Opening Day Duck Snorts

Posted on by David Smithson Michaels · Leave a comment

Hello again, Yard Work readers! Hope you’re having a great and prank-free April Fool’s Day. Now that Opening Day has finally arrived for the third time this season, it’s time for DUCK SNORTS to look at the previous day’s action and see what stories are developing across the Major League Baseball landscape. Let’s get it going!

ANOTHER STEROID ABUSER GETS HIS JUST DESSERTS: Former Baltimore Oriole slugger Jay Gibbons finally got what was coming to him, just like hundreds of steroid users before him. Gibbons, who was named in the damning Mitchell Report earlier this year, was finally released by the Baltimore Orioles just before the season began. It’s a strong statement from the Orioles organization, a team that can use all the hitting help it can get. While Gibbons gave Baltimore three 20-homer seasons, his wanton use of illegal performance enhancing substances lead to three injury-plagued seasons, which surely offset whatever good the drugs did. In addition, his performance while drugged influenced the Orioles in signing him to a multi-year, multi-million dollar contract that they’re still paying for — even released, Gibbons will earn another $11 million over the next two years. Just another example of how these drugs have tricked yet another unknowing franchise into throwing away their money. If the players had any scruples at all, all current contracts would be made null and void, and each player would be signed only to a one-year deal, with next year’s salary based solely on what the player accomplished the previous year. This is how contracts used to be handled once upon a time, back when the sport was clean. Given the embarrassment that owners have had to suffer these past few years, I think it’s only fair. Which leads me to my next item…

BASEBALL, LIKE LIFE, IS SOMETIMES NOT FAIR: I received an e-mail this morning asking me about why the Brewers and Cubs opened their season playing in cold and dreary Wrigley Field, instead of in the domed climate-controlled weather-free confines of Miller Park out in Milwaukee. The same question could be asked about why the Red Sox and A’s had to start their season out in Japan a week before everyone else, only to end up playing more exhibition games before restarting regular season play. Atlanta fans and Nationals fans might be wondering why they only played once, on Sunday, and then had to fly somewhere else to play the very next day. Some people might look at this year’s interleague schedule and wonder why their divisional rival is playing a bunch of cupcakes while their favorite team has to toil against the cream of the crop. The best way to explain this is by saying, “it is what it is.” Sometimes the baseball schedule is favorable, and sometimes it isn’t. There’s no bias or shady goings-on in making the schedule. It’s an impartial process that will never please everyone, and shouldn’t try to. What separates the good teams from the bad is how they handle this adversity, and whether these struggles make them a better or worse team. Baseball, like life, can be unfair, but something good can still happen because of it.

JOE MORGAN COULD HAVE BEEN THE GM OF THE TEXAS RANGERS: In case you missed it during Sunday night’s tilt between the Braves and Nationals, the President of the United States, George W. Bush, visited the ESPN broadcasters’ booth, and dropped a bombshell. He suggested that Emmy-award winning analyst and Hall of Famer Joe Morgan could have been the General Manager of the Texas Rangers, a team formerly owned by the President. As you might know, the Rangers have been a second-class organization, with only a brief run of success during the early 1990s to their credit, ironically during President Bush’s ownership. But with a world class mind like Joe Morgan’s in the front office, who knows what could have happened? It’s safe to say that the biggest mistake of Bush’s reign — trading away slugger Sammy Sosa for pennies on the dollar — might not have happened. If he was around the last few years, I’m pretty sure that Alfonso Soriano would still be a Ranger as well. While we can’t know for sure what would have happened had Morgan been GM and Sosa and Soriano stayed with Texas, it’s something worth thinking about.

WHY DOES BASEBALL HATE THE YANKEES SO MUCH?: This is the question I found myself asking while waiting, in vain, for the long-awaited Opening Day tilt between the Yankees and their long-time divisional rivals, the Toronto Blue Jays, to finally start. Unfortunately, baseball didn’t account for the weather when planning for this historic game, which was eventually postponed due to inclement playing conditions. This means that thousands of fans that traveled from all across the United States — if not the entire world — expecting to see the final season opener in The House That Ruth Built left the Stadium wet and unhappy. It just shows how much contempt Major League Baseball has for the Yankees, scheduling the game during a time of the year and place in the US when and where the chance of cancellation is high.

If MLB truly cared as much about the Yankees as we’re lead to believe, they woud have done everything in their power to make sure this game went off without a hitch. But by showing their contempt for the Yankees and postponing the game, they inadvertently hurt themselves and other as well. ESPN, the worldwide leader in sports, was left in a lurch as they scrambled to fill the slot reserved for this long-awaited game. The same goes for folks tuning in to their local broadcasts. Many viewers were forced to either watch the Tigers / Royals tilt (a much less interesting match-up), or they simply turned the channel. As Joe DiMaggio once said, you never know who’s watching you for the first time. If yesterday’s historic tilt was the first time for a potential fan, then it’s likely that baseball lost a fan forever. If this sort of childish disrespect for one of the league’s class acts continues, they might lose this fan as well.

THIS JUST IN — BULLPEN PITCHERS SOMETIMES PITCH POORLY: If there was a theme from yesterday’s wall-to-wall action, it was the volatile nature of the bullpen pitcher. All over the league, starters gave way to bullpens that just couldn’t hold the lead. The Tigers blew a sure-fire win for staff ace Justin Verlander, letting the lowly Kansas City Royals claw back and win in extra innings. Replacement Phillies closer Tom Gordon allowed five runs in just one-third of an inning against the Nationals; if he keeps that up, he’ll have one of the worst seasons ever for a pitcher. Cubs closer Kerry Wood allowed the Brewers to build a 3-0 lead that Brewers closer Eric Gagne gave right back. Then Bob Howry allowed Milwaukee to plate an extra-inning run that proved to be the winning run. The Cleveland Indians let the White Sox erase a 5-run deficit, but the Chicago bullpen returned the favor. And in the day’s most egregious display of bullpen ineptitude, Atlanta scored 5 runs in the bottom of the 9th to tie the hapless Pittsburgh Pirates, only to allow the Pirates to score 3 runs in the 12th inning. Atlanta came back with 2 of their own, but it was too little too late.

