It’s time for Jose Melendez’s KEYS TO THE GAME.
1. Terry Eurona won his 300th game as Red Sox manager last night, and Jose is genuinely happy for him, and, in a real way, happy for America.
We live in an age where cruelty is rewarded, not only rewarded but revered. In a time when Bill Parcells is lionized for his efficient, professional meanness, when CEOs are praised to the hilt for the callousness of their layoffs, when “you’re fired” is a beloved catch phrase more than a statement of lives and families destroyed, it is refreshing to see one of the genuinely good people have such success.
Despite the constant clamoring among this fan base, among every fan base for men of cruelty, for old school Dick Williams, Bill Fitch, Bobby Knight types who will bludgeon and brutalize spoiled, athletes into humble submission, these men are wrong for this day and age. And Jose is glad. It is a sign of progress, when personal viciousness is no longer a virtue.
And thus, Tito Eurona, surprisingly enough, is a man of today, a modern man and a modern manager. When Tito took this job, he said something to the effect of “I’m a nice guy, and I don’t want this job if it means I have to stop being nice.” It was a good sound bite, it was a sign of decency, but what one didn’t know was that it was a management manifesto, and a sound manifesto at that.
Be nice.
Pretty simple, pretty good. Don’t be a push over, but don’t be a d*ck. Air grievances privately, rather than on the back page of the Herald. Treat players fairly. Only criticize constructively. Do not tear people down.
Tito has not only won, he has not only been nice, but he has won by being nice. And he’s done it 300 times.
2. Last Thursday, Jose attended the battle of Japan with one of Jose’s People, Empyreal Environs, who has somehow, in the just the last 10 years, reached the level of delusion required to write about every single Red sox game (Note: The correct amount of time for it to take is 27 years.). Think about this. She arrived in Boston at the height of the Steve Avery era, and yet still chose, CHOSE, to descend into the madness.
While the conversation throughout the evening was scintillating, as one might expect from a meeting of Boston’s two premiere Japanese American baseball minds, one subject of conversation stood out as particularly exceptional—when is it okay for a Red Sox fan to accept a Yankee autographed ball?
The impetus for this particular discussion was Empyreal’s story of the difficult choice a friend had (note: Jose thinks it was a friend and not a relative… or Empyreal herself… Jose spent much of the evening in a haze, as one tends to when the $101 million starter walks 800 batters) as to whether or not to accept a Yankee ball autographed by among others, legendary alcoholic and peeping tom Mickey Mantle, despite his being a Red sox fan.
It got Jose thinking. Would he accept a Mantle ball? No. What about a 1996 Yankee ball? Please. A Lou Gehrig ball? Is ALS contagious? (Note: No) What about a Ruth ball? Red Sox era yes, Yankee era no. Braves era, absolutely. An Andy Stankiewiecz ball? Tempting on an ironic level, but still no.
So Jose gave it a lot of thought and determined that there is only one Yankee ball he would ever want (Note: Aside from Jim Bouton.). Jose would accept, hell, Jose would pay for a ball signed by both Thurman Munson and Corey Lidle. There. He said it. It’s tasteless, but he said it. And it was funny, as plane crash jokes tend to be. Actually, Jose would like one ball even more than that. If he could get a Yankee ball signed by Thurman Munson, Corey Lidle and…
Nuts, Jose really wanted to put Jorge Posada in there. He hates Jorge Posada…weasel faced creep, but damn it, Jose simply cannot wish death in a plane crash on anyone. Too bad. It would have been funny too. Maybe if Munson and Lidle had died peacefully in their sleep, Jose could have joked about having Posada’s name on a ball with them, but a plane crash? That’s too tacky even for Jose… barely.
3. Curt Euro, shockingly, called out Barry Bonds yesterday for cheating on his wife, cheating on his taxes and cheating at the great game of baseball.
He was unusual in being willing to call out Bonds in earnest and publicly when disturbingly few active players are willing to do so. That said, his statement lacked balance. While Euro did list all of the things that Bonds does cheat at, he utterly failed to list the many aspects of life wherein he has not cheated.
Consider the following:
• Bonds has not, as best we know cheated at cards.
• He has never performed Cheat, by the Clash at karaoke.
• He is not a “pumpkin eater.”
• Not a big fan of Cheetos. (Note: Wait… that’s Cheetah, not cheater?)
• Not technically a member of the Guerrero wrestling family (Motto: Cheat to Win.)
• Has never hit opposing player with a steel chair.
On the other hand, Jose is pretty sure he has a Jessie “The Body” Ventura inspired tattoo reading “Win if you can, lose if you must, but always cheat.)
I’m Jose Melendez, and those are my KEYS TO THE GAME.
Wednesday, May 9
Tuesday, May 8
Get With the Losing Team
It’s time for Jose Melendez’s KEYS TO THE GAME.
1. Once, there was a man.
He was a great man, a rewriter of history, the idol and envy of millions. From modest beginnings, he rose to become greater than any before him, to become, perhaps, the greatest of all. But you know what happens to the great don’t you? Pride flows from power, heroism becomes hubris and nemesis, as the Greeks might say, is a bitch.
From his height of power, from the peak of his influence, he had nothing left to do save submit to Newton’s cruel discovery and fall, fall ever faster to Earth. Into exile he went, a comfortable exile an exile softened by all the riches of the age, but an exile nevertheless, away from the power, away from the intrigue and off to a gilded prison.
But for great men, a comfortable retirement is no comfort at all. Power is the only comfort, adulation the only opiate. And so he escaped from his exile, as fate demanded. Oh, he escaped with visions of glory restored, power reclaimed and in short order those visions were fulfilled. Hysterical woman screamed his name, praising the nobility of his return, weeping, saluting what seemed an inevitable restoration of a powerful and feared empire.
His name, you might be surprised to hear, was not Roger Clemens. Not at all.
This is the story of quite a different author of history, one of smaller stature than Clemens, and with, remarkably, a smaller ego to boot. You have, perhaps, heard of him. His was called Napoleon Bonaparte.
On March 1, 1815, Napoleon returned to France, having escaped from exile in Elba, that Houston of the Mediterranean, and, after converting the French Fifth Regiment of the Line to his cause upon encountering them at Grenoble quickly regained his position as Emperor of France.
Like Napoleon before him, Roger Clemens returns in dramatic fashion, taking in the cheers at Yankee Stadium, like Napoleon on that first day of March. Clemens standing in the owner’s box might as well have declared “Soldiers of the Fifth, you recognize me. If any man would shoot his emperor, he may do so now.” And he might as well have been greeted with cheers of "Vive L'Empereur!"
But the story does not end there. Nor does it proceed neatly to the French Empire reclaiming the continent. For all of the enthusiasm his return generated, Napoleon’s restoration ended a scant 100 days later in disaster.
And with barely more than 100 days left in the baseball season why should the Clemens restoration end any differently than that of Napoleon? Is Clemens a greater man? Is he more heroic? Has he faced adversity with more bravado?
No, he has not. No he is not. Like Napoleon before him, Clemens comes to save, to restore an empire that has crumbled, that has turned to dust as luxury, as decadence, as an endless thirst for domination overextends resources and engenders a certain incurable madness.
And like Napoleon the crowds may cheers Clemens’ return, they may envision a restoration of the grandeur that was. But like Napoleon, Clemens will battle his Wellington, he will meet his Waterloo and he will end up on his St. Helena.
2. You know who Jose blames for Clemens signing with the Yankees? Grady Little.
Now this isn’t a reflexive thing, like Jose automatically blaming Grady for a warehouse fire in Lawrence or World War I, this is serious. Grady is responsible, because he attempted to change destiny, which, as anyone who has read Oedipus Rex or seen Terminator 3 knows, is impossible.
Roger Clemens is fated, absolutely guaranteed, to end his career by picking up the loss in a pathetic performance against the Boston Red Sox.
The script was written. Game 7, 2003 ALCS and a Roger Clemens who has vowed to retire is nothing short of pathetic. His last game ever, will be a classic Clemens playoff implosion against the soon to be World Champion Red Sox. Except Grady attempts to alter the future. He kneecaps John Wilkes Booth, he poisons FDR, he hand delivers the Zimmerman Telegram, he does everything he can to fight off destiny when he leaves Pedro in and the Red Sox lose. Thus, Clemens goes on to pitch again.
But you can’t fight destiny any more than you can fight nightmares. It just keeps coming.
Since that day, Jose has been waiting for a season ending match up between Clemens and the Red Sox, such that the circle may be closed. He thought we would have it in 2004 when Clemens’ Astros nearly battled the Red Sox in the World Series, but Clemens couldn’t overcome the kryptonite that is Jeff Suppan.
So Jose has waited, waited each year as Clemens has put off retirement again and again, waited as he has taunted and teased Red Sox fans with the prospect of a return, waited for the final chapter. And here it is. Roger Clemens is, once more, a Yankee. And his last start of this season, the last start of his career, will come against these Boston Red Sox. Clemens will collapse. The Red Sox will win. Destiny will take its bounty.
3. Last year as Roger went through his absurd little process, Jose compared him to Italy in World War I, waiting to see who was most likely to triumph before jumping in with the winning team in return for a stunning ransom. It is now clear that this analogy was incorrect. For the second straight year, Clemens has chosen to go after the king’s ransom, but he has chosen to do so with a losing team. Thus, Jose would like to formally apologize to the nation of Italy circa World War I for the comparison. For you to be like Clemens, you would have had to assess the situation, bide your time and then join up with the Central Powers shortly after the Second Battle of the Somme in 1918, once defeat was assured. Jose regrets the inaccuracy.
Jose would like to find a substitute historical analogy, but he is, as yet, unable to find any nation, any person, so eager to freely choose what will clearly be the losing side in any conflict. It appears, that in the entire history of statecraft, there is no one as stupid or as arrogant as Roger Clemens.
I’m Jose Melendez, and those are my KEYS TO THE GAME.
1. Once, there was a man.
He was a great man, a rewriter of history, the idol and envy of millions. From modest beginnings, he rose to become greater than any before him, to become, perhaps, the greatest of all. But you know what happens to the great don’t you? Pride flows from power, heroism becomes hubris and nemesis, as the Greeks might say, is a bitch.
From his height of power, from the peak of his influence, he had nothing left to do save submit to Newton’s cruel discovery and fall, fall ever faster to Earth. Into exile he went, a comfortable exile an exile softened by all the riches of the age, but an exile nevertheless, away from the power, away from the intrigue and off to a gilded prison.
But for great men, a comfortable retirement is no comfort at all. Power is the only comfort, adulation the only opiate. And so he escaped from his exile, as fate demanded. Oh, he escaped with visions of glory restored, power reclaimed and in short order those visions were fulfilled. Hysterical woman screamed his name, praising the nobility of his return, weeping, saluting what seemed an inevitable restoration of a powerful and feared empire.
His name, you might be surprised to hear, was not Roger Clemens. Not at all.
This is the story of quite a different author of history, one of smaller stature than Clemens, and with, remarkably, a smaller ego to boot. You have, perhaps, heard of him. His was called Napoleon Bonaparte.
On March 1, 1815, Napoleon returned to France, having escaped from exile in Elba, that Houston of the Mediterranean, and, after converting the French Fifth Regiment of the Line to his cause upon encountering them at Grenoble quickly regained his position as Emperor of France.
Like Napoleon before him, Roger Clemens returns in dramatic fashion, taking in the cheers at Yankee Stadium, like Napoleon on that first day of March. Clemens standing in the owner’s box might as well have declared “Soldiers of the Fifth, you recognize me. If any man would shoot his emperor, he may do so now.” And he might as well have been greeted with cheers of "Vive L'Empereur!"
But the story does not end there. Nor does it proceed neatly to the French Empire reclaiming the continent. For all of the enthusiasm his return generated, Napoleon’s restoration ended a scant 100 days later in disaster.
And with barely more than 100 days left in the baseball season why should the Clemens restoration end any differently than that of Napoleon? Is Clemens a greater man? Is he more heroic? Has he faced adversity with more bravado?
No, he has not. No he is not. Like Napoleon before him, Clemens comes to save, to restore an empire that has crumbled, that has turned to dust as luxury, as decadence, as an endless thirst for domination overextends resources and engenders a certain incurable madness.
And like Napoleon the crowds may cheers Clemens’ return, they may envision a restoration of the grandeur that was. But like Napoleon, Clemens will battle his Wellington, he will meet his Waterloo and he will end up on his St. Helena.
Seperated at birth?
2. You know who Jose blames for Clemens signing with the Yankees? Grady Little.
Now this isn’t a reflexive thing, like Jose automatically blaming Grady for a warehouse fire in Lawrence or World War I, this is serious. Grady is responsible, because he attempted to change destiny, which, as anyone who has read Oedipus Rex or seen Terminator 3 knows, is impossible.
Roger Clemens is fated, absolutely guaranteed, to end his career by picking up the loss in a pathetic performance against the Boston Red Sox.
The script was written. Game 7, 2003 ALCS and a Roger Clemens who has vowed to retire is nothing short of pathetic. His last game ever, will be a classic Clemens playoff implosion against the soon to be World Champion Red Sox. Except Grady attempts to alter the future. He kneecaps John Wilkes Booth, he poisons FDR, he hand delivers the Zimmerman Telegram, he does everything he can to fight off destiny when he leaves Pedro in and the Red Sox lose. Thus, Clemens goes on to pitch again.
But you can’t fight destiny any more than you can fight nightmares. It just keeps coming.
Since that day, Jose has been waiting for a season ending match up between Clemens and the Red Sox, such that the circle may be closed. He thought we would have it in 2004 when Clemens’ Astros nearly battled the Red Sox in the World Series, but Clemens couldn’t overcome the kryptonite that is Jeff Suppan.
So Jose has waited, waited each year as Clemens has put off retirement again and again, waited as he has taunted and teased Red Sox fans with the prospect of a return, waited for the final chapter. And here it is. Roger Clemens is, once more, a Yankee. And his last start of this season, the last start of his career, will come against these Boston Red Sox. Clemens will collapse. The Red Sox will win. Destiny will take its bounty.
3. Last year as Roger went through his absurd little process, Jose compared him to Italy in World War I, waiting to see who was most likely to triumph before jumping in with the winning team in return for a stunning ransom. It is now clear that this analogy was incorrect. For the second straight year, Clemens has chosen to go after the king’s ransom, but he has chosen to do so with a losing team. Thus, Jose would like to formally apologize to the nation of Italy circa World War I for the comparison. For you to be like Clemens, you would have had to assess the situation, bide your time and then join up with the Central Powers shortly after the Second Battle of the Somme in 1918, once defeat was assured. Jose regrets the inaccuracy.
Jose would like to find a substitute historical analogy, but he is, as yet, unable to find any nation, any person, so eager to freely choose what will clearly be the losing side in any conflict. It appears, that in the entire history of statecraft, there is no one as stupid or as arrogant as Roger Clemens.
I’m Jose Melendez, and those are my KEYS TO THE GAME.
Thursday, May 3
Japan Night at Fenway
It’s time for Jose Melendez’s KEYS TO THE GAME.
1. It’s Japan night at Fenway Park as Mr. Matsu battles Ichiro Suzuki with not one, but two Japanese American Red Sox bloggers looking on. Tonight, Jose will attend his third game of the season (note: record 2-0) as the guest of empyrealenvirons, who played a critical role in the graphic design of this very blog.
On such a special occasion, it became clear quite quickly that this arrangement would demand some sort of special bloging shtick. Leading to the following exchange of emails.
Jose: Jose feels like you and Jose need to come up with some sort of shared shtick for this game. The two Japanese-American Red Sox bloggers watching Matsu vs. Ichiro. There's got to be something we can come up with.
Empyreal: Thought of something: do it in "whiteface." Not literally paint, but pretend we're white people and say the things we hear all the time because of our appearance.
Jose: Have you seen a picture of Jose? He’s only 1/8 Japanese. Jose does life in whiteface.
Empyreal: :) Sorry, never saw a picture; hope I didn't offend 7/8s of you.
Yes, it’s Japan night at Fenway, and let us all hope that if Mr. Matsu decides to pitch in whiteface tonight it’s as Josh Beckett and not as Ricky Trlicek.
2. Kudos to the Boston Herald for an uncharacteristic display of conscientious journalism. Sure they ran a front page photo of Patriots quarterback/demigod Tom Brady wearing a Yankees cap with the headline “Yanks for nothing Brady…Tom, Say It Ain’t So!” a sensationalistic, pointless story, that doubtless has nothing to do with the Herald’s plunging circulation. But that’s okay, because the sub-head was 100% accurate as it read “‘Shocking’ details in the Inside Track.”
That’s right, they put “shocking” in quotes. They actually admitted through the use of those cute little quotation marks that their front page story is neither newsworthy nor shocking.
You know how some people make quotes with their fingers when they are saying something they regard a preposterous? For instance, how Carl Everett might say “I was 6 years old when man first ‘walked on the moon?’” It’s like that. Jose is glad that this is now an accepted journalistic technique and will use it to make the following statements:
- Jose is “devastated” to hear the Yankees Rookie Phillip Hughes will be out four to six weeks.
- By all reckoning, Dour Mirabelli is a “fantastic human being” and “adds a lot to this team.”
- Joe Torre is a “handsome” man with “excellent” personal hygiene.
- The ladies at the Inside Track are “absolutely not” bloated harpies who traffic in human misery.
- Beer at Fenway Park is “reasonably priced” at seven dollars.
- Tito Eurona is the best Red Sox manager in Jose’s life time. See, no quotes on that one.
