Game Report: June 2005 Archives
Pittsburgh at Washington. Nationals 7, Pirates 5. (Sweep.)
The Nationals called an informal team meeting. Well, the fielders anyway; they were careful not to let anything slip to the pitchers, who were dong pregame drills together on the field.
"Guys, I think we can stop hazing Esteban now," Bluegrass said. "What do you say?"
"You mean I have to stop stuffing eggs up his muffler?" Riker asked.
"And what about the Barbie dress we make him pin to his boxers when he pitches?" inquired Guillen.
"Will we have to find someone else to carry the pistachio nuts and the Big League Chew from the clubhouse to the bullpen every afternoon?" Guzman wondered.
"Yes," Bluegrass answered. "Esteban has proven his loyalty. He's not a plebe anymore, guys."
"But," stuttered Vinny, "but then who will clean up the locker room if we stop making Esteban do it?"
"We can shift some extra hazing onto Drese until Trader Jim gets us another pitcher," Officer Schneider volunteered.
"Yes, but guys, you're missing the big picture here," Bluegrass said, a scolding edge now in his voice. "It's time we started scoring for Esteban just like we do for everyone else."
"No!" several players shouted.
"But we've gotten so used to resting on Esteban's starts," Spivey said. "That day of rest is the only thing keeping us from falling apart. I mean that literally - we'll put ourselves in the hospital if we have to try to score runs every day."
"Junior, you're forgetting about Drese. We're embargoing him now, remember?"
"Oh, right. Sorry."
"Anyway," Bluegrass continued, "I'm going to give Esteban a couple of runs today. Who's with me?"
"I'm there," Spivey said.
"Count me in," Guillen said. "Any runs I don't hit or drive in, I'll try to make up for with Exocet-like throws from right to prevent runs."
"Frank has me batting fourth, so I'll join you. I figure I'm good for two, maybe three RBIs," Vinny said, not even looking up as he rubbed in the Ben-Gay.
"I'll try to drive in anyone Vinny leaves me," Marlon said.
"This I swear," said Wil Cordero, whom no one could remember inviting, "I will get a hit. I will get a hit for Esteban."
"And for me!" Riker said from his gurney in the corner.
"Guys, I can feel it in the humid air. The ball is gonna ride today, and so help me I will park one over the fence. I just feel it," Officer Schneider said.
"No hare pivotar en la primera echada cada vez," Guzman said. "En lugar, intentare caminar y permanecer fuera del juego doble."
"Thanks guys. You're all great," said Bluegrass. "Who's in for inviting Esteban out with us in Chicago tonight? Steaks at Harry Caray's, then beers and Playstation back at the hotel?"
"Awesome!"
"Dude, I am so there!"
"Si!"
"I'll bring my new Batman controller. It is sweet, man."
"Wait," said Vinny. "Shouldn't we talk to the relievers, tell them we're going to give Esteban the win this afternoon, and make sure Chief will close it out for us?"
"Done and done," said Officer Schneider. "They're already on board. Talked to them last night."
"But they won't give anything away to Esteban, right?" Guillen asked. "We want this to be a surprise for Loaiza."
"I only told Luis, Tex, and Chief. They're cool, man."
"All right," said Bluegrass. "Let's go out there and score some runs for Esteban. Hands together and ... One! Two! Three! Break!"
Pittsburgh at Washington. Nationals 3, Pirates 2.
This was not the first time a rain delay allowed BallWonk to watch Veronica Mars in its entirety during a Nationals game. Thanks to a two-hour rain delay, Wednesday's game finished long past many peoples' bedtimes. Like the Washington Post. So to help anyone planning to watch the two-parter on Tivo, BallWonk offers this index to the game, by inning.
Ayala, Luis, win vulture, top 8th.
Baerga, Carlos, still gettin' it done, bottom 8th.
Baserunning, effective, top 3rd (part 1).
Baserunning, pointless, top 3rd (part 2).
Batting helmets, why they're mandatory, top 8th.
Byrd, Marlon, defensive talent on loan from God, top 7th.
Castilla, Vinny, inches away from three-run homer, bottom 6th.
Cordero, Chad, savings eligible for FDIC coverage, top 9th.
Cordero, Chad, lowering his WHIP again, top 9th.
Cordero, Chad, setting new team record for consecutive saves, top 9th.
Cordero, Chad, one game away from all-time monthly save record, top 9th.
Cordero, Wil, overdue or just plain done?, bottom 7th.
Cordero, Wil, batting sixth instead of ninth, bottom 1st, bottom 3rd, bottom 5th, bottom 7th.
Grounds crew, still needing practice, top 3rd (delay).
Guillen, Jose, getting medieval on a team that let him go, bottom 8th.
Guillen, Jose, Pirates living in fear of, bottom 6th.
Guillen, Jose, 500th RBI, bottom 4th.
Guzman, Cristian, not sucking, bottom 1st, bottom 4th.
Guzman, Cristian, showing some speed, bottom 1st.
Lightning rods, this stadium has them, right? top 3rd (delay).
Majewski, Gary, as little Chief, top 7th.
M*A*S*H, wishing the game was on channel 20 so we could watch during the delay, top 3rd (delay).
Patterson, Long John, good pitches, top 1st, top 2nd, top 3rd (part 1), top 4th, top 5th.
Patterson, Long John, bad pitches, top 3rd (part 2).
Radio crew, more entertaining filling time during a rain delay than actually calling the game, top 3rd (delay).
Spivey, Junior, knowing when to hold 'em, when to fold 'em, when to walk away, and when to stretch one out into a double, bottom 6th.
Stealing second, the dangers of attempting against Officer Schneider, top 4th.
Stealing third, easier with the pitcher's back to you, bottom 4th.
Tarp, needing a bigger one, top 3rd (delay).
Trader Jim, nature giving him two hours of down time he could use to trade long-term talent for mediocre short-term help, top 3rd (delay).
Triple, supreme beauty of, bottom 4th.
Umpires, not knowing when to call a delay, top 3rd (part 1).
And finally, thank you Florida, for coming through with that two-run 13th inning to beat Atlanta. We needed to pick up that game on the Cowards.
Pittsburgh at Washington. Nationals 2, Pirates 1.
He transforms faster than you can say "Abracapocus" or "Hocuscadabara." One day, he's the efficient Ryan Drese, the ground-ball-inducing out machine who throws low and lower for eight innings and can get a strikeout when he really needs to. But the next, he's Dryan Rese, the flailing run machine who throws high and higher for a couple innings until the manager puts him out of his misery with a trip to the showers.
