I just saw a commercial (or "advert," as the Brits might say) for the MLB playoffs, narrated by Angels center fielder Torii Hunter. I attempted to find the clip on YouTube for reference, but was unsuccessful, so here's the transcript (in a minute you'll see why I'm typing it):
The commercial begins with a shot of Hunter holding a laptop, and on the screen are graphics saying "The Halo Effect, Posted by Hunter 48" (it is clear at this point that we're seeing what is supposed to be a Torii Hunter blog entry)
At this point, Torii says: "We're not about earning points for good behavior."
Then, an announcer's voice comes in over a highlight: "Oh my goodness, what a play!"
Torii: "We're about scoring runs."
Announcer (speaking over a shot of Angels 1B Mark Teixeira): "Salami time!"
There's more to the commercial, but let's just stop right here, because I know I did a double-take at this point.
Just so we're clear, I know as well as anybody that the term "grand slam" is sometimes morphed to "grand salami," apparently because even something that happens as rarely as a bases loaded home run must be augmented to give a shout out to salted and cured meat.
Even so, this use of the announcer's call "Salami time!" struck me as decidedly odd. Sure, you can easily decipher what it means in baseball terms, but you also have to consider the broader context, and where I come from, "Salami time!" can mean two things: 1) that you've just ordered the meat and cheese plate at your favorite Italian restaurant, or 2) you're a teammate of Charles Haley on the late 1980's and early 1990's San Francisco 49ers.
What I'm left to wonder here is whether or not the person who put together the script for this commercial considered the double meaning of "salami time," or if I am indeed the only a-hole juvenile enough to immediately consider the more anatomical interpretation.
I would like to think that the producer of the commercial was in on the joke, but in a world where I routinely hear on-air phrases like "that's the deepest penetration the Jets have enjoyed all day," I just don't know what to believe anymore.
Sometimes I think that we're losing our ear for innuendo altogether. But fear not: Any time an announcer cries out the words "Salami time!" into the night, I will be here, ever vigilant, to point out the undeniable truth: that he basically just said "Penis."
Bruce the Intern dug up this grainy video footage of what appears to be Yankees outfielder Johnny Damon taking part in an exciting and somewhat unusual offseason endeavor. I for one had no idea he was such a talented and empassioned dancer. Please note the breakout just before the 2-minute mark. Bravo, Monsieur Damon. Bravo!
In baseball, it has become something resembling a rite of passage: Blow out your elbow, visit Dr. Andrews, go under the knife, rehab, and come back throwing harder than ever before.
Have you had your Tommy John surgery today?
Though it's commonplace in the world of baseball, ligament replacement surgery has not been prevalent in two other sports that prominently feature throwing: football and dagger toss. But while dagger toss has continued to be a largely surgery-free sport (aside from those random instances when a dagger misses the target and hits a bystander in the gut), it appears that the Tommy John phenomenon could be on the cusp of breaking through to the NFL.
Unless I'm forgetting someone (and research indicates that I'm too lazy to check), the real pioneer in this regard was Panthers QB Jake Delhomme, who had ligament replacement surgery last year, and has come back to throw for 860 yards through Carolina's first four games. Now, there are rumors that Cincy QB Carson Palmer may need to have his elbow ligament replaced as well, which has led to reports that a certain fantasy GM (read: me) recently threw his desk through the third-floor window of a Manhattan apartment building.
Regardless of whether or not those Palmer rumors are true, it's not hard to envision a day when having a new ligament is the norm rather than the exception in the NFL. It's also not hard to picture some knucklehead tearing up his elbow in a recreational baseball or softball match and opting to have T.J. surgery so as to continue his recreational sporting career.
I am here to tell you that with your support, I would like to be that knucklehead.
I am 100 percent willing to go under the knife and perform the necessary rehab if it adds 5 mph to my fastball and 10-15 yards to my deep ball (not to mention adding one more notch to my dagger-tossing prowess). Shouldn't every half-serious recreational athlete feel the same way? And for that matter, shouldn't every flacid-armed QB in the league (Chad Pennington, par exemple) be hoping for a ligament eruption so that with just one year of rehab he can come back as a QB who finally commands some goddamn respect?
Chapter 1, Section 3, Article 1.2 of the Official Dagger Toss Rulebook states: "The most noble competitor shan't fear the knife, so long as it is pointed at the appropriate target, and not at his gut, spleen or some other vital organ."