3. The term “Horatio Alger story” is used to describe any story of someone who climbs from rags and desolation to a respected place in society through hard work and determination. It is a tribute to the works of novelist Horatio Alger who wrote 135 novels that have this triumph of pluck as their central theme. Modern examples of Horatio Alger Stories include Pretty Woman and the original Star Wars trilogy.
Tonight, the Red Sox go against Seattle lefty Horacio Ramirez, who’s life is not a Horatio Alger story. Quite to the contrary, a Horacio Ramirez story, after tonight’s game, will be a term used to describe a quick and catastrophic failure that results in the protagonist crying like a little girl. Modern examples include Titanic, many football games coached by Dick Vermeil and the 1972 Ed Muskie campaign.
I’m Jose Melendez, and those are my KEYS TO THE GAME.
Wednesday, May 2
Jose Wants the Airwaves
It’s time for Jose Melendez’s KEYS TO THE GAME.
1. There’s a funny thing about month in reviews. They are almost impossible to write. The clumsy shapes of the written word some how fail to convey the awesome significance of a lunar cycle gone by. And yet they are adequate for years in review. Weird.
No, the contemplation of a full month requires the spoken word, the ebullient cacophony of air moving across larynx. Thus, it is Jose’s great privilege and pride to present to you the first of KEYS TO THE GAME PODCAST produced by SoShers OCDSS and Trotsky. If Howard Stern is “King of all Media,” by moving into this second form of communication, Jose is, perhaps, emerging as a Viscount of some media, or perhaps a squire, like Sancho Panza except lacking insight.
2. Have you ever wondered what it would have been like to be an early Christian watching Christ upon the Cross?
You’ve seen this guy perform miracles. Sure the water into wine could have been a trick, and maybe, as Father Guido Sarducci suggested, he was actually standing on the shoulders of his brother Billy Christ when he walked on water. But how do you explain the loaves and fishes? Hmm? And what about healing lepers? Those are grade A miracles.
And so you look at this guy up there, the Messiah, the miracle man, the Son of God, and you keep waiting for the amazing escape. Sure, he looks awful, thin and scraggly, blood flowing from lance wound in his side, but you know he’s got something ready. And then, all of a sudden, for the grand finale… he dies. That’s right he just dies up there. Can you believe it? No, of course you can’t.
And so it was watching Jonathan Papelbon last night. You’ve seen the guy escape inescapable jams, transform losses into wins, heal the leprous Red Sox bullpen, and then… without warning, he fails. He does not save the game or save himself. He falls, bowing, it seems, to the cruelty of men.
But for Christ, his failure to save himself begat the greatest miracle of all, his stunning, history-changing resurrection. Do we, can we, except to see anything less than the resurrection Jonathan Papelbon three days hence? Amen
3. According to Alan Schwarz of the New York Times, a new study by a UPenn professor and Cornell grad student says that white NBA referees call fouls on black players at a much greater rate than on white players. If one puts aside the possible conflict of interest of having a race story written by a man whose name, Schwartz means “black” in German and is sort of a slur in Yiddish, (note: this story should only be reported by a South Asian or Eskimo, as neither are currently represented in the NBA) the story is pretty interesting. Moreover, it makes Jose wonder if a similar study of some kind could be done for baseball. Jose suspects that if one was done, it would find that umpire discrimination is rampant. While race isn’t an issue, Jose’s theory is that tall players are almost universally discriminated against with a larger strike zone then their shorter teammates and opponents.
Jose doesn’t have data to back up the theory yet, but if he’s right than MLB is wrong. Tall people should never be discriminated against, except in Fenway Park seating, where they need to be corralled in a special section just for them so Jose doesn’t get knees hitting him in the back of the neck.
I’m Jose Melendez, and those are my KEYS TO THE GAME.
1. There’s a funny thing about month in reviews. They are almost impossible to write. The clumsy shapes of the written word some how fail to convey the awesome significance of a lunar cycle gone by. And yet they are adequate for years in review. Weird.
No, the contemplation of a full month requires the spoken word, the ebullient cacophony of air moving across larynx. Thus, it is Jose’s great privilege and pride to present to you the first of KEYS TO THE GAME PODCAST produced by SoShers OCDSS and Trotsky. If Howard Stern is “King of all Media,” by moving into this second form of communication, Jose is, perhaps, emerging as a Viscount of some media, or perhaps a squire, like Sancho Panza except lacking insight.
2. Have you ever wondered what it would have been like to be an early Christian watching Christ upon the Cross?
You’ve seen this guy perform miracles. Sure the water into wine could have been a trick, and maybe, as Father Guido Sarducci suggested, he was actually standing on the shoulders of his brother Billy Christ when he walked on water. But how do you explain the loaves and fishes? Hmm? And what about healing lepers? Those are grade A miracles.
And so you look at this guy up there, the Messiah, the miracle man, the Son of God, and you keep waiting for the amazing escape. Sure, he looks awful, thin and scraggly, blood flowing from lance wound in his side, but you know he’s got something ready. And then, all of a sudden, for the grand finale… he dies. That’s right he just dies up there. Can you believe it? No, of course you can’t.
And so it was watching Jonathan Papelbon last night. You’ve seen the guy escape inescapable jams, transform losses into wins, heal the leprous Red Sox bullpen, and then… without warning, he fails. He does not save the game or save himself. He falls, bowing, it seems, to the cruelty of men.
But for Christ, his failure to save himself begat the greatest miracle of all, his stunning, history-changing resurrection. Do we, can we, except to see anything less than the resurrection Jonathan Papelbon three days hence? Amen
3. According to Alan Schwarz of the New York Times, a new study by a UPenn professor and Cornell grad student says that white NBA referees call fouls on black players at a much greater rate than on white players. If one puts aside the possible conflict of interest of having a race story written by a man whose name, Schwartz means “black” in German and is sort of a slur in Yiddish, (note: this story should only be reported by a South Asian or Eskimo, as neither are currently represented in the NBA) the story is pretty interesting. Moreover, it makes Jose wonder if a similar study of some kind could be done for baseball. Jose suspects that if one was done, it would find that umpire discrimination is rampant. While race isn’t an issue, Jose’s theory is that tall players are almost universally discriminated against with a larger strike zone then their shorter teammates and opponents.
Jose doesn’t have data to back up the theory yet, but if he’s right than MLB is wrong. Tall people should never be discriminated against, except in Fenway Park seating, where they need to be corralled in a special section just for them so Jose doesn’t get knees hitting him in the back of the neck.
I’m Jose Melendez, and those are my KEYS TO THE GAME.
Tuesday, May 1
Like Triangle
It’s time for Jose Melendez’s KEYS TO THE GAME.
1. Lots of observers have commented on the curious fondness of Julienned Tavarez for Mr. Matsu. It’s funny and kind of endearing to see the effusive (note: read insane) Tavarez fawn over the Japanese pitcher, who while he seems to be touchy feely by Japanese standards, is still unsure what to make of his Dominican non-so-secret-admirer.
Still, today’s Globe Red Sox Notebook wherein Tavarez says “I told [Matsuzaka] I think you’re one of the greatest pitchers I’ve ever seen,” is embarrassing in its mushiness. It reads like a sixth grade mash note. But it gets worse. Jose recently uncovered this transcript of a locker room conversation between the unlikely friends.
JULIAN: Hi Daisuke.
DAISUKE: Oh hi Julian.
JULIAN: How’s it going?
DAISUKE: Umm… okay. Still getting used to life here. How about for you?
JULIAN. (Slyly) Good… Hey, I really liked watching you pitch the other day.
DAISUKE: Oh thanks.
JULIAN: It was just so exciting, the way you exercised such, such command over all of your pitches.
DAISUKE: (looking uncomfortable) Uh… yeah, I had my good stuff.
JULIAN: You sure did, and you knew exactly when to use it. You knew right when to use the hard stuff, and the perfect time to go with something a little more… subtle.
DAISUKE: I… I guess I try to mix it up.
JULIAN: I guess it’s just your grip. You’ve just got these amazing hands. Strong, supple.
DAISUKE: I’m feeling really uncomfortable.
JULIAN: Do you mind if I touch your hands? I want to feel where the magic comes from?
DAISUKE: Uhhh…(looking for a way out) I not speak Engrish.
JULIAN: Los manos, los manos lucido.
DAISUKE: Umm… I also not speak Spanish?
JULIAN: Just let me touch them. Please?
DAISUKE: Julian you’re cool and all, but I don’t want you coming on to me. I don’t like you that way.
JULIAN (Punches him in the face) What?!? What the hell is wrong with you all I say is I want to feel your rugged manly, magical hands and you make it all dirty?
DAISUKE: (On the floor clenching his jaw) Ughh…Crap… Sorry, must be a cultural misinterpretation. Would it help if I taught you the cutter to make it up to you?
JULIAN: Teaching me the cutter is a start, that and some sex. Lots and lots of sex.
DAISUKE: But I thought—
JULIAN: Cultural differences!
See, incredibly awkward and uncomfortable. Jose even felt uncomfortable transcribing it. It’s not that there’s anything wrong with a pock marked Dominican lunatic prone to violent outbursts falling in love with a Japanese colleague, and making awkward, clumsy passes at him. Not at all. It’s just that Tavarez seems to be aiming a little too high. Let’s be honest, Daisuke is out of his league. If he’s got an Asian thing, he should focus on Okajima. Though he might be getting out of Tavarez’s league too. Maybe we could get Wendell Kim to hang out with him.
2. Speaking of Okajima, when he was originally brought to the Red Sox, there was rampant speculation that he was signed as much to provide friendship and companionship to Mr. Matsu as to pitch. Of course, little did the Red Sox know that Julienned Tavarez would be providing Mr. Matsu with all the friendship he could stand. Thus, with his primary purpose gone, Okajima has been forced to focus on his lesser role of pitching brilliantly.
But don’t be fooled. No, don’t be tricked into thinking that Okajima’s original role was to be a lights out set up man. He and Mr. Matsu are, as some SoSHers have suggested, BFFs, best friends forever, and not even Tavarez can tear them apart. You want proof? You say it’s kind of BS to assume that just because two guys come from the same country and work at the same place they’re BFFs? Well, the proof is in the necklace. You know that necklace that Okajima wears to every game. With Jose’s years of training in the arts (note: and crafts) he can tell, with 95 percent confidence, that that is an authentic gimp friendship necklace made at a summer camp sometime between 1983 and 1989. And Jose has every reason to believe that necklace came from Mr. Matsu. Of course, there is one other possibility. Jose has been hearing rumors that Tavarez has been making friendship necklaces for everyone, just so he can tease J.C. Romero, saying “I have 23 best friends on this team, and you have none. Loser.”
3. But you don’t want to hear any more about Julienned Tavarez’ creepy Japanese fetish. No, you don’t come here for that, you come hear for insight on tonight’s match up with the Oakland Athletics and the return of Lenny DiNardo. Jose hopes that the fans treat him right. Jose has heard that the Red Sox are preparing a video tribute of Lenny’s greatest moments to play pregame, you know, like they did with Pedro last year. Jose thinks it will include that one pitch where his fastball hit 86 mph, and maybe that time when he didn’t get shelled. Hopefully they’ll also do a retrospective on his Rule V induced trip to the disabled list in 2004.
But let’s not get lost in the drama. This Oakland As team is far more than just Lenny DiNardo. It is the retirement home for formerly great hitting, badly broken down catchers with both Mike Piazza and Jason Kendall on the roster. And Jose is holding out that they may sign Todd Hundley before game time.
I’m Jose Melendez, and those are my KEYS TO THE GAME.
1. Lots of observers have commented on the curious fondness of Julienned Tavarez for Mr. Matsu. It’s funny and kind of endearing to see the effusive (note: read insane) Tavarez fawn over the Japanese pitcher, who while he seems to be touchy feely by Japanese standards, is still unsure what to make of his Dominican non-so-secret-admirer.
Still, today’s Globe Red Sox Notebook wherein Tavarez says “I told [Matsuzaka] I think you’re one of the greatest pitchers I’ve ever seen,” is embarrassing in its mushiness. It reads like a sixth grade mash note. But it gets worse. Jose recently uncovered this transcript of a locker room conversation between the unlikely friends.
JULIAN: Hi Daisuke.
DAISUKE: Oh hi Julian.
JULIAN: How’s it going?
DAISUKE: Umm… okay. Still getting used to life here. How about for you?
JULIAN. (Slyly) Good… Hey, I really liked watching you pitch the other day.
DAISUKE: Oh thanks.
JULIAN: It was just so exciting, the way you exercised such, such command over all of your pitches.
DAISUKE: (looking uncomfortable) Uh… yeah, I had my good stuff.
JULIAN: You sure did, and you knew exactly when to use it. You knew right when to use the hard stuff, and the perfect time to go with something a little more… subtle.
DAISUKE: I… I guess I try to mix it up.
JULIAN: I guess it’s just your grip. You’ve just got these amazing hands. Strong, supple.
DAISUKE: I’m feeling really uncomfortable.
JULIAN: Do you mind if I touch your hands? I want to feel where the magic comes from?
DAISUKE: Uhhh…(looking for a way out) I not speak Engrish.
JULIAN: Los manos, los manos lucido.
DAISUKE: Umm… I also not speak Spanish?
JULIAN: Just let me touch them. Please?
DAISUKE: Julian you’re cool and all, but I don’t want you coming on to me. I don’t like you that way.
JULIAN (Punches him in the face) What?!? What the hell is wrong with you all I say is I want to feel your rugged manly, magical hands and you make it all dirty?
DAISUKE: (On the floor clenching his jaw) Ughh…Crap… Sorry, must be a cultural misinterpretation. Would it help if I taught you the cutter to make it up to you?
JULIAN: Teaching me the cutter is a start, that and some sex. Lots and lots of sex.
DAISUKE: But I thought—
JULIAN: Cultural differences!
See, incredibly awkward and uncomfortable. Jose even felt uncomfortable transcribing it. It’s not that there’s anything wrong with a pock marked Dominican lunatic prone to violent outbursts falling in love with a Japanese colleague, and making awkward, clumsy passes at him. Not at all. It’s just that Tavarez seems to be aiming a little too high. Let’s be honest, Daisuke is out of his league. If he’s got an Asian thing, he should focus on Okajima. Though he might be getting out of Tavarez’s league too. Maybe we could get Wendell Kim to hang out with him.
2. Speaking of Okajima, when he was originally brought to the Red Sox, there was rampant speculation that he was signed as much to provide friendship and companionship to Mr. Matsu as to pitch. Of course, little did the Red Sox know that Julienned Tavarez would be providing Mr. Matsu with all the friendship he could stand. Thus, with his primary purpose gone, Okajima has been forced to focus on his lesser role of pitching brilliantly.
But don’t be fooled. No, don’t be tricked into thinking that Okajima’s original role was to be a lights out set up man. He and Mr. Matsu are, as some SoSHers have suggested, BFFs, best friends forever, and not even Tavarez can tear them apart. You want proof? You say it’s kind of BS to assume that just because two guys come from the same country and work at the same place they’re BFFs? Well, the proof is in the necklace. You know that necklace that Okajima wears to every game. With Jose’s years of training in the arts (note: and crafts) he can tell, with 95 percent confidence, that that is an authentic gimp friendship necklace made at a summer camp sometime between 1983 and 1989. And Jose has every reason to believe that necklace came from Mr. Matsu. Of course, there is one other possibility. Jose has been hearing rumors that Tavarez has been making friendship necklaces for everyone, just so he can tease J.C. Romero, saying “I have 23 best friends on this team, and you have none. Loser.”
3. But you don’t want to hear any more about Julienned Tavarez’ creepy Japanese fetish. No, you don’t come here for that, you come hear for insight on tonight’s match up with the Oakland Athletics and the return of Lenny DiNardo. Jose hopes that the fans treat him right. Jose has heard that the Red Sox are preparing a video tribute of Lenny’s greatest moments to play pregame, you know, like they did with Pedro last year. Jose thinks it will include that one pitch where his fastball hit 86 mph, and maybe that time when he didn’t get shelled. Hopefully they’ll also do a retrospective on his Rule V induced trip to the disabled list in 2004.
But let’s not get lost in the drama. This Oakland As team is far more than just Lenny DiNardo. It is the retirement home for formerly great hitting, badly broken down catchers with both Mike Piazza and Jason Kendall on the roster. And Jose is holding out that they may sign Todd Hundley before game time.
I’m Jose Melendez, and those are my KEYS TO THE GAME.
Friday, April 27
Blood and Lies
It’s time for Jose Melendez’s KEYS TO THE GAME.
1.In the finest tradition of the late great “Big” John Studd, who offered $15,000 cash to anyone who could body slam him (note: and Andre the Giant could), Curt Euro has offered $1,000,000 to anyone who can prove that that his legendary sock is not dripping in the savory blood of victory.
Of course, Euro has a hedge. Rather than simply offering the money to anyone who can prove him wrong, he has demanded that anyone who dares to test the sock put up $1 million of his own money. As exceedingly few people have $1 million to spare, it neutralizes all but the richest among us from taking the challenge.
But someone should take it. Some brave soul should toss his chips on the felt, because we know the reason that Curt made his hedge, is that he doesn’t want anyone to call his bluff. He knows, Jose knows, you know, that it isn’t blood on that sock, that it can’t be blood on that sock. We know, because it has proven time and again. In the World Series with the Phillies, with the Diamondbacks, with the Red Sox, we have seen, we have acquired empirical evidence, that Curt Euro does not have so much as a drop of blood in his veins—all he’s got is ice water. So if fluids were seeping from his foot onto that sock, they would be clear, not that ghastly shade of red. Unless, maybe the ice water in Curt’s veins is mixed with red crystal light. That would explain everything.
