and did disgorge an entire jar of Jalepeno-Stuffed Olives unto his mouth, I, Metatron, sat, weightless and aghast, upon his still-tender shoulder!

I am Metatron! And unless Bartolo Colon alters his present course, he shall find his own earthly form assume the geometric proportions of the letter “O” which occurs with such abundance in his own name! Bartolo Colon must now appreciate that he needs the Los Angeles Angels of Anaheim more dearly than the Los Angeles Angels of Anaheim need him! Let him rebuild the damaged shoulder! Let him strive toward a more linear physical presence! For aye, if he accomplish these tasks, then the Los Angeles Angels of Anaheim do verily boast the Pitching Staff Which Surpasseth All Others!

Aye and woe! For I am Metatron, and I have spoken the accursed name of this team a seventh time! And whereso upon that seventh speaking have I been called hence from this perch, by the Clarion Voice of the All-Clarion, instructed thus to Cut It Out! Thus, do I obey. But not before rendering judgement thus:

This team may yet win its malnourished division! But it has not the strength to touch the championship, and shall not! But lo, should it bring forth Manny Ramirez or even Adam Dunn, all wagers be null and void, and the sweet ambroisia of Victory may yet be tasted, drunk and micturated in Celebration! So it is written, so shall it be done! I am Metatron!

Metatron has served as the scribe of God since 3094 BC, when he was assumed into heaven after 365 years of earthly existence as the prophet Enoch. Apart from God, Himself, Metatron is the only being in Paradise who is permitted to sit down, which is nice.

Bostoenology 101

Posted on by Hayden Bronzino · 10 Comments

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If there’s one thing all baseball fans associate with the Boston Red Sox, it’s fine wine. And regardless of whether or not the previous statement is remotely true, next month will see the release of three unique wines that reflect the personalities of Red Sox stars. As a result, bourgeois yahoos from Great Barrington to the Vineyard will spend this summer guzzling Manny Being Merlot, Schilling Schardonnay and Tim Wakefield’s CaberKnuckle, desperately attempting to work up the courage to come out to their wives.

Being the investigative epicures we are, we had to ask: What further vintning had the Red Sox undertaken? Hayden Bronzino, the team’s Managing Oenologist, let us know what we can look for coming down the pike this summer:

Big Papinot Noir – This warm and full-bodied vintage all but embraces your entire mouth as it makes its inevitable circuit around your palate.

Two-Buck ‘Tek: A simple wine that traps flavor like Jason traps pitches in the dirt. Crude yet effective in certain situations.

Youkilisyrah – No one has ever properly pronounced the name of this deceptively complex red. Look for the strong finish, with hints of pear blossom and roasted lamb.

Dustin Madeira – A sweet young dessert wine, with a richness that belies its inexperience. Undertones of roasted cherry and molasses make this an ideal after-dinner wine to enjoy with an aged roquefort, or else a refreshing breakfast wine when poured over pancakes or Belgian waffles.

Mike Lowell’s Hard Cuban Lemonade – Frightening. Seriously, do not drink this. Trust us.

Matsusake – This imported rice wine has barely been sampled in the United States, but if the hefty price tag is any indication, it is mind-blowingly awesome.

Chenin PapelBlanc – Young white grapes are relentlessly pulverized to create this forceful varietal, featuring undertones of banana and a distinct aura of dread.

Wily Moët Pena – A non-vintage sparkling wine, this brutal Brut may not offer the most balanced combination of flavors, but its extra-large bottle makes it a spectacular choice for christening yachts and other sea-going vessels.

Cabernet Josh – Unpretentiously crafted by righthander Josh Beckett, this workmanlike vintage tastes of grapes, with subtle hints of a different kind of grapes.

Coco Cristal – A smoothed-out chilly blend of only the speediest varietals, carbonated VERY naturally so as not to injure the grapes. Louis Roederer developed this reluctantly, due to the center fielder’s rap career, but is reportedly very pleased with the results. Unlike “the Triangle,” no funny stuff here!

Tito’s Celebration Sparkle – Not champagne but darn close, the grapes for this bubbling treat come from the skipper’s organic farm outside his ancestral home near Pittsburgh. Don’t let it stain your jersey, Terry!

Backup Backstop Bordeaux – Doug Mirabelli’s classic Malbec, with all of the earthy cedar and tobacco undertones the discerning connoisseur would expect of a seasoned veteran who’s spent eleven years squatting in the dirt.

Pinot Piniero – Made with delicate Pinot grapes grown exclusively in the Red Sox bullpen, this fruity, sometimes erratic white makes for a strong accompaniment to most seafood, save for fish, shrimp, scallops, lobster, crab, clams, mussels, oysters, eels, shark, sea urchin, sea horse, sea cucumber, sea anenome, starfish, sponges and krill. If anything, it’s best suited to skates and rays. Okay, honestly? Just skates.

Julian Tava-Red: Blood-red grapes and an earthy tone set this shiraz apart from other vintages. There is a hint of violence in the nose.

Theo Epstein’s Rockin’ Manischevitz – Party like it’s 5764! L’chaim!

Cask of Amontillugo – Dry and tangy with a hint of sweetness, this well-seasoned sherry provides an ideal balance of flavors to stabilize a dessert course, a crowded middle infield, or a tortured psyche, slowly driven mad from entombment in the catacombs.

The Mint Drewlep – Peppermint schnapps, Southern Comfort, and as much ice as you can fit in your glass. Because J. D. “don’t go in for that pansy-ass wine shit.”

Sister Reyes

Posted on by Lou Reed · 4 Comments

Hey there, New York. And whoever else is out there, you might as well come on in too. Sit down. Make yourself comfortable. It’s a long season.

Not many people know that the Rock n’ Roll Animal was and is a fan of the game from way back. Brooklyn born, baby. Jackie, Hodges, Pee Wee, Campy, the Duke”¦ all my boys. Delmore Schwartz threw me out of class one time for saying Don Newcombe could take Willie Mays one-on-one. Truth is, he was still upset about those whores O’Malley and Stoneham going to California. Well shit, who wasn’t?

I came back to the city from Syracuse just after NL baseball did. I saw the Mets play a couple times at the Polo Grounds”¦ It was nice to have a reason to go to the Polo Grounds before they tore it down; Delmore would go on and on about the Polo Grounds, especially after he’d had a few, which was a lot of the time. I dug the Polo Grounds. Never been wild about Shea, but shit, who is?