Ryan Drese was the opening-day starter for Texas. He pitched shutout ball in Los Angeles of Anaheim and Tuesday against Texas.
Dryan Rese was released - not traded, not sent down, just fired - and he blew a game ugly against Pittsburgh in his last start.
If you look at his split stats against individual teams, Ryan Drese has an ERA of about 1.79. Dryan Rese has an ERA of about 9.49.
The problem is that it can be hard to tell the two apart. Before the game, his teammates tiptoe around Ryan/Dryan, hoping, if it's Ryan, not to do something to turn him into Dryan. See, nobody knows what triggers the change. Not even Ryan/Dryan.
Instead, the guys approach Officer Schneider.
"So, Brian, um, tell me."
"Tell you what, Brad?"
"You know. Drese. Or Rese. Is he Jekyll or Hyde today?"
"Dude, I have no idea. Why don't you go ask him yourself?"
"No thanks."
"Yeah, I didn't think so."
Fortunately for the Nationals, who were doomed to score only two run Tuesday, the good doctor Ryan Drese was on the mound. His father, who taught him pitching, once told him to imagine that a giant combine thresher had escaped from a farm field and was bearing down on him from center field. The only way to slow down that thresher before it mowed him down and harvested him into little tiny pieces was to feed it ground balls. Ground ball after ground ball.
And that's how he pitches. Which is just fine when he does that, since our infield defense is kind of like a ground-ball harvesting machine. If John Deere ever made a combine designed to take ground balls and turn them into outs, it would look like the Washington Nationals, but painted green and yellow.
BallWonk wonders whether Ryan/Dryan notices just how much more relaxed and casual everyone acts around him after the game starts and they know which half of his split personality is in charge.
The only shame was that Josh Fogg didn't pitch a no-hitter. When we score our only two runs of the game on a hit batter, a walk, a fielder's choice, a throwing error, and a sac fly, and win, well, the only way to improve on that situation is to do it during a no-hitter. Baseball history is full of pitchers who throw no-hitters and lose, and BallWonk would like to see it happen sometime. Would love to see the Nationals win despite getting no-hit, that is. No-hitters are nice and all, but winning is more important, especially on nights Atlanta wins too.
Toronto at Washington. Canada 9, America 5.
Well, we did win the series. And Vinny has finally started hitting again. And we probably won't have to play the Blue Jays again until 2008. Which, given that Toronto is a thoroughly mediocre team that seems to have our number, is a good thing. Plus there's the off day, and so maybe we won't lose Riker for too long with that bruised ankle. Ouch! Get well soon, Nick!
In the meantime, it's time for Roy Church to get back in the game. BallWonk feels just terrible about all those bruises Church got making that catch to end the game last week, but five days of rest was enough, and that was like three days ago. Bluegrass has been playing with one arm in a sling for weeks now. Guillen can hardly see he's so angry most of the time. Guzman is still playing even though his pride was broken at the fourth vertebra in late April. What does Church have, a little bit of sore skin? Get back in the game, Churchy. If Riker misses any games, we'll need Bluegrass to cover first and you in the outfield full-time.
Note to Tony Armas: We traded Pedro Martinez for you. Please stop sucking so much. One less run per game is all BallWonk asks.
And what were the Blue Jays thinking wearing black shirts yesterday? Sure, they're from the frozen wastes of British North America and all, where you learn to layer with dark colors just to survive the walk to the outhouse between September and March, but still. It was hot Sunday. Real, summer-in-Washington hot. People have been known to die just from wearing dark colors in the sun here. Not "suffer heatstroke and leave the game," or "start throwing up from the dehydration, which is actually ironic since in this kind of humidity your sweat doesn't cool you down anyway," both of which are real threats to anyone standing in the sun for three hours in Washington heat, but actual drop-where-you're-standing heat death.
Oh, and to top it off, the Orioles proved their complete lameness by losing again to Atlanta on Sunday. So we dropped a game in the standings. Thanks, Baltimore. Thanks a whole bunch. BallWonk is totally fantasizing right now about going to the World Series and sweeping the stupid Orioles.
Because it was really a depressing Sunday. The baseball equivalent of a Smiths song. We scored five runs and lost, the bullpen gave up four late runs, Riker hurt himself, and our division lead shrunk. BallWonk has to blame someone, so it might as well be C. Petegomery Angelos and his evil birds.
Toronto at Washington. America 5, Canada 2.
And on the sixth day, the Nationals made great defensive plays, and saw what they had done, and called it good.
When BallWonk scores a game, he marks a $ on great defensive plays. Saturday night, the Blue Jays made one money play. The Nationals made four. Each team made a moral error, although Riker's failure to come up with Spivey's low throw came on a double-play attempt and therefore does not count officially. And it's not like a lot of first-basemen regularly make that catch. Riker does, though, and from those to whom much talent is given, much is expected.
Toronto's only great play was Hudson's stop and throw to Hinske against Bluegrass in the second, but it was a bases-empty third out and didn't count for much in the course of the game.
The Nationals, on the other hand, earned defensive dollars on the very first play of the game, Adams' line shot up the middle to Livo's waiting glove. Ted Lilly struggled early and got nailed for two runs in the first. Livo struggled early, but that play meant he could escape the first with the shutout intact.
Livo earned a less consequential defensive dollar in the third, on a stop and flick to first for the third out against Catanalotto. After that, Marlon Byrd took over as the Nationals' fielding breadwinner. His sliding catch for the first out in the fourth saved two runs and was easily the play of the game. It also sent the runners scurrying back to first and second, so that Greg Zaun's subsequent single also didn't score the runs.
Then in the seventh, Catanalotto tested Marlon's arm, trying to stretch a stand-up single into a sliding double. Big mistake. Marlons is from crime-ridden Philly, remember, and his car was just stolen from the RFK parking lot, so he takes theft kind of personally now. He's been pestering Officer Schneider for a couple of days now for a deputy badge.
So when Marlon saw an attempted theft in progress, well, he cried out, "Book 'em, Junior!" and threw a perfect strike to nail the scofflaw at second. The judge got a good look at the evidence and sent Catalanotto down right then and there, sentencing him to the third out.
Byrd is serious about his new law-enforcement vocation. He even went undercover in the eighth, stealing second and inducing a throwing error by Zaun that allowed a run to score. "Hmmm," Byrd thought. "I guess sometimes crime does pay. This is a very useful insight into the criminal mind."
Hail to the Chief, too, who entered the game with four outs to go and a fat three-run lead. Normally, Chief would test himself by allowing two runs, balking a batter to third, and then throwing with his left hand, but Saturday night he was content to put in a four up, four down relief appearance for the save. Someone tell Joe Torre: We know where Mariano Rivera's missing mojo went. Chief Cordero's got it.