2. The evidence was right there. As Jose perused Dan Shaughnessy’s column this morning, it jumped out of him, springing out of the written page like Doc Gooden out of rehab. And sure enough, there it was. Fabrication. Like Mike Barnacle before him, like Patricia Smith, and Jason Blair, he was writing fiction and calling it fact. Like so many Seth Mnookin article subjects, there was old Danny Shaughnessy making things up in the name of a better story.
That’s Dan Shaughnessy for you. This is the man who loves to lie.
Got one of those kids in your neighborhood who likes to tell stories about wolves coming over the hill when there are no wolves in site? That’s Shaughnessy when it comes to lying. Rick Pitino called it being disingenuous and advocated doing it all the time.
“I am a man of my word,” said Pitino, clearly lying. (Note: He did not say that.)
Pitino would love Shaughnessy. The old man from Groton is lying in the morning, he’s lying at night. He’s lying, lying, lying.
If the Globe would allow him to do what he wants to do Shaughnessy would make James Frey look like Abe Lincoln.
Remember a few weeks ago when Shaughnessy printed emails to Curt Euro’s Web site from shut in sycophants? At the end of the piece, long after you’d probably stopped reading, he admitted it was all made up.
Remember the “Curse of the Bambino?” Fiction.
The Globe wouldn’t let him lie earlier this week, so he went into a lesbian chat room and pretended to be a Wellesley co-ed exploring her sexuality.
Then that evening he wrote someone else’s name and social security number down and ordered a few credit cards.
The Globe finally let him lie again this morning, but what they didn’t know was that he’d spent last night lying to his wife about what had happened to the $20 in her wallet.
Full disclosure here: Everything above was made up. None of it happened. But it is perhaps only a slight exaggeration.
These are absolute facts: Dan Shaughnessy told no fewer than eight lies in his column this morning. He has gotten into the habit of writing long fictional columns that start with vaguely plausible claims and then get progressively more absurd, before ending with a disclaimer that it the story is wholly or partly fictional.
So if he can do it why can’t Jose? Why can’t Jose publish out and out lies and then have a cute little disclaimer like this at the end that confesses, and thereby absolves, his sins? Why can’t Jose imitate the form, and it some cases the exact words of a Dan Shaughnessy column and use the words against him? Not sure if something in this piece is original? It’s probably not. Heck, you can assume it’s almost entirely Shaughnessy’s words… except for the parts talking about how much of a liar he is. Just check out the piece in the Globe. You’ll see what’s the same and what’s different.
He is Dan Shaughnessy. He is the man who loves to lie.
3. Remember the last Friday night the Red Sox played the Yankees? Sure you do. The Yankees were all excited having completed a shocking two out comeback to upend the Cleveland Indians and came surging into Fenway ready to bust some heads and break some hearts.
Do you know what has happened since then? The Yankees have lost. They have lost, and lost and lost some more, dropping six straight games to fall to 8-12, last in the American League East, behind the Red Sox, behind Toronto, behind Baltimore, behind Tampa Bay, and probably even behind the Washington Senators who do not, technically speaking, exist.
“There’s going to be panic soon if the winning doesn’t start,” traitor Johnny Damon told the Associated Press.
Thankfully, Jose has some advice on what to do in the event of panic. Jose saw a documentary on it. Should the Yankees lose three more this weekend, or even two, they should, as a team, retreat into a giant sealed “panic room.” Inside the panic room, they will be safe from all of the dangers that have troubled them. There is no mound, which prevents bad pitching, no need to whiz perilous throws across the diamond and even the pernicious George Steinbrenner cannot get in.
Of course, the documentary revealed other, new dangers that lurk in the panic room, such as gas being pumped in the room in order to force evacuation. Given Jason Giambi’s legendary “HGH farts” this seems like a distinct risk. (Note: Also, they don’t call them the “Bronx Bombers” for nothing.) And other dangers persist. Can anyone stand being locked in a room with A-Rod? Stuck in a room, will Derek Jeter insist on playing seven minutes of heaven? How will Roger Clemens ever come back to save them if they are locked in what is, for all intents and purposes, a vault?
No, New York Yankees, you can panic all you want, but you cannot run from your fate. Try all you want, but like Oedipus before you, you cannot escape your destiny, though hard as it may be to believe, after this weekend, you will feel like old Oedipus caught off easy. All he had to deal with was patricide and mother f*cking and a bunch of furies hounding him. You, on the other hand, will have to deal with an 8.5 game deficit and an angry, demented George Steinbrenner.
I’m Jose Melendez, and those are my KEYS TO THE GAME.
1.In the finest tradition of the late great “Big” John Studd, who offered $15,000 cash to anyone who could body slam him (note: and Andre the Giant could), Curt Euro has offered $1,000,000 to anyone who can prove that that his legendary sock is not dripping in the savory blood of victory.
Of course, Euro has a hedge. Rather than simply offering the money to anyone who can prove him wrong, he has demanded that anyone who dares to test the sock put up $1 million of his own money. As exceedingly few people have $1 million to spare, it neutralizes all but the richest among us from taking the challenge.
But someone should take it. Some brave soul should toss his chips on the felt, because we know the reason that Curt made his hedge, is that he doesn’t want anyone to call his bluff. He knows, Jose knows, you know, that it isn’t blood on that sock, that it can’t be blood on that sock. We know, because it has proven time and again. In the World Series with the Phillies, with the Diamondbacks, with the Red Sox, we have seen, we have acquired empirical evidence, that Curt Euro does not have so much as a drop of blood in his veins—all he’s got is ice water. So if fluids were seeping from his foot onto that sock, they would be clear, not that ghastly shade of red. Unless, maybe the ice water in Curt’s veins is mixed with red crystal light. That would explain everything.
2. The evidence was right there. As Jose perused Dan Shaughnessy’s column this morning, it jumped out of him, springing out of the written page like Doc Gooden out of rehab. And sure enough, there it was. Fabrication. Like Mike Barnacle before him, like Patricia Smith, and Jason Blair, he was writing fiction and calling it fact. Like so many Seth Mnookin article subjects, there was old Danny Shaughnessy making things up in the name of a better story.
That’s Dan Shaughnessy for you. This is the man who loves to lie.
Got one of those kids in your neighborhood who likes to tell stories about wolves coming over the hill when there are no wolves in site? That’s Shaughnessy when it comes to lying. Rick Pitino called it being disingenuous and advocated doing it all the time.
“I am a man of my word,” said Pitino, clearly lying. (Note: He did not say that.)
Pitino would love Shaughnessy. The old man from Groton is lying in the morning, he’s lying at night. He’s lying, lying, lying.
If the Globe would allow him to do what he wants to do Shaughnessy would make James Frey look like Abe Lincoln.
Remember a few weeks ago when Shaughnessy printed emails to Curt Euro’s Web site from shut in sycophants? At the end of the piece, long after you’d probably stopped reading, he admitted it was all made up.
Remember the “Curse of the Bambino?” Fiction.
The Globe wouldn’t let him lie earlier this week, so he went into a lesbian chat room and pretended to be a Wellesley co-ed exploring her sexuality.
Then that evening he wrote someone else’s name and social security number down and ordered a few credit cards.
The Globe finally let him lie again this morning, but what they didn’t know was that he’d spent last night lying to his wife about what had happened to the $20 in her wallet.
Full disclosure here: Everything above was made up. None of it happened. But it is perhaps only a slight exaggeration.
These are absolute facts: Dan Shaughnessy told no fewer than eight lies in his column this morning. He has gotten into the habit of writing long fictional columns that start with vaguely plausible claims and then get progressively more absurd, before ending with a disclaimer that it the story is wholly or partly fictional.
So if he can do it why can’t Jose? Why can’t Jose publish out and out lies and then have a cute little disclaimer like this at the end that confesses, and thereby absolves, his sins? Why can’t Jose imitate the form, and it some cases the exact words of a Dan Shaughnessy column and use the words against him? Not sure if something in this piece is original? It’s probably not. Heck, you can assume it’s almost entirely Shaughnessy’s words… except for the parts talking about how much of a liar he is. Just check out the piece in the Globe. You’ll see what’s the same and what’s different.
He is Dan Shaughnessy. He is the man who loves to lie.
3. Remember the last Friday night the Red Sox played the Yankees? Sure you do. The Yankees were all excited having completed a shocking two out comeback to upend the Cleveland Indians and came surging into Fenway ready to bust some heads and break some hearts.
Do you know what has happened since then? The Yankees have lost. They have lost, and lost and lost some more, dropping six straight games to fall to 8-12, last in the American League East, behind the Red Sox, behind Toronto, behind Baltimore, behind Tampa Bay, and probably even behind the Washington Senators who do not, technically speaking, exist.
“There’s going to be panic soon if the winning doesn’t start,” traitor Johnny Damon told the Associated Press.
Thankfully, Jose has some advice on what to do in the event of panic. Jose saw a documentary on it. Should the Yankees lose three more this weekend, or even two, they should, as a team, retreat into a giant sealed “panic room.” Inside the panic room, they will be safe from all of the dangers that have troubled them. There is no mound, which prevents bad pitching, no need to whiz perilous throws across the diamond and even the pernicious George Steinbrenner cannot get in.
Of course, the documentary revealed other, new dangers that lurk in the panic room, such as gas being pumped in the room in order to force evacuation. Given Jason Giambi’s legendary “HGH farts” this seems like a distinct risk. (Note: Also, they don’t call them the “Bronx Bombers” for nothing.) And other dangers persist. Can anyone stand being locked in a room with A-Rod? Stuck in a room, will Derek Jeter insist on playing seven minutes of heaven? How will Roger Clemens ever come back to save them if they are locked in what is, for all intents and purposes, a vault?
No, New York Yankees, you can panic all you want, but you cannot run from your fate. Try all you want, but like Oedipus before you, you cannot escape your destiny, though hard as it may be to believe, after this weekend, you will feel like old Oedipus caught off easy. All he had to deal with was patricide and mother f*cking and a bunch of furies hounding him. You, on the other hand, will have to deal with an 8.5 game deficit and an angry, demented George Steinbrenner.
I’m Jose Melendez, and those are my KEYS TO THE GAME.
Thursday, April 26
FRAUD?!? A Play in One Act
It’s time for Jose Melendez’s KEYS TO THE GAME.
1. October, Hours before Game 6 of the 2004 ALCS
(Curt Euro sits alone in the visiting locker room and Yankee Stadium. Doug Mirabelli enters.)
DOUGIE: Hey Curt, how’s it going? Ready for the game tonight?
CURT: Jeez… Doug I don’t know. I was so awful in Game 1, and now I’ve got to got out there again, in front of all of those angry Yankees fans? It’s kind of scary.
DOUGIE: Come on, there shouldn’t be that much pressure on you. After all, everyone knows you’re injured, so if you have a rough night, no one should be too surprised.
CURT: (looking sheepish) Umm… Doug. You know I made that up right?
DOUGIE: What?
CURT: I was so bad the other night. All I was brought here to do was to beat the Yankees and I couldn’t do it, because I’m just not man enough. Or Jesus doesn’t love me enough or something. I needed some sort of excuse, some sort of out to takes the heat off so I said I was hurt.
DOUGIE: Jeez…
CURT: Yeah, I know. I faked tweaking the ankle in Game One against the Angles just so I would have an excuse if things didn’t work against the Yankees.
DOUGIE: That’s diabolical.
CURT: Don’t use big words Doug, it’s not you.
DOUGIE: Sorry, it was my word of the day. Yesterday was “salient.”
CURT: No problem. So what I can’t figure out is what to do now. I know I still have the injury excuse, but I feel like it’s not enough. I mean, lot’s of guys play through injuries and do fine.
DOUGIE: So you need something more?
CURT: Yeah like a splint, or a special shoe, but something that won’t keep from pitching on the off chance that I do have good stuff tonight.
DOUGIE: What about, like, attaching a bear trap to your leg?
CURT: Come on Dougie.
DOUGIE: You know I don’t think so good. Wait… I got it.
CURT: Yeah?
DOUGIE: I’ll shoot you in the ankle.
CURT: Doug that’s the dumbest idea I’ve ever heard.
DOUGIE: Sorry. I’m trying it’s just that when I was a kid I got dropped on my head… and it screwed up my brain. There was blood everywhere and—
CURT: Blood? (Thinks) Dougie you’re a genius!!! Well, no, actually you’re pretty dim, but that’s a hell of an idea.
DOUGIE: Thanks Curt… I think.
CURT: Do you have a red marker on you?
DOUGIE: Yeah of course, I always keep one on me in case I need to fake bloody panties. That’s how I convince groupies that I knock up that they’re having their periods after all. Then we get drunk together and do some blow, since they don’t figure there’s any baby to harm. Then, they lose the baby. Smart right? Grenadine mixed with chocolate syrup works too.
CURT: Sweet… (Takes the marker) So a little color here, and presto, I’m fighting heroically through a bleeding ankle. We can even make up a back story about Doc Morgan sewing me up in some crazy new procedure.
DOUGIE: Awesome.
CURT: It sure is Dougie. It sure is. Of course, after the season I’ll have to have a massive surgery and basically pitch terribly in 2005 as a cover up, but I think it will be worth it, right?
DOUGIE: Yeah. But after the surgery we should make sure Doc Morgan gets fired, you know so if he says anything, everyone will just assume he has an axe to grind.
CURT: Perfect. Well, I think we’ve got all of the loose ends tied up.
DOUGIE: Uh huh… It’s the perfect plan. If you pitch well, you’re a legend, if you don’t you battled through a real bad injury but just couldn’t pull it off.
CURT: There’s just one more thing.
DOUGIE: Yeah, what’s that?
CURT: What ever you do don’t tell Gary Thorne. If that intrepid journalist, that latter day muckraker found out, it would blow the lid off the whole scam.
DOUGIE: Don’t worry. I’ll never tell, and even if I do get drunk and tell him about it, you and I could denounce him. Theo, Lucchino and Tito would all say how pissed they are and he’ll look like a fool. He’ll look even dumber than me.
CURT: Perfect. Defraud the public and then humiliate Gary Thorne if he gets in our way.
Blackout.
The bloody sock is fraud like the moon landing and dinosaurs.
If it's real than why is there no bloody sock in the Bible?
I couldn't agree more, Carl.
2. According to the Globe, the Red Sox’s many Latin players were surprised when they learned recently that hitting coach Dave Magadan, is the child of two Spaniards and speaks fluent Spanish. While fellow Spanish speakers J.C. Romero and Julio Lugo expressed surprise and delight at the news, one Red Sox seemed absolutely stunned and shaken.
“I knew his parents were from Spain man,” said left fielder Manny Ramirez, shaking his head. “But this is a big surprise. I had no idea, they spoke Spanish there. That’s crazy. Are they all Dominicans over there or something? Or are they, like, Mexicans?”
3. A Handy jingle for the Red Sox to remember as they face Orioles Lefty Adam Loewen tonight. (Note: To the tune of the legendary Loewnbrau jingle.)
I’m Jose Melendez, and those are my KEYS TO THE GAME.
1. October, Hours before Game 6 of the 2004 ALCS
(Curt Euro sits alone in the visiting locker room and Yankee Stadium. Doug Mirabelli enters.)
DOUGIE: Hey Curt, how’s it going? Ready for the game tonight?
CURT: Jeez… Doug I don’t know. I was so awful in Game 1, and now I’ve got to got out there again, in front of all of those angry Yankees fans? It’s kind of scary.
DOUGIE: Come on, there shouldn’t be that much pressure on you. After all, everyone knows you’re injured, so if you have a rough night, no one should be too surprised.
CURT: (looking sheepish) Umm… Doug. You know I made that up right?
DOUGIE: What?
CURT: I was so bad the other night. All I was brought here to do was to beat the Yankees and I couldn’t do it, because I’m just not man enough. Or Jesus doesn’t love me enough or something. I needed some sort of excuse, some sort of out to takes the heat off so I said I was hurt.
DOUGIE: Jeez…
CURT: Yeah, I know. I faked tweaking the ankle in Game One against the Angles just so I would have an excuse if things didn’t work against the Yankees.
DOUGIE: That’s diabolical.
CURT: Don’t use big words Doug, it’s not you.
DOUGIE: Sorry, it was my word of the day. Yesterday was “salient.”
CURT: No problem. So what I can’t figure out is what to do now. I know I still have the injury excuse, but I feel like it’s not enough. I mean, lot’s of guys play through injuries and do fine.
DOUGIE: So you need something more?
CURT: Yeah like a splint, or a special shoe, but something that won’t keep from pitching on the off chance that I do have good stuff tonight.
DOUGIE: What about, like, attaching a bear trap to your leg?
CURT: Come on Dougie.
DOUGIE: You know I don’t think so good. Wait… I got it.
CURT: Yeah?
DOUGIE: I’ll shoot you in the ankle.
CURT: Doug that’s the dumbest idea I’ve ever heard.
DOUGIE: Sorry. I’m trying it’s just that when I was a kid I got dropped on my head… and it screwed up my brain. There was blood everywhere and—
CURT: Blood? (Thinks) Dougie you’re a genius!!! Well, no, actually you’re pretty dim, but that’s a hell of an idea.
DOUGIE: Thanks Curt… I think.
CURT: Do you have a red marker on you?