I dragged Andy and a bunch of them to Shea for a game in’66. I don’t think they’d seen daylight in something like 72 hours”¦ even with the sunglasses, Andy was blinking like a stunned owl. Andy hated it. “It’s boring“¦” he’d sigh, “It’s so boring“¦” Now, I had a feeling he’d think that, but I didn’t expect it’d be a problem, because as far as I could tell, he liked things that were boring. I mean, you’re gonna make a movie that’s one long shot of the Empire State Building for six hours, and you’re gonna tell me the Mets are boring? Really, he was a total bitch about it.

The only thing he liked was the parking lots. We got to the stadium and he saw the parking lots and it kicked off one of those flights of euphoria he would have”¦ “This is fantastic”¦ Isn’t this fantastic?” And so everyone””Joe and Candy and Edie and everyone””starts going on and on about how fantastic the parking lots are. Which only raised everybody’s hopes. It all came crashing down when everyone stood for the national anthem. Andy didn’t want to stand””standing in public always made him uncomfortable””and then this big guy in front of us turns around and growls, “It’s the goddamn national anthem. You stand up for the national anthem.” So Andy stands up, holding my arm the whole time, his hand is shaking. Total panic. He whispers to me, “Is it always like this?“

It’s funny, Andy ultimately came around to baseball, kind of, once he got to know some of the players. Turned out, he was a Yankee fan, which I could’ve predicted, and maybe should’ve. Of course, the only players he knew were Yankees. If you were a Met in the late 70s, you couldn’t get into Studio 54 with a note from Steve Rubell’s mom. But Mickey Rivers and Cliff Johnson were there damn near every night, at least after the home games.

But I’ll take the Mets. It’s the Island’s team. Brooklyn and Queens, baby, two sides of the coin. The original cut of “Oh! Sweet Nuthin'” actually had a verse that started, you know, “Say a word for Cleon Jones.” Yeah, some record company is gonna dig up that cut one day and stick it with a bunch of other outtakes and B-sides and it’s gonna sit there on the counter at Starbucks next to the soundtrack for Akeelah and the fucking Bee. Can’t wait for that day.

But the Mets are all over the place in my records, if you know where to look. Felix Millan did some of the horn overdubs on “Temporary Thing,” and the entirety of The Blue Mask was actually inspired by and dedicated to John Stearns. Crazy thing was, he got injured just a few months after the record came out”¦ career over, done. Kind of spooky, really. I still can’t play “Waves of Fear” without getting hit by a fucking cinder block of guilt, you know?

So I’m not writing anything for the ’07 Mets. Didn’t write anything last year and that turned out okay, huh? At least until Heilman though he could blow that one by Molina. Can’t get too down on Heilman, though. Shit happens, right? If anyone should take the heat, it’s Wagner for Game 2. That shit’s unforgivable.

But babe, I like this team. Jose Reyes”¦ Jesus Christ, watching him on the basepaths is like listening to Dion’s early solo stuff, like he’s taking two steps for every one you can even follow. If you think it’s a base hit, it turns out to be a double”¦ you think it’s a double and suddenly he’s on third, jumping up and smiling”¦ you didn’t know where he was going, but he sure the fuck did.

Carlos Beltran… the guy is like a goddamn Greek god out there. It’s like he runs onto the field and the sun comes up. I’ll bet you that guitar over there in the corner that if you break in to the basement of the British Museum, you find a statue of Apollo that looks exactly like Carlos Beltran that they had to stow away because some fucking twelve year-old prince got a hard-on looking at it.

David Wright. Does that kid even realize that he owns this town? He could walk into Trump Tower, kick in Trump’s door, rip the wig off the bastard’s head and say, “This building. This is mine.” And Trump would have to give it up. Because David Wright owns New York in a way that Trump can only dream of, assuming Donald Trump is even still capable of the basic human act of dreaming.

Carlos Delagdo. I didn’t know it at the time, but when I wrote “I Wanna Be Black,” I was thinking of Carlos Delgado. If I could’ve just written “I Wanna Be Carlos Delgado,” I’d have gotten a lot less shit from NAACP.

Lo Duca. Brooklyn born, baby. You could stop right there, and I’m gonna.

You go up and down that lineup, it’s solid rock. Not a weak track there. Moises Alou, Valentin, Shawn Green”¦ I’m looking for a big year out of Shawn. The press whores at the Post, yeah, all you’ll hear them say is how he’s lost a step, he’s too old”¦ and he’s fucking 34. Shit, most Jews are just getting started at 34. When I was his age, I put out both Coney Island Baby and Rock and Roll Heart. So Murdoch can sell it, but I’m not buying.

Yeah, I worry about the pitching. Glavine’s getting up there, but Shea’s a forgiving place for guys like that. El Duque will find a way to win a dozen games, fifteen if Castro cashes it in by June. John Maine is the real thing, and if Pelfrey can eat up some innings, this team is gonna win him ten games. Oliver Perez has looked good this spring, but I’m not going further than that. If everyone can stay healthy “˜til July-August when Pedro comes back, we do okay.

Wagner worries me. You just can’t live life at 100 mph every day and expect to survive; listen to who’s telling you. One night you’re packing them in at Max’s with a half-dozen boys and girls waiting to take turns on your dick the moment you get offstage, the next day you wake up and Mick Ronson is tying you off in some hotel bathroom in Cologne and it’s 1979.

Now Billy Wagner is the kind of cracker I wouldn’t piss on if he was passed out in the only urinal in New York, but the kid pitches in Queens, so I got this to say: Slow down. Unclench the fist. Breathe. Have you ever considered Tai Chi? Because I know a guy. And I guarantee, if Billy Wagner picks up Tai Chi, we win the pennant.

So this year, I think we take ’em. I think we get past the Braves and the Phils, and probably the Dodgers to make it to the Series. Beyond that, who knows? You try to live in the moment, or at least not too far outside the regular season. “˜Cause after all, you need a busload of faith to get by, but Moises Alou doesn’t hurt, either.

Lou Reed is the creator of Metal Machine Music, a double album of unlistenable feedback loops released in 1975 to fulfill a contract obligation to RCA Records. It has been called the second-worst rock n’ roll record of all time. He is also the creator of a killer egg cream.

