Lie to me*
After viewing an excerpt of ESPN’s exclusive A-Rod confessional with Peter Gammons on my iPhone in class today, I rushed home to sign on for work and watch the talk in its entirety.
As I sat on my sofa chair, I wondered how Pulp Fiction’s Pumpkin (aka actor Tim Roth) — now the star of FOX’s Lie to me* — might inspect A-Rod’s tell-all. What of his averted eyes and seemingly blank stare? How about the way he thumbed at his nose, clearing away boogers that really weren’t there? And what about the indignation with which he accused Selena Roberts of stalking him?
I don’t commend A-Rod for coming clean (pun recognized, not intended). Let’s not forget, he bold-faced lied to Katie Couric and baseball fans everywhere just a couple years ago when asked about his use of performance-enhancing drugs. Now, presented with indisputable evidence, he comes forth with a definite admission peppered with circumstantial ambiguities, chalking his use to naivity and stupidity, and cushioning it with the proclaimation that he was ignorant as to exactly what substance was putting in his body, as well as the outrageous claim that he was not aware of the prevelance of PEDs in baseball during his days in Seattle.
OK, so A-Rod at least had the decency to admit he used the good (or is it bad?) stuff, unlike, say, Gary Sheffield and Roger Clemens, both of whom have vehmently denied it despite overwhelming evidence to the contrary. Time will tell whether his other assertions were true, but if history’s any indication, we should brace ourselves for another bombshell before this guy’s career is out.
Other curiosities and observations from the interview:
- Call me juvenile and perverse, but I thought it strange when A-Rod said of his ribbing with teammates: “I like taking it,” and “I’m a good receiver.”
- Was it just my TV, or was there something funky going on with the footage? The brights were really bright.
- A-Rod drank a lot of water — the expensive stuff, of course — Fiji.
- Nothing personal against ESPN or Peter Gammons, but this interview would have been a nice score for the MLB Network and Bob Costas.
- In Gammons’ first question, he prompts A-Rod for the “truth” regarding SI.com’s report. A-Rod then responds with his long-winded explanation, which ran for about one minute, 30 seconds.
- As the interview wears on, A-Rod curiously grows more
comfortable in commending himself for coming forward with his story –
as if he were doing it by his own volition and hadn’t been humiliated
by a gang of investigative journalists (one of whom he accused of
stalking him).
- Often chided for his stilted demeanor, A-Rod didn’t do much to shake his automaton image by saying “100 percent” six times.
- GNC can officially invest its advertising dollars elsewhere for 2009. A-Rod references the health store three times.
Cell (phone) therapy
My dad sent me the A-Rod news via text this morning at about 11 a.m. I then relayed to Nelson, my best baseball friend and a devout Yankee follower.
The following conversation ensued via text message:
Me: CNN reports arod tested positive for roids in 2k3.
Me: Look, this is solid investigative journalism in my opinion.
Nelson: Ugh.
Nelson: There goes the hof.
Me: I mean is this bad for baseball at this point? I think so. Even still, I don’t mind seeing this fraud raked over the coals a bit.
Me: Tomorrow’s Post hed: “A-roid”
Nelson: Lol
Nelson: I think this is bad for baseball period. It really makes me angry.
Nelson: All the arod apologists including myself have to seriously reconsider our allegiances here.
Nelson: Hypothetically, if this were dwright, how would you react? Sincere question. I feel like I don’t want to watch baseball anymore.
Me: No I understand. I’d be crushed if dwright tested positive.
Nelson: I feel betrayed on a deep level right now … don’t even have a logical reaction.
Nelson: Fwiw he wasn’t a yank in 03.
Nelson: The whole game is a sham, bud has to out every single player today, this can’t continue. I refuse to be a fan if I’m going to get sandbagged with old evidence six years after the fact. I blame mlb for covering this up.
Me: Yep. I agree
Nelson: I’m sincerely done with it. That’s the end for me. I feel betrayed by the game.
Whether Nelson’s sentiment is shared by the majority of baseball fans, I cannot say. I wish things were different, of course. I wish this were not an issue, that every player had already been cited and we’d moved on.