The same could be said for those all across the world of sports who are facing a rendezvous with Tommy John. Don't fear the blade. Embrace the blade. Let the blade embrace your elbow. Let the blade chop your elbow into little bits. Then come back stronger than ever before. Your NFL career (or your flag football league) will never be the same again.
Early Wednesday evening, as I walked back from [undisclosed location] to my palacial New York City apartment, I caught sight of a man I immediately recognized as Marko Jaric. The extremely brief encounter left me with more questions than answers.
For one, did his presence in New York City have any bearing on the seemingly dormant trade rumors that had him going from the Grizzlies to the Knicks in a deal for Zach Randolph?
And why is it that every year, Marko Jaric inevitably summons an extremely high level of play for random stretches (see his lines of 16 pts, 8 rebounds, 10 assists against Golden State followed by 15, 8 and 10 in his next game against Phoenix in January) only to end up my fantasy team just in time to revert to disappointing, maddeningly unproductive Marko Jaric?
Perhaps more importantly, why was he wearing sunglasses at 5:33 p.m. on a late-September day, when the streets could be described a thousand ways other than "sun-drenched"? (And don't give me the answer that he was trying to avoid being spotted -- I would put myself in a relatively small percentage of sports fans who would actually recognize him on the street.)
Speaking of which, does anyone in the NBA more perenially look like he just stumbled out of a club at 5:22 a.m. than Jaric?
Another question: Why is it that I can't ever hear his name in my head without internally pronouncing it in a Pirate's voice? (Marko YARRRRRR-itch)
Why, also, on the one occasion when I randomly spotted him on the street, was he walking around with some random dude instead of Adriana Lima?
And, lastly, a question we may never fully be able to answer: Why, as I walked past, were he and his compatriot thinking about walking into that nondescript establishment on the corner about two blocks away where I once went for brunch, only to have a rather disappointing omelette?
Last Monday, I wrote a post on this blog touting the potential of Raiders rookie RB Darren McFadden. Towards the end of that post, I said:
"If you're in a fantasy league, it's time to hope he throws out a 14-carry, 42-yard clunker next week, and then trade for him and don't look back."
McFadden's line yesterday against Buffalo: 14 carries, 42 yards.
This can only mean two things:
1) As I suggested last week, it's time to attempt to trade for McFadden immediately;
2) More importantly, through circumstances I can't currently explain, I may have been endowed with some sort of psychic, number-predicting powers. Of course, me forecasting McFadden's 14-carry, 42-yard line came the same week that I dreamt that 49ers QB J.T. O'Sullivan would throw for just under 500 yards and 5 TD's while rushing 40 times for -96 yards. That, of course, did not happen. However, I would be remiss not to point out that Saturday night, I did have a dream that Dolphins RB Ronnie Brown was going to have a big game against the previously stout New England defense. (Brown's line on Sunday: 113 rush yards, 4 rush TD's, 1 pass TD)
These factors lead me to two definitive conclusions:
1) I may be psychic;
2) I really need to stop wasting so much time and brain space thinking about football.
Last night I dreamt that 49ers QB J.T. O'Sullivan (who this week will be in the starting lineup for my fantasy football team, Waivers Rancheros) threw for just under 500 yards with 5 TD's, connecting on two of those TD's to Bryant Johnson, who is also in my starting lineup this week. As you can imagine, this brought the comatose me a great amount of joy. It should also be noted that in my dream, O'Sullivan ran 40 times for -96 yards (yes, that's 40 carries for negative 96 yards).
The fact that my subconscious was so focused on a pair of semi-obscure San Francisco 49ers got me to thinking that if there was a rehab center for fantasy football addicts somewhere out there, I probably wouldn't check in. But I can imagine that there are some poor bastards out there who really need help.
Me, personally -- am I an addict? Absolutely not.
So what if I blacked out last week and came to at an Internet cafe in Mumbai, where it was 10:57 p.m. on Sunday (12:57 p.m. Eastern time), as I frantically attempted to set my lineups in time for the 1 p.m. kickoffs?
Seriously, I don't see what the big deal is. I've always thought you watched too many Hill Street Blues reruns, but I don't call you an addict for that.
So if you would, please back off -- you're suffocating me. Besides, it's very difficult to tend to important business such as pondering my weekly lineup and making meaningless waiver wire transactions when you're hovering over me like that.
Somewhere around 2 p.m. yesterday, Darren McFadden had 5 carries for 10 yards in the second quarter against the Chiefs, and -- having invested in McFadden in two fantasy leagues -- I was browsing the Wikipedia page on how to commit Seppuku.