A Thousand Points of OPS

Posted on by George HW Bush · Leave a comment

In September of 2005, on the behalf of President Bush, we asked the American people to contribute to the Bush-Clinton Katrina Relief Fund. Over $130 million has been raised to help those in the Gulf Coast region, and we are eternally grateful for your generosity. But now we are asking for your help once again, this time to address a problem that not only affects Americans, but the world at large.

Every year, as the snow gives way to green grass and singing birds, men gather all across this great country, and all across the world, to play the game of baseball. This game has played a vital role in the development and growth of America. It has united us in times of great sorrow. It has served as a welcome distraction during our most trying conflicts. It embodies everything that is good about the American spirit. And it has served as our unofficial ambassador to the rest of the world, spreading our grand pasttime to all corners of the globe. But though baseball is vital and strong, it is also troubled, and the news that came out of the Seattle Mariners’ camp yesterday has forced us to act.

Thirty-six-year-old infielder Rey Ordonez, a player whose defensive reputation is exceeded only by his offensive ineptitude and inflated sense of self-worth, threatens to break camp as a member of the Mariners’ Opening Day roster. While Ordonez is nominally the utility infielder, it would only take one injury, or one innopportune slump from one of his teammates, for Ordonez to once again acquire a full-time position. And even if he remains a part-time player, Ordonez could still inflict serious damage.

One glance at the back of his baseball card speaks volumes about the harm Ordonez could cause. In over 3000 career at-bats, he has hit only 12 homeruns, and has a slugging percentage of .310. His career batting average is a paltry .249, and his career on-base average is only 40 points higher, and that is due mostly to his time spent in the National League batting in front of pitchers. Yet, because of his experience, his apparent zeal for the game, and perhaps his rapport with the manager, players like Ordonez are given endless opportunities to ruin a team’s chances for success.

Sadly, Ordonez’ story is one that’s told much too often throughout the sport. Every year, baseball teams make ill-advised decisions involving players like Ordonez – light-hitting infielders, slap-hitting outfielders, ineffective relievers, lackluster starters, catchers named Molina.

Who can forget the Chicago Cubs’ ill-fated dalliance with Neifi Perez, or Jason Tyner‘s tenure as the Minnesota Twins DH during last year’s playoffs, or the unending reign of terror orchestrated by Quinton McCracken? Players of this ilk, when given playing time, can only do harm. They not only hinder their team’s immediate fortunes, but their continued existance on Major League rosters can also hinder the development of younger, better players. In addition, the widespread proliferation of such players can only ruin the sport in the eyes of fans all across the world.

Obviously, the responsibility to keep these sort of vagabonds and parasites away from baseball should be in the hands of the owners and general managers. But as history shows, they’ve repeatedly proven themselves unable to resist the temptation that these sorts of players present. That is why it is up to us, fans of baseball, to prevent the temptation from presenting itself.

It is up to us to educate both the players and the teams. It is up to us to help these players transition from baseball player to baseball coach or baseball scout, or hopefully a career outside of baseball. While we certainly do not want to deny these types of players the right to earn a living playing baseball, we also do not want to see these players play for our favorite teams, or even our most hated rivals.

That is why we have created The Rey of Hope Foundation, named in honor of the horrible player that spurred us into action. With your help, The Rey of Hope Foundation will provide these no-talent clowns the opportunity to clown around elsewhere. Your donations will go towards setting up scholarships to allow these players the chance to pursue a second career. Former Philadelphia Phillies fan favorite Lenny Dykstra and reliever Matt White are generously donating their time, both as members of our board of directors and as examples of how to succeed both inside and outside of baseball.

But The Rey of Hope Foundation’s assistance doesn’t stop with the players. It will also assist the teams that, for one reason or another, continually employ these crippling wastes of roster space. The Foundation hopes to set up programs that will educate repeat offenders (such as Mariners GM Bill Bavasi, or the Kenny Williams that thinks a one-two punch of Scott Podsednik and Darin Erstad will actually be productive) on the errors of their ways.

With the help of people from Stats Inc., Baseball America, and Baseball Prospectus, we hope to show these men how to properly analyze a player’s statistics, and how to best utilize tools such as spreadsheets, calculators, and checkbooks. We will also establish programs to better educate the owners, so that such repeat offenders are kept far away from the front office. As with most ills of the world, education is paramount in solving the problem, and education is what drives The Rey of Hope Foundation.

The Rey of Hope Foundation seeks to treat both the sickness and the cause of the sickness, but we can only do so with your help. If only one more team refuses to sign Carl Everett, if just one GM conveniently misplaces Jose Lima’s cell phone number, our efforts will have been worth the trouble. For more information, please contact us. We will do our best to provide you readers with updates of our efforts. And, of course, your generosity is greatly appreciated. See you at the ballpark!

Spring Training 2007: Minnesota Twins

Posted on by The Dugout · Leave a comment

Online Host You have entered the Minnesota Twins Spring Training Chatroom

rondellwhiteex-expo factor: spring training isn’t going too well.

toriiiibig game hunter: i wanna be the second coming of puckett. I need a ring, dammit! Where’s my ring?

rondellwhiteex-expo factor: quiet. don’t let the young bucks hear you talk like that. We can’t risk weakening their already fragile confidence.

boof7766.jpgboof_the_magic_dragon: waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhh!

rondellwhiteex-expo factor: is he ok?

mauersweet_not_mauer: no, he isn’t. He’s not sure we can ever return to the playoffs.

rondellwhiteex-expo factor: chin up, man! You’re a big part of the team this year. We need you.

boof7766.jpgboof_the_magic_dragon: waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhh!

morneau
justin_credible: get reel, eh? Wut’s the pooint of it all? We worked oor asses off last year, made the biggest comeback in history, cot the Tigers on the last day, won the division, and bloo it in the playoffs. It’s like, too crushing. We can’t recover from this.

lirianodon’t_call_me_nelson: I’m done with rehab. Why should I pitch again? What’s left to come back to?

toriiiibig_game_hunter: He’s right. Even Shannon Stewart in his prime couldn’t jumpstart our team and rescue our sorry asses now. There’s no hope. I’ll never hit a Game 6 homer.

rondellwhiteex-expo factor: come on guys! We still have a chance.

mauersweet_not_mauer: we have a chance like Batista has a chance of ending Undertaker’s Wrestlemania streak. We may be young but we know what’s what.

boof7766.jpgboof_the_magic_dragon: waaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhh!

toriiiibig game hunter: Oh, what’s the use. We’re done for. Who can save us from our eternal torment?