But, regardless of the resolution, I’m already offering baseball my clemency. I’m not a despondent lover about this. I need baseball in my life; it provides me an income, sure, but it also gives me something to do on humid July evenings.
It’s supplied me countless memories over the years, like going to Shea in 1992 for the celebration of Tom Terrific’s election to the Hall of Fame, and witnessing the now-infamous “Matt Franco” Interleague game between the Mets and Yanks in 1999 when the eponymous pinch-hitter extraordinaire ended the riveting back-and-forth battle with a clutch base hit off none other than the immortal Mariano Rivera.
I memorized the stats from the back of my favorite players’ cards as a
kid, and emulated their swings as a Little Leaguer. I played the game
with my friends on dusty lots, dreaming of being something when I grew
up the odds said was nearly impossible. Tough losses have ruined many a
day, but I’ve come back the next day, in need of the distraction and
entertainment and otherworldliness of the game.
I trekked from school in North Carolina to Washington, D.C., in September 2005 with The Former Mrs. to watch a couple of meaningless games between the Mets and Nationals. We saw David Wright hit a grand slam in the first one, and Mike Piazza slugged the final longball I saw him hit as a Met in the second. We also went to a pitcher’s duel that spring that was the inspiration for a short story I wrote in one of my fiction writing classes. The following season, we witnessed Piazza’s return to Shea — as a Padre.
I need baseball, imperfections and all.
Medieval Times supplants football, baseball as America’s favorite competition
Rather than the obligatory post-Super Bowl update in which I clamor for the start of Spring Training (trust me, Spring Training is a different ball of wax for a producer than an average fan), I’ll instead relay a pre-Super Bowl experience.
Nenny and I had been dying to do something — anything — outside the box recently. What better to do on Super Bowl Saturday than trek out to Lyndhurst, N.J., to take in Medieval Times? Look, we wanted to go snowboarding, but time and financial constraints made it darn near impossible. So how did we go from snowboarding to a half-baked renaissance fair? I’m not sure, exactly. But it was certainly outside the box, at least.
But may I say, for something I hadn’t necessarily regarded as high-brow entertainment, Medieval Times puts on a heck of a show. Dancing horses, flying falcons, jousting knights and much more were all part of the performance. Forget about the entertainment: The chance to slurp soup from goblets and eat chicken and ribs from the bone with your barehands was worth the price of admission alone. That’s saying a lot for me, considering my aversion to getting grease on my hands — major OCD. OK, I could have done without plunking down $7.50 for a Sam Adams Winter Lager, but the dull buzz at last sip made the incredulity of the experience merely an ironic pang.
Nenny and I sat in the green section, where we cheered for the knight of the corresponding color in the arena. The Green Knight, as chance would have it, was the dissenting voice of the knights — the bad *** with long, greasy hair, a sparse goatee, and an attitude which pitted him as an enemy to the throne. The Green Knight — picture Orlando Bloom — was one of the better equestrians,and he even survived a couple of duels at show’s end before being done in by the formidable duo of the prince and the black and white knight. He suffered a cruel fate, but fought the valiant fight.
When we got back to town, Cousin Sam and her guy friend came over. Nenny and I told them of the experience, and, sure enough, they were roundly impressed by our spontaneity. 
Last Super Bowl, I spent the day trudging through the local arboretum, snapping pictures of dead foliage while I lamented the dissolution of my long-running relationship. This year, I went to Medieval Times with a nice girl and had a good time. Here’s to progress and the sheer genius of Medieval Times’ phone number: 1-888-WE-JOUST.
Ken Burns’ hair: A congressional hearing baseball fans would care about
A lull in the Hot Stove season has allowed some of us in the editorial department (particularly those who work the later shifts, like me) to enjoy the <obligatory company man shtick> immensely popular MLB Network </obligatory company man shtick> as more than just a backdrop while we slave away. If reliving the 2002 postseason doesn’t keep you warm on a chilly night in New York City, I don’t know will. But, I digress.
Between producing a couple of stories from SoxFest 2009 on Friday night, I happened to notice Ken Burns, who was featured often in a couple different segments, sporting an otherworldly coif. The question was raised by yours truly: Is this simply a terrible haircut and even worse dye job, or does Burns sport a rug? The three of us in the office (DR, Jiggy and me) couldn’t come to a consensus. With all the mudslinging going on in the game these days, shouldn’t we be more concerned about the authenticity of its foremost historian’s locks? Performance-enhancing drugs and the memoirs of jilted lovers pale in comparison to what’s at stake here.