DOUGIE: Yeah of course, I always keep one on me in case I need to fake bloody panties. That’s how I convince groupies that I knock up that they’re having their periods after all. Then we get drunk together and do some blow, since they don’t figure there’s any baby to harm. Then, they lose the baby. Smart right? Grenadine mixed with chocolate syrup works too.
CURT: Sweet… (Takes the marker) So a little color here, and presto, I’m fighting heroically through a bleeding ankle. We can even make up a back story about Doc Morgan sewing me up in some crazy new procedure.
DOUGIE: Awesome.
CURT: It sure is Dougie. It sure is. Of course, after the season I’ll have to have a massive surgery and basically pitch terribly in 2005 as a cover up, but I think it will be worth it, right?
DOUGIE: Yeah. But after the surgery we should make sure Doc Morgan gets fired, you know so if he says anything, everyone will just assume he has an axe to grind.
CURT: Perfect. Well, I think we’ve got all of the loose ends tied up.
DOUGIE: Uh huh… It’s the perfect plan. If you pitch well, you’re a legend, if you don’t you battled through a real bad injury but just couldn’t pull it off.
CURT: There’s just one more thing.
DOUGIE: Yeah, what’s that?
CURT: What ever you do don’t tell Gary Thorne. If that intrepid journalist, that latter day muckraker found out, it would blow the lid off the whole scam.
DOUGIE: Don’t worry. I’ll never tell, and even if I do get drunk and tell him about it, you and I could denounce him. Theo, Lucchino and Tito would all say how pissed they are and he’ll look like a fool. He’ll look even dumber than me.
CURT: Perfect. Defraud the public and then humiliate Gary Thorne if he gets in our way.
Blackout.
The bloody sock is fraud like the moon landing and dinosaurs.
If it's real than why is there no bloody sock in the Bible?
I couldn't agree more, Carl.
2. According to the Globe, the Red Sox’s many Latin players were surprised when they learned recently that hitting coach Dave Magadan, is the child of two Spaniards and speaks fluent Spanish. While fellow Spanish speakers J.C. Romero and Julio Lugo expressed surprise and delight at the news, one Red Sox seemed absolutely stunned and shaken.
“I knew his parents were from Spain man,” said left fielder Manny Ramirez, shaking his head. “But this is a big surprise. I had no idea, they spoke Spanish there. That’s crazy. Are they all Dominicans over there or something? Or are they, like, Mexicans?”
3. A Handy jingle for the Red Sox to remember as they face Orioles Lefty Adam Loewen tonight. (Note: To the tune of the legendary Loewnbrau jingle.)
Here’s to offense,
His fastball’s, nothing special,
His curveball’s poor,
I thing we’re gonna score some now,
So tonight…
Let’s slap around Loewenbrau
I’m Jose Melendez, and those are my KEYS TO THE GAME.
Wednesday, April 25
Memory Loss
It’s time for Jose Melendez’s KEYS TO THE GAME.
1. Every once in a while, there emerges a new medical technology, an innovative surgical technique that radically alters the game of baseball. Once it was arthroscopic surgery, converting season ending procedures to mere weeks on the shelf. Then came Lasik eye surgery giving players formerly constrained by contact lenses, the vision of a young Ted Williams. And then, of course, there was hysterectomy, which allowed Alex Rodriguez to stop becoming hysterical every time something went wrong and settle into perhaps the greatest month in baseball history.
So what’s next for sports medicine? Can we identify the trend now, before it blossoms in full and get the Red Sox an edge? Jose believes he has seen the future of sports and the future looks like lobotomy.
Well, perhaps Jose is being a bit melodramatic. Jose is not suggesting that Red Sox players have full frontal lobotomies. That would be silly, and as the old song reminds us, “I’d rather have a bottle in front of me, then have to have a frontal lobotomy.” No, he is just suggesting that it might be a huge advantage to a Red Sox player if he had his hippocampus removed, or at least badly damaged.
Jose got the idea while reading Eric Hinskie’s comments on last night’s 10-3, four error debacle.
“You’ve got to have a short memory,” Hinskie told the Globe’s Nancy Marrapese-Burrell. “We’ve got to try to forget about these two games and move on.”
The hippocampus, as even the dimmest of neuroscientists knows, is the portion of the brain that converts short term memory in to long term memory. By removing it, a player would be assured that rather than lingering on the shame and humiliation of dropping two at home to the Blue Jays, he could give complete focus to tonight’s game in Baltimore.
Jose knows it sounds a little risky for players to remove parts of their brain in order to increase their performance, but Manny seems completely incapable of forming long term memories about things like trade request’s he’s made, times he’s used the death of his grandmother as an excuse and the number of balls in the count, and he hits just fine.
Look Jose is not saying this is a cure all. All he is saying is that his late maternal grandmother, who he loved dearly, had a stroke that damaged her hippocampus and you know what? She didn’t have a single throwing error after it. Not one. (Note: Jose’s Grandma Martha had a wonderful sense of humor and sense of baseball, so he is pretty sure that wherever she is, she is not offended. But if she is, she can send Jose a sign by striking down Vernon Wells.)
2. In an interview with the New York Daily News, Alex Rodriquez shared his thoughts on his red hot start, his potential opt out and the Yankees 0-5 road trip.
Among the revelations in the story was that the difference between this year and last is that A-Rod now loses himself in the resonant sounds of his iPod shortly after arriving at the ballpark.
KEYS’ has obtained A-Rod’s iPod and is pleased to offer you, as a KEYS exclusive, the deepest psychological analysis possible in this modern age, the first ten songs that come up on Rodriguez’s iPod.
1. Nobody Likes Me (Guess I’ll Go Eat Worms)—Traditional
2. Blues Lips—Regina Spektor
3. Slap—Ludacris
4. So Lonely—The Police
5. Loser—Beck
6. I Can’t Win—The Strokes
7. Money –Pink Floyd
8. Thrown Away—Papa Roach
9. April Lady—Queen
10. I Want You to Want Me—Cheap Trick
In addition to discussing his iPod, Rodriguez also answered a question about whether he was a better pilot than departed Yankees Thurman Munson and Corey Lidle, saying "Let's see how far we can fly, then I can tell you. I'm in the middle of flight right now, so I don't want to talk about it.”
3. In perhaps the most shocking news of the young season, three weeks in a Red Sox is tied for the lead league in stolen bases with six, as Jose Lugo’s two steals last night tied him with Kenny Lofton, Gary Matthews Jr. and Brian Roberts.
In fact, the last time any Red Sox player had this much stealing so early in the season was 1992, when Jack Clark had, as of April 25, already effectively stolen the $3 million the Red Sox were ostensibly paying him to hit home runs.
(Note: Jose’s mother has never enjoyed herself as much at a Red Sox game as she did in 1992 when we had seats not far from home plate where she could relentlessly boo Jack Clark. This was unusual, as Jose’s mother likes baseball, but does not have particularly strong feelings about it. What she does have strong feelings about, however, are multi-millionaires whose appetites are so excessive that they file for bankruptcy. Though in fairness to Clark, he probably needed one car for each of the 16 extra base hits in 1992 plus another two just in case.)
I’m Jose Melendez, and those are my KEYS TO THE GAME.
1. Every once in a while, there emerges a new medical technology, an innovative surgical technique that radically alters the game of baseball. Once it was arthroscopic surgery, converting season ending procedures to mere weeks on the shelf. Then came Lasik eye surgery giving players formerly constrained by contact lenses, the vision of a young Ted Williams. And then, of course, there was hysterectomy, which allowed Alex Rodriguez to stop becoming hysterical every time something went wrong and settle into perhaps the greatest month in baseball history.
So what’s next for sports medicine? Can we identify the trend now, before it blossoms in full and get the Red Sox an edge? Jose believes he has seen the future of sports and the future looks like lobotomy.
Well, perhaps Jose is being a bit melodramatic. Jose is not suggesting that Red Sox players have full frontal lobotomies. That would be silly, and as the old song reminds us, “I’d rather have a bottle in front of me, then have to have a frontal lobotomy.” No, he is just suggesting that it might be a huge advantage to a Red Sox player if he had his hippocampus removed, or at least badly damaged.
Jose got the idea while reading Eric Hinskie’s comments on last night’s 10-3, four error debacle.
“You’ve got to have a short memory,” Hinskie told the Globe’s Nancy Marrapese-Burrell. “We’ve got to try to forget about these two games and move on.”
The hippocampus, as even the dimmest of neuroscientists knows, is the portion of the brain that converts short term memory in to long term memory. By removing it, a player would be assured that rather than lingering on the shame and humiliation of dropping two at home to the Blue Jays, he could give complete focus to tonight’s game in Baltimore.
Jose knows it sounds a little risky for players to remove parts of their brain in order to increase their performance, but Manny seems completely incapable of forming long term memories about things like trade request’s he’s made, times he’s used the death of his grandmother as an excuse and the number of balls in the count, and he hits just fine.
Look Jose is not saying this is a cure all. All he is saying is that his late maternal grandmother, who he loved dearly, had a stroke that damaged her hippocampus and you know what? She didn’t have a single throwing error after it. Not one. (Note: Jose’s Grandma Martha had a wonderful sense of humor and sense of baseball, so he is pretty sure that wherever she is, she is not offended. But if she is, she can send Jose a sign by striking down Vernon Wells.)
2. In an interview with the New York Daily News, Alex Rodriquez shared his thoughts on his red hot start, his potential opt out and the Yankees 0-5 road trip.
Among the revelations in the story was that the difference between this year and last is that A-Rod now loses himself in the resonant sounds of his iPod shortly after arriving at the ballpark.
KEYS’ has obtained A-Rod’s iPod and is pleased to offer you, as a KEYS exclusive, the deepest psychological analysis possible in this modern age, the first ten songs that come up on Rodriguez’s iPod.
1. Nobody Likes Me (Guess I’ll Go Eat Worms)—Traditional
2. Blues Lips—Regina Spektor
3. Slap—Ludacris
4. So Lonely—The Police
5. Loser—Beck
6. I Can’t Win—The Strokes
7. Money –Pink Floyd
8. Thrown Away—Papa Roach
9. April Lady—Queen
10. I Want You to Want Me—Cheap Trick
In addition to discussing his iPod, Rodriguez also answered a question about whether he was a better pilot than departed Yankees Thurman Munson and Corey Lidle, saying "Let's see how far we can fly, then I can tell you. I'm in the middle of flight right now, so I don't want to talk about it.”
3. In perhaps the most shocking news of the young season, three weeks in a Red Sox is tied for the lead league in stolen bases with six, as Jose Lugo’s two steals last night tied him with Kenny Lofton, Gary Matthews Jr. and Brian Roberts.
In fact, the last time any Red Sox player had this much stealing so early in the season was 1992, when Jack Clark had, as of April 25, already effectively stolen the $3 million the Red Sox were ostensibly paying him to hit home runs.
(Note: Jose’s mother has never enjoyed herself as much at a Red Sox game as she did in 1992 when we had seats not far from home plate where she could relentlessly boo Jack Clark. This was unusual, as Jose’s mother likes baseball, but does not have particularly strong feelings about it. What she does have strong feelings about, however, are multi-millionaires whose appetites are so excessive that they file for bankruptcy. Though in fairness to Clark, he probably needed one car for each of the 16 extra base hits in 1992 plus another two just in case.)
I’m Jose Melendez, and those are my KEYS TO THE GAME.
Tuesday, April 24
Low Energy Day
It’s time for Jose Melendez’s KEYS TO THE GAME.
1. “It was kind of a lethargic day today.” Doug Mirabelli told the Globe. “We just didn’t feel like we had that same energy.”
What? WHAT? What, exactly are you so tired from? From not playing for the last four days? Are you so exhausted by your inactivity, by the awful burden of having to pop out each inning and catch eight warm up pitches (note: unless you can find someone else to do it for you) that you can’t be persuaded to give full intensity to your work on the one our of every five days you do perform?
This was like Jose’s brother, a school teacher, lamenting how he was going to be so tired his first day back from April vacation following Sunday night’s ball game. Not too sympathetic. Sure, it may be technically true, but God knows you can’t actually say it to someone who’s not finishing vacation and expect any sympathy.
You see Doug, some of us, Jose for instance, have these jobs where we actually have to go and work FIVE WHOLE DAYS EVERY WEEK. Really. It’s exhausting. They make you come in every day and, get this, do stuff. What Jose wouldn’t give to have a job where he watched more talented people do stuff for four days, and then did the same thing as them but worse on the fifth. You would never hear him complain about lethargy, if he had that sweet deal. Never. Except if he’d stayed up too late drinking, or maybe if there had been something good on TV late. But aside from that, NEVER!
But let’s say you are really lethargic, maybe you’re not just a lazy bastard, you know there are things you can do about it right? You could meditate, you know get your chakras in alignment. Or maybe try drinking coffee. Dunkin’ Donuts has these big iced coffees full of caffeine and more sugar than a Jamaican cane field. Or you get some of what Julienned Tavarez is using. He’s always peppy. Or what about greenies? You could be just like Mickey Mantle except with one-tenth the skills and ten times the liver. Also you would still be alive.
2. In these tight economic times, wherein they must compete with the new media, most newspapers are pushing aggressively to cut costs by trimming expenditures on luxuries like foreign correspondents and ink. As a fan of newspapers, Jose would like to see them continue to exist, thus he is happy to be able to offer at least one cost saving measure to his colleagues who put pen to pulp. Don’t delete those Boris Yeltsin obituaries from the hard drive quite yet. Sure he’s dead, he’s even dead officially now, but those obits may be useful again soon when John McNamara dies.
John McNamara and Boris Yeltsin were, for all intents and purposes, the same person. Had McNamara been born in Ural region of Svredlovsk there is every reason to believe he would have become the first elected president of Russia, just as if Yeltsin had been born to she-goat in the fires of Hades, as McNamara was, he most certainly would have become manager of the Red Sox. Flip sides of the same coin.
Just look at these quotes from the obituary in today’s Globe with “McNamara” substituted for “Yeltsin” and “Red Sox fans” substituted for “Russians.”
“Mikhail Gorbachev… referred to Mr. McNamara as one ‘on whose shoulders are both great deeds… and serious errors.’”
“Red Sox fans look at the [McNamara] era as chaotic and humiliating”
“McNamara was widely ridiculed in his later years in office for a halting walk, a puffy, pasty complexion, and a slurred way of speaking that led to rumors of more heart trouble, stroke, Alzheimer’s disease, alcoholism or a combination of the four.”
Of course, the analogies are not perfect. For all of the corruption and cronyism, even with the needless carnage of Chechnya and the disaster of economic “shock therapy” never, never did Yeltsin do anything as foolish as failing to use Dave Stapleton as a defensive replacement.
3. Okay, with yesterday’s quiet dignity out of the way, Jose is prepared to give a brief assessment of what exactly does and does not warrant a halt to beer service at Fenway Park.
Does: Moment of silence for fallen heroes (Note: Not really, they serve right on through it.)
Does not: Moment of silence for fallen centerfielder when he misplays a shot over his head.
Does: National Anthem
Does not: National League opponent.
Does: End of seventh inning
Does not: Mike Piazza’s outing (Note: This is not homophobic, it is long rumored and Belle and Sebastian have a song about it and everything.)
Does: Good Friday.
Does not: Good infield defense.
Does: Strike by teamsters.
Does not: Strike to batter.
Does: Cancellation of game due to inclement weather.
Does not: De facto forfeit of game due to (In)Clement pitching.
I’m Jose Melendez, and those are my KEYS TO THE GAME.
1. “It was kind of a lethargic day today.” Doug Mirabelli told the Globe. “We just didn’t feel like we had that same energy.”
What? WHAT? What, exactly are you so tired from? From not playing for the last four days? Are you so exhausted by your inactivity, by the awful burden of having to pop out each inning and catch eight warm up pitches (note: unless you can find someone else to do it for you) that you can’t be persuaded to give full intensity to your work on the one our of every five days you do perform?
This was like Jose’s brother, a school teacher, lamenting how he was going to be so tired his first day back from April vacation following Sunday night’s ball game. Not too sympathetic. Sure, it may be technically true, but God knows you can’t actually say it to someone who’s not finishing vacation and expect any sympathy.
You see Doug, some of us, Jose for instance, have these jobs where we actually have to go and work FIVE WHOLE DAYS EVERY WEEK. Really. It’s exhausting. They make you come in every day and, get this, do stuff. What Jose wouldn’t give to have a job where he watched more talented people do stuff for four days, and then did the same thing as them but worse on the fifth. You would never hear him complain about lethargy, if he had that sweet deal. Never. Except if he’d stayed up too late drinking, or maybe if there had been something good on TV late. But aside from that, NEVER!
But let’s say you are really lethargic, maybe you’re not just a lazy bastard, you know there are things you can do about it right? You could meditate, you know get your chakras in alignment. Or maybe try drinking coffee. Dunkin’ Donuts has these big iced coffees full of caffeine and more sugar than a Jamaican cane field. Or you get some of what Julienned Tavarez is using. He’s always peppy. Or what about greenies? You could be just like Mickey Mantle except with one-tenth the skills and ten times the liver. Also you would still be alive.
2. In these tight economic times, wherein they must compete with the new media, most newspapers are pushing aggressively to cut costs by trimming expenditures on luxuries like foreign correspondents and ink. As a fan of newspapers, Jose would like to see them continue to exist, thus he is happy to be able to offer at least one cost saving measure to his colleagues who put pen to pulp. Don’t delete those Boris Yeltsin obituaries from the hard drive quite yet. Sure he’s dead, he’s even dead officially now, but those obits may be useful again soon when John McNamara dies.