lord-johan enters the chat room

johanlord-johan: WOE UNTO THEE, O TWINS. YOU HAVE SINNED A GREAT SIN IN THE SIGHT OF ME. YOU ARE NOT WORTHY TO RECEIVE MY LEFT ARM.

rondellwhiteex-expo factor: Johan, you take too much upon yourself. We will not live and die by your arm alone. We’re ballplayers! We all must win the pennant together.

johanlord-johan: THERE IS NO PENNANT WITHOUT MY LEFT ARM.

rondellwhiteex-expo factor: Your arm alone, Johan? Did you forge it to become a prince over us, to rule over us?

burning bushlord-johan: WHO IS ON MY SIDE? LET HIM COME TO ME.

most of the team flocks to lord_johan’s side of the chat room

mauersweet_not_mauer: Lead us, Johan, we are lost!

rondellwhiteex-expo factor: Johan has shown you no pennant in his years with this team. Come with me! Follow me!

boof7766.jpgboof_the_magic_dragon: waaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!

burning bushlord-johan: FOR THIS, YOU SHALL DRINK BITTER WATERS. THOSE WHO WILL NOT LIVE BY MY ARM SHALL DIE BY MY ARM! with a mighty swipe of his left arm, lord-johan slices off the heads of ex-expo factor and boof_the_magic_dragon, leaving only bloody neck-stumps

mauersweet_not_mauer: I wanna kill me some Yankees.

Smuggla’s Blues

Posted on by James Crockett · 1 Comment

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CROCKETT: You want to take down the Florida Marlins, Jesus Christ, you got your work cut out for you.

TUBBS: So listen, and listen good. This group is young, they’re hungry, they’re ruthless. I bet my badge that within three years, these guys are either winning 100 games, or moving upwards of 2,200 kilos of blow, possibly both.

CROCKETT: If you’re looking to make a move on Florida, first thing you gotta know is that you’re gonna have to go through the D-Train.

TUBBS: Dontrelle “D-Train” Willis. Just 25 years old. Another fine product of the streets of Oakland, CA. 10 years old, this kid is snapping off curves like you can’t believe. When he was 15, Cincinnati sent out a pair of scouts to check him out.

CROCKETT: One they found in an alley. They needed a goddamn jaws of life to pry the baseball out of his goddamn cranium.

TUBBS: The other one they found floating in the Bay, surrounded by seagulls picking at his eyes and ears, with a big red “D” scarred into his neck.

CROCKETT: Funny thing, the guy pulled through. He scouts for Kansas City now.

TUBBS: Point is, Willis is not to be underestimated. He can smell fear a mile away. Don’t be fooled by the smile, the laughter, or the way he seems to love kids. You get distracted, let your guard down, it’s over, done.

[sinister slo-mo of D-Train’s leg-kick windup, as “In The Air Tonight” plays in the bg.]

CROCKETT: It’s the slider that gets you. Most guys never even see the slider.

TUBBS: Then there’s the muscle, Babyface Miguel Cabrera, out of Venezuela.

CROCKETT: How serious is this kid? His goddamn mother was on the national softball team. Shortstop. They say she slaughtered an entire Ecuadoran village after one of their girls went hard into second to break up the DP.

TUBBS: Apple don’t fall far from the tree, either. This boy will hit you anywhere, any time, for any reason. Do not, repeat, do not give him the opportunity to open up on you. You gotta stay close, inside. Your game has to be flawless. You tip him off, and make no mistake, he will murder you, and smile while he does it.

CROCKETT: Of course, to even get to Cabrera, you gotta get through Hanley “Shadez” Ramirez.

TUBBS: Dominican. Just 23 years old. You have to keep your eye on this guy. The kid has a hair trigger. He’ll take a swing at anything. 304 total bases last year. Plus the kid had 51 steals. And those are just the ones we know about.

CROCKETT: The kid is so quick that we had one of our boys tailing him””you remember Lenny Pico?

TUBBS: Sure do. I went to his wedding. The guy did okay”¦ married a beautiful woman.

CROCKETT: I’m sure she’ll look terrific in black. Last week, Lenny is tailing Ramirez down an alley. Lenny thinks he’s got him, when Ramirez vanishes, boom, gone. Not five seconds later, Lenny turns around, bam! Ramirez is already behind him. Carved him up real good. Machete.

[Grainy, handheld footage of Ramirez escaping a rundown, set to “All She Wants To Do Is Dance.”]

TUBBS: It’s that kind of action that got the kid both the NL Rookie of the Year and the Norte Del Valle cartel’s “Estrella de Levantamiento” award.

CROCKETT: Only other guy to win both? Steve Howe. You can look it up.

TUBBS: On the right side they’ve got more muscle: Dan “the Smuggla” Uggla, and Mike Jacobs, who’s still got three bullets in his right shoulder from a gang fight when he was a kid down in Chula Vista. Didn’t stop him from hitting 20 bombs last year in 136 games.

CROCKETT: I went undercover last year for a series with the Phillies, just to watch Uggla do his thing. That bastard is so good, he managed to unload 3.5 kilos of China White in the middle of a double play pivot. The DEA nearly got him””said he missed the tag””but it was reversed on appeal, thanks to everybody’s favorite crew chief.

TUBBS: Yeah, don’t expect Dana DeMuth to make your job any easier.

CROCKETT: Did you know he gets a pair of 16 year-old Colombian hookers every Christmas? Happy friggin’ holidays.

TUBBS: Okay, you may get lucky and make it past one of the big guys once or twice. But over the long haul, the big reason Florida is gonna make your life miserable is that operations is run by a slimeball named Larry Beinfest, one of the shrewdest arms dealers working the National League. We haven’t figured out his connection, but somehow, he’s able to find quality arms on the cheap

CROCKETT: This cocksucker outright stole Anibel Sanchez out of the Boston system. The Sox thought he was a goddamn throw-in.

TUBBS: Tell that to Arizona. Last September, Sanchez blew them all away, one right after the other. Merciless. These were married guys, guys with kids. Poor bastards couldn’t touch him.

CROCKETT: And it keeps going. Scott Olsen, Ricky Nolasco”¦ they’re high-caliber right now, and only getting stronger.

TUBBS: And come summer, they get Josh Johnson back, all 6 foot 7 of him.

CROCKETT: We put a sting on Johnson last year. When the firefight broke out, he threw everything he had at us. Four good men died that day. Another one has to sit down to take a piss for the rest of his life. And all for what? Minor nerve damage. 60 days on the DL. It’s enough to make me puke.
[Crockett pukes.]