What does this all mean? Some people might be racking their brains trying to find a pattern in all of this, but it seems clear to me that there’s no such pattern to find. Last night’s bullpen implosion is just coincidence. It only means that bullpen pitchers, just like starting pitchers, or power hitters, or anyone else, can have bad days, too. I wouldn’t read too much in all of this. After all, for a lot of these teams, it’s the first game of the season. There’s still plenty of games left before it’s all said and done. Real teams don’t have the luxury that fantasy owners have — they can’t just drop or sign pitchers at a moment’s notice. To overreact and suggest that these teams have issues with their bullpens makes no sense at all, and I wouldn’t recommend anyone go ahead and do that. In case you forgot, they play the games for a reason. Let’s see what happens in the second game before we do anything extreme.

David Smithson Michaels wants to make sure that folks do not confuse his column with the San Diego Padres weblog that is also called DUCK SNORTS, and hope that people stop sending rude e-mails to that blogger on his behalf.

2008 Season Preview: Minnesota Twins

Posted on by Diablo Cody · 1 Comment

A wise man once said, “It ain’t over ’til the kind-of-hot former stripper and Oscar-winning screenwriter sings.” Well, our season preview won’t be over until we hear from Hollywood’s new it-girl, Juno scribe — and Entertainment Weekly columnist — Diablo Cody.

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Hey there, home fries. It’s me, your girl Dizzy D, lost and found in Tinseltown! Things have been wacky for me lately, what with the whole Juno dealio and the sudden fame and all. But even though I’m a LaLa Girl now, don’t flip your powdered little wigs — I still got the mad love for Minnesota in my heart. And that goes double bubble for my yummy little Twins. (Not THOSE yummy little twins, you horny toads — the baseball team. Durrr to the maximus.)

A bunch of people say my fave rave Twinnies aren’t gonna be all that google this year. But, um, okay, “they” also said I shouldn’t start stripping just to get material for a book, and that it was irresponsible to spend a whole movie trashing reproductive rights workers, and that my talk show appearances shouldn’t be the most interesting thing about my career as a writer. Luckily, I never listen to “they.” Who are “they” anyway? Have you ever met any of these “they”? And would you know if you ever did? OMG, whoa, just torqued my own cheese there.

So I feel no compunction about totally “Feeling Minnesota” this year. Who else is there? The Indians are cursed because of their racist Native American logo, the White Sux are a big fat mess, the Royals are more like the Peasants, and the Tigers…well, okay, the Tigers will be pimpin’ like Snoop. But the Twins can at least snag a wild card or something like that, and if that ain’t something to root for then wiggle my web and call me shakey.

Let’s start with Superchunk Hunk LeFunk, Ronald Clyde Gardenhire. Dude is totes sex on wheels, and I defy you to find any red-blooded American female or shemale who ever sent email who would disagree with that home truthiness. You know what’s hott-est about him? He’s paid his freakin’ dues, is what. Eleven years as third base coach before he got his shot! Is that the living balls or what? That’s the kind of general you go to war for. Not that I am into war, whatever.

It’s pretty claritin that our strength is our hitting. Justin Morneau? More like Justin More-yes! Joe Mauer? More like Joe More-er! Okay, that’s all I got on that q-tip. But we have a lot of other awesome babesicles too, cleancut gangstas named Brendan and Michael and Carlos and Craig and Mike. You know why I love Mike Lamb the most? Because if you say it fast it sounds like “My Clam.” Haha I am jesting about my own vag on a baseball website! Go me!

Okay and also I am loving Delmon Young like a fat kid love cake. I identify with D-Youngster; we’ve had very similar journeys. Sure, he wasn’t born a little rich girl named Brook in a nice suburban Chicago suburb…or was he? Dun-Dun-DUUUUNNNN!!! Okay, no, he wasn’t, that was just me. But both of us have had to suffer a lot of slings and arrows, and both of us are just walking around now all VINDICATED like the sun shines out of our asses and/or ladyparts. Plus, if I was a guy, I would completez be named Delmon. Having him run around the outfield will almost make me forget my dear sweetheart Torii Hunter. Almost, but not quite.

Speaking of catastrophic losses, let’s talk about this summer’s Johan Santana shazbot. He was a golden god — I actually felt worse about losing him than I did about my own recent sorry-honey-gotta-go-fame’s-on-the-other-line MOST AWESOMELY FRIENDLY DIVORCE OF ALL TIME. Couchboys are a dime a dozen, but Jindsey Johan is all that and a $5 bag of sea salt and vinegar Kettle Chips with jimmies on top. We will never see his like again. Well, maybe on TV during the playoffs.

But that’s no reason to be all emo like fat girls at the mall. In fact, now we get the chance to see what our other hurlers can do. I don’t really know any of their names, or whether or not they are like superduper good or just kind of pretty-good-with-benefits. But that doesn’t matter, does it? All I know is that if they are on the Twins and they are throwing the ball, the other team better be scurred. For serious.

I just also wanna drop some science about the constant rumors and innuendoes in re the Twins blowing town: SO not gonna happen. I know Carl Pohlad. I understand Carl Pohlad. Hellz bellz, I have lapdanced Carl Pohlad. So believe me when I tell you that that guy is going all kinds of nowhere…except maybe over Viagra Falls in a barrel. Sure, he’ll bitch and moan about his tragic lack of sponduliks, and he’ll be all shady about the Metrodome, but don’t fall for that — inside, he’s just a cuddle-bunny, looking for the love he was denied as a child. Aw how adorbz! Of course, it’s possible that I just have major daddy issues, but don’t worry your pretty littles about that, Curly Sue.

Okay, gotta bolt like Frankenstein’s neck, meeting the rest of the Junoverse (Pagey, Jase, A-Jan, J to the Kizzle, Livvy, Rainn-dawg, the whole sick crew except maybe Jennifer Garner who is a stuckup twunt j/k luv ya) for some hella ironic bowling and then probably ironically watching some porn or disaster movies or something. It’s gonna be a whole bangbus full of gorgeousness. Don’t you wish your girlfriends were hot like us? Aren’t you jealous of how cool we are?

Oh yeah: go Twins!

Gaze Into the Future…With Kabir!

Posted on by Kabir · Leave a comment


As we dance to the music of life,
We must remember that the steps matter not;
What matters is the energy, the attitude, the love —
Well, these things and on-base percentage.

In the year of the phoenix*
Many secrets will be revealed,
Many surprises will be uncovered,
Kabir says, and the Marlins will suck.

The American League will see a new champion
Rising to the top like bubbles in a glass:
Who it will be, I will not tell outright —
You can find clues hidden throughout this poem.

