Hello all, you there! Once again, I bid a formerly fond greeting as winter slowly unfolds its buoyant collection of spring. I write this with the visage of a controversial fish buffeting my hungry eyes with hopes of a fulfillment of Major League plate appearances. According to this suspicious scribe, “[former Tampa Bay first basemen] Travis Lee’s bat was a disappointment, but his glove saved the Rays many a run.” Of course, what this writer does not realize is that it is more important to control the fate of the ball when one is being served at the plate, instead of fending off what the offense and, by proxy, your pitcher offers. Given as Mr. Lee is a horrifically light eater, I should hope that any of the hopefuls vying for his seat at the table shall want for sustenance, mine most of all.

But baseball, as has been shown all too often, is a game of captured opportunity. The one pitch, the one ball to field, the one fan reaching into the field of play – these prolonged moments of instantaneous history can define or erase one’s impermanent future. The door is unlocked by spying the importance, or lack thereof, of these moments. For an example, however belabored it may be – the failure of Alex Rodriguez to hit success during certain games has slapped him as a waste of a star, while brief snapshots showing Derek Jeter hitting or diving in specific spots of important variance have added irreplaceable and somewhat unwarranted luster to an already incandescent array of accomplishments. A trick of the light, or the bounce of a ball, would reflect poorly in favor of both these players.

Forgive my minor relapse into a recount of my own middle-ending, but one of the reasons I am left fending for table scraps is because, once upon a time, my fortunes were once potent. When no one checked their watches for me, I was a promise whispered amongst a few with knowledge. But before my picture had even developed in full, I was portrayed as half a baseball player, impotent against those that throw to the side from which I hit, and wholly unfit to even flail mightily against those I could succeed. Despite not a chance to defend myself against these claims, the myth flourished like the unfettered stench issuing from a hole of odious rank. To my own lack of credit, I failed to pay the piper during the few chances I received. These swings of fate saw me go for naught much too often.

It is these troubles that I think of when I read this story about Colorado’s Brad Hawpe. Another writer of dubious notion cast assertions that Hawpe, entering his 2nd year of regular play, must prove himself against those very same jokers which filled my card with declining scores. Without such proof, he may become a shadow of a disappointment. This, the writer papers, despite contrary evidence that actually he (not I, once again) provides:

vs. LHP (2006): .232 AVG, 69 ABs, 3 HRs, 10 RBIs
vs. LHP (career): .227 AVG, 110 ABs, 4 HRs, 15 RBIs

To make a failing judgment on a player in merely 2 weeks’ worth of plate appearances is foolish enough. But to do so with one of your best players is so beyond such folly, one might almost believe it makes sense again. He was 3rd on his team in home runs and walks, and while he might have lead in strikeouts with less playing time than some of his teammates, those times which he did make contact were invariably productive. And were it not Hawpe hidden in the depths of the Rockies’ batting order for most of their season, as lost as many of their contests, production would multiply beyond doubt. And in a year defined by loss, such treasured findings should be excavated, not encrypted.

Now, if it the facts about Hawpe’s advanced years (the ripeness of 28) and the correlative peak usually scaled therein were sung note for note, my dispute would fall silent with pleasure. But, instead, computer screens find themselves made into all smoke, all for the trumpeting of a tune that should fall on ears smart enough to turn deaf. The veteran player fiddles with his team while the child is hung out on a dry, broken string. The game will always end in the 9th inning, though the conclusion may start sooner than that. Beginning speed will produce, even if the speed cannot slow down to reach regular safety. And, as always, a winded swing cannot be worth the same value as steady contact, even if the wind propels runs more frequently than the grounded out. Such is the receipt of this supposed wisdom that there is no refund, and teams (or a careering player) may pay the price when these bills come due. And, sometimes, no matter how hard you shake, the wallet you thought was half-full might give you a full-mast dose of finger.

But I find myself beating my message to a bullish pulp in a ring surrounded by consenting adults. I ask your absolute forgiveness, if I am boring these hoarse thoughts into your ass. And I will also ask that I leave, and return to this fishy fight for first – place and base. Luck is a wish I could use as the meat to complement the coffee I long to taste oh so sweetly. Until future meetings unveil themselves in the present, I will see again with you!