But shortly after that, Raiders starting running back Justin Fargas' groin exploded, McFadden erupted, and I sheathed my Samurai sword (only to take it out and run it across the sharpener when I realized that I had McFadden on the bench in one league).
My own completely gratuitous self-inflicted fantasy football torture aside, McFadden (apart from a wee fumbling problem) looked positively awesome on Sunday. If you're in a fantasy league, it's time to hope he throws out a 14-carry, 42-yard clunker next week, and then trade for him and don't look back.
Of course, if McFadden does mess the bed next week against Buffalo, I will most likely be dusting off that katana blade once again (figuratively speaking, Jeff).
I probably don't need to remind you of the scene in Groundhog Day during which Bill Murray -- in the midst of his quest to essentially complete the perfect day -- spots a group of elderly ladies who have run aground on a flat tire. But before they're able to decide how to handle the situation, Murray's character of Phil Connors has deftly jacked up their car and replaced the tire.
I bring this up because recently, Cowboys QB Tony Romo did his finest Phil Connors impersonation, pulling over at the side of a Texas (not Punxsutawney) road to help Bill and Sharon White, a local couple who had blown a tire. As Sharon told the Ft. Worth Star Telegram, "Bill was fooling with that tire, and I was standing beside the car watching him. The next thing I know, a nice-looking young man, very well-dressed, but with something strange on his chin, he walked up, smiled, and said, 'Hey, you need some help?'"
It's the "nice-looking young man" line in particular that calls to mind the scene in Groundhog Day when Tony Romo/Phil Connors is at the dance and sees the women he had helped out earlier, prompting one of them to say, "It's that nice young man from the motor club!"
And naturally, the prevalent (and logical) response to Romo's actions is to laud him for his act of good sumaritanism. But it should also be noted that Romo's apparent likeness, Connors, had a memorable dark period in the film, during which -- among other attempts to rid himself of the cruelty of waking up in the same Pennsylvania town every day -- he hurled himself off a building, drove off a cliff, climbed into the bathtub with a toaster and kidnapped Punxsutawney Phil, the iconic groundhog.
If Tony Romo really is the golden boy that everyone's making him out to be, we most likely will not be seeing him attempt to murder himself or steal a famous mascot, but with any luck, perhaps we could see him defend Jessica Simpson's honor in a snowball fight.
Question: Is there an official term for the opposite of the Midas touch, whereby instead of gold, everything you touch turns to shit?
I seem to be afflicted with this condition when it comes to my fantasy football squads. They went a combined 0-3 during Week 1 of the NFL season, and while I realize that this shouldn't significantly affect my demeanor or outlook on life, the prospect of having crappy fantasy teams makes me want to douse myself in kerosene and take a headlong plunge through a half-inch thick plate glass window.
Pretending like the blog hasn't been in a coma for the past two weeks...
I was watching tennis the other day when I happened upon a match featuring Sybille Bammer of Austria. And during said match, it came to my attention that her last name is pronounced "BAUM-er," which immediately called to mind "The Baumer" himself, Richie Tenenbaum, the depressed former tennis pro portrayed by Luke Wilson in The Royal Tenenbaums.
Which immediately made me think of the man working at the graveyard in the film who spots Wilson's character walking past, prompting him to say "Hey Baumer! Alright!" a phrase that will heretofore pop into my head every time I see Sybille Bammer take the tennis court for all the rest of my born days (which is to say, probably about five or 10 more times).
Perhaps this is too much to ask, but I would greatly enjoy it if "The Baumer" of real life women's tennis would have a meltdown on par with that of the fictional Baumer in the film, sitting down on the court and taking off her shoes and only making a cursory effort to swat at every shot that came across the net.
And lastly, I know it's Austrian, but why in the blazes is her name spelled Bammer and pronounced "BAUM-er"? Do they call prison "the SLAUM-er" in Austria?
Very important issues at hand here, as you can see.
When you see a story that says a baby whale in Australia has mistaken a yacht for its mother, you generally say to yourself: That is pretty amusing.
And when you read further down on the page, and discover that the whale has attempted to "suckle" from the yacht's nonexistent breast, there's really only one thing left to be said:
It probably shouldn't be that enjoyable to watch the greatest basketball player of all time annihilating a bunch of school kids, but for some reason, it is.
Also, I know these are just high school kids he's schooling, but seeing how automatic his fade-away still is, is there any doubt that the 45-year-old incarnation of MJ could suit up and score 18 per game in the League right now?