One Eastern bird will soar surprisingly high,
Another will skim the ground and crash.
Black and white will be okay, so will stockings of red,
While the wingèd fish will start strong and fade.

Move to the middle of the country
Then count out kings, dopplegangers, and the hose.
At the top will be the namesakes of my country
And the striped felines, prevailing here as in life.

Do not bother to continue west, Kabir says,
Unless you enjoy wagon wrecks and smallpox.**
Athletic-ally speaking, one must win,
But this is the new NL Central and ho-hum.

Speaking of that division, and we must,
It is no longer the weakest sister.
Watch for beer and bears to thrive,
Battling to the wire like sin and soul.

On the left coast of the country,
Three teams could win everything;
But they will not, because in the desert
Snake venom kills both friars and bluebloods.

You may believe those easterners who say
Bravery is on the rise, says Kabir —
But will it be enough to vault two teams
Whose names are not easily synonymized? No.

If you have read carefully, gentle reader,
You now know who the winner will be.
If you are still in the dark, be sure
That your head is in the ground and you are an onion or John Kruk.***
__________________
NOTES:

*Scholars are fairly certain that this corresponds to 2008.
**The original term actually translates to “anal pox,” a little-known malady that had devastated much of the subcontinent just four decades before this poem was written.
***This individual remains a mystery to scholars. A misprint, perhaps?

Kabir was a 15th century Indian mystic and seer, who nevertheless correctly predicted eight of the last 15 World Series winners in poetry form. A new collection of his salacious limericks, There Was an Old Man Called “The Rocket,” has just been released by Dalkey Archive in a new translation by Vijay Chaganta.

2008 Season Preview: Philadelphia Phillies

Posted on by Howard Eskin · 1 Comment

Like sands through the hourglass, if the hourglass was full of water, so goes the 2008 Yard Work Season Preview. Today’s installment concerns the Philadelphia Phillies, and is penned by AM radio drive-time personality (and Emmy Award winner) Howard Eskin.

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Ah, Phillies baseball. Like watching retards trying to snap their fingers. Seriously, folks, if you geniuses think the Phillies have a shot in hell of pulling off what they pulled last year, then you should change your tighty whities before the boom-boom you just let rip starts to leak out. Get ready for another year of the same dopes in the front office running out the same dopes on the field, managed by the biggest dope of all, Charlie “Needs An Instruction” Manuel. By the way, Charlie, I don’t know if you forgot about our little discussion last year, but if you actually want to sack up and take a swing at yours truly, name a place and time. You might want to schedule our meet-and-greet in front of a hospital, though. Preferably in a less ethnic part of town — no need to dodge fists AND bullets, right? For those looking for a little side action: I’m setting the over / under on this at 2 punches, and I strongly suggest taking the under.

Let’s step back and see what we’ve got to look foward to this year, shall we? Out in left field, there’s good old Pat the Fat, good for a sterling .260 average, a remarkable 70-80 RBIs, and stone-cold defense that could be improved upon by fielding the Venus de Milo. If this dope wasn’t sticking it to a centerfold, he’d be more useless than a DeVry graduate. Now in center field, there used to be Aaron Rowand, a gamer’s gamer, a guy that would literally run into a wall for you. Sure, we’ve got supercuzz Shane Victorino sliding over, which is great, but who’s going to be in right field? The only guy I can see going there is Geoff Jenkins, and since the best thing he’s known for is resembling Brett Favre, color me unimpressed. This ain’t Cheese Country, Mr. Bratwurst — this is CheeseSTEAK Country. At least it’s a safe bet that Jenkins knows not to throw across his body fifty yards downfield into triple-coverage, unlike some water-walking drunks we all know and blow. Maybe good ol’ Geoffie can two-sport it and save us from another season of boy genius Donovan McGagg, how about it?

In the infield, we’ve got three all-time greats, an up-and-coming catcher and now Pedro Feliz, a guy that was let go by the San Francisco Giants. You know what that means — he was on the same cocktail as that broke-down clown Barry Bonds, so don’t expect a miracle from that walking slump. And of course it’s only a matter of time before Utley or Rollins or Howard breaks down. Betcha it’ll happen write after they ink one of those ridiculous multi-million dollar deals ballplayers seem to be getting. Seriously — how much bling-bling does a brother need before the dope with the gold fronts and more sparkle than a gay pride parade says, “You know, maybe I’ll accept that ten-million dollar deal instead of holding out for something bigger?” Unless there’s some sort of price spike on tricked-out spinners or putting TVs into the TVs in your rear-view mirror, I don’t get it.

As far as pitchers go, we’ve got more of that great “depth” that was promised last year by all you geniuses out there. For those of you too busy flirting with underage girls in internet chat rooms, that depth meant Brett Myers had to go throw his punches in the bullpen, while a sack of greasy burrito fat like Freddy Garcia and a limp-wristed old fart like Jamie Moyer were shelled like Paris during double-u double-u eye-eye. And Adam Eaton? That walking sack of gas was beat up more than a freshman girl at a frat party.

This year, the bullpen carries on that storied tradition of limp-wristed gimpitude, with Pujols’ butt buddy Brad Lidge spending time on the DL and giving up closing duties to down and dirty home slice Tom Gordon, a short little doggie dawg that’s one good fastball away from having his arm fly out of its socket. Word up on that, my nubian brother. Oh, but wait! We have the Fabulous Durbin Brothers, so everything’s OK! Thanks, Stand Pat Gillick! God, with a team like this, I almost took that camp visit by Stay-Puft Marshmallow Man John Daly seriously, like he was auditioning for a 7th-inning specialist role. Or roll, if you prefer. As in belly.

You dopes realize that the only reason the Phils actually won the division was because the Mets played like Darryl Strawberry’s crack-addled family for the last month of the season, right? And you saw what happened to the Phils in the playoffs, right? They were manhandled by a bunch of Sally League Born Again Christians! News flash, kiddies — not much has changed. Sure, the NL’s still like a quadrapelegic slap fight when it comes down to it, so the one-handed team that’s not busy rubbing one out wins. That don’t mean much, though — if weak sisters like the Cubs and Dodgers and (seriously?) Brewers are the league’s shining lights, then it looks like someone’s forgotten to pay the electricity bill.

