He, which is also me, as well as yours truly, is right here, trying his best to fight through his struggles with things pertaining both to his baseball, and to the baseball of everyone else. It has not been a year that will be worth any rememberances or thousand-word pictures, at least in the scuffling shoes I sit in. And my lack of swing with the bat to this long-toothed point is the least of things biting me. To be frank (and let me make it plain that I do not relish this confession), there has been so much mouth-breathed nonsense happening this year that it almost seems fruitless to get to the root of these problems and stir up this unfertile ground. But instead of dancing around these periodic issues in my aforementioned shoes, I will tango feet-first with them until they have been swept away by reason of sanity.

I am guessing it would be safe to file these issues as hazardous personnel issues, wherein tenured professionals are allowed to burn their team’s rope at both ends while the fire extinguishers lay only a few feet away. For instance, the Minnesota Twins nearly submerging their playoff hopes in every one of their thousand lakes by relegating their second-best pitcher (Francisco Liriano) to third-string bullpen duties for nearly a month. The Twins have doubled their pleasure in this arena many times, continually sacrificing young turks to the gaping bloodthirsty yaw of veteran experience. This hunger for fresh meat seems to have been slaked, however, as the once-proud manes of warriors like Kyle Loshe and Joe Mays and Tony Batista and Rondell White turn gray, and the plethora of cubs the Twins have allowed to suck on the minor league teat can finally get an opportunity to taste the sweet nectar issued from the buoyant teat of the Major Leagues.

The Reds turned two such self-defeating tricks on the owner’s dime recently, subtracting productive position players (Austin Kearns and Felipe Lopez) for the lump sum of remaindered bullpen help (the names of whom I cannot be bothered to spell, let alone correctly), as well as relegating potential world-beater Edwin Encarnacion to the woeful position of Rich Aurilia’s understudy. In my mind, I do not care whether Mr. Aurilia is on such a hot streak that his pants need to be made of asbestos; he is to the Reds’ future what a brick wall is to a car. The Reds’ performance this year will not withstand rocker Bronson Arroyo’s inevitable return to the craggy embrace of terra firma in the following seasons, and giving up such potential at its prime, or sacrificing key potential development to allow some elder statesman another chance at the dirt-and-lyme bully pulpit, is a ridiculous folly. (I will resist implicating Unknown Friend of Yard Work Paul Daugherty in this sorry state of infidelity, but he is on record as spinning this trade as a positive move for the Reds, which makes me dizzy to even consider when sitting still.)

Alas, the Reds are not the only team in Ohio making such errors. Perhaps still waiting to see that magic that millions thought they saw during one fateful night in 2003, the Cleveland Indians continue to aim at the bullseye with Aaron Boone. Alas, his last true productive year was, ironically, with the Indians’ National League counterpart. What is worse than Mr. Boone giving away outs on both ends of the spectrum is that there is a shining hope awaiting the Indians in Triple A. Andy Marte, a lauded prospect that has somehow managed to pass through the hands of two teams, is once again bending Minor League pitchers over his knee and swinging for the sweet spot. With the Indians’ season finished except for the actual games, it is perhaps time for them to cut Aaron Boone off at the knees and bring in a fresh (and young) set of legs.

But perhaps giving the benefit of the doubt to Thomases and Dicks and Janes that couldn’t hit or pitch in the Sally Leagues isn’t as great a crime as to continue crying over milk that has yet to even leave the carton. Such is the case with Los Angeles beat writer Bill Plaschke, a sweaty undulating neck of a man I have bothered to make brief reference to in the past. Those of you in the know are aware of his well-done to-a-crisp vendetta against the previous General Manager of the Dodgers, the late (and now Padre) Paul DePodesta. This bone he needed to grind with Mr. DePodesta came from the carcass of a trade involving a player favored by fans and family alike, catcher Paul LoDuca. That the trade involving Mr. LoDuca also involved the person tickling these keys right now might have a small iota of truth with my interest in Mr. Plaschke’s particular genius. But this rancid bit of beef Mr. Plaschke seems to be obsessed with choking on concerns another player in that trade, Brad Penny.

Mr. Plaschke seems to believe that the sins of the father of the trade (of which most agree are not many, if at all) should be answered by those whose homes were broken like Solomon’s child. That is to say, if Mr. Penny fails to get a key out, or do anything short of perform a miracle, it is a testament to how two-faced this trade turned out. First, at the dawn of Mr. Penny’s start for the National League All-Star team, Mr. Plaschke streaked across the sky, writing THIS TRADE STILL SUCKS in large, darkening clouds issued from the ass end of a terrorizing cropduster. This tirade against Mr. Penny continued this week, as Mr. Plaschke took Mr. Penny to task for speaking his mind.

That Mr. Penny is plying his mouth in a fashion that made Mr. LoDuca a favorite of Mr. Plaschke must escape his tenuous grip of coincidences. Perhaps if Mr. Penny makes it a habit to fade into the season’s conclusion, Mr. Plaschke will soften his blows. Also worthy of writing down (or, if you’re a fan of Mr. Plaschke, typing in the form of one-sentence paragraphs) is that the object of Mr. Penny’s reprisal, Kenny Lofton, is not foreign to this sort of second-guessing. Anyone with a proper vantage point during one of Mr. Lofton’s games has undoubtedly witnessed the once-speedy man slowly descend upon balls hit in front of him. Let the record show an instance of such lollygaggering occured during a New York Yankee playoff game, wherein reliever Mariano Rivera is shown expressing consternation at Mr. Lofton’s nonchalant pursuit of such a ball. (I must thank the people at E$PN for providing footage of this seminal moment of dicking around.) For Mr. Penny to approach Mr. Lofton in the dugout for such a slight is not only unexpected, but should be commended. Instead, Mr. Plaschke chooses to see where Mr. Penny went wrong, again slanting his coverage down a one-way street where at the bottom lies a pile of nutty man guano.

Here is, pardon my language, the straightest shit possible that Mr. Plaschke continues to view cross-eyed: Paul LoDuca has done absolutely more than nothing for the teams he’s played for since leaving the Dodgers, Brad Penny (when healthly) has damaged other team’s chances at winning against the Dodgers, and the secondary product of this trade, Mr. Steve Finley, helped the Dodgers cross their tease of a Rubicon during that fateful 2004 postseason. I would also like to eat my own crow about my performance for Los Angeles, but my less-than-stellar showing in the depths of Pawtucket prevents me from doing so with any power or average. But this is as new as nothing you’ve already seen: the sports media is second only to the actual real media in spinning facts as lies and half-truths as gospel. This hysterical witch hunt after Alex Rodriguez perpetrated by all parties involved is just the tip of the iceberg that reaches down into the very core of baseball’s history. And as long as mental midgets like Bill Plaschke are allowed to stand tall at the book of record, and their pen continues to drool ink all over their ill-formed theories and happenstance beliefs, then perhaps it would be best for all those in the know to find another means of communication.