You may have already seen this elsewhere. If not, you must watch. Baron Davis is fast becoming the king of pro athletes when it comes to bizarre, semi-underground Internet videos (see: Baron on roller skates for reference). It should also be pointed out that Baron's co-star in this short (Steve Nash) has some frighteningly good dance moves (and a remarkable pair of shorts).
Dog Baron all you want for not finishing what he started in Golden State, but it's hard not to like a guy (or guys in this case) who are willing to don ridiculously nerdy outfits, hop on a tandem bicycle and have a dance session on the street for no apparent reason whatsoever.
You know how in the middle of the summer people leave New York and it gets really quiet?
You also know how in the middle of the summer, the streets of New York smell like a vile combination of puke, excrement and fecal matter combined into one vicious nostril-assaulting toxin?
You also know how sometimes, you put a photo on your blog, and it ends up showing up vertical instead of horizontal, but you don't feel like changing it?
I bring this up (the first thing, not the second or third) because you may see the occasional tumbleweed blowing through these streets during the next month or so. This, as they say, is my busy time of year. That's not to say that I won't have any new thrilling posts, so please keep checking back so that you can have the joy of stumbling across one such post, or so that you can curse my name for not having added anything new in [insert number of days here].
Thank you for your time, understanding and continued support.
Taking a break from my unintentional blogging exile (forgive me readers, it has been rather busy around these parts) to wonder why on God's green earth a first-place team would sign a 50-year-old woman, as the Detroit Shock have just done with Nancy Lieberman.
More importantly, though, why the hell am I writing about it?
Perhaps it's partially because of Shock coach Bill Laimbeer's quote: "Can she still compete at this level? I don't know. But I'm going to throw her in the fire." Something about a 51-year-old man saying that about a 50-year-old woman conjures the image of him quite literally picking her up and flinging her headlong onto the hardwood floor, at which point she breaks a hip.
Okay, I think I'm done. We can all go back to throwing darts at Hawks GM Rick Sund's face.
Dallas: A Place Where Ankles Stay Maddeningly Swollen, and They Don't Give Away Kia's for Free (at Least Not to My Friends)
Well, the smoke has cleared, and as you can gather from that rather economical headline, our man in the NBA Kia Motors Performance Challenge gave it a go on his gimped ankle, and while no one came within two seconds of Mike W.'s 17.8 seconds time from the qualifying round a couple months back, his ankle just couldn't withstand the rigors of the obstacle course. Fact is, when he took to the court Sunday, the thing was still swollen up worse than a guadeloupe (the guadeloupe, for those not in the know, is a distant cousin of the canteloupe. Check that -- I'm being told that Guadeloupe is a French territory in the Caribbean).
In any case, as much as I would have enjoyed doing e-brake turns in that new Kia, looks like we'll just have to wait until next year (and most likely attempt to qualify for the finals ourselves).
Before we go, let's take a second to pour out a small dollop of St. Ides for The Atlanta Representative, who made a hell of a run just getting on the plane with that mangled ankle of his.
You may now return to your regularly scheduled programming.
We interrupt whatever the hell else you were doing with this important news bulletin:
Friend of the blog Mike Walbert (a.k.a. "Mike E. Dubs," a.k.a. "Mickael Pietrus," a.k.a. "Pro Form," a.k.a. "Ice Pack" a.k.a. "300") is in Dallas this weekend as the Atlanta representative in the NBA Kia Motors Performance Challenge (follow this link and see Mike on the left).
For those not in the know, the Kia Motors Performance Challenge is just like the skills competition at NBA All-Star Weekend, and it doesn't take a goddamn professor of religion to realize that only one competitor in the nation (some dude named Steve Clark from D.C.) has posted a higher regional score (16.8 seconds) than Monsieur Walbert, who clocked in a 17.8 seconds in ATL a few months back in front of a confused crowd who had absolutely no idea who this guy was.
Given that he had the second-best score out of nine competitors, if you were a gambling man you'd probably be wise to throw down a little coin on the kid from ATL. But here's where it gets interesting: This past week, while playing hoops, the Atlanta Representative suffered a rather vicious sprained ankle. As just told to The OCC via secure telephone connection, the bruise from the sprain spread down his foot and partway up his calf with the reckless abandon of the Bubonic Plague. Mike was told by more than one person in the medical profession that he most likely tore some ligaments (they couldn't confirm with x-rays because the ankle was too damn sickeningly swollen to look at). But thanks to a steady regimen of rest, ice, compression, elevation, pilates and peyote, he's on the ground in Dallas and is actually walking (or perhaps more accurately, limping).