The Phillies, bless their inbred little hearts, don’t even measure up to those chumps. Three hitters and one pitcher do not a championship team make — if that were the case, the Yankees would win every year, without fail. And that sure doesn’t happen, now does it? I mean, if it did, would Wittle Hankie be pissing and moaning like a three-year-old every time some dopey reporter stuck a mic in his third chin? That’s right. So what do I suggest the Phillies do? How about the opposite of everything they’ve done to this point? How about dumping a stiff like Burrell for someone that can actually play the outfield? How about not being too cheap to bring Rowand back on board? How about getting more than two pitchers that can get hitters out?

Here’s a thought, Phillies ownership: give me one year to right the ship. I guarantee at least 95 wins and a World Championship. Guarantee! If that happens, you make me manager for life. If it doesn’t, then I leave. What do you have to lose? Hell, you’re already losing with the geniuses you have — why not take a chance and hire a guy that actually knows what they’re talking about? It’d be a nice change of place for this dump, that’s for damn sure. But this is the same town that thought trading FOR Terrell Owens was going to help. Don’t get me started on that.

2008 Season Preview: Texas Rangers

Posted on by Cormac McCarthy · Leave a comment

The Bataan Death March that is our 2008 preview rolls on. Here, we give some heartbeat props to scribe Cormac McCarthy, whose profile has surged of late thanks to a close personal friendship with Oprah and some serious love from a couple of fellers from Minnesota. He previews his beloved Texas Rangers through the eyes of its new president.

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The ranger walked himself into the clubhouse. He was tall and of severe aspect and his eyes were vulture eyes in the fluorescent gloamingness.

Shouts keened out and the ranger sliced a pair of glances to the right and left but no one had cognized him. Just japes and jests amongst theyselves, some kinda Spanish music on a playing box. He might as well have been a tree or a ghostly unvisible shambling thing for all the attention he got. What the hell is goin on in here he wanted to know. Who are these mere boys, slateblank and sideburnt, playin grabass with nary a care in the wild world. What has happent to this place and the game I once knew and America.

He trod with the force of five men towards the boxy office. Memories flooded him like fruitflies on a joba but the ranger tried his damnedest to slurn them off. Didnt matter, a man like him cant forget the things a man like him had done. Seven no hitters. Five thousand seven hunnert fourteen strikeouts. Two thousand seven hunnert ninety five bases on balls. One heart attack. Six noogies torrented onto the head of Ventura. Numbers, too many numbers. A man can get caught up in love with numbers and forget to breathe. The ranger trod on, alone.

Once beboxed, the ranger sighed out a heavy sigh that lay in the room like a goat fart or a sick shirtless uncle. I am in sore straits, thought he. Look at this damnable mess in which I find myself. President of what. Are you kiddin me. Sipped his coffee like it meant the end of the world. Tasted like it too.

There was a chart on the wall so the ranger turned to it. Slowly he turned. He tried to sop up its many meanings like a tortilla with some squirrel gravy but the names swabbled before his eyes and he felt bevomitous. Shook that off too. Gulped down a mountain of advil with a mighty flood of bad coffee. A man’s breakfast.

Okay let us take up this burthen once more. Start with pitching, always. Millwood up on top, a good one, a hardworking dirteating son of a bitch who would sooner bite off his granny’s titty than give up a run. Good thing that is just a metaphor, the ranger thought, otherwise Granny Millwood would be in a hurtin place. Second up is Padilla, a glum Nicaraguan with some filth to him. After that it is a graveyard indeed, men he didnt know fightin each other for the right to serve up gophers to tourists. What in the sam hell is a kason gabbard, sounds like something you would need to hook up or else the oxen will run away during the planting time. And the bullpen is no better, Wilson gibbering all over the place and Francisco the wildman who hit a woman with a chair and the heathen japanee named Fukumori. Good bleeding jesus. Not enough advil in the world.

The hitters no better. Worse maybe ifn thats possible in any way. All these cleancut dumbshitters just waiting their turn to nonrake, Young and Cruz and Frenchy Boussard. How are we starting someone name of Ian, that aint even a name is it. Now Hank Blalock on third sack, now thats a name for this line a work. Milton Bradley has a jib that is cut just fine for Texas, a wild jib, a jib like the jawbone of an ass to smite our enemies. And young Hamilton out in the pasture, he has got more grit than that magazine that kids use to sell to try to make money back in the golden floaty days.

But other than that we got nothing. Just a whole lot of people comin to the game for a nice fambly treat, catch a foul ball and slap some sugary treats into little Dakota and Trey. Maybe een take a picture with nice ol Ron the manager, no unnerstantin of the game but looks the part at least. This team uset to be somethin special, back in the halcyon, back when Dubya ran the place. There was a hell of a man who knew what he was talkin about. He could charm the cobra right outa the mongoose like my pappy said back when we lived in Refugio.

Now look around, see ifn you see anythin at resembles a base-ball club. Ha he spat a bitter spit. Might as well hit myself in the head with a bolt stunner now afore the fans and the media do it for me. Might as well just vanish, like the prairie, like the Californy Angels and the Warshinton Senators, like everything that uset to be great. Like America its damn self.

Sudden, a thought slapped the ranger in his mindbox. His feet turned him towards another chart swinging on the wall like a lynched man. There he glimmered a vision that grew and grew like topsy until it filled his whole goggling brainstem.

This is what was on the chart: Seattle Los Angeles Oakland.

That is all we got to contend with? Just these three things. Not even things, more like cobbled-together malformations, human slumgullion, posthuman mutants like after if there was some kind of nucular apocalypse. Look at em like the three blind mice: no batting no pitching no fielding. Hell we got those problems too, at least we could look like a real team ifn we keep ourselves fieldfiesty. Orphaneager. Gamescrappy.

An thats my job, enthoughtened the ranger to hisself. My job to instill gumption into these greenly sapsuckers. Teach them the ways of the high lonesome. Hell I larnt that stuff myself dint I, and I aint no intellect. Suddenly he was bestride this narrow earth like a colossus. No country for ol men Ill show em Ill show em all.

The ranger stepped quickedly back down the hallway. His heart did a gavotte inside his massive pumpedup chestal regions. He knew what had to happen. Noogies for everyone. Start with Gerald Laird and work through the list. Old school.

A President, Resigned*

Posted on by Dale Petroskey · 3 Comments

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This is the 1st time I have spoken to you, the fans of baseball, since I have resigned my post as president of the Baseball Hall of Fame. Unlike President Richard Nixon, who was afforded the comfort of addressing the nation from the Oval Office one final time before his untimely departure, I am penning this open letter in the comfort of my austere sitting room, with a bottle of Captain Morgan to my right, and a picture of me with our current Commander in Chief, President George W. Bush, to my left. Also, unlike President Nixon, I have not discussed with you the matters that may or may not have affected the documentation of our national pasttime. However, there is one area where President Nixon and I agree — In all the decisions I have made in my public life I have always tried to do what was best.