John McNamara and Boris Yeltsin were, for all intents and purposes, the same person. Had McNamara been born in Ural region of Svredlovsk there is every reason to believe he would have become the first elected president of Russia, just as if Yeltsin had been born to she-goat in the fires of Hades, as McNamara was, he most certainly would have become manager of the Red Sox. Flip sides of the same coin.
Just look at these quotes from the obituary in today’s Globe with “McNamara” substituted for “Yeltsin” and “Red Sox fans” substituted for “Russians.”
“Mikhail Gorbachev… referred to Mr. McNamara as one ‘on whose shoulders are both great deeds… and serious errors.’”
“Red Sox fans look at the [McNamara] era as chaotic and humiliating”
“McNamara was widely ridiculed in his later years in office for a halting walk, a puffy, pasty complexion, and a slurred way of speaking that led to rumors of more heart trouble, stroke, Alzheimer’s disease, alcoholism or a combination of the four.”
Of course, the analogies are not perfect. For all of the corruption and cronyism, even with the needless carnage of Chechnya and the disaster of economic “shock therapy” never, never did Yeltsin do anything as foolish as failing to use Dave Stapleton as a defensive replacement.
Boris Yeltsin addresses accusations that he was
too chicken to make Calvin Schiraldi his lead
economic advisor.
3. Okay, with yesterday’s quiet dignity out of the way, Jose is prepared to give a brief assessment of what exactly does and does not warrant a halt to beer service at Fenway Park.
Does: Moment of silence for fallen heroes (Note: Not really, they serve right on through it.)
Does not: Moment of silence for fallen centerfielder when he misplays a shot over his head.
Does: National Anthem
Does not: National League opponent.
Does: End of seventh inning
Does not: Mike Piazza’s outing (Note: This is not homophobic, it is long rumored and Belle and Sebastian have a song about it and everything.)
Does: Good Friday.
Does not: Good infield defense.
Does: Strike by teamsters.
Does not: Strike to batter.
Does: Cancellation of game due to inclement weather.
Does not: De facto forfeit of game due to (In)Clement pitching.
I’m Jose Melendez, and those are my KEYS TO THE GAME.
Monday, April 23
Four Gone Conclusion
It’s time for Jose Melendez’s KEYS TO THE GAME.
1. You know how Batman and Robin used to fight back to back in the old television program, effectively covering all the angles and ensuring that no villain could sneak up on them? It was like the Maginot Line except effective and vaguely homoerotic. They even paid tribute to it in the Damon Wayans vehicle Blankman. But it was only a tactic used by crime fighting duos. Captain America and Bucky, Power Man and Iron Fist, Cagney and Lacey, those sorts. You never saw your larger crime fighting units use it. The Fantastic Four never went back to back (note: to back to back). Do you know why? BECAUSE IT’S IMPOSSIBLE!!!!!! There is no such thing as back to back to back to back. Cannot be done. Ever. Except possibly by the Russell Era Celtics with a whole bunch more backs thrown in. (Note: And apparently four other Major League teams including last year’s Dodgers, but let’s gloss over that, shall we?)
And yet there it was last night. Manny-Dru-Lowell-Tek. Back to back to back to back. Somewhere Sir Mix-a-Lot is weeping with joy. (Note: He loves back.)
In but four instants, Yankees pitcher Chase Wright was chased right from the game, with the shameful distinction of being only the second pitcher in Major League history to allow four straight home runs in a game. Congratulations Chase, you’re in the record book.
Jose has seen some things at Fenway. He has seen Scott Hatteberg hit into a triple play and hit a grand slam in the same game. He has seen Billy Hatcher steal home. He has even seen Chuck Knoblauch play nine innings of error free second base. All shocking, all improbable. But this? Nope, never seen this before.
This is like seeing a comet… collide with an asteroid… collide with a satellite… collide with an Arby’s. It was the most electric Jose has ever seen Fenway in the third inning of an April game and that includes some thunderstorms.
2. Almost forgotten in last night’s consecutive home run onslaught was that it was Jose’s first chance to check out the Sox’s biggest new off season acquisition in person. And to be honest, his initial impressions were a little mixed.
On the plus side, impact on the crowd has been tremendously positive. There’s just a certain energy that hasn’t always been there in the last couple of years. Other positives include crispness of delivery, the sheer number of different offerings and general nastiness.
But, as anyone who was at the game last night knows, it is not all positive. While the delivery may be crisp, it is also painfully slow, not Jeff Gray slow, but… deliberate. Jose would also add that there seems to be the potential here for more than a few heart attacks over the course of the season.
Still, despite the uneven performance, Jose is still very happy with the addition. After you add in the pluses and subtract the minuses, divide the divisors and multiply by the… multiplying numbers… and then cube, always cube, this pick up is a huge net benefit for this team and this community. Yes, Jose could not be more pleased that there is a Popeye’s Fried Chicken in Kenmore Square.
Rookie of the year?
1. You know how Batman and Robin used to fight back to back in the old television program, effectively covering all the angles and ensuring that no villain could sneak up on them? It was like the Maginot Line except effective and vaguely homoerotic. They even paid tribute to it in the Damon Wayans vehicle Blankman. But it was only a tactic used by crime fighting duos. Captain America and Bucky, Power Man and Iron Fist, Cagney and Lacey, those sorts. You never saw your larger crime fighting units use it. The Fantastic Four never went back to back (note: to back to back). Do you know why? BECAUSE IT’S IMPOSSIBLE!!!!!! There is no such thing as back to back to back to back. Cannot be done. Ever. Except possibly by the Russell Era Celtics with a whole bunch more backs thrown in. (Note: And apparently four other Major League teams including last year’s Dodgers, but let’s gloss over that, shall we?)
And yet there it was last night. Manny-Dru-Lowell-Tek. Back to back to back to back. Somewhere Sir Mix-a-Lot is weeping with joy. (Note: He loves back.)
In but four instants, Yankees pitcher Chase Wright was chased right from the game, with the shameful distinction of being only the second pitcher in Major League history to allow four straight home runs in a game. Congratulations Chase, you’re in the record book.
Jose has seen some things at Fenway. He has seen Scott Hatteberg hit into a triple play and hit a grand slam in the same game. He has seen Billy Hatcher steal home. He has even seen Chuck Knoblauch play nine innings of error free second base. All shocking, all improbable. But this? Nope, never seen this before.
This is like seeing a comet… collide with an asteroid… collide with a satellite… collide with an Arby’s. It was the most electric Jose has ever seen Fenway in the third inning of an April game and that includes some thunderstorms.
2. Almost forgotten in last night’s consecutive home run onslaught was that it was Jose’s first chance to check out the Sox’s biggest new off season acquisition in person. And to be honest, his initial impressions were a little mixed.
On the plus side, impact on the crowd has been tremendously positive. There’s just a certain energy that hasn’t always been there in the last couple of years. Other positives include crispness of delivery, the sheer number of different offerings and general nastiness.
But, as anyone who was at the game last night knows, it is not all positive. While the delivery may be crisp, it is also painfully slow, not Jeff Gray slow, but… deliberate. Jose would also add that there seems to be the potential here for more than a few heart attacks over the course of the season.
Still, despite the uneven performance, Jose is still very happy with the addition. After you add in the pluses and subtract the minuses, divide the divisors and multiply by the… multiplying numbers… and then cube, always cube, this pick up is a huge net benefit for this team and this community. Yes, Jose could not be more pleased that there is a Popeye’s Fried Chicken in Kenmore Square.
Rookie of the year?
3. Did you know that vendors at Fenway are not allowed to pour beer during the national anthem? This is new. It was not the policy when Jose worked at Fenway many moons ago. Jose discovered this last night as a rather methodical tribute to our country slowed his inevitable March towards a Bud Light. Jose is okay with this, he supposes, though he wonders if Brewer-Patriots like Samuel Adams would really regard the damming of Old Man Beer Tap an appropriate tribute to this land of ours? After all, the very melody to the anthem is taken from a British drinking song “To Anacreon in Heaven.” Still, Jose takes his patriotism seriously (note: he once answered a security clearance question about whether he put the interests of the U.S. above all other countries with the statement “U.S.A. Number One!”) and he appreciates that the Red Sox organization is trying to honor America.
But here’s the thing. Why didn’t they stop beer service during the moment of silence in honor of Lieutenant Commander Kevin Davis, the Blue Angel pilot from Pittsfield who died in an air show accident on Saturday? It was incredibly odd to watch the beer continue to flow as we paid respects to a man who died while serving our country, and yet to stop for the World War I era mea culpa that is the playing of the national anthem at baseball games. (Note: As Jose recalls the tradition began during WWI to appease a public angered that healthy young baseball players were not off fighting. He can’t find verification though.)
Jose was originally going to do a bit here about things that they stop pouring beer for versus things they continue pouring beer for, but as he writes this, he’s thought better of it. Maybe, he’ll do it tomorrow, maybe he’ll do it next week, but mixing it in to a KEY about the importance of showing at least as much respect for the people who defend our symbols as for the symbols themselves, doesn’t seem right.
I’m Jose Melendez, and those are my KEYS TO THE GAME.
But here’s the thing. Why didn’t they stop beer service during the moment of silence in honor of Lieutenant Commander Kevin Davis, the Blue Angel pilot from Pittsfield who died in an air show accident on Saturday? It was incredibly odd to watch the beer continue to flow as we paid respects to a man who died while serving our country, and yet to stop for the World War I era mea culpa that is the playing of the national anthem at baseball games. (Note: As Jose recalls the tradition began during WWI to appease a public angered that healthy young baseball players were not off fighting. He can’t find verification though.)
Jose was originally going to do a bit here about things that they stop pouring beer for versus things they continue pouring beer for, but as he writes this, he’s thought better of it. Maybe, he’ll do it tomorrow, maybe he’ll do it next week, but mixing it in to a KEY about the importance of showing at least as much respect for the people who defend our symbols as for the symbols themselves, doesn’t seem right.
I’m Jose Melendez, and those are my KEYS TO THE GAME.
Friday, April 20
Anxiety Attack
It’s time for Jose Melendez’s KEYS TO THE GAME.
1. Anxiety.
Anxiety.
ANX-I-E-TY.
For most, it is a response to a stimuli, a tensing of muscles, a state of heightened awareness in reaction to a perceived threat. But for others it is no mere programmed response, but rather a state of being, a pervasive and unrelenting wariness of that treacherous other shoe that will, inevitably it seems, drop.
For we unfortunate souls in the second category relief is the primary driver of action, we crave nothing more than the sweet elixir of a bullet dodged, a crisis averted, or at least postponed. It’s a funny sensation, anxiety is, in that it affects people so differently. Some it drives forward, pushing them relentlessly to work, to strive, to accomplish. Keeping that mythical shoe from striking the floor through cleverness, through effort, through the determination produces wondrous accomplishments. And for others? For others it is immobilizing. Fear of failure, fear of humiliation paralyzes. Wavering and wariness become one’s primary values, as the very failure to act guarantees the act of failure. And even what successes, what great achievements may come are seen as nothing more than a harbinger of an ever more spectacular cataclysm. With each accomplishment, the height from which that shoe will drop gets a little higher, the thud with which it will land gets a little louder.
Jose is in that first category. Anxiety drives him to excel. Perhaps it does not drive him to excel in much worthwhile, but at least it pushes him to do things like write 150,000 words a year about a child’s game played by millionaires. A trivial accomplishment, a trite silly calling, but a calling nevertheless, and one Jose has embraced as if he were Joan of Arc.
Alex Rodriguez, however, is in the second category. Anxiety, rather than pushing his brilliance, robs him of all satisfaction from it. The more stunning his April, the more pathetic his inevitable October swoon. The more beautiful his wife, the more heartbreaking his eventual divorce. The more romantic the dinner, the more devastating his impotence.
Oh yes, he has been extraordinary this month, as good as anyone Jose has ever seen, but look into his eyes, look into that vacant stare, and you know what you’ll see. Fear. Lonely, isolating fear. Fear that at the first failure, despite everything he’s done, the love that now flows in the Bronx will once again descend into hate. Fear that as the stakes go up, the performance goes down. Fear that no matter what he does, he can never meet expectations.
But that fear, that anxiety is needless; it is foolish. He is Alex Rodriguez, the greatest player of his generation, perhaps the greatest of any generation. Nothing can stop him. Nothing but his fear, that is. Roosevelt had it right. “We have nothing to fear but fear itself.” Fear is deterministic. Anxiety is destiny. And sometime in this series, or at least in this season, when the shoe is at its maximum height, anxiety will be Alex Rodriguez’ destiny.
THUD.
The other shoe drops. Strike three.
2. Bob Ryan doesn’t like the Red Sox-Yankees rivalry. He said so himself. He doesn’t like it because a rivalry is only good when it’s from “the inside out, not when it’s from the outside in.” His thesis is that the fact that the fans hate the other team, whereas the players have no hate in their hearts and approach each other with wary respect makes it a fine competition, but not a true rivalry. Right. That makes sense. But allow Jose to ask a follow up question?
Was the Iron Sheik vs. “Hacksaw” Jim Duggan not a rivalry because they only pretended to hate each other? Did the fact that the two got arrested driving to a show together make it any less impactful when the Sheik yelled “America, Haacchhh—Ptuutt” while sending a loogy at the very heart of our country? Did it make the blue collar guy from Glens Falls, New York any less of a hero, when he hit the Iranian Olympic medalist with a 2X4 (note to Department of Defense: Iranians are vulnerable to wood) before giving a thumbs up to the crowd and yelling “Hoooooooooooooooooooooooo.” (Note: Since it got Imus fired, why didn’t Hacksaw Duggan get in trouble for using the term “ho” pretty much all of the time? It’s not like the Iron Sheik was an actual prostitute. It’s defamatory.)
No, of course, not. It doesn’t matter if the loathing starts on the bench or in the stands as long as it starts somewhere. One of the sad and pathetic realities of human nature is that hate is infectious. And this contagiousness drives unspeakable events in human nature. However, on the upside, it also drives some pretty terrific sports rivalries. Do you think Don Zimmer hated Pedro before he charged the mound? Probably not, but much like Hacksaw Duggan he became an actor playing a roll in a Manichean drama. Do you think Jason Vartiek truly loathes A-Rod? Probably not, but it didn’t keep him from punching him in the face because the situation called for it.
For all the whining of sports personalities, eager to diminish the phenomenon that has consumed baseball, Red Sox-Yankees is not only a rivalry, but THE rivalry because, we the fans demand that it be. We hate the opposition and expect our players to do the same. And even if there is no loathing in their hearts, they scowl, they holler, they brush batters off the plate, and every once in a while they throw a punch, because they know we expect it of them, we demand it of them.
And if you play a role for long enough, if you act a part for years, it begins to seep into you, and those faked emotions, those acted characteristics begin, just a little bit, to feel real. Ask Kelsey Grammar, ask Susan Lucci, ask Aldrich Ames, ask any woman who’s faked orgasms repeatedly for 18 years if they can still tell what is true and what is show. They can’t. Fooling others rapidly becomes fooling oneself. And thank God, because if A-Rod and Varitek get arrested driving to tonight’s game together with a dime bag in the glover compartment, Jose is going to be bullsh*t.
3. In honor of the late, great Red Auerbach, the Red Sox will be wearing green uniforms this evening. Jose thinks this is a nice tribute to one of the great legends of sports. And certainly it is far preferable to other Celtics themed tributes that were under consideration such as:
1. Anxiety.
Anxiety.
ANX-I-E-TY.
For most, it is a response to a stimuli, a tensing of muscles, a state of heightened awareness in reaction to a perceived threat. But for others it is no mere programmed response, but rather a state of being, a pervasive and unrelenting wariness of that treacherous other shoe that will, inevitably it seems, drop.
For we unfortunate souls in the second category relief is the primary driver of action, we crave nothing more than the sweet elixir of a bullet dodged, a crisis averted, or at least postponed. It’s a funny sensation, anxiety is, in that it affects people so differently. Some it drives forward, pushing them relentlessly to work, to strive, to accomplish. Keeping that mythical shoe from striking the floor through cleverness, through effort, through the determination produces wondrous accomplishments. And for others? For others it is immobilizing. Fear of failure, fear of humiliation paralyzes. Wavering and wariness become one’s primary values, as the very failure to act guarantees the act of failure. And even what successes, what great achievements may come are seen as nothing more than a harbinger of an ever more spectacular cataclysm. With each accomplishment, the height from which that shoe will drop gets a little higher, the thud with which it will land gets a little louder.
Jose is in that first category. Anxiety drives him to excel. Perhaps it does not drive him to excel in much worthwhile, but at least it pushes him to do things like write 150,000 words a year about a child’s game played by millionaires. A trivial accomplishment, a trite silly calling, but a calling nevertheless, and one Jose has embraced as if he were Joan of Arc.
Alex Rodriguez, however, is in the second category. Anxiety, rather than pushing his brilliance, robs him of all satisfaction from it. The more stunning his April, the more pathetic his inevitable October swoon. The more beautiful his wife, the more heartbreaking his eventual divorce. The more romantic the dinner, the more devastating his impotence.
Oh yes, he has been extraordinary this month, as good as anyone Jose has ever seen, but look into his eyes, look into that vacant stare, and you know what you’ll see. Fear. Lonely, isolating fear. Fear that at the first failure, despite everything he’s done, the love that now flows in the Bronx will once again descend into hate. Fear that as the stakes go up, the performance goes down. Fear that no matter what he does, he can never meet expectations.