"If I win, which is a long shot now, it's gonna be a hell of a story," says the young Walbert.
He's got until Sunday at 5 p.m. to consume enough booze to get that swelling to go down, then get out there and win the damn thing.
I'll be the first to say that I'm not putting it past him to get it done.
We'll be back with updates throughout the weekend.
Oh, by the way, did I mention that the winner of this bitch gets a brand new Kia?
I found the answer to that question you were wondering about. The answer is, six years.
The question, in case you have forgotten, is "How long does it take for you [you being a former Knicks guard who goes by the name of John Starks] to sufficiently fade from the limelight after your playing career concludes so that you can blend in on a commuter train from Connecticut to New York without being harassed or accosted by anyone?"
This is all a very roundabout way of saying I saw John Starks on the train yesterday. He was wearing a suit. No one else seemed to notice him. However, I think he noticed that I noticed him, and he was probably terrified that I was going to make a scene. I didn't.
On Monday, as I am occasionally wont to do, I boarded an airplane. The flight was rather long, and about 4.5 hours into it, I exhausted most existing means of entertainment (I stopped short of eating the pre-packaged, microwaved cheeseburger that could undoubtedly survive a nuclear holocaust).
So I turned to the Sky Mall magazine. I killed about two minutes flipping through the first 39 pages, until, on page 40 -- I spotted something.
THE MARSHMALLOW SHOOTER, said the font below the silly-looking purple gun.
The description read: "This clever pump-action device shoots sweet, edible miniature marshmallows over 30 feet, and it even has an LED sight that projects a safe beam of red light to help locate a target for pinpoint accuracy. The easy-to-refill magazine holds 20 marshmallows for fast, nonstop action."
I immediately went down to the lab (not located on board the plane) to check my blood for traces of peyote.
This clever pump-action device shoots sweet, edible miniature marshmallows over 30 feet?
Are we so lazy as a society that we have to blast our marshmallows across the house to one another instead of getting up to retrieve them from the bag?
Are we so obsessed with guns that we need a gun that shoots candy? (and a candy gun with a laser site, at that.)
Not wanting to miss out on this offer, I immediately ordered six Marshmallow Shooters, at $24.95 a pop.
Today I was walking on the street when a ruddy-faced drunken man zig-zagging his way down 9th Avenue suddenly had a moment of semi-lucid thought upon spotting my red Falcons t-shirt.
"The Falcons!?!" he said. "You don't know anything about... Atlanta."
Daddy suffered a pretty horrific injury recently. A fractured left testicle. Didn't know testicles could fracture? Me neither. Maybe you'll learn about that someday in science class.
Now if you'll pardon me, I'm going to go make myself vomit and then weep uncontrollably for about 5 minutes. After that I think I'll feel better about all this.
They're probably gonna need to get this rule about a switch hitter facing a switch pitcher sorted out before Pat Venditte goes too much farther in his professional career.
Before you get all bent out of shape about it, let me ask you this: Who among us hasn't been spotted at Tryst (the nightclub in the Wynn casino in Vegas) spraying bottles of Dom P. all over the assembled masses, only to be found unconscious with an orbital fracture on East Flamingo Road approximately 36 hours later?
So before you go judging Raiders WR Javon Walker for his actions (or for whatever debaucherous sequence of decisions led him to be laid out on a street corner Monday morning), just realize that sometimes when you go to Las Vegas, things happen a little bit differently than planned. If you can't handle that, then you probably ought to stay planted in your seat with your little cup of coins playing the video slots, and leave the champagne spraying and street brawling for those of us who are actually looking to have a good time.
Clearly, something was bothering Rockies second baseman Jeff Baker on Sunday, as he came into the game for a pinch hitter, then was removed for a pinch runner after reaching on a hit. But in an astonishing development -- and in a notable departure from recent episodes in which it was revealed that Kaz Matsui had an anal fissure and Carlos Guillenhad hemorrhoids -- Rockies manager Clint Hurdle did not reveal what was wrong with Baker, instead invoking the (apparently quite rare) phrase, "I'm not at liberty to say." Which of course begs two questions:
1) Why couldn't the Astros and the Tigers taken the same strategy and decide not to sell out Matsui and Guillen's terribly embarrassing butt problems?
2) What in God's name was plaguing Baker, and how am I supposed to find out if no one is going to be senseless enough to run their mouth about it?