Toronto at Washington. America 3, Canada 0.
Perhaps it would be more appropriate to say Quebec 3, Canada 0, since Friday's game was the traditional francophone-anglophone grudge match between the Blue Jays of English-speaking Canada and les Expos of Montreal. And this could be the last time these two teams play their standing date on la Fête nationale du Québec. Score one to the poor Quebecios. It's a pity someone had to lose a team for Washington to gain one; Montrealers, nous nous souvions.
Ironic, though, that President Bush and Condoleeza Rice would be on hand for what amounts to a French victory.
Washington at Pittsburgh. Midweek Update.
Pirates 11, Nationals 4.
Nationals 5, Pirates 4.
It was the best of games, it was the worst of games, it was a the inning of skillfulness, it was the inning of incompetence, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of diffidence, it was the season of light, it was the season of darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair, we had everything before us, we had nothing before us, we were all going direct to the World Series, we were all going direct the other way - in short, the period was so far like the whole season that some of its noisiest fans insisted on its being received, for good or for evil, in the superlative degree of comparison only.
There was a manager with a manly jaw and an old face in the dugout for Washington, there was a manager with a manly jaw and a young face in the dugout for Pittsburgh. In both cities it was clearer than crystal to the lords of the presses and the wavers of foam hands that their position in the standings was right where it ought to be.
It was just this past Tuesday and Wednesday, the first day and the first full day of summer, with a full moon in the sky.
In the course of two games, the Nationals had a starter blow a game, two of their three best relievers each blow a game, inefficient batters blow a game, and mediocre defense blow a game. In the course of those two games, the Pirates had a bullpen win a game, an ex-Twins outfielder win a game, and a firstbaseman win a game.
Yet each team only lost, and only won, one game. As has happened all season for Pittsburgh, all the game-winning individual performances came in the same game, which the Pirates won in a blowout; all season they've been winning the blowouts but losing the close games. And as has happened all season for Washington, all the game-losing individual performances came in the same game, which the Nationals lost in a blowout; all season they've been losing the blowouts but winning the close games.
These two games distilled for everyone the natures of these two teams, and the reasons why, although many in the press rated them about equally on talent and picked both to finish not too many games below .500, one stands atop the most competitive division in baseball and the other is mired in the middle of a middling pack.
You can also look at what happens with the bases loaded to see how the Nationals lose and win games. When we load the bases with our own runners, all too often we choke, as we did in the seventh inning Tuesday. Bluegrass, Guillen the Barbarian, and Riker on base, one out. Vinny and Junior make outs on the next two at-bats, just barely scoring a single run. Ugly, and typical, and we went on to lose that game.
But Wednesday afternoon, it was the Pirates who loaded the bases with a single, a walk, and a single and one out. And, as our bullpen has proven it can do pretty much at will, it stopped Pittsburgh cold. The convincingly deep Hector Carrasco got Redman to ground to Riker, who managed to make the force at home. Then Jason "Fundy" Bay struck out swinging. Beautiful, and typical, and we went on to win that game.
The Nationals also followed the five-run rule that marks them, oddly, as perhaps the most average team of all time. Average in that the average score of a baseball game is 5-4. When the Nationals score that fifth run, they pretty much always win. When they don't score that fifth run, well, they can still win, but all bets are off. We're so consistent on this point that 54 ought to be Frank's number.
In short, these two games, the Tuesday night blowout under a full moon and the Wednesday afternoon nailbiter under a full sun, told the story of two seasons. Whether through skill or luck or providence, the Nationals have been making all their bad mistakes at once and losing big, but spreading their great plays out and winning more often by tiny margins. The Pirates, perhaps on paper the most Nationals-like team in the NL, all play great together but spread their mistakes out over the other games. Pittsburgh, in contrast, wins the occasional blowout but loses the more common close games.
Then again, if Vinny gets his groove back, and Six-Three keeps up his superguzmanic hitting, and Vidro comes back strong, Drese keeps his pitches down, and Church doesn't get platooned so much, then maybe we'll start winning the blowouts too. And wouldn't it be something to win the close ones and beat the dickens out the other team from time to time?
Washington at Pittsburgh. Nationals 7, Pirates 4.
Apropos of very little, BallWonk's second-favorite movie line of all time, right behind the walkie-talkie overacting duel between Shatner and Montalban in Star Trek II, is the scene in North by Northwest when Cary Grant says, "But I've never been to Pittsburgh."
Grant delivered that line with such suave good humor, such overwhelming cool, that to this day only George Clooney has ever approached the level of smooth Grant brought to that one line. Well, George Clooney and the Washington Nationals, who have now been to Pittsburgh.
And, like a Cary Grant movie, the Nationals were all about playing things cool. Livo was nonchalantly mixing martinis between no-hit innings. Guillen the Barbarian cultivated an air of sophisticated insouciance as he belted out two home runs, swinging the bat in one hand as his gaze drifted far from the pitcher as though he'd been to this party before and it bored him that time too. Bluegrass sipped mint juleps as he suavely walked to first. Six-Three brought a stylish flair to the Nomarian wrist-flexing habit he's recently picked up; instead of his batting gloves, he adjusted his cufflinks before hitting the hard half of a cycle.
Majewski faced four batters, struck out two, and got another one out, all while methodically rolling, lighting, and smoking his own cigar. Chief Cordero earned a one-hit save and still got the girl.
Why, even the decidedly blue-collar Vinny was practicing his Fonzie moves Monday, bare-handing the ball and making the tough plays look like ... um, well, never mind.
None of which compared to the lengths Frank went to fly casual Monday night. Gone was the usual Nationals warm-up jacket. Heck, gone was the usual manager on the steps. F-Rob was so easygoing he didn't even show up in the dugout; instead he showed his confidence by buying a ticket and watching the game from the seats, dressed in khakis and a polo shirt. Oh, sure, Frank made polite excuses about a "suspension" or somesuch, but we saw through the ruse. He was just showing the young bucks what cool means to someone who hopped trains with Kerouac and sat in with Miles and waxed boards with Dave Velzy back before James Dean was even an uncredited extra in b-movie war flicks.
You have to believe that, sometime Monday night, Frank snapped his fingers and the jukebox played his song. Somewhere, but not in Pittsburgh, Cary Grant saw the Nationals playing it cool Monday night and smiled.
Washington at Texas. Nationals 8, Junior Senators 2.