TUBBS: So if you don’t hit these guys in the early going, you may not hit them at all. There may be a chance late in the season, when these guys have spent 4-5 months firing away and the ammo starts to run down, but by then you’re liable to be in fourth place or in a wheelchair, maybe both.

CROCKETT: We saved the good news for last, and it’s the only good news we’re gonna tell you. The Marlins do have one weakness, and it’s at the very top.

TUBBS: The whole operation is owned —

CROCKETT: More like lorded over.

TUBBS: Owned, lorded over and run out of the back pocket of one Jeff Loria. Possibly the most egomaniacal sociopath ever to run a ball team.

[Montage of Loria, in the owners box at Dolphin Stadium, barking frantically into his cell phone, set to “Relax.”]

CROCKETT: This creep makes Kim Jong Il look like the Knights of friggin’ Columbus. Most cartel owners know better than to get in deep with their own merchandise. But nobody ever told that to J.Lo.

TUBBS: That’s what he likes to be called, believe it or not, J.Lo. And don’t even try to tell him that there’s someone else in the world who goes by that name.

CROCKETT: I heard that Joe Girardi once gave Loria a DVD of The Wedding Planner. As a joke, right? Loria had a couple front office guys hold Girardi down and extract his left kneecap with a needlenose pliers.

TUBBS: That’s what I’m talking about. Girardi was his right-hand guy. Respected by the troops. Loria’s so deep into his own shit that it’s like Jeffrey in Wonderland.

CROCKETT: More like Jeffrey Through the Looking Glass that he Just Snorted Eleven Lines Off.

TUBBS: So he’s”” Hang on, did you just make that shit up? Off the top of your head?

CROCKETT: I should kick your ass for even asking that question.

TUBBS: Sorry, brother. Seriously, that was quick. But back to J.Lo. If there’s a way to topple the Marlins, it’s through Loria.

CROCKETT: Our inside guys say that if you can get close to him, you can plant all kinds of crazy shit in his head.

TUBBS: That may be your best bet. Get him to start thinking that D-Train’s gonna make a move on him, and bam”¦ Willis gets exiled to Cincy or DC before Beinfest even wakes up to discover that his hamstrings have been cut in his sleep.

CROCKETT: He’s relentless, paranoid, and a complete asshole. But if you play him right, you can get him to make a mistake, and it’ll probably be a big one.

TUBBS: Then you better be ready to get your ass out of there, because the Marlins ushers and grounds crew are just about the most heavily armed in baseball, and they shoot on sight.

[Lt. Castillo enters.]

CASTILLO: Alright, gentlemen. If you’re finished briefing these poor suckers, you got a job to do. Word is, Wayne Huizinga is back on the streets.

TUBBS: The Garbageman? Thought he’d never show his face in this town again.

CROCKETT: Let’s roll that cocksucker up.

[Crockett & Tubbs pile into their Ferrari and speed away in a cloud of shimmering neon. “I Want To Know What Love Is” plays in the bg.]

CASTILLO: Good luck, you goddamn bastards. [lights cigarette] You’re gonna need it.

James “Sonny” Crockett and Ricardo “Rico” Tubbs have served in the Vice Division of the Metro-Dade County Police Department for over twenty years.

My Butt, Dabney Coleman’s Back Hair, and the Atlanta Braves

Posted on by Jane Fonda · Leave a comment

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I sat uncomfortably in the rock-hard azure seats at Atlanta-Fulton County Stadium. The sound was so loud that it stung my ears like the bees that attacked me when I was eleven years old and my father was emotionally distant and wasn’t paying attention to me or my mother or my brother Peter. But this was not then. I was sitting next to my husband, Ted Turner, the owner of the Atlanta Braves.

I had not grown up with baseball, and I didn’t really understand the rules when I first started dating Ted. That was okay though — neither did he. He often laughed about this, as we ate bison steaks and quaffed a 1787 Chateau Lafite Bordeaux. “They think I know what I’m talking about,” he often scoffed, “just a-cause I own the damn team! No one wanted them suckers back when I bought ’em!” He regaled me with stories about how he managed the team for one game before being ordered to resign, and how he made a pitcher put the name “channel” on the back of his jersey just to advertise WTBS. Then Ted would wipe gravy and wine from his mustache with one of his impeccably tailored sleeves and fall asleep in his chair, as I gently rang the bell for our maid. These were the glory years, when we still thought everything would turn out all right. I was 47 years old.

I wanted to be a good wife, so there I was, squeezed into those unforgiving plastic seats. It was the sixth game of the 1995 World Series. I might have looked uninvolved in the action, disconnected, boredly doing “The Chop” along with the other 51,874 people in the crowd. But that is just what I learned from Mother and Father, from being an international sex symbol at the age of 20, from being married to one of the world’s most notorious ladies’ men, from being screamed at by conservative warmongers and anti-exercise advocates and film critics for my entire adult life. Deep down, I appreciated what was going on in this game I’d come to love over the last five years. I knew the kind of game Tom Glavine was hurling against the Cleveland Indians. But I also knew that the fierce competitive spirit of David Justice (booed before the game for his caustic comments about Atlanta’s fanbase, just as I had been booed for speaking my mind about the lost cause of Vietnam!) would carry the day.

Justice’s sixth-inning homer off Jim Poole was the only run of the game. The Braves had won the World Series. When Deion Sanders drenched Tim McCarver, he was symbolically drenching everyone who said we couldn’t “seal the deal,” win “the big burrito.” We thought that dream would never end. But, like all dreams, it did. The Atlanta Braves won the AL East for the next nine years, and even revisited the fall classic several times, but never again came home with the title. Ted and I divorced in 2001, and he soon was no longer the owner of the Braves. And, last year, the final indignity befell them: they failed to win the division, or even the wild card.

I am no sabermetrician; they didn’t have anyone to tutor me in algorithms on the set of “Barbarella.” But I do a little research here and there, and I am shocked at how pessimistic everyone is about the Braves’ chances this year. Of course, no one is exactly doing backflips over the hated New York Mets either, not with that pitching staff. (Tom Glavine aside, of course.) But the Philadelphia Phillies? Seriously? I mean, it’s true that they have some talented players. But their outfield is uglier than Dabney Coleman’s back hair, and by supporting Brett Myers as their #1 pitcher they are just asking for some bad karma. (Of course, as a born-again Christian, I don’t technically believe in karma…but if you have ever read “The Secret” you know what I’m talking about. Remember: good thoughts bring forth good fruit; bullsh*t thoughts rot your meat!)

