“A lot of them cats are felonious, man.” – Rasheed Wallace, on the subject of NBA referees.
He also reportedly once told a reporter “Some people say I’m mean and this and that. On one hand that’s cool. That keeps away all the riffraff and all the bugaboos.”
I’m thinking: buy. Oh wait. He’s retired? Fuck.
If anyone asks now, I was a baseball fan my whole life, but I only lived and breathed one sport until I hit puberty and that was: football. National goddamn Football League football, none of this pansy ass collegiate shit, either. Sunday mornings in the fall were like waking up and remembering I was going to Disneyland; every Sunday for four months, three games: one on NBC, one on CBS, and the two networks swapped weekends carrying the third game.
You got to channel swap for one game and for the other one you were stuck with whatever you got, which is still how it works now, except there was no cable and no Sunday night game and no NFL network. And if you missed the highlights, you waited until Monday night when Howard Cosell would run them down at halftime of MNF: “Los ANGELES MemORIAL COLisEUM. The Rams. The Vikings. A MIGHTY TUSSLE ENSUED.”
Sunday mornings I’d wake up and eat bacon and biscuits drenched with little pools of melted butter. Pre-game ritual. Then I’d geek out for the next six hours. When there weren’t games on, I’d geek out anyway. I made my own Rams uniform once. I paired my awesome replica Merlin Olsen jersey with a pair of “football pants” — grey trousers that I had repurposed by stapling cardboard inside to simulate protective padding — and my Rams helmet. I think I also had some shoulder pads. I would wear this shit around the house and tackle chairs and whatnot. I was kind of crazy.
I collected football cards, which were never as popular as baseball cards but were sort of grimly fascinating all the same, given that most of the guys playing pro football in the ’70s looked like Charles Manson’s younger, scruffier brothers, but my real peripheral passion was Electric Football.
Manny Ramirez’ days as a Dodger are probably through.
I have nothing to add to this story, except, if you paid $45 for one of those stupid Dodger hats with the fake Manny dreads coming out of them, how cheated do you feel right now? Or does it even matter at this point?
This is what happens when you’re a town that’s forgotten how to construct its own mythologies and now must constantly borrow or buy them from other people and wear them like hats and oversized sportcoats in a dress-up parade in front of Grandma and Grandpa’s house. I’m washing my hands of Los Angeles for the next 15 minutes as punishment.
Except Tommy’s. I will never have a negative word for you, Tommy Koulax.
Sore throat, packing, sore throat, packing, cough drops (the mediciney kind, makes your throat numb for a whole hour), packing, driving, random ear/sinus pain, sore throat, driving, getting lost, earhurt, tent building activities, food, beer, talk, beer, talk, SORE THROAT, go to sleep.
Wake on two hours sleep, sniffle, cough, coffee, eat cereal, blow nose, walk around, drain sinuses, eat lunch, beer, wash dishes, stuff kleenex up nose, nap, more stuff up nose, try to breathe, nap, wake up not breathing, nap, drain, replace kleenex, find iPod, DJ for naked people, dinner, whisky, change clothes, blow nose, sniffle, cough, take Ambien, sleep. But not before Ambien Walrus visits and makes a few suggestions, like “you should get in your car and drive around!” Ignore Ambien Walrus, sleep.
Sleep fitfully for 12 hours, wake up way past noon, miss breakfast, forget to drink coffee, try to get up, curse the sunlight, lay on table, groan, move to lawn, groan, go back to tent, sleep, groan, cough, shiver, fever, take ibuprofen, cough, shiver, blanket, sleep, get up before darktime, stare at food, groan, find out you’ve had another shift added to DJ list: “11PM – ???”; consider career as jedi and/or Ambien Walrus, complain to no one in particular, beer, chocolate, improbable comeback, mood improving, fever gone, (there may or may not have been dancing at this point), spin superhits of the Super 70s, “naked guy from hot tub thanks you for the Golden Earring,” thank them for their support by playing Mark E. Smith shouting over German techno, beer, talk, chocolate, klowns, talk, whisky, sleep.
Drive home. Sleep. Think about how much fun it is camping with friends.
Sorry Justin, tattoos are permanent! Yes, but you should have thought about that before you paid the man all that money! You would have just spent it on rims for your H2 or 100 cases of Purel Hand Sanitizer or season tickets to the UFC anyway, just admit it. No, there’s nothing you can do, the Dodgers have you under contract. I’m reading that contract right now, dude: you’re locked in. They’ve got you over a barrel! Game over man. No. Sorry. YOU TIGER NOW.
Albuquerque? Sure. Go hang out and play for the Isotopes for the time being, that’s fine. Good Mexican food in Albuquerque, and the air’s fresh and invigorating. Pretty soon we’ll all be watching the Isotopes.
You can watch Rafferty turn into a serial / It’s just like sleeping gas now / It’s so ethereal
Oh, Justin, by the way? The Visa people called and somebody ran up a huge fucking bill on Tapout shirts, you better go talk to them, bro, they seemed kind of insistent…
First off, a warning: this post will be about baseball. Secondly, it will not just be about baseball, it will lean fairly heavily on the nerdy parts of baseball — like OPS and VORP and trade deadlines — and not the fun parts, like hot dogs and beer and A-Rod having blue lips and serially vomiting Phils fans. So if this is the sort of thing that you normally avoid, and come here to avoid, you might want to go check out Reddit for awhile, and then come back when the page is full of cheese sculptures and Welcome Back Kotter pastiches.
We’re talking about the Dodgers, a team that is in the blood like Hep-C is in Pamela Anderson. No matter how stupid they are, and they own a whole lot of stupid over the years, they will always be The One, betrothed to the heart, which gladly, almost gleefully, even, expects to be tortured and neglected and ultimately abandoned. This is the deal. This has always been the deal.
Ned Colletti and Joe Torre are making this simple equation way more difficult this season. We’re barely gonna touch on Joe. He’s old and will die soon, in a baseball sense, and we will be rid of him, and then won’t have to think about his almost-comical mishandling of his pitching staff, the way he overvalues veteran presence in his middle infield, the sense that he doesn’t understand the job of a leadoff hitter, the mental and physical tormenting of Jonathan Broxton to the point where the latter is basically on his way out of the league before he ever really got in it, and a myriad of other delights. Gonna ignore that for now, because he’s still better than Grady Little.
229 pageviews already today, which is more than twice the next busiest day since I started this joint a month ago. 129 are searching for “Cristiano Ronaldo,” who remains ridiculously popular despite his inability to actually win soccer games. Most of the rest of the search requests are some variation on his name, or “cristiano ronaldo and paris hilton,” which: ick. They’re certainly not here looking at the actual content.
Speaking of which, where is the actual content? Has anybody seen the bridge?