Of course, it’s easier for me to say, considering my mane is as thick and vital as Sampson’s. To paraphrase Of Montreal’s Kevin Barnes, we all must suffer for fashion sometimes. For instance, I donned a ridiculous piece as part of my Anton Chigurh costume this past Halloween. Disgraced Illinois governor Rod Blagojevich is perhaps better known these days for his bizarre ‘do than his transgressions in office. Marv Albert’s biting episode is a mere afterthought in light of his unfortunate toupee. And the only thing rivaling the sheer comedy of Bill Belichick’s patented hoody-and-sweats look are his weekly red-tinted dye jobs.
If Rafael Palmeiro, Sammy Sosa and Mark McGwire can be roasted by grandstanding politicians, then so too can Burns. Forget the sancity of our treasured record books, let’s get to the root of this man’s follicles. After all, history is at the mercy of the person writing it. If Burns’ hair is in question, am I really to believe his take on our pastime?
Chicago gets a lot more :-(
Seattle hardly knew ye, Aaron Heilman. The Cubs swapped Garrett Olson (also his second time traded this offseason) and Ronny Cedeno for Heilman on Wednesday. Strictly in baseball terms, this deal isn’t much more than a blip on the radar, unless, of course, Heilman goes on to become the 25-win starter he thinks he can be. The Cubs, for the record, are undecided as to whether he’ll start or relieve.
As a Mets fan, I should note that I would not be surprised in the least if Heilman did in fact reach such heights — not because I think he’s good enough, but because I wouldn’t be an average pessimistic Mets fan if I didn’t at least have the seeds of Heilman developing into an ace starter with another team planted in my mind. But, with all apologies to homepage editor DC — a Notre Dame alum and devout eternal Mets optimist — I, for one, didn’t mind seeing Heilman shipped out the first time around and don’t expect much from him in Chicago.
Countless are the times I saw Mr. Sourpuss sulk off the mound after surrendering an untimely home run in relief. The least timely of those came in Game 7 of the 2006 NLCS when he coughed up the gopherball to none other than (Choose Your) Molina — not exactly Albert Pujols.
By some scouts’ accounts, Heilman is a two-pitch, high-injury-risk hurler. Once he was converted to a reliever, the Mets were steadfast in their belief that he wouldn’t be able to pitch more than 100 or so innings without sustaining injury. One would think the jump from middle reliever to starter would be a tough one for any pitcher four years into his relief career. Most organizations prefer to bump their pitchers up in innings pitched by increments of 20 or 30 per season so as to minimize the chance of injury. That would mean Heilman would be on track to pitch about 100 frames in 2009 after tossing 76 in 2008.
But most importantly, Heilman provides MLB.com editorial producers with unparalleled dejection shots, an important aspect of postgame production. It’s easy to pick out pictures for the winning club’s site: A home run or group celebration shot will suffice. But the losing squad’s site is always tricky, and Heilman never failed in supplying those priceless hangdog shots. Enjoy him, Cubs.
A song worth listening to that is kind of about baseball but not really
Look, it’s been slow blogging the past week or so. I could break down the Zack Greinke extension, but I don’t exactly see that drumming up hits. Instead, I figured I’d take the opportunity to share my thoughts on a cool song.
Much has been said of baseball as a vehicle for political and social change, or at the very least a mirror of our society. We all know the stories of pioneers like Jackie Robinson and Curt Flood. I believe it was Gerald Early who said in Ken Burns’ Baseball that America will be remembered for three things: The Constitution, jazz and baseball. That quote always stuck with me for some reason.
Let’s face it, though: For whatever reason, our affinity for our national pastime has not translated well onto record. Most baseball-related songs are corny, dated, unforgettable, or any combination therein. I don’t mind saying Life Outside the Diamond Is a Wrench borrows its title from one of the better baseball songs ever written in my not-so-humble opinion (Belle & Sebastian’s “Piazza, New York Catcher”), and it’s not really a baseball song at its core — the way Field of Dreams is perhaps not really a baseball movie.