I would just challenge you all to look inside yourselves and tell us all why you are doubting Atlanta’s chances this year, is all. The team is great! The Jones boys are healthy and happy this year, and dear little Édgar bounced back just like my film career did when I made “Monster In Law.” We’ve got rising stars in Jeff Francoeur, Brian McCann, and Chuck James, and sleeper guys at first (go Scotty go!), at second (go Kelly go!) and in left (go Ryan go!). And with veteran pitching leadership like John Smoltz, Bob Wickman, and Tim Hudson, we can’t go wrong.

And don’t think I’ve forgotten you, Mr. Bobby Cox! I am still furious at you for your domestic abuse; but, as Pastor Dennis says, I must hate the sin but love the sinner. And I do love you dearly, you crusty old buzzard. I’m glad you’ve stopped drinking, I’m glad you’ve stopped beating your wife. Now just start winning!

The gloom-and-doom predictions for the Braves this year sit uncomfortably, just like I did in those blue seats 12 years ago, trying desperately to “do the chop” while watching David Justice hit that home run. (Oh my, I just remembered he was yet another spousal abuser. I’m beginning to sense a pattern.) I just know we’ll win the division this year, and the pennant, and the World Series itself. After all, there are a lot of us who love the Braves — and we’re all praying madly. Remember, as Pastor Dennis so often says, “The oak sleeps in the acorn. The giant sequoia tree sleeps in its tiny seed. The bird waits in the egg. God waits for his unfoldment in man. Fly on, children. Play on.” Well said!

Jane Fonda is an award-winning actress, fitness personality, and author. Her book “My Life So Far” was a huge bestseller in 2005.

The Money Store Does It Again!

Posted on by Phil Rizzuto · 1 Comment

Hello, Yankees fans! This is – what? We’re not what?… Well then, somebody’s gotta tell me when we’re…

Oh, I see. I get it now… No, whenever you’re ready. You just give the, uh… the signal. Whenever you’re… Was that it? What? Oh. Okay.

Hello, Yankee fans! We hope you’re getting ready for another exciting season, as Joe Torre and the Bronx Bombers start down the road towards what they have to hope will be the Yankees twenty… -sixth championship? Or is it only twenty-four? No! They tell me it’s twenty-six. I got it right the first time. That’s the problem when you win so many… sometimes you lose track, and you gotta guess at it. You know, they say that your first guess is almost always right? I read that. Or Cora told me, I forget. Something like 80, 90 percent of the time. Instinct. It’s never wrong, instinct. Never fails.

These Yankees, this is a good-looking team, I gotta say. Maybe the best in a while, but you know what the story’s been the last few years… good team, makes the playoffs, then boom! Down the drain. I tell you, it’s heartbreaking for these guys, Jeter, A-Rod, Posada, O’Neill…

What? He’s… what? Oh, okay. Well, he was on the team recently. Tough customer, that O’Neill. Very intense. Even if he wasn’t on the team, I bet those losses in the playoffs were tough on O’Neill. When did O’Neill leave the team? Really? Unbelievable.

Anyway, like they do every year, the Yankees got a good shot. This team is loaded. Sometimes, you look at ’em, you wonder how they ever lose. But then, they do. I gotta say, it’s the weirdest thing. Look at the guys they put out there every day. All up and down that lineup. Jeter, A-Rod. Johnny Damon. Matsui. I think that’s how you say it. That Robinson Cano. That Abreu! This guy out of nowhere… Bernie. Bernie Williams. Posada…

What? He did?… Son of a gun, that’s right. Retired. You know, I totally forgot? 100 per cent. First O’Neill, then Bernie. Unbelieveable.

So no Bernie! The Yanks are going to have to do it without Bernie. Which is too bad, ’cause he was a heck of a ballplayer. Bernie Williams. Oh, you bet we’re gonna miss him. Fantastic guy.

But jeez, even without Bernie, this is a bunch of guys you don’t want to face. These guys know how to score some runs. If there’s a problem, it’s the pitching. They got rid of… Randy Johnson. Kind of a… a bust, I guess. Got back this kid, what’s his… you know, a paisan…

What?

Pavano! They get back Pavano… who knows what’s up with him. Pettitte is back, is that right? Unbelievable. So that’s good. They got… Chien-Ming Wang. I tell ya, I can barely believe that’s a guy’s name. I know that’s, what, that’s… politically incorrect. But really, I think that was the name of the guy who did our laundry in Canarsie. You think I’m kidding! Mister Wong! It’s almost like… a… making fun of a… a… stereotype! That’s the word. I couldn’t think of it, and then I got it. Chien-Ming Wang. Doesn’t it sound like a stereotype? Like what…? Like central casting. Chien-Ming Wang. Yeah, right?

Young man sure can pitch, though. Unbelieveable. Between this guy and that Matsui… that Matzuki… That kid up in Boston. The Chinese have really overtaken… What?… And Japanese. Japanese, too. All the… you know, what’s the…? Orientals! They’ve really… What?

Okay.

Mariano Rivera. What more can you say about that guy? I remember when he just got started, setting up for… who was it? Was it Righetti? Who was that guy? Who?… Wetteland. John Wetteland. Whatever happened to that guy? I remember he had that… that cap. It was filthy! Holy cow, that thing was awful looking. I wanted to go out there and grab it off his head, and take to my dry cleaner. Could you imagine Don Mattingly going out there with that kind of cap? Or Munson? Or Graig Nettles? What?

Okay, maybe Nettles. To tell the truth, that’s just the sort of thing he would do. Intense guy, that Nettles. Could he ever handle that hot corner, though. Unbelievable.

It’s funny, I thought about Nettles last year, when A-Rod was going through that horrible slump… striking out, making all those errors… Holy cow, that was some kind of slump. I don’t know if I’ve ever seen anything like that. But it was one of those games where A-Rod was just throwing the ball all over the place – and there was about a week there where it was like every game was like that, remember? – and I was thinking how the Yankees always managed to have good gloves at third… Nettles, Brosius… that other guy, remember? Another paisano…

Pagliarulo! Pags, they called him. Mike Pagliarulo. He would dive for that ball like it was a grenade, and he was trying to save the whole platoon. He was something.