If the Island of Lost Toys had a baseball team, it'd be the Nationals. First off, the whole Montreal Expos franchise was the most unwanted, unloved team in the history of baseball. The heart of the team is Riker, the Firstbaseman of the Future™ the Yankees gave up on a few years back. Then look at the players we've added: Six-Three, whom the Twins had been looking forward to dumping for two years; Vinny, whom even the Rockies thought was a spent force; Guillen the Barbarian, whom the Angels all but fired before last season was even over; Ryan Drese, whom the Junior Senators abandoned by the side of the road; and now Travis Hughes, whom the Junior Senators put in a box marked "Free to a Good Home" at their annual spring-training sale.
Riker has been our anchor, the rock upon which the team is built. Six-Three has actually been OK the last few days. Vinny carried the team in April. Guillen the Barbarian has pillaged the heck out of opposing pitchers and batters. Ryan Drese looked more like Nolan Ryan in his first start for us. And now Travis Hughes, perhaps the most Texas-named guy in baseball, even though he was born and raised in Kansas, saved Kim Sun-Woo's start when Inchon's finest had to leave the game early. Travis faced five batters and got four of them out - three on strikeouts. And not just any batters, but the very same Senators he thought he'd be playing for when he made the big leagues.
Even more, the mound quartet of Kim, Hughes, Ayala, and Tex Majewski effectively disarmed Texas. The Junior Senators only got off two shots in Sunday's high-noon showdown, both of them one-run flesh wounds. The Nationals, meanwhile, played their Zorro-like version of baseball to perfection, with a jabbing single here, a slashing double there, and eventually all those little cuts added up to a lot of bleeding.
Did the Junior Senators deserve to get so badly mauled by the Nationals in front of a Father's Day crowd of 34,460 fans and 14 members of Gary Majewski's family? Deserve's got nothing to do with it.
And anyway, it's not like Texas was even trying to wear the white hat in this one. Oh no. Good guys don't drill Nick Johnson, the fragilest of players, twice. Those were some really egregious beanings; if BallWonk was an umpire, someone would have been thrown out of the game. Hitting a guy on a 3-0 pitch? That's just insulting. And then hitting a guy in the knee - in the knee - with an 0-2 pitcher's count? Come on! But Riker stood in there and finished the game without rushing to the mound and getting himself suspended for taking his bat to Hitty McBeanball's knee to see how he likes it - and, as far as BallWonk knows, he hasn't gone on the disabled list either.
Kudos to Mel and Ron for the way they stood up for Washington in the face of that second beanball. When Riker scored, Mel mentioned that the run was credited to "Schmouse, or whatever his name is," and Ron said he sure hoped Roy Church would score because Shouse was on the hook for that run too and he deserved to have both his runners score for the way he hit Riker. They're just saying what everyone is thinking!
Then again, Mel and Ron were both wearing their brand-new MASN polo shirts instead of their normal shirts and ties, so maybe they were just getting a little overly casual. They're nice polo shirts and all, but BallWonk likes a little formality, even if Mel Proctor seems to have the world's largest collection of tacky baseball ties.
Washington at Texas. Weekend update.
Senators 8, Nationals 1.
Senators 7, Nationals 4.
It's the first rule of all swordsmen, from Zorro to Olympic fencers to Miyamoto Musashi: Don't get into a gunfight.
Because once someone starts shooting, not even D’Artagnan will walk away from that fight.
And the Nationals are a band of sword-wielding samurai in a world of uzi-toting gunmen.
Most teams, and especially those in the trigger-happy American League, are built on the shootist's model that if you fire enough bullets at the outfield wall, a few of them will go over for home runs. The Nationals don't score that way. We advance from base to base, cutting down fielders with singles and doubles, like Rob Roy wading through redcoats.
Thus in Texas this weekend. It was like that scene in Raiders of the Lost Ark, where the sword-spinning dervish confronts Indy, only to be shot down by Dr. Jones' Smith & Wesson. Except Indy shot once and walked away. The Texas Senators emptied a whole six-shooter of home runs into the Nationals Friday and Saturday.
When the sheriff arrived to investigate, he asked Buck Showalter why the Rangers opened fire on the Nationals. "They reached for a knife. That Wilkerson fella, why, don't y'all know he leads his league in doubles?"
"Fine," said the sheriff. "But why did you keep hitting those home runs after the Nationals were down?"
"The Nationals looked like they might get up."
To be fair, Six-Three and Roy Church each hit two homers over the course of the two games. It's nice to see that somebody brought a gun to this fight. But when you rely on a part-time rookie and Cristian Guzman to power your offense, well, as they say in Texas, y'all ain't gonna win that thar game now.
What we need is a little disarmament. If our pitchers can empty the Senators' holsters and turn these games into knife fights, we can win. Long John Patterson and Pedro Armas Jr. just couldn't get that job done. And you kind of pity them the task, especially since they both throw bullets to begin with.
This visit to the Bandbox at Arlington shows just what a good match the Nationals are for RFK Canyon National Monument. If you don't have a lot of home-run hitters to begin with, you might as well play in the dense sea-level air and put the outfield wall so far back you don't even have room for lower-deck seats. Here's hoping the city of Washington will take a lesson from our sojourn in Texas and make the new ballpark a canyon like the Bobby instead of a gulch like Arlington.
Washington at Los Angeles of Anaheim. Nationals 1, Angels 0.
Can the runless wonders go to California and take two of three from the division-leading Angels in their house? Inconceivable!
Except, well, um, gosh. Is it too early to start hoping for a Baltimore-Washington World Series? Yes, actually, it is. But man. Wins like this, wins that crush the spirit of one of the best teams in baseball while winning you the series, wins like this are what you become a baseball fan for. You follow your team, year after year, mostly finishing in the middle of the pack, out of the race by August, sometimes battling it out in the cellar by June, on the hope, the flickering candle-flame of a hope, that one season they'll give you a few games like Wednesday night.
Ryan Drese equalled Tomo Ohka's first start for Milwaukee, so on this night we effectively got Junior Spivey for free. Officer Schneider continued to thaw out his bat, going deep for a solo shot to win the game. The infield defense was was sorely tested but not found wanting. Vinny's arm, in particular, was breathtaking, as was Spivey's physical courage and his ability to throw while not connected to the earth.
Then the Chief came on. Figuring Washington and LA viewers, something like 250,000 people had to be watching or hearing that game. Minimum. At some point during the bottom of the ninth, every single viewer and listener suffered a minor heart attack. Doctors say a coronary incident like that takes about a year off your life, on average. So that's a minimum of 250,000 years of life the Chief cost America Wednesday. That's the equivalent of 3,500 human lifetimes wiped out in a single inning of heart-attack-inducing relief.