Well here’s one that is decidedly not corny: Main Source’s “Just a Friendly Game of Baseball.” Well, maybe it is corny in that ironic way that early ’90s rap has not aged very well. The rhymes are rudimentary and the beats are not what you’d hear The Neptunes churning out.
But it’s something of a social protest song, with rapper Large Professor calling out the injustice of police brutality, gun violence and poverty with clever double entendres. It speaks to some very real issues that, unfortunately, are still relevant today nearly 20 years after its recording.
Truth be told, you’re going to hear this one at the ballpark during the seventh-inning stretch. Like the short-lived group that penned “Just a Friendly Game of Baseball,” the song has been lost in history’s shuffle, nothing more than a choice cut by a cult-favorite rap act. But it’s a thoughtful song, one a baseball fan will appreciate for its clever extended metaphors.
Next on my rainy-day review list will be The Baseball Project’s Volume I: Frozen Ropes and Dying Quails.
Kenny Rogers’ Mets career: One minute on a scalding stove
Allow me to share a bit of AIM away message wisdom. I swear, it’s relevant. My best friend forever (bff), Ski, once posted Albert Einstein’s famous quote about relativity:
When a man sits with a pretty girl for an hour, it seems like a minute. But let him sit on a hot stove for a minute, and it’s longer than any hour. That’s relativity.
What prompted this thought for me was a story I produced Saturday night regarding the probable retirement of southpaw Kenny Rogers, he of the Rangers (thrice), Tigers, Yankees, A’s, Twins, and, regrettably, my Metropolitans.
I say regrettably because in 1999, Rogers issued the dreaded walk-off walk in Game 5 of the NLCS against the hated Braves. It was a scene all too predictable. The Mets, in the opinions of many, were actually better in 1999 than they were in 2000, when they went to the World Series. They just couldn’t get around the little hurdle we call the Bravos, which, fortunately, was taken care of for them by the Redbirds in ’00.
Rogers, for his part, was a midseason addition via trade to the Mets that season, having retreated with his tail between his legs to obscurity with the Oakland A’s after his miserable stint with the Yankees in 1996 and ’97. Word on the street was, The Gambler couldn’t handle the Big Apple’s bright lights with the Yanks. So, of course, who else would the Mets have on the mound for the deciding pitch of their season than an aging midseason addition who had already proven he didn’t care for the spotlight?
Bitter, much? Perhaps. But this is my experience with Rogers. This is my my one minute on a hot stove. Mike Piazza’s Mets career is my fleeting hour with a pretty girl. Did I actually just write that? That’s for another post.
For Rangers fans, I’d imagine it’s a mixed bag, perhaps more good than bad. The perfect game thing is pretty sweet. I wouldn’t mind seeing one of those for the Mets, considering no Amazin’s hurler has ever spun a no-hitter (let alone a perfecto). Leaving them high and dry for the Yanks’ big bucks — only to come crawling back — was not nice, nor was the camera incident. Rogers channeling his inner-Rodman was entirely less entertaining and kind of frightening in the passive-aggressive way he went about it. Why not just kick the guy in his family jewels, Kenny?
For Tigers fans, I’d imagine it was heavenly bliss, despite the eventual outcome of the ’06 World Series. Rogers cheated pitched his tail off that postseason, rosin smudge not withstanding.
When Rogers is an old man and the Mets have choked away suffered another handful of untimely teamwide slumps in many a September, I might wonder about Rogers. I might wonder about the relativity of sitting on millions of dollars upon retirement. Enjoy it, Rogers. Enjoy it.
Joakim Soria sports adult braces, claims Bruce Rice Award
If you’re clamoring for a little extra insight into what I do at MLB.com, here’s a slice of life from an editorial producer.
Last week, the Royals hosted their Awards Dinner. Not to pile on the lowly Kansas City franchise, but is it surprising to anyone that the night’s top honor — the Ewing Kauffman Mr. Baseball Award for an overall contribution to baseball in the Kansas City area — was given to ex-Royal Mike Sweeney? But I digress.