Critics, in the past, have taken me to task for what is perceived to be a Republican bias, supposedly most evident in my decision to cancel an event honoring the 15th anniversary of the baseball film Bull Durham. Let it be known that I stand by that decision today as I did when it was originally made. I have no regrets in cancelling the celebration. My only regret about this whole tempest in a teapot is that the board didn’t see fit to heed my recommendation to, in place of the original film of honor, pay tribute to another cinematic baseball classic, Albert Brooks’ The Scout. Surely there is more to be gained from celebrating the feel-good story of young Steve Nebraska as he rises to the height of his profession than there is from glorifying the baudy exploits of a washed-up minor league catcher like Crash Davis and his dalliance with an over-educated trollop. But I digress.

During my administration, I am proud of the steps I have taken to highlight the American military’s role in baseball’s storied past. I am proud to honor Hall of Famers that have served during times of war. I am proud that all military personnel receive discounts when visiting the Hall of Fame. And I am doubly proud of the service our proud men and women provide overseas in our never-ending fight against the two-headed scourge of terror and fear. To allow all this to be potentially poisoned by the blatant left-wing bias exhibited by two of the movie’s stars, and their inflammatory anti-war propaganda, would be a slap in the face of all the good the American military has done both for our country and world peace. And that, in turn, would be a slap in the face of baseball. A slap of terror.

Of course, no baseball face-slap could be worse than what the sport has experience throughout this interminable and trying Steroid Era. This is why I was proud to accept the asterisk-branded all-time home-run record-breaking ball provided by philanthropist Mark Ecko. As I said in my official statement regarding the ball, the sport belongs to the fans. Since the fans voted (via Ecko’s website) to stain the ball the same way performance-enhancing substances have stained the game, it is only fair to display this stained artifact in the museum dedicated to preserving baseball’s history. After all, an artifact presented outside of its proper context renders the object meaningless. The asterisk provides the context necessary to represent these shameful days of the sports, and hopefully serves as a marker that better times are ahead.

Naysayers may claim that context could be established by simply showing examples of media coverage surrounding the ball and the record chase, instead of defacing this supposed symbol of athletic achievement. The irony, of course, being that this achievement could not have been reached without the record-breaker enhancing his performance through the use of illegal substances. Therefore, it only seems fair that the ball he hit to break the long-standing career home-run record be “enhanced” as well. This shameful blemish serves not only to educate those fans who, in the future, will learn about what happened during these trying times, but also serves to shame the players into remembering what happens when the need to succeed — to win at all costs, regardless of the consequences or casualties — is left unchecked and unquestioned. If my aborted tenure as Hall President has taught at least one person this invaluable lesson, then I can leave these august halls a proud man.

Again, if I may quote a great man’s final words as President: “I have never been a quitter. To leave office before my term is completed is abhorrent to every instinct in my body.” Unfortunately, this decision to leave the Hall of Fame was taken out of my hands, due to some questionable allegations I won’t deign to answer. Fear not, though — this setback will not diminsh my fervor for the sport in the slightest. I will still attend as many baseball games as I am able this coming season, rooting for the spirit of fair play and sportsmanship that exemplifies this great game of ours alongside owners and executive and other diehard fans. I will still visit the White House baseball exhibit installed by the Hall during my tenure that was in no way an attempt to curry favor with the current administration. I will continue my search for another 1909 Ty Cobb baseball card. I will cheer every hustled-out grounder, boo every 15-pitch walk, rise for every 7th inning stretch, salute during our National Anthem, embrace clubhouse chemistry, shun meaningless statistics, and give thanks that Our Lord blessed America with this, its greatest gift to the world. May God’s grace be with you in all the days ahead.

Dale Petroskey served as Assistant Press Secretary to President Ronald Reagan from April 1985 to March 1987.

2008 Season Preview: Chicago White Sox

Posted on by Hawk Harrelson · 1 Comment

Yard Work’s glorious 2008 Season Preview is just about half-way done! And just in time for the end of Spring Training, too! Today’s installment comes from one of this site’s favorite go-to guys, and the only man in baseball history to fire both Tony LaRussa and Dave Dombrowski, Chicago White Sox broadcaster Ken “Hawk” Harrelson. Put it on the board!

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Howdy, baseball fans. So another year’s coming real soon. Gonna start this week, as a matter of fact. All the way out in the mysterious Deep Orient. Now, I don’t know about you, but baseball’s an American sport. Just a fact. It ain’t baseball and a bowl of rice. It ain’t baseball and chicken curry. And it sure ain’t baseball and sushi. I don’t care how many flicks you make with Tom Selleck. It’s baseball and apple pie. And that’s America. So next time, how’s about an Opening Day in the USA, Bud? Can of corn right there, Commish. Bend your knees and scoop it up. Good guys win. Fans, too.

Now, about the Sox. Last year wasn’t so great. Don’t need to tell you that, though. Cross-eyed donkey with a harelip figured that out. Right, Jay? Could probably do your taxes better than some Ivy League bookworm, too. Well, not Marietta. Carry the one, Jay. But you don’t need no fancy stats to tell old Hawk the news. Paul and Jermaine and Jimmy Thome did their best. But sometimes it ain’t enough. Joe’s back gave out. Juan’s bat gave out. Tad gave out all over the place, and went sayonara to Philly. If you weren’t one of the top three in the rotation, you were dealing junk. And trying to get a lead to Big Bad was like trying to double down on eighteen. Last guy I saw do that ended up doing the Mashed Potato with someone’s right hook. Not recommended. I told Deej, you try that fruity-tooty stuff again when Hawk’s on a roll, gonna end up with a sole injection in your rear. That’s S-O-L-E, Deej. Talking about Filet of Dr. Scholl’s.

So what did Kenny do? He did what you’re supposed to when you got a 90-win team. Lock and load. Got himself another slugger in Swish. Great kid. Got as much pop in his bat as he’s got in his lip. Gonna be a great clubhouse guy. Kenny also got himself an infield anchor. Name of Orlando Cabrera. Guy got one pair of Sox a ring almost all by himself. Gritty guy. Loves to get dirty. His kind always do. Shortstops, I mean. Hawk loves all colors. Especially white and black. Sad to see Jonny G go, though. He’s a gamer. Real gutty pitcher. Saw him win games where he had nothing but the sweat on his brow and a burr in his saddle. Real tough. But you gotta give to get, and the Sox got real good with OC. Pair him up with a healty Joe? Best defense left side of the infield in the game. No doubt.