He's not a closer. He's a weapon of mass destruction. The Chief's control is so precise, he is in such complete and total command, that if you told BallWonk that Chad Cordero is the secret master Illuminatus who pulls the strings behind the Federal Reserve, the British monarchy, Malaysian pirate gangs, and Pakistan's nuclear program, BallWonk would be inclined to believe you. This is, after all, a man who just killed 3,500 people without batting an eye - a man who fell off the mound during a pitch, bounced the ball about a mile short of the batter, and still got a quality fastball across the plate in the strike zone.
The best sportsman BallWonk has ever seen is a British snooker player named Ronnie "Rocket" O'Sullivan. Bear with me here. The Rocket is so good at snooker - think pool for grownups - that he started playing left-handed. No one could figure out why. Sometimes he'll play right-handed. Sometimes he'll play left-handed. Sometimes he'll switch back and forth. But BallWonk is pretty sure he saw a pattern in O'Sullivan's hand switches: the Rocket is so good that nothing his opponent could do offers him any challenge. The only way to keep the game interesting is to play against himself, in this case by switching hands on the cue.
Chief, is that what you're doing here? Is it really so easy for you to get batters out at will that the only way you can make the game a challenge is to test your own limits? Look at what happens when the Chief comes in to save a two-run game: He gives up a run to make it a one-run advantage. Harder to defend, but he pretty much always holds on to that last run. When he comes in with a one-run lead, he usually spots the opposing team a runner or two early in the inning, just to see how far he can push things, before sitting down three straight batters.
Wednesday, the Chief took this pattern to its logical conclusion. What is the ultimate challenge for a closer? Start with a one-run lead. Then put three men on base with no outs. Any normal fly ball, or a wild pitch, or a walk, or a hit batsman, or a balk, scores the run and blows the lead. Any hit scores two and loses the game.
With bases loaded and no out with a one-run lead in the bottom of the ninth, it's not enough to be very good. It's not even enough to be great. You've gotta be perfect. And he was.
Washington at Los Angeles of Anaheim. Nationals 6, Angels 3.
Wow.
BallWonk has always been kidding around about calling him Guillen the Barbarian. But did you see him go berserk like an actual Viking? Mike Sciosia, the Harald Fairhair to Guillen's Egil, approached Frank, as if to disrespect the Nationals manager, and it took at least four men to hold back Guillen. BallWonk counted seven, at one point, seven men it took to restrain one blood-raging outfielder.
Did Guillen tip off his adopted father, Frank, about Donnelly's cheating glove? Whether he did or not, the Angels had to assume that the Barbarian had broken the red wall of silence and snitched on his former teammate, Deep Throat style. (Welcome to Washington, Angels.) And good for him if he did. But it also meant that you just knew the Angels would be throwing at Guillen the next time he came up to bat.
Oops!
Instead, Scot Shields plunked Ryan Church to lead off the eighth, and with a runner on and no out late in a two-run game, he had to pitch to the Barbarian. Big mistake. Guillen pillaged the ball for a game-tying home run, flipped his bat like a scrap of kindling, and suffered berserker seizures all the way around the bases. BallWonk isn't sure what the Barbarian was saying as he rounded second, but he is sure it wasn't the kind if thing you want your kids to hear.
Won't they ever learn? The Nationals are undefeated in games where the other team gets Guillen angry. Where the Barbarian is involved, you either say, "Yes, sir, Mr. Guillen, sir, whatever you say," and back slowly away, avoiding direct eye contact, or you lose the game. It's that simple.
It's a good thing the umpires didn't check Vinny Castilla's batting glove, where he is clearly hiding a foreign substance. Probably Flubber. Something that makes his apparently easy grounders unfieldable. Gold-glove candidate and former National Orlando Cabrera biffed two straight Castilla grounders, one for an unearned run.
Points to Guzman for getting a hit early in the game. But demerits for making the third out trying to steal second. Ervin Santana was only throwing 97 mph with a compact motion to defensive genius Ben Molina; gosh, why ever did Guzman get caught?
This was an everyone-contributes kind of game. Spivey got an RBI hit and a walk, and man, was that an awesome play. Bluegrass walked and scored. Roy Church scored twice, and shook off a fly ball to the head. Wil Cordero, the designated hitter with no hits to his name, got one. And then scored.
Hernandez pitched out of trouble as if the late Johnny Cochrane was his lawyer, Majewski was an assassin, Ayala was a bridge too far, and the Chief battled through some tough at-bats to sit the Angels in order.
In short, a typical Nationals victory, setting us up to try for a series win Wednesday night with Ryan Drese making his debut.
Washington at Los Angeles of Anaheim. Angels 11, Nationals 1.
Michael Jackson has the Nationals to thank for his freedom. It doesn't take a jury a whole week to find a guy not guilty on all counts. No, there was a security breach in the sequestration. One of the jurors - BallWonk's money is on the male who's into country music, or possibly the other man, the Simpsons fan - found out that the first-place Washington Nationals were coming to town.
That juror told the other jurors.
"Think we can agree which counts to convict on by 2:00? Any later than that and I don't think we'll be able to get to Los Angeles of Anaheim in time for the game."
"No, I don't think we can swing Jurors four, six, nine, or eleven by then."
"I'm certainly not ready to convict yet."
"Me either."
"Crap. Well, anyone willing to join the holdouts and acquit so we can get out of here and see the game?"
"Count me in."
"Me too."
"Dude, the Nationals are like the hottest team in baseball. I am not missing them just to spend another couple of days locked in a room with you guys. No offense."
"Well, if the rest of you are going to switch to acquit, there's no point me holding out."
And so the case against the gloved one collapsed.
As for the game, well, all good things must end. Even 10-game winning streaks. But it stood to reason that if the streak was going to end, it would come after a long flight to a new time zone and against Angels. The Angels are in the top 10 in runs scored; the Nationals are in the bottom four. Plus former National Vladimir Guerrero was coming back from the DL. Plus Esteban was pitching against AL batters. That and the fact that Guzman turned over the happy squirrel in his daily pre-game tarot reading all augered for this to be the game we lost.
It wasn't the worst thing, really. The Nationals were going to lose eventually, and as Ms. BallWonk says, if there are going to be games where you only score one run and games where you give up 11, they might as well be the same game. Lose the blowouts, but win the close ones. That's the Washington way.
Seattle at Washington. Nationals 2, Mariners 1.