Boggs. Boggs was nothing special. But he wasn’t there for his glove, everyone knew that. But even Boggs never hit a slump like A-Rod. And I don’t know, with the fans booing him and all, really giving him the business out there… You start to think – I know he’s a great player… unbelievable talent – but maybe, you know, maybe some guys just weren’t meant to be Yankees.

Like what was his… you know, we were just talking about him before… Randy Johnson! The Big Unit. What can you say about that guy? Fantastic pitcher. Hall of Famer, first ballot. But just not a Yankee. No shame in it. Doesn’t take anything away from him… well, I guess it does take something away from him, “˜cause he had a rotten year. But in the big picture… what can you say? Great pitcher, just not a Yankee.

And so I wonder if A-Rod isn’t the same way. And even some of the other guys, over the past bunch of years. Sheffield. He’s gone now, but yeah… didn’t it seem like he never quite fit in? Or who was that guy they paid all that money to? I know, there’s like a million of them. Righthander. Intense guy. A little… a little scary, that guy… What was his…?

Brown! Kevin Brown! Another bust. And that other guy who totally fell apart… Chuck Knoblauch. They’d hit a ball to him and everybody just knew he was gonna throw it towards Hoboken. So those guys, you know, maybe they just weren’t meant to be Yankees. And to be honest, I look at some of the guys out here… Johnny Damon, Abreu, A-Rod, Pavano… even Jason Giambi, sometimes. And it’s like I can’t believe it. Are these guys really Yankees? They’re great players, all of ’em… well, maybe not that kid Pavano, but you know what I’m saying. I don’t know, they just look funny out there to me. And I wonder if that’s not the Yankees’ big problem, why they haven’t won the World Series since… when? I tell you, it seems like forever.

You know you… you just know when someone’s a Yankee. Look at Jeter. That man looks fantastic in that uniform. Mariano… same thing. But Johnny Damon… that whole look he’s got or whatever… It’s like, any minute, and the whole thing is gonna pop right off him, and there’ll be a Red Sox uniform underneath. You ever get that feeling? No?

So that’s the Yankees. Like I said before, you know these guys are gonna score some runs. The pitching, I guess it’ll be okay… Mussina and Pettitte and Wang, hard to go wrong with those guys…

But you never know. It hurts me to say it, but you gotta wonder if it’s gonna happen again. You get to the playoffs and the whole bunch of ’em just seem to kinda… give up. Not give up… you know what I’m talking about. Everyone just seems… they seem to go on vacation or something. Permanent vacation… Who said that, “permanent vacation?” Is that from somewhere? I didn’t just make that up. At least I don’t…

What?

Hall of Famer Phil Rizzuto eats cannolis from the Ferrara Cafe, located on Grand Street between Mulberry & Mott. You huckleberry.

Tempest In a Teapot

Posted on by Travis Lee · Leave a comment

Dear Travis Lee Fan Club members:

It is with a sad sinking feeling in my heart that I send this month’s “T-Leaf Reading” to you all. After giving all that I could give to the fine District of Columbia, I, Travis Lee, have decided to leave our nation’s capital. It seems that the Nationals have no need of slick-fielding first baseman with more than a little pop in his bat and a gritty veteran presence that could help this young team navigate through what promises to be a tumultuous season. No, Washington would rather start a drunk wife-beating diabetic malcontent in my place, which is in line with the thinking behind a city that possesses the highest murder rate in American, and a costituency that elected a cocaine-addled hustler as their mayor multiple times.

But don’t worry, faithful “T-Leaves.” If this is the end of Travis Lee, Major League Superstar, then I am happy with that. I gave this sport over ten years of my life, and it has given me memories that I will treasure forever. Regardless, I have no doubt that some team will need my services in the near future. After all, it isn’t like first basemen of my caliber grow on trees! If players like David Ortiz and Frank Thomas can get a second chance, then there’s no reason why I can’t. And if lower-grade versions of myself, such as my good friend Doug Mientkiewicz, can start for perennial World Series contenders like the New York Yankees (as I would have, were I not waylaid by bad luck), then surely some other hopeful contender could use the real thing! In addition, I think it best for my career that it didn’t involve regular season service time with the Washington Nationals, and not just for the reasons listed above.

Unlike most pundits, I don’t see their pitching rotation being a problem. While it may be a group comprised of cast-offs and retreads, they’re a scrappy and hungry group of folks. And John Patterson is only a year or two removed from being one of the National League’s most dominant starters. In my eyes, their rotation is no different than that of the defending World Champions’ combination of ace Chris Carpenter and four days of rotational filler. And the St. Louis Cardinals didn’t even have as dominating a bullpen presence as the Nationals do with Chad Cordero.

No, the problems with the “Nats” lie solely in their offense. They’re depending way too much on phenom Ryan Zimmerman, who’s been set up to fail much in the same way as the New York Mets’ David Wright. After an amazing first full-year in the majors, Wright came crashing back down to Earth in 2006. He was eclipsed by most of his teammates, and was a non-factor for most of the year. I fear the same will hold true for poor Ryan. In addition to heightened expectations, Zimmerman will also have to contend with the absence of two key National power sources, outfielder Alfonso Soriano and second baseman Jose Vidro. The loss of sparkplug Nook Logan to start the season can’t help matters, either. Even with a full season of a healthy and rejuvenated Christian Guzman, they’ll be hard pressed to compensate for those key losses.

Some contend that the presence of Felipe Lopez & Austin Kearns might help bolster the offense, but I have to ask this question: why would a team as middling as the Reds trade these folks away if they were so valuable? I was traded during the peak of my career to Philadelphia, but it took a player the caliber of Curt Schilling to make Arizona pull the trigger. (Some might say that the trade cost the Diamondbacks much more than it gave them, but it’s not my place to judge.) Kearns & Lopez, on the other hand, were traded for anonymous bullpen arms. The impact that the Great American “Small”park had on their numbers must also be taken into account. If a one dimensional-hitter like Adam Dunn can hit fifty homers in such a place, then all statistics acquired in that bandbox must be considered suspect. As any forward-thinking baseball analyst knows, park factors are considerations that are rarely taken into account when acquiring players, and I fear that Jim Bowden is guilty of this as well.

So, yes, while I agree with many that the Nationals are doomed to failure, I see the reasons for this failure to be different than what most pundits suggest. And while I am much too modest to claim that I could have possibly helped this team in 2007, it’s safe to say that giving a player of my caliber 500+ ABs would not hurt. But sometimes lessons must be learned the hard way.