This morning I was in Dunkin' Donuts when the woman behind me (probably in her 50's or 60's, looking slightly down and out and more than reasonably troubled) suddenly said to the man walking past her, "Please talk to me, please talk to me. Please talk to me!"
He proceeded to walk right past her, at which point she lamented, "He thinks I hung up the phone on him. And he's probably gonna hold that grudge for the rest of his life." This was my first true hint that the woman was insane -- the fact that she clearly believed that an accidental phone hang-up could possibly lead to a lifelong grudge. Actually, it was my third hint that she was insane. The first hint was the fact that she clearly looked insane. The second hint was when she started yelling out "Please talk to me please talk to me please talk to me!"
When no one responded to her (clearly we were all following the man's lead), she said, "Fine. Do it." As if to say, "Go ahead, hold that grudge -- see if I care. (On second thought, please don't!)" She then started muttering about how these long lines at Dunkin' Donuts kill her.
From the files of "Jesus, that sounds uncomfortable," it has come to light that Padres pitcher Chris Young is suffering from a severe case of I-don't-know-what-you-call-it-but- something-is-really-wrong-with-his-head (the result of his taking a line drive off the face from Albert Pujols on May 21). As Padres manager Bud Black told the San Diego Union Tribune,
"He can't taste his food. His sense of smell is not there...He'll probably have to have a septum procedure. At this point, the main focus is on the small crack in the skull. That has to close up so they can feel very comfortable about no infection getting in his brain."
That sounds terribly uncomfortable. And frankly, the way Pujols is lashing the baseball these days, it's probably a good idea to either a) sport a helmet on the mound (see photo above) or b) release your pitch and promptly hit the deck. Then again, that option leaves your kidneys and other vital organs dangerously exposed. File this under the very rare instance (the other being Greg Madduxpeeing on teammates in the shower) that I'm actually quite happy to not be a Major Leaguer.
Sometimes you read things that make a very sick and crass part of you happy. Today, I saw this quote from Tigers manager Jim Leyland (speaking of Carlos Guillen) in the Detroit Free Press:
"He can hardly move -- he's got hemorrhoids so bad. He's been playing with hemorrhoids that probably need to be lanced. He probably shouldn't have been out there (third base on Monday)."
Why is this funny? Because butt injuries are funny. It's why we laughed earlier this year when we learned that Kaz Matsuihad an anal fissure. It is also why we google image'd "anal fissure," and then promptly vomited.
Another reason this Guillen news is humorous is that it evokes the image of "lancing" ones hemorrhoids. Not sure about you, but for me this conjures the visual of Jim Leyland wielding a giant spear and jamming it at full speed into the buttocks of Carlos Guillen, sending his hemorrhoids one-by-one into an explosive mess of volcano-like rear-end discharge as Leyland cackles and dances and claps his hands in delight.
Wait a second -- I'm getting signs of a pulse here...
Please forgive the lack of posts lately. More to come soon. In the meantime, I'll tell you four things you may not have known about Denver, where I just spent the past four days:
1) The mile high air effect you so often hear about as pertains to sporting events is not a joke. I played basketball with other attendees of a wedding and you could feel the burn in your lungs almost instantaneously. I also hit a wiffleball approximately 700 feet.
2) Coors Field -- despite currently having next to no atmosphere on account of the Rockies being rotten -- is a pretty cool place to see a baseball game (tough to top a view of the Rocky Mountains from your seats);
3) Omar Minaya, in addition to having a slight managerial crisis on his hands, also is in possession of an orange suitcase (spotted him outside Coors Field on Friday night);
4) Jose Reyes, in addition to being in the midst of a somewhat disappointing season, also has at least one flamboyantly ugly white printed t-shirt (spotted him and Luis Castillo aimlessly wandering the streets of Denver on Saturday night).
I've often thought (and occasionally said) that Rick Ankiel had one of the most fascinating -- and these days, surprisingly satisfying -- pro sports careers of our time.
On Tuesday night, he added another chapter to his story, Roy Hobbs-style.
If you haven't seen these two throws, you best get your thumb out of your bunghole and take a look. This is pure filth.
Here's the not remotely interesting fact of the day: Mariners closer J.J. Putz pronounces his last name "PUTS," as opposed to "PUTZ," as it appears (and as would be much, much better).
Another fact you might be interested in: I have absolutely nothing to write about right now.
I'll try to remedy that soon. In the meantime, I wish you a pleasant day.