BallWonk is too hoarse to type after Saturday's thrill-ride of a game. Nine in a row makes for a lot of shouting, even if you're watching from Section 626. Sadly, wonk-friend Fish had to bail on Team BallWonk's plan to walk the wonk-puppy down to Fish's place to watch the game. That left BallWonk to drink a whole lot of Foggy Bo on his own. Which worked out fine, since the tension of the game would have driven Elliot Ness to drink.
Guillen the Barbarian's weekend of greatness continued, and Long John Patterson made a whole lot of Seattle batters walk the plank. But it's about time to hail the Chief. Cordero, that is, the kid who could teach Donald Trump and Jack Welch a thing or two about closing. Give the Chief a two-run lead, and he'll give up a run and load the bases before striking out as many as he needs to save the game. But give him a one-run lead, and the Chief can be counted on to give us the lights-out 1-2-3 inning we need, like he did Saturday night.
Delegate Count: Riker 7, Livo 5, Guillen 5, Vinny 4, Vidro 4, Church 3, Bluegrass 3, Chief 1, Loaiza 1, Patterson 1, Byrd 1, Bennett 1.
Seattle at Washington. Nationals 9, Mariners 3.
It's true what Zig Ziglar says: There's no "Ohka" in "Team."
But there is a "Short" in "Team." And a "Spivey." And, well, a Bluegrass and a Church and a Riker and a Vinny and a Carroll too.
Friday night was all about the power of positive thinking. Over the course of the homestand, the Nationals have shown that the way to win friends and influence people is to beat the stuffing out of Atlanta, Florida, Oakland, and Seattle. Exciting one-run games and come-from-behind squeakers are great, but so are blowouts. Especially when you turn exciting one-run come-from-behind squeakers into blowouts late in the game.
The Seven Habits of Highly Effective Nationals are:
Habit 1 - Be Proactive
Don't react. If the other team plates two in the fourth and a third run in the sixth, let it go. Focus instead on the runs you will score. Keep your mind on Rick Short's RBI single in the fifth, Guillen the Barbarian's RBI single in the sixth, Byrd's RBI single in the seventh, and your bat-around six-run rally in the eighth.
Habit 2 - Begin with the End in Mind
When you start pitching, focus on your goal of getting a lead to the bullpen, because those guys will win the game for you in the end. Ayala, Majewski, Cordero ... begin with them in mind.
Habit 3 - Put the First Batter on First
So he's not your typical leadoff hitter. Bluegrass can walk, which is good, and he's good with the extra-base hit too, and that's just fine.
Habit 4 - Think Win Win Win
The Nationals, undefeated in June, seem to have lost the will to lose. Just like Eskimos have 43 words for snow and Heinz has 57 words for sauce, so the Nationals have 35 words for win.
Habit 5 - Seek First to Understand, Then to be Understood
This is Frank's way: He listens, and listens, and listens, and then only rarely, when it's really important, does he tell anybody what to do. If Guillen needs to rant a bit, fine. Frank will let him. That's how he earns his players' trust and their faith. That and being one of the handful of greatest living players.
Habit 6 - Synergize
It's not all about batting or pitching. It's about the batters scoring more runs than the pitcher gives up, and the pitchers giving up fewer runs than the batters score. It's like a two-stroke engine when everything is synergizing properly.
Habit 7 - Sharpen the Saw
When the other team threatens to come back in the ninth, get the Chief to cut them off.
Oakland at Washington. Nationals 4, Athletics 3.
The Nationals were angry. But they weren't thinking about the sweep. Led by Bluegrass and Majewski, the Nationals have become obsessed with the daily adventures of Mark Trail.
And Thursday, well, Thursday wasn't a good day for Mark Trail. Our plucky ranger-cum-reporter, working to clear his name from accusations of stealing a diamond-encrusted dog collar, had resourcefully used tin foil to track magpies to their nest on the theory that the shiny-thing coveting birds had probably made off with the diamond dog collar. But just as he was about to make this discovery, Trail was ambushed by the corrupt insurance adjuster trying to nail Mark for a theft he didn't commit. That was Monday and Tuesday. Then on Thursday, this insurance adjuster climbed the tree to the magpie nest, saw the diamond dog collar, and ... lied to Mark! Told him there was nothing in the nest, and accused Trail of cooking up a cockamamie scheme to cover up his theft!
Oh, that vile, vile insurance adjuster!
When Bluegrass came up to bat in the first, he said to Athletics catcher Jason Kendall, "What do you think? Is Mark gonna go back to the nest and find the diamonds?" And Kendall raised an eyebrow, not understanding, and didn't say anything.
After he grounded out to second, Bluegrass came back to the dugout and told the guys. "I think Kendall wants the insurance adjuster to get away with it."
"No!" said Jamey Carroll.
"Madre de Dios!" said Vinny.
"Yaaarrggghh!" said Guillen the Barbarian, snapping his bat in two.
In the second, Carlos Baerga doubled. At second, he said to shortstop Bobby Crosby, "Aren't you worried about Mark?" Crosby, looking over at his teammate Mark Ellis at second base, said, "Why should I worry about Mark?"
Then when Officer Schneider walked, he struck up a conversation with Dan Johnson. "Don't you think it's plausible that magpies could fly off with a valuable diamond dog collar just because it's shiny?" Schneider asked. "Magpies?" Johnson replied. "They're like crows, right? I've never seen a crow do anything like that. But back home in Coon Rapids, my buddies and I used to trap raccoons with tin foil. So I could see raccoons stealing a necklace, maybe, but not birds. Why do you ask?"
Then Guzman grounded to second for the third out and Baerga and Officer Schneider came back to the dugout.
"Crosby doesn't care what happens to Mark," Baerga reported. "And Johnson says Mark's magpie theory is bull," Officer Schneider testified.
"Son of a bitch!" Riker shouted.
"I can't believe those guys!" said Church.
"Those city boys just don't understand," moaned Cowboy Randy.
At that point, convinced that the whole Athletics team was rooting for the corrupt insurance adjuster, the Nationals were steaming mad. So mad that Riker made a throwing error in the third.
Livo settled things down by starting a 1-6-3 double-play on Kendall. "Serves you right for going against Mark!" Livo shouted.
Mark Ellis, now standing at third, wondered what Livo was talking about.
After Bobby Crosby grounded out to Vinny, the Nationals took their anger up to bat. Livo singled up the middle. "That's for Mark!" he said to Johnson. "Of course it was the magpies!"
Johnson was confused.
Roy Church ripped some silver foil out of the inside of his bag of Big League Chew and slipped it under his hat as he approached the batter's box. "I believe in Mark," Roy said to Kendall, who didn't respond. Then Roy singled up the right side and put Hernandez on second.