But that fear, that anxiety is needless; it is foolish. He is Alex Rodriguez, the greatest player of his generation, perhaps the greatest of any generation. Nothing can stop him. Nothing but his fear, that is. Roosevelt had it right. “We have nothing to fear but fear itself.” Fear is deterministic. Anxiety is destiny. And sometime in this series, or at least in this season, when the shoe is at its maximum height, anxiety will be Alex Rodriguez’ destiny.
THUD.
The other shoe drops. Strike three.
2. Bob Ryan doesn’t like the Red Sox-Yankees rivalry. He said so himself. He doesn’t like it because a rivalry is only good when it’s from “the inside out, not when it’s from the outside in.” His thesis is that the fact that the fans hate the other team, whereas the players have no hate in their hearts and approach each other with wary respect makes it a fine competition, but not a true rivalry. Right. That makes sense. But allow Jose to ask a follow up question?
Was the Iron Sheik vs. “Hacksaw” Jim Duggan not a rivalry because they only pretended to hate each other? Did the fact that the two got arrested driving to a show together make it any less impactful when the Sheik yelled “America, Haacchhh—Ptuutt” while sending a loogy at the very heart of our country? Did it make the blue collar guy from Glens Falls, New York any less of a hero, when he hit the Iranian Olympic medalist with a 2X4 (note to Department of Defense: Iranians are vulnerable to wood) before giving a thumbs up to the crowd and yelling “Hoooooooooooooooooooooooo.” (Note: Since it got Imus fired, why didn’t Hacksaw Duggan get in trouble for using the term “ho” pretty much all of the time? It’s not like the Iron Sheik was an actual prostitute. It’s defamatory.)
No, of course, not. It doesn’t matter if the loathing starts on the bench or in the stands as long as it starts somewhere. One of the sad and pathetic realities of human nature is that hate is infectious. And this contagiousness drives unspeakable events in human nature. However, on the upside, it also drives some pretty terrific sports rivalries. Do you think Don Zimmer hated Pedro before he charged the mound? Probably not, but much like Hacksaw Duggan he became an actor playing a roll in a Manichean drama. Do you think Jason Vartiek truly loathes A-Rod? Probably not, but it didn’t keep him from punching him in the face because the situation called for it.
For all the whining of sports personalities, eager to diminish the phenomenon that has consumed baseball, Red Sox-Yankees is not only a rivalry, but THE rivalry because, we the fans demand that it be. We hate the opposition and expect our players to do the same. And even if there is no loathing in their hearts, they scowl, they holler, they brush batters off the plate, and every once in a while they throw a punch, because they know we expect it of them, we demand it of them.
And if you play a role for long enough, if you act a part for years, it begins to seep into you, and those faked emotions, those acted characteristics begin, just a little bit, to feel real. Ask Kelsey Grammar, ask Susan Lucci, ask Aldrich Ames, ask any woman who’s faked orgasms repeatedly for 18 years if they can still tell what is true and what is show. They can’t. Fooling others rapidly becomes fooling oneself. And thank God, because if A-Rod and Varitek get arrested driving to tonight’s game together with a dime bag in the glover compartment, Jose is going to be bullsh*t.
3. In honor of the late, great Red Auerbach, the Red Sox will be wearing green uniforms this evening. Jose thinks this is a nice tribute to one of the great legends of sports. And certainly it is far preferable to other Celtics themed tributes that were under consideration such as:
- Curt Euro warms up to “It’s Not Easy Being Green.”
- Rick Pitino night: Every fan leaves with a loss and $20 million.
- John W. Henry converts to Judaism.
- Turning control of organization over to Danny Ainge who promptly trades Manny for Darren Daulton, the only Major Leaguer past or present with knees as bad as Raef LaFrentz’s.
- Empty seat night at Fenway Park.
- Retiring Marty Barrett’s number.
- Starting 18 game losing streak.
- Eating contest between Rich Garces and Thomas “Big Ham” Hamilton.
I’m Jose Melendez, and those are my KEYS TO THE GAME.
Thursday, April 19
Wait... It's a Day Game?
It’s time for Jose Melendez’s KEYS TO THE GAME.
1. Did you know that today’s Red Sox-Blue Jays game has a scheduled start time of 12:37 PM? Yeah, neither did Jose, which is why today’s KEYS will, much like David Eckstein, be short, and of inferior quality! But at least they will be a spark plug.
Let’s only hope that the Red Sox didn’t forget the early time too, or in the case of today’s starter Julienned Tavarez, that he did forget.
2. SINCE THE SHIFT HAS WORKED SO WELL AT TAKING BASE HITS AWAY FROM DAVID ORTIZ” JOSE THOUGHT THAT MAYBE HE SHOULD TRY USING IT AGAINST EXTREMELY TALENTED PLAYERS FOR OTHER TEAMS” LIKE TONIGHT”S BLUE JAYS STARTER ROY HALLADAY>
AS YOU CAN SEE” JOSE IS HOLDING DOWN THE SHIFT KEY RIGHT NOW> YEAH, IT’S A LITTLE WEIRD AND IT LEAVES MANY OF JOSE”S FINGERS OUT OF POSITION” (NOTE: AND IT MAKES ALL COMMAS QUOTATION MARKS AND PERIODS CARROTS) BUT HE HOPES IT WILL WORK> THAT SAID” HE CAN’T REACH THE “T” SO WELL WITH HIS LEFT HAND AND IS HAVING TO TRY TO OVERCOMPENSATE BY REACHING FOR IT WITH HIS RIGHT>
STILL” THE SHIFT IS WORTH TRYING UNTIL IT STOPS WORKING” RIGHT?
3. John Lester has been promoted to AAA Pawtucket after absolutely tearing up Greenville as he continues his return from cancer. While one should be wary about drawing too much from his domination of single A hitters, one can extrapolate something from the fact that Lester was throwing strikes. As you recall, last year, Lester struggled with walks at the major league level, despite having had pretty good control in the minors. This leads to a rather obvious question. Can cancer increase the number balls? Jose’s friend Jamie, speculated, rather shrewdly, that perhaps the silent toll the cancer was taking on Lester’s body was preventing him from recuperating fully between starts and therefore hurting his control.
It’s an interesting theory, but it is counterintuitive, thus Jose remains skeptical. After all, we know for a fact that caner can decrease the number of balls thanks to Mike Lowell. (Note: Cue angry emails.)
I’m Jose Melendez, and those are my KEYS TO THE GAME.
1. Did you know that today’s Red Sox-Blue Jays game has a scheduled start time of 12:37 PM? Yeah, neither did Jose, which is why today’s KEYS will, much like David Eckstein, be short, and of inferior quality! But at least they will be a spark plug.
Let’s only hope that the Red Sox didn’t forget the early time too, or in the case of today’s starter Julienned Tavarez, that he did forget.
2. SINCE THE SHIFT HAS WORKED SO WELL AT TAKING BASE HITS AWAY FROM DAVID ORTIZ” JOSE THOUGHT THAT MAYBE HE SHOULD TRY USING IT AGAINST EXTREMELY TALENTED PLAYERS FOR OTHER TEAMS” LIKE TONIGHT”S BLUE JAYS STARTER ROY HALLADAY>
AS YOU CAN SEE” JOSE IS HOLDING DOWN THE SHIFT KEY RIGHT NOW> YEAH, IT’S A LITTLE WEIRD AND IT LEAVES MANY OF JOSE”S FINGERS OUT OF POSITION” (NOTE: AND IT MAKES ALL COMMAS QUOTATION MARKS AND PERIODS CARROTS) BUT HE HOPES IT WILL WORK> THAT SAID” HE CAN’T REACH THE “T” SO WELL WITH HIS LEFT HAND AND IS HAVING TO TRY TO OVERCOMPENSATE BY REACHING FOR IT WITH HIS RIGHT>
STILL” THE SHIFT IS WORTH TRYING UNTIL IT STOPS WORKING” RIGHT?
Blue Jays Manager John Gibbons plots
strategy for the Ortiz shift.
3. John Lester has been promoted to AAA Pawtucket after absolutely tearing up Greenville as he continues his return from cancer. While one should be wary about drawing too much from his domination of single A hitters, one can extrapolate something from the fact that Lester was throwing strikes. As you recall, last year, Lester struggled with walks at the major league level, despite having had pretty good control in the minors. This leads to a rather obvious question. Can cancer increase the number balls? Jose’s friend Jamie, speculated, rather shrewdly, that perhaps the silent toll the cancer was taking on Lester’s body was preventing him from recuperating fully between starts and therefore hurting his control.
It’s an interesting theory, but it is counterintuitive, thus Jose remains skeptical. After all, we know for a fact that caner can decrease the number of balls thanks to Mike Lowell. (Note: Cue angry emails.)
I’m Jose Melendez, and those are my KEYS TO THE GAME.
Wednesday, April 18
Not Down on Cocomo
It’s time for Jose Melendez’s KEYS TO THE GAME.
1. Cocomo, the dubious centerfield combination of Rococo Crisp and Wily Mo Pena finally got in gear last night with two hits each (note: though Pena was technically playing right), including a monstrous 450 foot blast to center field by Pena. In light of this achievement, Jose though they deserved a musical tribute in the style of The Beach Boys.
1. Cocomo, the dubious centerfield combination of Rococo Crisp and Wily Mo Pena finally got in gear last night with two hits each (note: though Pena was technically playing right), including a monstrous 450 foot blast to center field by Pena. In light of this achievement, Jose though they deserved a musical tribute in the style of The Beach Boys.
‘Gainst Texas, Toronto, get some base hits pronto,
The Angels, Seattle, let’s put up battle,
The night time, the day, baby why don’t we play
Center field?
In between left and right,
There’s some guys called Cocomo,
If they can’t hit, we’re gonna blow,
and will not play in the fall.
Sliders slide away,
For a fastball having to pray,
Because you can’t hit the curve.
Another sad hitting display,
Down goes Kokomo.
‘Gainst Texas, Toronto, get some base hits pronto,
The Angels, Seattle, let’s put up battle,
The night time, the day, baby why don’t we play?
Ooo and in the field that Cocomo,
One guy is fast,
While the other’s slow,
But the fast one cannot throw.
Down goes Cocomo.
Hamate. Finger. Injuries that linger.
Diving for the ball,
Playing caroms off the wall,
Cannot track off the crack of the bat, the defense tends to appall.
Hitting seven or eight,OBP that’s not too great,
That dreamy look while pitches go by,
Is gonna make us cry.
Down goes Cocomo.
‘Gainst Texas, Toronto, get some base hits pronto,
The Angels, Seattle, let’s put up battle,
The night time, the day, baby why don’t we play?
Ooo and in the field that Cocomo,
One guy is fast,
While the other’s slow,
But the fast one cannot throw.
Down goes Cocomo.
Jacoby Ellsbury, get here in a hurry.
Every pitcher knows,
Don’t throw heat to Cocomo,
Breaking stuff is the way to go,
If you must face either one.
Down goes Cocomo.
‘Gainst Texas, Toronto, get some base hits pronto,
The Angels, Seattle, let’s put up battle,
The night time, the day, baby why don’t we play?
Ooo and in the field that Cocomo,
One guy is fast,
While the other’s slow,
But the fast one cannot throw.
Down goes Cocomo.
2. Jose is not sure what to make of last night’s incredibly weird start by Mr. Matsu. The righty absolutely cruised for three innings and then completely fell apart in the fourth after missing a borderline strike three call, a borderline play at first and a borderline error by Julio Lugo. It’s not just that he stopped being able to get people out, it’s that suddenly he turned into Rick Ankiel, skipping balls in like a cricket bowler and sailing pitches high above the catcher.
This alone would be weird, but certainly not unprecedented. Sometimes pitchers are going along fine and then they completely lose it. It happens. What is exceedingly odd, however, is that Mr. Matsu recovered completely in the fifth and sixth setting down all six batters he faced and striking out most of them. Who the hell falls apart and comes back together so quickly?
Jose knew he had heard about something exactly like this before, so he did some research. Was it Tom Seaver? Nope. Fernando Valenzuela? Uh-uh. Perhaps Senator Jim Bunning? Not him either. And then he found it. It’s Captain Marvel. Duh. Jose heard the editors of Gone and Forgotten, one of the links featured on this very page talking about it on This American Life some time ago. Captain Marvel (note: not to be confused with Captain Marvel) was an alien robot sent from his dying planet to preserve peace on Earth who had the power to fall apart by yelling “split”—literally, head legs and feet flopping everywhere-- and then to come back together by yelling “Xam!” Apparently, he draws this power from something called Element X. And here’s the funny thing. Right before he struck out Royce Clayton in the fourth, the first indication that he had gotten himself back together, Jose could swear he heard Mr. Matsu yell “Xam.” Or maybe it was “Bam” and he was doing a tribute to Emeril or the late wrestling great Bam Bam Bigelow. (Note: Does Element X count as a performance enhancing drug?)
So, the way Jose sees it, it appears that Daisuke Matsuzaka, rather than being Japanese at all is, like Captain Marvel, an alien robot from a far away world sent here to protect humanity. That’s the simplest explanation for what happened last night. This means that the Japanese press can all go home, and Fenway can start making accommodations for the alien press. You know, replacing the sushi in the press buffet with entire cows, replacing the grounds crew with alien crop circle machines, that sort of thing.
Matsuzaka in the fourth last night.
3. Over the weekend, Jose had a conversation with his friend Jamie and Jamie’s brother, legendary SoSHer RomeroRomine about the unique place Manny Ramirez holds in American sports. A couple beers in, RomeroRomine posed a fascinating question: Will this be the year that Manny finally starts to fall off? Wait… that’s not fascinating. It’s terrifying. Sorry.
The fascinating questions was: Has there ever been a hall-of-fame caliber baseball player who was so spacey, so prone to inexplicable lapses of concentration and yet was so universally beloved?
After much thought, the only one we could come up with was Yogi Berra. (Note: Though the more Jose thinks about it, the more it seems Babe Ruth might fit. Couldn’t you see Manny being caught stealing to end a World Series?) Of course, Yogi went on to manage an actual major league team… well, he went on to manage the Yankees anyway, and Jose has a very hard time imagining Manny managing even a little league team.
If even a smart guy like Gabe Kapler can, as reported by the Globe, inadvertently render a pitcher ineligible to play by failing to change his lineup card after a rain out, can you imagine what Skipper Manny might do?
Jose imagines you would see him calling for shifts to right against left handed hitters, ordering pitchouts to leadoff hitters, and of course positioning the left fielder inside the left field wall or possibly at a car show in Atlantic City.
I’m Jose Melendez, and those are my KEYS TO THE GAME.
Tuesday, April 17
Making It To the Show
It’s time for Jose Melendez’s KEYS TO THE GAME.
1. Jose has arrived.
At long last, in his fourth season of toil in the seedier districts of Red Sox blogdom, Jose has at last emerged into the mainstream alternative press. The first hint came prior to opening day, when Jose’s blog email received a press release from NPR informing him that they would be airing an interview with slugger Gary Sheffield on the subject of the steroid scandal. Needless to say, Jose dismissed it as spam, assuming that NPR stood for the Nigerian Petroleum Resource, and that Gary Sheffield, his career nearing a close, was figuring to raise some money by offering large finders fees to anyone who would send him checks. It appears now, though it remains unconfirmed, that NPR may have stood for National Public Radio, and the story may have been legit. Whoops.
What has changed Jose’s mind is an email he received on Sunday morning from The New Yorker, the esteemed intellectual magazine that is best known for it’s cerebral black and white cartoons, which, as a saying of undermined origin has it, could all be better captioned “Go f*ck yourself.” It seems that in the years since Tina Brown fled the smoldering ruins of the magazine, it had abandoned its policy of writing exclusively on Spike Lee and Woody Allen, and had rededicated itself to its previous, long-standing editorial policy of publishing non-fiction articles on subjects about which Jose gives a sh*t. In this, case Manny Ramirez.
The New Yorker, validated Jose’s existence, by sending him an advanced copy of the Manny story by Ben McGrath, scheduled to run in the April 23 issue (note: the one with the clever drawing on the cover) and a press release offering Jose the invitation interview McGrath. Okay, technically, it was an invitation to anyone getting the release, but Jose will pretend it was just him, because that makes him feel loved.
The excellent and lively profile, enriched by an unprecedented nine minutes of interview time with Manny (note: nice job Ben!) offers a number of fascinating revelations, including:
- When then Sox GM Dan Duquette asked Manny why he sometimes stepped into the batters box after ball four, Manny responded “I don’t keep track of the balls. I don’t keep track of the strikes, either, until I got two. Duke, I’m up there looking for a pitch I can hit. If I don’t get it, I wait for the umpire to tell me to go to first. Isn’t that what you’re paying me to do?”
- David Ortiz’s comment for the story? “Manny Ramirez is a crazy motherf*cker.
Sadly absent, was any comment on the rumor that Ramirez is from Mars and simply groks hitting.
Of course, now as Jose rereads the press release, he notices that the issue is currently on the stands, so much for having the inside track. Guess Jose isn’t so big time after all.
(Note: That said, Jose is going to try to send some questions about the article off to author Ben McGrath. Post your questions in the comments section of KEYS and Jose will send them along. Unless they’re stupid. Then he promises nothing.)
Stranger in a Strange Land
2. Jose went to the Patriot’s Day game yesterday with a nervous Sam Melendez, Jose’s brother, who was wracked with anxiety about whether delays to the start of the game would force him to leave early to see his marathon running girlfriend romp through Kenmore Square. As we passed the time waiting for the rain delay to be lifted and the game to begin, Sam taunted Jose with what he assured him would be some “great KEYS material.”
