In which the Georgian in Texas takes on the New Yorker in SoCal, and nothing is resolved.
Dallas. 7/11/2012 6:52 PM:
How is Melky Cabrera, a piece of driftwood pawned off on the Braves by the Bombers — wood subsequently found to be rotten and worm-riddled during an indeterminate number of forgettable months in the ATL — now a star in SF, hitting homers in the AS game?
Dallas. 8/15/12, 9:32 PM:
Answer to #1 below is… below. Don’t ever tell me I don’t know what stinks… this nose knows.
Melky Cabrera Suspended 50 Games
Los Angeles. 8/16/12, 12:25 AM:
A baseball player on steroids? Heaven forfend. Hold the presses.
Dallas. 8/16/12, 3:19 AM:
I know you began following the game in 1995, when everyone did juice. But they are actually policing it now, and popping offenders, and have been for about 5 to 7 years. And guess what? The premier pitchers in the game are no longer 40 years old, the way they were when Schilling, Randy Johnson and Clem Chowder were piling up Cy’s and World Series wins during a roid-induced renaissance from 2000 to 2004. Career slap hitters like Brady Anderson are not showing up with 50 home run seasons without warning. That’s gone. So is Manny, so is Barry, and so is Big Mac and his bacne. What do we have instead? Tim Lincecum going rag arm in a hurry and becoming quasi-flammable, only a couple years removed from his prime. We have Pay Rod with 15 homers in August, which is what he should have since he’s 37.
So now when a total hack — like Melky Cabrera — turns into an All-Star out of nowhere, he sticks out like a sore thumb and they tag him and bag him.
Los Angeles. 8/16/12, 11:48 AM:
Baseball players have been on drugs since Gehrig. Deal with it. As for my interest pre-Roids. I don’t sleep with a copy of the Baseball Almanac under my pillow, it’s true. I will say that witnessing Goose Gossage notch a hard-earned save against the Dodgers in the ’81 WS first fanned my flame. I also still have my grandfather’s mesh Yankee cap from ’75, and a petrified Reggie bar. Yes, sure, I got fired up by the Yanks in the mid-90′s. Who wouldn’t? (Our parents were charmed by the ’69 Mets, and everyone was nuts for Pelé in ’77.) I stood in the rain for 15 innings vs Seattle in the ’95 NLDS, Donnie Baseball’s last shot at a title. And, I was angry when the ’94 strike cut short the first ’90s NYY locomotive. A girl walked off with my ’93 Jimmy Key t-shirt in Berkeley. Dead to me.
Anyway, when staying in a summer share on an island teeming with girls, I prefer drinking somewhere other than the Rose & Crown, with Ted Turner cramming TBS down my throat, and everyone else’s. Maybe that made me sick of baseball for a spell. No wonder everyone outside of ATL resents that borrowed chop chant.
I don’t wanna talk Yanks. I’m done with the South Bronx for the time being. I’m all NL: a Dodgers fan that will be enjoying games at Citi Field. My first visit, I walked straight to Shea, then looked over my shoulder and u-turned for the new one. I must have been daydreaming about attending the Jets’ last game in Queens. Bradshaw crushed them and never played another down with a career-ending injury. The Jets fans tore up the turf and pulled down the goal posts. It was sweet.
Been to a game lately?