Guillen just glared at Kendall as he stamped his feet in the box. Then he, too, singled for Mark, loading the bases.
That brought up Riker. "Can you believe that insurance adjuster, badmouthing Mark to his own wife?" he asked Kendall. The catcher's confusion boiled over. "Are you guys on drugs or something?"
"Drugs?" Riker said, stunned. "Rangers like Mark play fair and reject drugs, and so do we. I've had enough of your lip, buddy, you and your whole team rooting against Mark."
"Huh? You guys aren't the Rangers," Kendall replied.
"Oh, that's just too much," Riker said, and then hit a three-run double to the wall. Then Vinny matched him, and the Nationals were staked to a four-run lead.
"That felt a lot better," Riker said, back in the dugout.
"Si, I'm a lot less upset after getting that hit," Vinny said.
"I still can't believe those guys hating on Mark Trail," Church said.
Across the field, Athletics players gathered around Mark Ellis in the visitors' dugout. "Mark, is everything OK?" they asked. Ellis himself was confused. "What are you talking about?" he asked.
"Are you in some kind of insurance trouble?" Crosby asked.
"What?"
"Have you talked to your wife lately?" Kendall asked.
"What's wrong with Sarah?" Ellis asked, now worried and confused.
But the damage had been done. Energized by the daily comic cliffhanger, the Nationals hit the Athletics early and never lost the lead. Nor did the Athletics ever understand what the Nationals were talking about. After the game, Mark Ellis called his wife Sarah back home in Rapid City, who didn't know anything about magpies or insurance or diamonds either.
Oakland at Washington. Nationals 7, Athletics 2.
Have the Nationals lost the will to lose? Did Trader Jim really sell his soul to the devil for 90 wins and a player to be named? Have we all suffered a transporter malfunction that sent us to an alternate universe where Spock wears a goatee, Sulu gets the girl, and the Nationals can't be beaten?
Whatever the explanation, BallWonk is one happy fan. Particularly for Esteban Loaiza, Our Best Pitcher™, who now has his second official win of the season but deserves to have nine. Wednesday night, the Athletics were all, "Man, this sucks. We can't score any runs. We're never gonna win!" But then Eric Chavez was all like, "Dude, Esteban Loaiza never gets any run support. I don't want anyone getting heat stroke. Take it easy out there, don't swing too hard, and we can sit on these two runs for an easy win." And Bobby Kielty was like, "But shouldn't we get some insurance runs?" But Ryan Glynn went, "Nah, don't sweat it."
Which was totally a mistake. Wednesday was Home Run Night at the Bobby. Didn't Oakland read the notice on the bulletin board? The clubhouse attendant swears he posted it well before batting practice.
Homers from Officer Schneider, Vinny, and Roy Church, not in that order, let Esteban leave the game happy for the first time since 2003.
Heck, all of our starters got a hit, except for Guillen the Barbarian, who just plain got hit. Keiichi Yabu wasn't so much pitching as he was stepping his shots toward the target like an artilleryman. His first shell landed a foot behind Guillen. Front-line target spotter Jason Kendall got on the walkie-talkie and radioed in the adjustment to Yabu's azimuth, and sure enough the second shot hit Guillen the Barbarian square on the hand. Guillen, naturally, went into a berserk rage and started shouting Norse curses at the pitcher. Something about "mother" and "steaming entrails."
Kendall, the only man on the field with padded armor, bravely stepped in to stop the Barbarian from breaking Yabu in half across his knee and then feeding the scraps to his dogs. The clubhouse, then the bullpen, came out to back Guillen's play. Finally, Frank was able to talk the Barbarian out of his blood rage by reminding Guillen of Egill Skellagrimsson, who killed many men but could only defeat Eirik Bloodaxe with a poem.
None of which should be taken to suggest that BallWonk disapproves of Guillen the Barbarian's actions. Oh no. BallWonk admires the Barbarians thirst for vengeance. His eight hit-by-pitches show that the bad guys are throwing at him, even if Yabu's hit looked more like incompetence than conspiracy. Opposing pitchers are just trying to provoke Guillen; they're throwing inside in hopes that he'll lose his cool and get himself ejected. It's been known to happen.
You know, technically, the next time the pitcher comes up to bat after Guillen gets hit, the Nationals could send Guillen up to the mound, shift the pitcher to left, and let the Barbarian pitch at the opposing pitcher. He gets four chances to hit the guy, which are pretty good odds even for a non-pitcher throwing from twenty paces. Maybe that would send the right kind of message about throwing at our beloved, angry Guillen.
Oakland at Washington. Nationals 2, Athletics 1.
Looking back, it all seems so foolish. So unnecessary. The worry, that is. You wait in the ballboy's box, every time he reaches in hoping he'll grab you. As if your hoping will guide his hands, perhaps attract the briefest glance, so that he will select you among the handful he takes this time.
And then when he doesn't - and many times this happens - you ask yourself why. Why was I not worthy? Why did he not choose me to go into the game? Is my further stay here punishment, or merely lack of reward? Could I be better, do better, and in so being or doing earn the elevation so far denied me?
But of course nothing you do can change your fate, because your fate is determined by what you are. If you are a ball, and you are in the ballboy's box on the night of the game, he will choose you sooner or later. It is your lot. It was my lot, but anxiety is the rule when you are at the start of things looking forward to a future you cannot see rather than at the end of things looking back with utmost clarity. Or so it was with me.
You think back to all the stern sermons of your youth. Our fates are double-predestined, the older balls told us. Most of us will enter the game bound for a routine play only to be discarded without ceremony or notice. A select few will achieve enlightenment and leave the field of play behind, ascending into an afterlife as a cherished memento of a big-league home run. Each of us must end in refuse or in glory, our eternal position set by our makers before our first thread is wound.
Then he chose me! The ballboy picked me up, and two others, and handed us to the umpire. He put us in his pouch, and I knew my chance at glory was nearing. Oh, if only to know in advance what kind of reward awaited. Had I been made to hit the sweet ash and ride it to exultation beyond the fence, or had I been made to feel the leather squeeze around me as the batter's hopes, and perhaps the hopes of thirty thousand fans, dashed upon an infield force?
The truth is, I looked down on balls that were not chosen for lasting life beyond the field. Such ordinary ends they met. Like my boxmate who must have thought he was a line drive for Marco Scutaro. Ha! Even that small honor was denied him. Instead, his game ended when Cristian Guzman caught him for an out and threw him to first base for a double-play.
My comrade put into play before me didn't even achieve that. Instead he was simply thrown and caught, being ball four to put Guillen the Barbarian on first, and then discarded from play as though he had never been. Nobody keeps the final ball of a walk; no experts rush to certify your authenticity if all you do is get caught by the catcher outside the strike zone.