“Fantastic,” responded Jose. “Jose loves things that write themselves.”
Sam dangled the material coyly, allowing anticipation to build until the third inning when he finally saw fit to reveal his insight. His suggestion, his comic vision, was that when it came time to sing Sweet Caroline in the eighth inning stretch, Red Sox fans should belt out “loving me, loving Drew” instead of “loving me, loving you.”
Umm… okay.
Sam explained that this would honor right fielder DJ Dru and was totally funny when he was at a game once sitting next to some guy named Drew.
Jose remained underwhelemed.
“Jose supposes he could use that,” he responded slowly. “Maybe in a KEY about how you gave him this really unfunny idea. Really, that idea is like a Wily Mo Pena at bat this year. Lots of anticipation, even more disappointment.” (Note: Okay, Jose didn’t actually use the Wily Mo metaphor, but at least he’s going to come clean now, lest Seth Mnookin write one of his holier than thou, “hey, this guy is totally making things up” articles about Jose. Jose needs to fend those off, lest anyone learn the awful truth that he is not actually a Puerto Rican former big league reliever.)
But Sam Melendez was not to be denied. He thought for a moment and then fired back.
“Even though ‘loving me, loving Drew’ is funny, how about this. Since we’re platooning Coco Crisp and Wily Mo Pena in the outfield and neither of them can hit these days, can’t we just call them Kokomo for short?”
Yes. Yes, we can. Song lyrics to follow.
3. An open letter to the two women outside that bar who told Jose that game time had been postponed until 1:05.
Dear Two Women,
Thanks a lot. As you know, Jose hates entering the ballgame before it starts on a rainy day, lest he get stuck sitting in the rain swilling $7 beers for three hours before game time. So it was incredibly thoughtful of you, as you saw Jose and his brother walking by about to leave the marathon to go to the park for the 12:15 start, to ring your cowbells loudly and announce that first pitch had been delayed until 1:05.
Even though first pitch had not been delayed until 1:05, Jose really appreciates it, because had he gotten there on time, he might have seen the first seven runs of the nine scored that day, and why would he want that? Jose goes to games to see pitching and defense, not run scoring. What a shame that Jose’s brother snuck into the bar to urinate and saw that the game had started, or we might have missed two or three inning, and kept the game to two hours. Oh well. What’s done is done.
Anyway, thanks again, and please let Jose know if he can ever return the favor. If you need him to tell you what time a plane departs, whether you’re supposed to cross the street on red or green, or how often to take your heart medication, he’ll be happy to help.
Your pal,
Jose Melendez B.A.
I’m Jose Melendez, and those are my KEYS TO THE GAME.
Friday, April 13
Executive Privilege
It’s time for Jose Melendez’s KEYS TO THE GAME.
1. KEYS TO THE GAME comes to you today from our nation’s capitol, Washington, D.C., mere steps from the White House where President George W. Bush is no doubt debating whether, if he traded Sammy Sosa to Iraq, Sosa might, with the help of drugs, emerge as exactly the sort of strong man Iraq needs. (Note: If there were controlled substances that enhanced governance like performance enhancing drugs (PEDs) enhance athletic performance, would we be opposed to them? Would we regard it as cheating? Jose has heard that these drugs may already exist. He thinks they’re called governance Enhancing Drugs, or GEDs. He hears people talk about getting them all the time, and how much better their lives will be after they get a GED, so he figures they must be pretty effective. Jose thinks pretty much everyone in the Bush administration should score some GEDs, because they certainly don’t seem to have them now.)
Anyway, President Bush is the first U.S. President to previously serve as President of a Major League Baseball team (note: Clinton’s fantasy team the Little Rock Little Cocks, does not count), and Jose wonders what he might do, now with six years of presidential leadership under his belt, if called upon to take over a team today? Since Jose has no interest in what he would do should he take leadership over the Texas Rangers, let us contemplate what he would do if given the reins of the Boston Red Sox.
• Fire Theo Epstein and replace him with the President of BC College Republicans. It’s not because Theo is a Democrat, but rather because he is insufficiently vigilant in taking action against the many immigrants on the team. Or was it that he’s a weak manager?
• Elevate bullpen terror alert to orange “High risk of terror from bullpen performance.”
• Establish new Department of Homefield Security, dedicated to wiretaps. Hire 30 agents needed to monitor all of Curt Euro’s calls.
• Establish faith-based base running programs.
• Reward Manny’s attention to detail by making him manager, giving him medal.
• Issue declaration that the Red Sox have not conceded defeat in 2006 AL East race. Vow to continue 2006 season until Red Sox win division.
• Declare the 2006 Red Sox the AL East champions, even though they did not win the most games, hire army of lawyers to enforce claim.
• Insist that the luxury tax on the Yankees should be cut in order make life better for the Kansas City Royals and Minnesota Twins.
• Order abduction and torture of Omar Minaya, because his first name sounds Arabic.
• Encourage Hazel Mae to pose for pictures pointing at genitals of naked, Kevin Millar.
• Award huge, no-bid contract to Manny Ramirez… wait that one really happened.
2. As Jose was driving to work yesterday (note: or being driven more accurately). You don’t think that award winning bloggers drive themselves do you? Of course not, they hop in their swank Ford Contours and have their fathers drive them), he saw a brilliant business concept, one of those few ideas that is a virtual license to print money. Real money. Euros, not worthless U.S. dollars.
Now, Jose is no great businessman, to be honest he finds the fact that food appears on grocery store shelves as nothing short of miraculous, but he knew that this idea was a winner when he saw it. You know how it is. Sometimes you see an idea that’s so simple, so perfect that you just know it’s going to make a ton of money, like Crystal Pepsi or the war in Iraq, and you can’t help but wonder how you didn’t come up with it yourself,
As Jose’s vehicle jerked to a stop on Charles Street, it was there, right in front of him on the back of a tired looking truck—yankeepestcontrol.com. A Web site that provides skilled professionals trained to control the Yankees? It’s a goldmine. Imagine that the Yankees are coming to town for, let’s say a critical five game season determining series. You’re short staffed and your bullpen is thin, so what do you do? Do you panic and blow five games? Do you turn on your future Hall of Fame left fielder? No, you just call Yankee Pest Control and let them fix the problem.
And why should this be limited to Boston? They can probably travel right? Why couldn’t Tampa Bay or Baltimore contract for their services too?
So Jose thought he would check it out, see if he could get a number, or have some pamphlets sent to Tito. Talk about disappointment. Rather than featuring pictures of A-Rod, Giambi, Jeter and the like with big red Xs through them, there were pictures of termites, carpenter ants and rodents. Not a single Yankee to be found. (Note: Well, almost. Jose is pretty sure there was a picture of Jorge Posada on there, though it might have been a rat.)
As Jose did a little more research, he discovered two more disturbing things. First this company is dedicated primarily to killing. That’s not cool. Jose doesn’t like the Yankees, but he certainly doesn’t want them killed. (Note/Bad Taste Alert: Has anyone looked into what this company was doing when Thurman Munson and Corey Lidle took their famous flights?) Second, they appear to be far more focused on controlling insects than on controlling Yankees, in which case they should really consider calling themselves Insect Pest Control.
Still as disheartening as this discovery is, the good news, for any entrepreneurs out there, is that a market niche still exists. Find a niche and fill it, right? There are Yankees out there just begging to be controlled, who will be man enough to do the job? Jose’s thinking Mr. Matsu. Those Japanese are pretty good entrepreneurs.
3. Jose did the right thing yesterday.
Jose can look out the window. Jose can read a weather map. Jose can analyze a Doppler radar reading and he didn’t like what he saw. The rain was on its way, on its way with a vengeance, and it was going to wash the Seattle Mariners right on out of town. So you know what Jose did? He called it. At 11:03 AM Eastern Daylight Time yesterday, Jose called it. He reached the conclusion that it was going to rain for too hard and too long to get a KEYS in, so he stopped it right there and then, unlike Red Sox owner John W. Henry who waited until four or five PM to call the game.
Shame on John Henry. He allowed fans to sit there sucking down beer and popcorn and Luis Tiant brand Cuban sandwiches for a good three hours after the gates opened before he bowed to the inevitable wrath of the gods. But not Jose. Jose wanted to be responsible to his fans, and to be on the level with them. So he made the decision not to write at 11:03. Sure he didn’t tell you guys, but you knew didn’t you? Of course, because everyone knows you cannot operate a laptop in the rain. You just can’t. The water plays total havoc on the keyboard.
And you know what the consequences were? Jose gave up potential thousands in concession sales. Sure no one has bought anything in months, but this could have been the day where people started flowing into the KEYS store and buying books, thongs and t-shirts. Yes, Jose could have left you there quaffing six dollar glasses of watered down Jose Brau and scarfing down “Jose Jot Dogs” at $4.25 a pop, but he didn’t and you know why? Because he respects and cares about his fans. Also, he is apparently unlicensed to sell beer and sausage on the net.
I’m Jose Melendez, and those are my KEYS TO THE GAME.
1. KEYS TO THE GAME comes to you today from our nation’s capitol, Washington, D.C., mere steps from the White House where President George W. Bush is no doubt debating whether, if he traded Sammy Sosa to Iraq, Sosa might, with the help of drugs, emerge as exactly the sort of strong man Iraq needs. (Note: If there were controlled substances that enhanced governance like performance enhancing drugs (PEDs) enhance athletic performance, would we be opposed to them? Would we regard it as cheating? Jose has heard that these drugs may already exist. He thinks they’re called governance Enhancing Drugs, or GEDs. He hears people talk about getting them all the time, and how much better their lives will be after they get a GED, so he figures they must be pretty effective. Jose thinks pretty much everyone in the Bush administration should score some GEDs, because they certainly don’t seem to have them now.)
Anyway, President Bush is the first U.S. President to previously serve as President of a Major League Baseball team (note: Clinton’s fantasy team the Little Rock Little Cocks, does not count), and Jose wonders what he might do, now with six years of presidential leadership under his belt, if called upon to take over a team today? Since Jose has no interest in what he would do should he take leadership over the Texas Rangers, let us contemplate what he would do if given the reins of the Boston Red Sox.
• Fire Theo Epstein and replace him with the President of BC College Republicans. It’s not because Theo is a Democrat, but rather because he is insufficiently vigilant in taking action against the many immigrants on the team. Or was it that he’s a weak manager?
• Elevate bullpen terror alert to orange “High risk of terror from bullpen performance.”
• Establish new Department of Homefield Security, dedicated to wiretaps. Hire 30 agents needed to monitor all of Curt Euro’s calls.
• Establish faith-based base running programs.
• Reward Manny’s attention to detail by making him manager, giving him medal.
• Issue declaration that the Red Sox have not conceded defeat in 2006 AL East race. Vow to continue 2006 season until Red Sox win division.
• Declare the 2006 Red Sox the AL East champions, even though they did not win the most games, hire army of lawyers to enforce claim.
• Insist that the luxury tax on the Yankees should be cut in order make life better for the Kansas City Royals and Minnesota Twins.
• Order abduction and torture of Omar Minaya, because his first name sounds Arabic.
• Encourage Hazel Mae to pose for pictures pointing at genitals of naked, Kevin Millar.
• Award huge, no-bid contract to Manny Ramirez… wait that one really happened.
2. As Jose was driving to work yesterday (note: or being driven more accurately). You don’t think that award winning bloggers drive themselves do you? Of course not, they hop in their swank Ford Contours and have their fathers drive them), he saw a brilliant business concept, one of those few ideas that is a virtual license to print money. Real money. Euros, not worthless U.S. dollars.
Now, Jose is no great businessman, to be honest he finds the fact that food appears on grocery store shelves as nothing short of miraculous, but he knew that this idea was a winner when he saw it. You know how it is. Sometimes you see an idea that’s so simple, so perfect that you just know it’s going to make a ton of money, like Crystal Pepsi or the war in Iraq, and you can’t help but wonder how you didn’t come up with it yourself,
As Jose’s vehicle jerked to a stop on Charles Street, it was there, right in front of him on the back of a tired looking truck—yankeepestcontrol.com. A Web site that provides skilled professionals trained to control the Yankees? It’s a goldmine. Imagine that the Yankees are coming to town for, let’s say a critical five game season determining series. You’re short staffed and your bullpen is thin, so what do you do? Do you panic and blow five games? Do you turn on your future Hall of Fame left fielder? No, you just call Yankee Pest Control and let them fix the problem.
And why should this be limited to Boston? They can probably travel right? Why couldn’t Tampa Bay or Baltimore contract for their services too?
So Jose thought he would check it out, see if he could get a number, or have some pamphlets sent to Tito. Talk about disappointment. Rather than featuring pictures of A-Rod, Giambi, Jeter and the like with big red Xs through them, there were pictures of termites, carpenter ants and rodents. Not a single Yankee to be found. (Note: Well, almost. Jose is pretty sure there was a picture of Jorge Posada on there, though it might have been a rat.)
As Jose did a little more research, he discovered two more disturbing things. First this company is dedicated primarily to killing. That’s not cool. Jose doesn’t like the Yankees, but he certainly doesn’t want them killed. (Note/Bad Taste Alert: Has anyone looked into what this company was doing when Thurman Munson and Corey Lidle took their famous flights?) Second, they appear to be far more focused on controlling insects than on controlling Yankees, in which case they should really consider calling themselves Insect Pest Control.
Still as disheartening as this discovery is, the good news, for any entrepreneurs out there, is that a market niche still exists. Find a niche and fill it, right? There are Yankees out there just begging to be controlled, who will be man enough to do the job? Jose’s thinking Mr. Matsu. Those Japanese are pretty good entrepreneurs.
3. Jose did the right thing yesterday.
Jose can look out the window. Jose can read a weather map. Jose can analyze a Doppler radar reading and he didn’t like what he saw. The rain was on its way, on its way with a vengeance, and it was going to wash the Seattle Mariners right on out of town. So you know what Jose did? He called it. At 11:03 AM Eastern Daylight Time yesterday, Jose called it. He reached the conclusion that it was going to rain for too hard and too long to get a KEYS in, so he stopped it right there and then, unlike Red Sox owner John W. Henry who waited until four or five PM to call the game.
Shame on John Henry. He allowed fans to sit there sucking down beer and popcorn and Luis Tiant brand Cuban sandwiches for a good three hours after the gates opened before he bowed to the inevitable wrath of the gods. But not Jose. Jose wanted to be responsible to his fans, and to be on the level with them. So he made the decision not to write at 11:03. Sure he didn’t tell you guys, but you knew didn’t you? Of course, because everyone knows you cannot operate a laptop in the rain. You just can’t. The water plays total havoc on the keyboard.
And you know what the consequences were? Jose gave up potential thousands in concession sales. Sure no one has bought anything in months, but this could have been the day where people started flowing into the KEYS store and buying books, thongs and t-shirts. Yes, Jose could have left you there quaffing six dollar glasses of watered down Jose Brau and scarfing down “Jose Jot Dogs” at $4.25 a pop, but he didn’t and you know why? Because he respects and cares about his fans. Also, he is apparently unlicensed to sell beer and sausage on the net.
I’m Jose Melendez, and those are my KEYS TO THE GAME.
Wednesday, April 11
Rituals Ancient and Austere
It’s time for Jose Melendez’s KEYS TO THE GAME.
1. For those of you who are unfamiliar with Japanese culture, the rituals that precede the epic confrontation between Japans’ two biggest baseball stars, Mr. Matsu and Ichiro, this evening may confuse you. In order to assist you, Jose has put the one-eight of his brain that is Japanese to work, summarizing the finest guides to the ritual, the internet has to offer.
Matsuzaka mounts the mound and Ichiro enters the batter box even though first pitch may be minutes away. There are strict traditions and rituals that must be obeyed in preparation for the at bat. The pitcher and batter first face away from each other and perform shiko, a foot stomping ritual which drives demons from the field. Next, each takes ladle of water Matsuzaka from a relief pitcher, probably Hideki Okajima, and Ichiro from the man on deck. The water purifies the field. Also, for Ichiro’s benefit, it slows down the infield.
Next each takes a first handful of salt and throws it onto the field, infuriating the ground crew, who will now have to deal with brown spots for the rest of the year. Each then squats and faces the other. From here they clap their hands in unison, in the rhythm of the intro to “Put Me in Coach” to summon the gods. Gods love clapping. The players also turn their palms upwards, as if to say, “come here and let’s play that game where I try to slap your hand and you try to get away.”
Then comes the stare down. Each man crouches down and glares at the other. Eye black helps! Over the course of the next several minutes, the cycle of stare downs and sewing the ground with salt continues cyclically, until one man blinks or starts to laugh.
How can you tell when it’s time for the first pitch?
Well, aside from the yelling of “play ball," the umpire will offer a cloth to each player to wipe the sweat off of his hands, or alternatively, to blow his nose.
Now and only now, with the elegant, ancient ritual complete, the park purified, the warriors cleaned of sweat does Matsuzaka strike out Ichiro on five pitches. Banzai!
Please try to be sympathetic to what may seem like a strange and foreign custom. And remember, even though the ritual preceding the first pitch may take a full five minutes, we can handle it. It can’t possible take longer than Nomar’s ritual before each pitch.
(Note: Thanks to Canada’s Sumo page, for providing insight into this mysterious ritual. See Ron Borges how easy it is to not plagiarize?)