Even though the 2007 season will seemingly start without your Travis Lee on any Major League roster, I do hope that this will not diminish your interest in the upcoming season. The start of baseball is the start of spring, and with that, the start of something wonderful. See you on the field of dreams!

Courage,
Travis Lee

PS – This is just a reminder that the deadline to renew your Travis Lee Fan Club membership at a reduced rate has been extended to May 31st! For only $99.95, you’ll get a set of autographed photos of Travis with every Major League team he’s played for, a personalized letter from Travis, your own D-Back Travis Lee Bobblehead, and a discount coupon that can be used at any of Travis’ card show appearances. If you’re one of the first thousand to renew, you’ll also be eligible to purchase a discounted ticket to The Third (Or Four) Annual T-Leaf Steep (location and date TBD)! Remember – if you don’t renew by May 31st, you’ll have to pay the full $199.95 amount! Act now! Quantities are limited!

Travis Lee hit the first home run in Arizona Diamondbacks history.

An Inconveniently Great Team…and That’s the Truth!

Posted on by Greg Nickels · Leave a comment

nickels

Hello. I am proud to say that I am the mayor of America’s most beautiful metropolitan area: Seattle, Washington. We love our Mariners up here in the Emerald City, almost as much as we love our city’s rich tradition of music. (Yes, I am “down” with Seattle’s music scene; I grew up listening to the great Ray Charles, Quincy Jones, Jimmy Hendricks, and the Heart!) So I was glad when my old college buddy Ward York called me up and asked me to preview the team. Although I never played the American Pastime as a child, I go to at least three games every year, and I love throwing out the first shot! And although I am no “statistics-head,” I have been briefed extensively on their prospects for 2007. So I think it’s more than just “homerunism” that makes me predict great success this year.

First off, let’s talk about the team’s big stars. Everyone in baseball knows about our fine Japanese player, Ichiri Suzuko. He runs faster than a Pearl Jamm solo! Adrian Beltran and Rickie Sexson are fine young men, real credits to our fair community. I’m seeing great things in store for some of our young players like José Suarez, Yonalesko Betancrout, and Kobe Yoyoma. And don’t get me started on our pitching, with superstars like Helix Fernandez, P.P. Potz, and Jarren Washboard. They throw the ball harder than those tattooed Asian hipsters throw large fish around at Pike Place Market. Fine group of kids, these Ems. And they are very capably led by their head coach, the legendary Matt Harpring.

But as impressed as I am by these fine athletes, I am even more knocked out by the great people of Jet City. I know Curt Cobain loved them, and so do I. While the Mariners may not have won a lot of titles in the last few years, we have shown that we will never stop loving the old black and blue with silver trim. Seattle fans, as we have shown in the last two NFL seasons, are just as boisterous as the pioneers who settled Puget Sound back in the late 1700s. We love our UW Huskies, and we still have tons of fans at the Supersonics games, even though it is clear that the team will be moving to some godawful hellhole soon. (And good riddance too, if you ask me…although there’s always two sides to every story.)

The seats at Safeco Field are always going to be chock-full of passionate Washingtonians, singing out in the middle of the fifth inning to the timeless classic “Take Me Out to the Old Ball Game.” (That is, unless we are singing to hit tunes by Melvin, the Mother Love Bones, Bikini Killer, or Mud Honeys!) Even if we happen to be not-very-good that particular game or games, at least there are wonderful things to eat. The great Mariner Dog with its giant bun — suggested by stadium consultant, music legend, and local guy DJ Sir Mixalotl–, Ivar’s Acres of Clams, the plentiful sushi stands, and the surprisingly credible vegetarian burritos. And every concession stand offers fans the choice of over 230 local beers, ales, lagers, and pilsners, as well as piping hot java from both Starbucks and Seattle’s Best Coffee. It’s like going to a food festival, and suddenly a ballgame breaks out!

Now we’re coming to the part I’m most proud of. I know a lot of people are talking about the recent efforts made by Major Leagues Baseball to find a more ecological way to play 2,400 baseball games every summer. I just wish we could get the president of the United States to agree. (This would be a good time to mention the classic Seattle group the President of the United States of Americas. Also: Alices in Chain, Tad, Screaming Tree, and Fresh Young Fellows.) But up here, in the Gateway to Alaska, that’s just what we call “business as usual”…or unusual, if you will!

We take our environmental responsibilities very seriously up here, and I’m very humbled and fortunate to have been the major force for change in it all. Our extensive public transportation system has made it easy for people to ride together to the game, instead of clogging up the atmosphere with harmful emissions. We were the first ballpark with commissioned sanitation officers to strenuously reinforce our city’s recycling code. Despite what you may have read, Safeco was also the first major league stadium of any kind to be heated by solar power. It’s just that with our rainy climate, we only see the sun about seven days every year…but we were first! In addition, it was the first park to feature on-site water refinement plants — these giant underground plants turn the urine expelled by its attendees into tasty drinking water!

(Here are some more gratuitous Seattle music references provided to me by my interns: Heat Happening. Soundgardeners. Seven Year Witch. The Posers. Paul Revere and the Riders. Queen’s Reich. Love that Seattle music!)

This year, we are debuting our most exciting “green” feature yet. As you no doubt know, methane is a “greenhouse gas.” As you also no doubt know, many of the foods served at Safeco during an average game produce a lot of methane in the form of human emissions. Imagine what how many hundreds of pounds of methane are produced during just one game! Now imagine all this gas being collected. We have replaced all 56,000 seats in Safeco with new “green” seats that have filters in them to capture the methane emissions. We have also coated the underside of the roof with special aromavoltaic cells that capture any and all free-floating methane gas. These filters grab the methane and whirl it about in massive centrifuges until the methane has been largely converted into healthy and healthful air. These machines also convert the methane into CO2 and H2O, which are converted into electricity that helps to supplement our (admittedly) low solar power output. That is what we will be doing this year in Safeco Field. Pretty thrilling, huh? Think of it this way: even if the Mariners don’t end up doing well this year…at least no one can say we stink! Ha ha ha! (That joke probably works better in person.)

Well, I have to get back to my day job — there are a lot of papers on my desk to be signed. As soon as I do that, we’ll recycle the hell out of them…just like we’re trying to do with José Gallego in right field!

Greg Nickles is the mayor of Seattle, Washington.