And Kenny helped out the pen, too. Brought in clutch guys like Dotel and Linebrink. Can’t believe no other team snapped these guys up. Good pen help is hard to find. Just ask Ozzie about last year. Every time he went to the mound, looked like he was gonna cry. Like someone pinched a loaf in his chalupa. Felt like someone pinched a stinker off in mine, too. One of those no-names from last year comes in the game, I ask Deej, who is this guy? And Deej tells me. And I’m still all confused. It was like Abbott and Costello last year, except without the funny. This year, gonna be more of a spring in Ozzie’s step. And all the laughing’s gonna be on our side of the field. Write it down. Bet on it. Bet twice. Then bet some more. Team’s gonna go places.

Before I wrap up, wanna talk about a Sox great that ain’t with the team this year. Guy by the name of Scott “Pods” Podsednik. That guy was a ballplayer. Did damage with his glove. Did damage with his feet. Did damage with his brain. He’s a thinking guy. You look at him out on the bases, he’s thinking. You can see the gears grinding away in his head as he’s trying to get into the other team’s psyche. Heady. Guy was a great teammate, and an even better buddy. Pods and I loved shooting the breeze before games, talking about this and that. Put you in my Five, Pods. Give old Hawk a call now and then. This Carlos Quentin’s got some quick and big shoes to fill. But if he’s got the moxie that Pods had in his pinky toe, then the Sox are ahead of the game. Nothing new about that.

But some folks wanna talk about the Tigers and their D-Train, or the Indians and their ALCS. All I gotta say is talk about the Sox and their ring. Then grab some bench. You know how many teams in the AL Central have a ring this century? Try one. And it’s right here in the South Side of Chicago. Or the North Side. Hell, whatever side it is, it’s the Sox side. And that’s the side to be on. Ain’t too late to change. Sox could always use some good fans. Hawk predicts 100 wins, three guys with 40 homers, two 20 game winners, Big Bad going for 60 saves, a lot of hustle, a lot of grit, and some great times for the good guys. Tell me I’m wrong.

Go Sox.

2008 Season Preview: St. Louis Cardinals

Posted on by Bob Costas · 1 Comment

What, you think we ain’t got the moves? Here, our 2008 preview rolls on with Mr. Bob Costas, the Paul McCartney of American sports kommentariat.

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Salutations, baseball lovers. Isn’t this the best time of year? Somewhere, leather is popping, crusty old bench coaches are spitting and swearing and scratching themselves, and the only things greener than the outfield grass are the incoming rookies. Of course, I cannot see these things from my stunning multi-million-dollar condo in downtown Manhattan, where I live with my lovely wife Jill. But at this time of year, it’s enough for me to know that these things are out there somewhere, beyond my immediate ken. Spring, like hope, springs eternal.

Ordinarily, I would not be caught dead writing for an non-accredited website like this. It is crucial for me to preserve my lofty status as America’s most beloved sports commentator, radio and talk show host, author, and raconteur. After all, that’s why I’m here, all alone tonight in my glittering womb in the city, nursing my fifth gimlet and typing on my comped MacBook Air. What, exactly, have my folksy touch and twinkling eyes have bought me, other than isolation and bitterness? (And exactly how long can a charity auction last, anyway?)

This bitterness has, as of late, started to creep into my discourse. I am not proud of this; after all, my entire popularity — massive as it is — depends on me being seen as a more intelligent version of the common man. And, while I firmly stand by everything I have said about the odious new species called bloggericus minimus, I have enough insight to know that my hard truths have been seen as nothing more than the arrogance of an out-of-touch elitist. So here I am, scribing away for a “blog.” Will you love me again now, Joe Sixpack? (What, no more gin? Well, that’s why the good Lord invented vodka.)

All that aside, I am peacock-proud to preview the St. Louis Cardinals baseball club. As a former dweller in the great Gateway City, I became quite fond of the team, its loyal and knowledgeable fans, and its rich history. To be certain, I find it comical in the extreme that the hoi polloi still think of me — a New York City native who attended Syracuse — as “a St. Louis guy.” Truth to tell, I only went there because a horrid ABA team needed an announcer, and I got the hell out of there as quickly as humanly possible. But this is the kind of phenomenon that aids me in my epic quest for love from Larry and Louise Lunchbucket.

Of course, one needs a team to root for, and I will freely stipulate to the Cardinals being “my” team. You may rest assured that this partiality is not triggered by any kind of geographical altruism, but because the Cards are skippered by the only true genius left in Major League Baseball: the maverick and unconventional Tony LaRussa. He may have only won two World Series rings (to three losses), but it is clear that he is the single most iconic figure in the national pastime today. If you don’t see that, you are Stevie Wonder crossed with David Paterson, the legally blind governor of New York.

This isn’t opinion, folks — it’s just fact. After all, look what he did a couple of years ago — he won the whole kit and caboodle, the entire enchilada, the gargantuan gewgaw, with a relatively meager selection of players. I mean, sure, Juan Encarnacion and So Taguchi are both industrious gentlemen of great handsomeness; but how in the H-E-C-K did they become vital cogs in a championship machine? Anyone who can triumph in such dramatic fashion with nothing but Albert Pujols and a scrappy group of ne’er-do-wells must be acknowledged as a purveyor of pure baseball wizardry. For realz. (Was that right? Still playing catchup with this LOLspeak thing.)

Now, let me be the primary person to admit that last year was somewhat less than an annis mirablis for the Cardinals. Not only did they fail to earn a ring, they also managed to stumble into several scandals and tragedies. Some pusillanimous numbers-crunchers might opine this was nothing more than regression to the mean; smug moralists, their pinched lips forming the tiniest of circular shapes, might try to draw a connection to some mythical notion of karma. Some even dared to question the timeless wisdom of Tony LaRussa. But those of us who really know the game understand that these things happen in baseball. Character, as we have come to understand, is formed in darkness. In fact, I rather suspect that the team could have won the division in 2007, but that their ever-wise manager wanted to teach them some important life lessons.