2. While the NESN television crew (note: or so Jose heard) failed to immediately identify the long standing animus between Sox reliever Brendan Donnelly and the Mariners’ Jose Guillen, the Globe’s Nick Cafardo did a nice write up today capturing the sordid history. (Note: Reader Moises Sabina of Portland, Maine suggested that Jose nickname Donnelly “Brendan ‘Black’ Donnelly,” in honor of what is apparently a popular television program. Not a terrible idea. However, in light of the recent trouble radio host Don Imus has gotten into over racial remarks about the Rutgers women’s basketball team, Jose thinks he will skip anything that could ever, even vaguely by the most self-righteous of people, be interpreted as a racial remark. Moises may not understand this, as there are few people of color in Portland, Maine, but the only way this joke would be appropriate is to call him Brendan “African-American” Donnelly. And that’s not funny. Wait… hold on. Al Sharpton on line one.)
But Jose digresses. While Cafardo did a good job of identifying the most obvious causes of the feud (note: Guillen through a fit when Donnelly and other Angles pitchers did not issue retaliatory beanballs in 2004, and responded by pointing out pine tar on Donnelly’s glove in 2005) he missed what we liberals call “ the root causes.”
Let’s look at the timeline:
March 6, 2004—Donnelly tells Guillen the seat next to him on spring training bus to Tucson is taken. It is not.
March 10, 2004—Guillen calls Donnelly a “stupid head.”
April 4, 2004— Donnelly sticks hand of sleeping Guillen in warm water—leading to nickname “piss boy.”
April 29, 2004—Guillen has sex with Donnelly’s mother.
April 29, 2004—Donnelly’s mother gives Guillen herpes
May 15, 2004—Guillen breaks Donnelly’s glasses
May 30, 2004—Donnelly calls INS on Guillen.
June 7, 2004—Guillen calls DEA on Donnelly
June 20, 2004—Donnelly post some really mean stuff on Guillen’s myspace page about how he’s a whore and how he thinks he’s so great but he’s not.
July 4, 2004—Guillen celebrates Fourth of July by putting cherry bomb in Donnelly’s locker.
July 20, 2004—Donnelly tells Guillen to go back to Hati.
July 20, 2004—Guillen corrects Donnelly on the geography of Hispaniola.
August 1, 2004—Peace and Truce of God, nothing happens.
August 2, 2004—Donnelly replaces Guillen’s normal bats with sticks of TNT.
August 20, 2004—Guillen blows up Donnelly’s car.
September 5, 2004—Donnelly puts Guillen through a table.
September ???, 2004—Guillen rips Angels pitchers for failing to retaliate after hit batsmen,
September 27, 2004—Guillen suspended for remainder of season without pay.
September 29, 2004—Guillen suspends Donnelly naked from a flag pole in front of Angel Stadium.
December 25, 2004—Donnelly sends Guillen lump of coal for Christmas.
January 6, 2005—Guillen sends Donnelly Hunta virus for Greek Christmas
June 14, 2005—Guillen points out Donnelly has pine tar on his glove, Donnelly suspend eight games
April 11, 2006—Donnelly strike out Guillen on three pitches in Fenway debut,
April 11, 2006--Guillen acts like a punk.
Jose’s not saying it’s Spiderman vs. Dr. Octopus or Shawn Michaels vs. Brett Hart or even that it’s The Cosby Show vs. The Simpsons. But there’s a lot of history and it’s not pretty. And you know what they say about history. He who doesn’t learn from history is doomed to take a fastball in the ear.
3. According to the Globe, peppy new shortstop Julio Lugo struggled to find his way to Fenway Park for yesterday’s home opener and nearly arrived late to the ballpark. Sources say that, while Lugo drove very quickly, far quicker than his predecessor at short Alex Gonzalez, his failure to get his foot set on the break pedal before making decisions about which way to go led to some sloppy performance and possibly to inadvertently throwing away his map.
I’m Jose Melendez, and those are my KEYS TO THE GAME.
1. For those of you who are unfamiliar with Japanese culture, the rituals that precede the epic confrontation between Japans’ two biggest baseball stars, Mr. Matsu and Ichiro, this evening may confuse you. In order to assist you, Jose has put the one-eight of his brain that is Japanese to work, summarizing the finest guides to the ritual, the internet has to offer.
Matsuzaka mounts the mound and Ichiro enters the batter box even though first pitch may be minutes away. There are strict traditions and rituals that must be obeyed in preparation for the at bat. The pitcher and batter first face away from each other and perform shiko, a foot stomping ritual which drives demons from the field. Next, each takes ladle of water Matsuzaka from a relief pitcher, probably Hideki Okajima, and Ichiro from the man on deck. The water purifies the field. Also, for Ichiro’s benefit, it slows down the infield.
Next each takes a first handful of salt and throws it onto the field, infuriating the ground crew, who will now have to deal with brown spots for the rest of the year. Each then squats and faces the other. From here they clap their hands in unison, in the rhythm of the intro to “Put Me in Coach” to summon the gods. Gods love clapping. The players also turn their palms upwards, as if to say, “come here and let’s play that game where I try to slap your hand and you try to get away.”
Then comes the stare down. Each man crouches down and glares at the other. Eye black helps! Over the course of the next several minutes, the cycle of stare downs and sewing the ground with salt continues cyclically, until one man blinks or starts to laugh.
How can you tell when it’s time for the first pitch?
Well, aside from the yelling of “play ball," the umpire will offer a cloth to each player to wipe the sweat off of his hands, or alternatively, to blow his nose.
Now and only now, with the elegant, ancient ritual complete, the park purified, the warriors cleaned of sweat does Matsuzaka strike out Ichiro on five pitches. Banzai!
Please try to be sympathetic to what may seem like a strange and foreign custom. And remember, even though the ritual preceding the first pitch may take a full five minutes, we can handle it. It can’t possible take longer than Nomar’s ritual before each pitch.
(Note: Thanks to Canada’s Sumo page, for providing insight into this mysterious ritual. See Ron Borges how easy it is to not plagiarize?)
2. While the NESN television crew (note: or so Jose heard) failed to immediately identify the long standing animus between Sox reliever Brendan Donnelly and the Mariners’ Jose Guillen, the Globe’s Nick Cafardo did a nice write up today capturing the sordid history. (Note: Reader Moises Sabina of Portland, Maine suggested that Jose nickname Donnelly “Brendan ‘Black’ Donnelly,” in honor of what is apparently a popular television program. Not a terrible idea. However, in light of the recent trouble radio host Don Imus has gotten into over racial remarks about the Rutgers women’s basketball team, Jose thinks he will skip anything that could ever, even vaguely by the most self-righteous of people, be interpreted as a racial remark. Moises may not understand this, as there are few people of color in Portland, Maine, but the only way this joke would be appropriate is to call him Brendan “African-American” Donnelly. And that’s not funny. Wait… hold on. Al Sharpton on line one.)
But Jose digresses. While Cafardo did a good job of identifying the most obvious causes of the feud (note: Guillen through a fit when Donnelly and other Angles pitchers did not issue retaliatory beanballs in 2004, and responded by pointing out pine tar on Donnelly’s glove in 2005) he missed what we liberals call “ the root causes.”
Let’s look at the timeline:
March 6, 2004—Donnelly tells Guillen the seat next to him on spring training bus to Tucson is taken. It is not.
March 10, 2004—Guillen calls Donnelly a “stupid head.”
April 4, 2004— Donnelly sticks hand of sleeping Guillen in warm water—leading to nickname “piss boy.”
April 29, 2004—Guillen has sex with Donnelly’s mother.
April 29, 2004—Donnelly’s mother gives Guillen herpes
May 15, 2004—Guillen breaks Donnelly’s glasses
May 30, 2004—Donnelly calls INS on Guillen.
June 7, 2004—Guillen calls DEA on Donnelly
June 20, 2004—Donnelly post some really mean stuff on Guillen’s myspace page about how he’s a whore and how he thinks he’s so great but he’s not.
July 4, 2004—Guillen celebrates Fourth of July by putting cherry bomb in Donnelly’s locker.
July 20, 2004—Donnelly tells Guillen to go back to Hati.
July 20, 2004—Guillen corrects Donnelly on the geography of Hispaniola.
August 1, 2004—Peace and Truce of God, nothing happens.
August 2, 2004—Donnelly replaces Guillen’s normal bats with sticks of TNT.
August 20, 2004—Guillen blows up Donnelly’s car.
September 5, 2004—Donnelly puts Guillen through a table.
September ???, 2004—Guillen rips Angels pitchers for failing to retaliate after hit batsmen,
September 27, 2004—Guillen suspended for remainder of season without pay.
September 29, 2004—Guillen suspends Donnelly naked from a flag pole in front of Angel Stadium.
December 25, 2004—Donnelly sends Guillen lump of coal for Christmas.
January 6, 2005—Guillen sends Donnelly Hunta virus for Greek Christmas
June 14, 2005—Guillen points out Donnelly has pine tar on his glove, Donnelly suspend eight games
April 11, 2006—Donnelly strike out Guillen on three pitches in Fenway debut,
April 11, 2006--Guillen acts like a punk.
Jose’s not saying it’s Spiderman vs. Dr. Octopus or Shawn Michaels vs. Brett Hart or even that it’s The Cosby Show vs. The Simpsons. But there’s a lot of history and it’s not pretty. And you know what they say about history. He who doesn’t learn from history is doomed to take a fastball in the ear.
3. According to the Globe, peppy new shortstop Julio Lugo struggled to find his way to Fenway Park for yesterday’s home opener and nearly arrived late to the ballpark. Sources say that, while Lugo drove very quickly, far quicker than his predecessor at short Alex Gonzalez, his failure to get his foot set on the break pedal before making decisions about which way to go led to some sloppy performance and possibly to inadvertently throwing away his map.
I’m Jose Melendez, and those are my KEYS TO THE GAME.
Tuesday, April 10
Just Another Game That Jose Doesn't Have a Ticket For
It’s time for Jose Melendez’s KEYS TO THE GAME.
1. Wow it’s the home opener. Super great. Jose is so excited. Fenway reopening, new Conigliaro’s corner, snazzy new super duper ultra max premium seating with built in massage, blah, blah, blah. It doesn’t get any better than this, or something.
Really, it’s the home opener, what could be more fantabulous? After all, this is, what ,the seventh game of the season? That’s a lucky, lucky number.
Okay, have you caught the sarcasm in Jose’s tone yet? Can you tell that he is less than overwhelmed that it is the home opener. You know why? Because the home opener is a sorry, lazy excuse for a real opener, a man’s opener that begins on the first day of the season. Jose has been to the home opener twice, once in 1987 and once last year and on neither occasion was it the real opener. In 1987, he cried like a little girl, not because of the touching tribute to the defending AL champions, not because spring was back, but because we had trouble finding parking and he missed what was, as best he can recall, Al Nipper’s first inning of work. Sure who wouldn’t cry at lost time with Al Nipper? But still, he was a baby, and all he was crying about what was just another regular season game. Real fans travel to Kansas City or Oakland or wherever to get their fix as quickly as possible. What did Jose do? Nothing. That’s what.
So what is the big deal about today? It’s the Red Sox and St. Josh a Beckett versus a lousy Seattle team with God only knows who on the mound. Whoop–de-freaking-do. (Note: Jeff Weaver. Even more whoop-de-do. Blunts for everyone.)
Sit out in the cold, drinking $7 beers and chomping on stuffed intestines? No thank, you, no thank you at all. Jose would much rather be in his office creating jobs… unlike his boss a Mariners fan who gets to the game. Not that Jose is bitter.
2. This harkens back to the weekend’s series with the Rangers, but Jose still wants to mention it. Has anyone thought about the implications of Sammy Sosa’s return to Texas for national security?
Back in the 2000 presidential campaign, then Texas Governor George W. Bush answered a question about what his worst mistake had been, by saying that it had been trading Sammy Sosa when he was owner of the Texas Rangers. Now that Sosa has returned to Arlington, what is the “after action report” going to teach the President? What will be the lessons learned?
Here’s what Jose fears. What keep Jose up and night is the concern that president will conclude that if we leave the U.S. military in Iraq for 18 years, we can just get them back no problem, and so what if their a lot less strong and effective? Sammy hit a homer against the Red Sox didn’t he?
Jose would urge the President to learn a different lesson. When he traded Sosa along with Wilson Alvarez and Scott Fletcher to the White Sox in 1989, at least he got Harold Baines in return. Harold Baines was ho hum with the Rangers, but he was, over the course of his career, a terrific hitter. So, if we’re going to send something valuable to Iraq for 18 years, lives, money etc. at least try to get something of value in return: democracy, economic security, peace, something. Because right now, the war is looking an awful lot like Jeff Bagwell for Larry Anderson.
3. In a move that seems designed to increase the team’s depth, the Red Sox yesterday acquired Diamondbacks pitching prospect J.D. Durbin. In addition to giving the Sox another live arm in the minor leagues, the acquisition of Jonathan Adam Durbin gives the Red Sox depth in “people named J.D. who’s given first and middle names do not begin with J. D. in sequence.”
The move is reminiscent of 1993 when the Red Sox attempted to bolster a sagging line up and questionable pitching by stocking up on Scotts, combing infielders Scott Fletcher (note: appearing twice in this KEYS!) and Scott “The Worst Two Time All-Star Ever” Cooper, with pitchers Scott Bankhead and Scott Taylor.
The Patriots also attempted the Scott strategy in 1993, carrying quarterbacks Scott Zolak and Scott Secules, running back Scott Lockwood and kicker Scott Sisson.
The Celtics efforts to acquire Byron Scott were, however, unsuccessful.
The end result of this bold strategy was an 80-82 baseball team, a 5-11 football team, and a 45 percent increase in the market price of haggis in Boston.
I’m Jose Melendez, and those are my KEYS TO THE GAME.
1. Wow it’s the home opener. Super great. Jose is so excited. Fenway reopening, new Conigliaro’s corner, snazzy new super duper ultra max premium seating with built in massage, blah, blah, blah. It doesn’t get any better than this, or something.
Really, it’s the home opener, what could be more fantabulous? After all, this is, what ,the seventh game of the season? That’s a lucky, lucky number.
Okay, have you caught the sarcasm in Jose’s tone yet? Can you tell that he is less than overwhelmed that it is the home opener. You know why? Because the home opener is a sorry, lazy excuse for a real opener, a man’s opener that begins on the first day of the season. Jose has been to the home opener twice, once in 1987 and once last year and on neither occasion was it the real opener. In 1987, he cried like a little girl, not because of the touching tribute to the defending AL champions, not because spring was back, but because we had trouble finding parking and he missed what was, as best he can recall, Al Nipper’s first inning of work. Sure who wouldn’t cry at lost time with Al Nipper? But still, he was a baby, and all he was crying about what was just another regular season game. Real fans travel to Kansas City or Oakland or wherever to get their fix as quickly as possible. What did Jose do? Nothing. That’s what.
So what is the big deal about today? It’s the Red Sox and St. Josh a Beckett versus a lousy Seattle team with God only knows who on the mound. Whoop–de-freaking-do. (Note: Jeff Weaver. Even more whoop-de-do. Blunts for everyone.)
Sit out in the cold, drinking $7 beers and chomping on stuffed intestines? No thank, you, no thank you at all. Jose would much rather be in his office creating jobs… unlike his boss a Mariners fan who gets to the game. Not that Jose is bitter.
2. This harkens back to the weekend’s series with the Rangers, but Jose still wants to mention it. Has anyone thought about the implications of Sammy Sosa’s return to Texas for national security?
Back in the 2000 presidential campaign, then Texas Governor George W. Bush answered a question about what his worst mistake had been, by saying that it had been trading Sammy Sosa when he was owner of the Texas Rangers. Now that Sosa has returned to Arlington, what is the “after action report” going to teach the President? What will be the lessons learned?
Here’s what Jose fears. What keep Jose up and night is the concern that president will conclude that if we leave the U.S. military in Iraq for 18 years, we can just get them back no problem, and so what if their a lot less strong and effective? Sammy hit a homer against the Red Sox didn’t he?
Jose would urge the President to learn a different lesson. When he traded Sosa along with Wilson Alvarez and Scott Fletcher to the White Sox in 1989, at least he got Harold Baines in return. Harold Baines was ho hum with the Rangers, but he was, over the course of his career, a terrific hitter. So, if we’re going to send something valuable to Iraq for 18 years, lives, money etc. at least try to get something of value in return: democracy, economic security, peace, something. Because right now, the war is looking an awful lot like Jeff Bagwell for Larry Anderson.
3. In a move that seems designed to increase the team’s depth, the Red Sox yesterday acquired Diamondbacks pitching prospect J.D. Durbin. In addition to giving the Sox another live arm in the minor leagues, the acquisition of Jonathan Adam Durbin gives the Red Sox depth in “people named J.D. who’s given first and middle names do not begin with J. D. in sequence.”
The move is reminiscent of 1993 when the Red Sox attempted to bolster a sagging line up and questionable pitching by stocking up on Scotts, combing infielders Scott Fletcher (note: appearing twice in this KEYS!) and Scott “The Worst Two Time All-Star Ever” Cooper, with pitchers Scott Bankhead and Scott Taylor.
The Patriots also attempted the Scott strategy in 1993, carrying quarterbacks Scott Zolak and Scott Secules, running back Scott Lockwood and kicker Scott Sisson.
The Celtics efforts to acquire Byron Scott were, however, unsuccessful.
The end result of this bold strategy was an 80-82 baseball team, a 5-11 football team, and a 45 percent increase in the market price of haggis in Boston.
I’m Jose Melendez, and those are my KEYS TO THE GAME.
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