On duty that fateful night, the task of producing the corresponding story, panel and photo gallery fell into the lap of yours truly. While sifting through said photos to find one to feature in the story and panel, I came across the one I have posted above.
Closer Joakim Soria claimed the Bruce Rice Award that night as the Royals’ top pitcher, but that is of little interest to us here, isn’t it? The real story is that Soria has apparently joined the dubious ranks of Terrell Davis and Josh Howard — among many other athletes, I’m sure — to don adult braces. For the sake of human decency and my job security (you’ll here that refrain from time to time in this spot), I fought the temptation to feature Soria’s realigning chompers prominently and instead went with a shot of Sweeney claiming his prize from Kauffman’s daughter.
I’ve long marvelled at the awkwardness of adult braces. In actuality, there is, of course, no difference between the braces adults wear and the ones prepubescent middle schoolers wear, but that would take all the fun out of this, wouldn’t it? Perhaps it was Ben Stiller’s performance in There’s Something About Mary — the infamous “is it the frank or the beans?” scene.
Look, Mark asks on the MLBlogs homepage, “What keeps you going during the long offseason?” For some it’s hockey, others hoops. I abstain from following both black holes games. For the editorial producer (at least this EP), it’s adult braces. If this comes off as cruel, sophomoric or downright silly, I’m sure Soria doesn’t mind me having a laugh or two at his expense. He’s young, rich and throws a 12-6 curveball we mortals could only dream of.
On a related note, I had the honor of producing yet another Royals photo gallery today (I know, lucky me), and among the keepers was this doozy, featuring Royals Hall of Famer John Mayberry autographing a young couple’s baby.
“Oh no, I forgot to bring my autograph album. Would you mind signing my baby?”
What’s in the water out there in Missouri? We know it’s not winning baseball! *Cymbal crash*
Willie, Teddy and The Man (Talkin’ Baseball)
Pardon the cornball post title, but I thought it apt. I’d like to relay
an experience I endured a few months back.
After several years of dating, my relationship with the former mrs. came to an
end about a year ago. Always an unpleasant time, I did my best to handle it
with dignity. Since we lived together in her grandparents’ apartment building,
I was obviously the one who had to go.
For those who have moved within the five boroughs (or anywhere else, for that
matter), you know it can be a harrowing experience. One day last April, I
checked out apartments in Sunnyside, Queens and Bay Ridge, Brooklyn. I wasn’t
overly impressed by either place, but that hardly gets to the heart of this
post.
Obama takes oath; I clean out Axis Powers
Today was a momentous day on two fronts:
- Barack Obama was sworn in as president.
- I finished my marches through the Pacific and European theaters in Call of Duty: World at War, thereby securing justice and liberty for all.
Not long after Chief Justice John Roberts fumbled through President Obama’s swearing in in Washington, D.C., I (playing as Pvt. Dimitri Petrenko of the Red Army), unfurled the Russian flag high atop the Reichstag in Berlin. The storming of the German parliament building was not easy; the Hammer and Sickle was not flown without grave resistance. Previously, I had finished the Battle of Okinawa by capturing the Shuri Castle (as Pvt. Miller of the Marines).
Silliness aside, I couldn’t help but to feel some sort of strange disconnect. There I was, on an historic day in US history, simulating battles fought over 60 years ago from the comfort of my couch on the Wii. Despite the game’s truth to real-life events, I somehow inevitably end up feeling crummy playing a game that depicts such things, and this time was no different.
World at War concludes with a cinematic scene in which I’m nearly ambushed by a leftover Nazi atop the Reichstag before he’s brutally hacked by one of my comrades with a machete.
Roll credits.
The thanks are endless, including a stable of Marines who were deffered to for the sake of keeping the game as realistic as possible. At that point, I thought about Gramps, a retired Marine and a staunch republican. He fought in the Pacific on Iwo Jima and Okinawa and Sipan. I wondered how he felt about Obama’s inauguration, wondered if he watched it on his TV from his gated community in Florida. Maybe not an outright racist, Gramps is of the breed of old folks who wouldn’t hesitate to relay an off-color joke.
I’m not sure what I’m getting at here, to be honest. There’s too much perverse symmetry in this little slice of modern malaise to enumerate it coherently.
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