But what of this year? Well, the computer predictions are united in their steely conviction that this just isn’t the year for the newest version of the Gas House Gang. They say the rotation is weaker than Mr. Ralph Furley, the ectomorphic landlord portrayed by Don Knotts on the hit show “Three’s Company.” They say Duncan and Schumaker and Ankiel are a law firm instead of an outfield, in an apparent jibe at their inexperience. They say the trade of Scott Rolen was nothing but the spite of an old man, and that Troy Glaus is weak soup. They even say that Albert Pujols’ game of chicken with his own elbow will end in tragedy. And we, like lemmings marching single-file over the cliff, all believe them. After all, computers are always right, aren’t they?

Well, I sayeth nay, in thunder. Baseball is a game of belief, and I believe in these guys. I believe in Izturis and Kennedy, who have the look of champions. I believe that Rick Ankiel has learned a lot of important lessons, and that he will be teaching them to National League hurlers all season long. I believe in Jason Isringhausen — with a name like that, he’s got to be good, like in the famous Smuckers commercial of the 1980s. I believe that Adam Wainwright will win 30 games and a Cy Young Award, and will drag the rest of the rotation with him kicking and screaming, whether they like it or not. And I believe in a guy named Yadier, the most consistent of all the storied backstop Molina siblings. He may run like a penguin and throw like a platypus, but underneath that cardinal-red Nike-made chest protector beats the massive 1,000-pound heart of a blue whale.

But most of all, I believe in a manager named Tony LaRussa. His every glower contains a dangerous blast of baseball knowledge, so it is good that his sunglasses are made of crystal quartz. His every muttered profanity is a Zen koan: he is the sound of one hand clapping; he is the wave breaking over Mount Fuji; his is the original face we all had before we were born. If you can’t have faith in a man like that, then shame on you, sir and/or madam. As for Mr. and Mrs. Costas’ son Robert — I believe.

Oh, and fate, I believe in that. Oh, and I believe in clutch hitting, that’s not something you can measure. And good vodka. And that there’s no way that a charity auction is still going at 3:21 a.m.

2008 Season Preview: Tampa Bay Rays

Posted on by Jim Ross · Leave a comment

“Yard Work, Spring 2008: Don’t Stop ‘Til You Get Enough” continues as we welcome legendary play-by-play announcer Jim Ross with his preview of the Tampa Bay Devil Rays. He was inducted into the WWE Hall of Fame in 2007 and is also a great cook.

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With Opening Day less than two weeks away, tensions are running high, tempers are beginning to flare out of control, and expectations are reaching a fever pitch!

Welcome everyone, I’m Jim Ross and we’re counting down to the start of the biggest season of all-time for the Tampa Bay Rays — the 2008 season! Opening Day will be brought to you on March 31, but one day earlier on March 30, just on down the road from Tampa in nearby Orlando, the WWE will bring you the grandaddy of them all, WRESTLEMANIA XXIV, the biggest sports entertainment extravaganza all time — LIVE from the Citrus Bowl in Orlando. Thank you for inviting me onto your computer screens, I wish you could all be here to feel the excitement that is the Road to Wrestlemania XXIV and the Road to Opening Day 2008 for the Rays!!

This year, the newly-named Rays are putting their legacy on the line against the rest of the American league, as they look to finish above .500 for the first time in team history. The Rays are a perfect 10-0 when it comes to finishing below .500, and they’ll put that streak on the line this year, just like the Undertaker — the PHEE-nom of the WWE — will be putting his 15-0 record at Wrestlemanias on the line when he faces the Rated R Superstar, Edge, for the World Heavyweight Championship, only on Pay-Per-View! If you’re not sure how to order Wrestlemania XXIV, call your cable company to make sure that you don’t miss out on seeing perhaps the damndest World Championship match that we will ever see!

With the Rays, this ain’t the seniors’ tour folks, these youngsters are the real deal. These guys are so young, they could be the younger brothers of the drive-in dates of my friend and broadcast partner Jerry “The King” Lawler! They might be the youngest World Series Championship team in baseball history, and they’ll be looking to prove themselves just like the youngest WWE Champion in history, Randy Orton, will be looking to prove himself at Wrestlemania XXIV when he faces John Cena and the Game, Triple H, for the WWE Championship. If the Rays have even a fraction of the heart and determination that John Cena and the Cerebral Assassin, Triple H will bring to the ring on March 30, then the Rays are in for one slobberknocker of a season, let me tell you.

Carlos Pena capped a remarkable comeback with a scintillating 2007 season. When Pena strode to the plate, it was safe to say that business was about to pick to up, especially when this 220-pound hoss blasted any one of the 46 home runs he hit last season. After being damned near out of the league for a few years, Pena has picked up his game and is one of the best in the business. Along with the Heartbreak Kid Shawn Michaels, who missed four years of action following back surgery, both men’s amazing comebacks are darned near unprecedented. Can Pena defeat the legendary three-time MVP Alex Rodriguez and take the award for himself this year? And can the future Hall of Famer Shawn Michaels defeat legendary 16-time World Champion Ric Flair on the grandest stage of them all? The stakes have never been higher, folks.

Scott Kazmir and James Shields made good on the promise they showed as youngsters and finally developed into top-line performers. These young studs form the damndest 1-2 punch that the league has seen in a long time, and let me tell you folks, it don’t get no better than these two hosses. These guys are money in the bank players who are climbing the ladder of success to superstardom. But that’s nothing compared to the heights that eight WWE Superstars will attempt to scale in order to pick up the big prize in the Money in the Bank ladder match at Wrestlemania XXIV. Speaking of hosses, closer Al Reyes surprised a lot of people by becoming one of the league’s best firemen, but the big 240-pounder has nothing on the 454-pound Big Show, who made his own surprise appearance at our last Pay Per View event, No Way Out, to challenge boxer Floyd Mayweather to a match at Wrestlemania. Ten days ago on Monday Night Raw, we saw the Big Show launch Mayweather onto a crowd of wrestlers like Rays speedster Carl Crawford launches triples into the gaps in Tropicana Field. Folks, you have no idea how fast Carl Crawford is until you see him in person. The television doesn’t do him justice. Not even in HD! At Wrestlemania XXIV, Mayweather said he’d break Big Show’s jaw — will he deliver on that promise, or will he swing and miss more than blue-chip prospect B.J Upton did in 2007 when he struck out 154 times? Find out this March 30, when Wrestlemania XXIV comes to you LIVE, only on Pay Per View!!

The rich and famous will be turning out to Tropicana Field this year, beginning with Tampa resident and WWE Hall of Famer, that’s right, the Hulkster, the legendary Hulk Hogan! Also look for John Legend, Kim Kardashian, and Raven Symone be among the celebrities taking part in Wrestlemania XXIV this year, and don’t forget about hip-hop star Snoop Dogg who will be on hand as Master of Ceremonies in the Playboy Bunny Mania match featuring the WWE Divas. Rays fans will have to wait until the New York Yankees’ come to town to see this many divas in one place, but why wait that long when Wrestlemania XXIV is less than two weeks away?

I’m not gonna make predictions about who will win the AL East, but I like the Rays versus the field. I swear to god folks, this division could go either way, I swear to god it could. Mark your calendars folks, because in thirty-five years in this business, I have never been this excited about a Wrestlemania — or an Opening Day — ever in my whole career like I am this year! When you put clubs like the Rays in the same division with superheavyweights like the Red Sox and Yankees, anything can happen. They’ll be fighting for team supremacy much like the battle we’ll see for for brand supremacy between Raw and Smackdown when the Samoan Bulldozer, Umaga, hooks up with the Animal, Batista, at Wrestlemania . The smashmouth style of the Red Sox might not be pretty, but you can bet on some physically intense games when they face the Rays this year.

The Rays look like the team to beat in 2008 from where I sit, but that’s just my own damn opinion. This team is gonna be tougher than a two-dollar steak, and the Red Sox and Yankees will discover that the hard way when they get whipped like a government mule all season long by the Rays deep and talented roster. Summer in Tampa is gonna be hotter than a down-home Oklahoma BBQ cookout with a plate of beef ribs smothered with JR’s own Original BBQ Sauce, and the Rays are gonna be a big part of it folks, I can promise you that. But if you can’t wait for Opening Day on March 31, then you’re in luck, because Wrestlemania XXIV will be coming to you, LIVE, one day earlier on March 30, only on Pay Per View folks, make sure you don’t miss out on the biggest event in sports entertainment history or the biggest season in Tampa Bay Rays history! See you two Sundays from now on March 30! Boomer Sooner!

This Time It Always Counts

Posted on by Joe Morgan · 2 Comments

Hello baseball fans! I can’t believe it’s almost time for the season to start again! It feels like it was just last October that I was in Colorado watching the Red Sox win another World Series, and it was. But now it’s Spring Training time, and this has to be my most favorite time of the baseball year, except for the All-Star Game, and the playoffs, and the stretch drive for the playoffs, and any time I get to see games on the West Coast, and when it’s not raining.

This is a great time for fans as well because of all the hope that is in the air for your teams. Many people don’t know who’s going to win the World Series yet, so there’s a lot of excitement around finding that out. Also exciting is the chance for new players to join your favorite team, whether they’re rookies trying to make the Big Club, or old veterans looking to get another shot, or folks from foreign countries like Japan or Canada. There’s nothing more exciting in March than seeing some young kid wearing the number 76 on the back of his jersey trying to leg out an infield pop-up or throw a 85 MPH fastball past a real major leaguer.

What’s even more exciting is seeing how players do as they warm up for the regular season action. If you look at the numbers coming from Spring Training — and I’m talking about the numbers that matter, like batting average and RBIs and home runs — you’ll see a lot of names you never heard of before. No-name folks like Callix Crabbe and David Murphy and Hanley Ramirez get to rub elbows with bonafide stars like Robinson Cano and Melvin Mora and Craig Counsell, both in the clubhouse, the field, and in the statistics. It’s an exciting time for these no-name players, as they play with their childhood heroes, wearing their favorite team’s colors, swinging bats and wearing gloves endorsed by professional ball players that they someday might get a chance to be.

But of course whenever there’s something fun about baseball happening, someone in the sabermetrically-inclined stat-loving community has to come along and tear it all down and upset people. A mysterious e-mailer (thanks Paul D. from Cincinatti!) sent me a link to the front page of this Baseball Prospectus website that a lot of people that like Moneyball seem to also like. On their front page, there is an article called “Prospectus Today: It Doesn’t Count” with a subtitle “If you’re watching leaderboards at this time of year, you may need to ask yourself why.”

Since mostly everything they write on Baseball Prospectus can only be read by people that actually want to pay money for this website (and I thought the internet was supposed to be free?), I don’t know what the article says. But I can make a pretty good guess about what they say in that article, because it’s probably the same thing that stat people say about stats they don’t like. There is probably a paragraph or twelve about that “small sample size,” and then something about how people are playing to just get back in playing shape instead of playing to win games, and maybe something about how there are a lot of non-major-leaguers getting these stats that stat people don’t like.

Well, if you think these stats don’t count, then you better tell the score keepers and scoreboard runners to go home. If the stats didn’t count, then why are they keeping track of them? If this was really just Spring Training, they wouldn’t play games — they would just have fielding practice and hitting practice and wind sprints and all that stretching. But they play the games, and someone wins and someone loses, and the games have stats, so someone keeps the stats, and the stats matter because there’s no other way to tell who won and lost without the stats.

Also, how can you sit in front of your computer and say that these stats don’t matter to kids that are trying to make a team? You want to take away Micah Hoffpauir’s .439 average? Are you trying to take away Eugenio Velez’s 10 stolen bases? You want to tell Andre Ethier that his four home runs don’t count? And if so, why? I think it’s because Joe Sheehan and other people like him are jealous of all these kids playing a game that he can only write about.

I think it was Elvis Presley that said writing about music isn’t like writing music because writing music is like building a big building, and those that can’t do that can only write about it or dance along, which is easy. Building a building is hard, because you have to worry about so many things, including the cost of building materials, the cost of labor, and even the weight of things that will be in the building after it’s done being built. And playing baseball is a lot like that. There are all these different things going on that writers and stat people can’t imagine, which is funny because then they go ahead and write about them anyway. And then people read what’s written which is even worse. But I already said what I want about writing a while ago, so you should read that too.

As far as playing not to win goes, go ahead and tell that to the guys on the Tampa Bay Devil Rays and New York Yankees that these games aren’t about winning. In case you didn’t hear, a Yankee catcher that wasn’t Jorge Posada was leveled by a Tampa Bay rookie and is out with a broken finger, and then another fight broke out after a hard play at second base happened a few games later. If these games weren’t about winning, then why are there fights breaking out? Fights shouldn’t happen in games that don’t mean anything, which means that these games do matter, even if they don’t matter to Joe Sheehan and his friends. They sure matter to the players in the fights, and that’s what matters in the end.