I was sad, then. Sad for my comrade and his unheralded end, yes, but sadder still for me. I realized, finally, that my hopes were vanity. I would almost certainly wind up no better than my many comrades, none of whom had become home runs yet this game, nor many yet this season at this ballpark. I would leave the field already a forgotten obscurity, useful to and loved by none. Or such were the highest odds, and there was nothing I could do to change them.
Then the umpire grabbed me and handed me to Jason Kendall. The catcher threw me to Barry Zito. The pitcher took off his glove and rubbed me in his bare hands, living leather to dead, and then replaced his glove and me in it. His rough hand turned me in that dark place until my stitches were just so, and then I felt his two fingers close tight atop me. I could tell that he meant to throw me fast; no hanging curve or rainbowing changeup for my first pitch. First pitch! I thought I'd get several. Most balls do.
Oh! How I hurtled then. Faster than I had dreamed - practice balls know the thrill of the throw time and time again, but we game balls do not taste velocity until we enter the game - and straight I flew. Such joy! I felt the air ahead of me pushing, clinging, and then parting; the current behind me pulling back in my wake. I exulted! This was my purpose. This moment, just this: flight. I had thought, no, obsessed, that all that mattered was my end, whether I ascended to glory as a home run or sank to obscurity as a fly ball or a groundout or a bunt.
But I knew in that first moment of hurtle that I had been wrong, that everything the elder baseballs taught us was smoke. What happened to us while we were in play, starting with the first pitch, that was what we were for. A baseball's life is so brief, and yet a brevity filled with such sensation as this screaming fastball must be cherished as it is lived. It doesn't matter how you end; just fulfilling your part as a ball in a game is all that matters. In that moment I let go my anxiety and my fear and I was purely myself: a baseball in flight from pitcher to -
CRACK! It was so fast that I did not see it; the sweet ash was just upon me. A jolt and orientation lost. And then the field was below me, growing smaller, and I could see the players and the people, so many people, all looking at me. I was alone, and yet at the center of a great multitude whose only interest was me, a solitary ball in the air. Even gravity left me then; I was ballistic, weightless in my arc. There was my pitcher, Zito, now looking away as I soared. There was the batter, Nick Johnson, tracking me as he jogged toward first. And now here was Mark Kotsay looming closer, running, and then I was past him, past them all, and over the fence.
Over the fence! A home run, me! Alone in all the game! My most fervent hope, granted only after I had abandoned it.
It's funny how life works out. For us baseballs, anyway.
Florida at Washington. Weekend Roundup.
Nationals 7, Fish 3.
Nationals 6, Fish 3.
They're only trying to take Marlon Byrd down because he's so effective. This whole thing has been trumped up by the anti-Washington umpires and the biased news media. Any attack on Byrd is an attack on all Nationals fans, folks, and we shouldn't stand for it.
Anyway, if umpires don't want to wind up on their backs in the dirt, maybe they shouldn't try to tackle players. Just a thought. Maybe people wouldn't be knocking umpires down so much if activist umpires weren't trying to decide games from behind the catcher.
To understand what really went on out there on Saturday, we need to get beyond the distortions and spin of the biased elite umpire-media axis. We could ask Frank Robinson, for example. As former head of big-league discipline, he's an unbiased expert and an unmatched fighter for law and order. And Frank doesn't even think the incident is worth talking about. Frank says he didn't see Byrd do anything wrong.
If we can't trust Frank, who can we trust?
Certainly not Joe Brinkman, the umpire accusing Byrd. After all, Brinkman lives in Florida. He's just another typical activist Florida umpire, twisting the rules to benefit his own team.
Perhaps it's time to create a new 527 organization to battle this naked effort to smother the Nationals movement: Americans for Sane Umpiring. We could start by targeting Brinkman with ads aired in his home district in Cocoa, Florida.
Activist umpire Joe Brinkman is at it again.
Florida at Washington. Nationals 3, Fish 2 in 11 innings.
Interior, Nationals clubhouse. Just after noon on Friday. Officer Schneider is lacing up for early batting practice. Enter Riker.
"Nick, hey, how are you feeling? You look, um ... different."
"I'm feeling great, Brian, thanks for asking. You like how it looks, huh?"
"Um, sure. What ... what is it? Weren't you out with heartburn yesterday?"
"Acid Reflux, Brian. Acid reflux. 'Heartburn' has such negative connotations, don't you think? It's not fair to stigmatize people like that for getting sick. We don't blame people for catching the flu, do we?"
"Oh. Sorry. Acid reflux. But still. When did you have the time to, um, get that done?"
"Yesterday. Doc told me to stay off my feet and eat lots of yogurt anyway, so I figured it was time to upgrade."
"I see. And what, exactly, is that an upgrade of?"
"I had my entire nervous system replaced with this plasma-tempered titanium alloy. It's the same stuff they use for the skin of the SR-71."
"The spy plane?"
"That's right. You know, when the SR-71 takes off, its body panels don't fit. It's actually leaking jet fuel out of its skin when it taxis down the runway. But when it gets up to mach five or whatever, friction with the air heats up the plane, the body panels expand, and the fuselage stretches shut."
"That's kind of gross, actually."
"What do you mean?"
"Well, are you going to be leaking fluids now?"
"That's the beauty of it. I'll only leak when I'm cool and at rest. But as soon as the pressure's on and the heat is up, I'm golden. Gonna thrive right out there on the edge of the envelope. I'm taking the highway to the danger zone, Brian."
"But didn't you used to have nerves of steel?"
"Used to, Brian. But steel just isn't good enough. If I'm going to keep carrying this team, steel just won't cut it. Steel can melt. It's really pretty brittle. Have you ever seen cool steel shatter like a toothpick under tensile stress?"
"No."
"Well, I have. And it's not a pretty sight. You look at skyscrapers and bridges in a whole new light when you see what happens to steel when you put it under real pressure."
"Wow."
"Wow is right. Let's say it's the eleventh inning of a game, we're all tied up, we haven't had a hit since the fourth, and a walk and an error put runners on first and second. No outs. What do you do?"
"I'd go up there looking to make contact to advance the runner while staying out of the force at third."
"Right. And that will work maybe a quarter of the time. The rest of the time it's a force at third or a fly ball that doesn't advance anyone or a double play. You swing for contact if you have to, but it should be your last resort. You need to force the pitcher to walk you if you can, but that means laying off close pitches when every instinct in your body is telling you to swing."
"And nerves of steel aren't enough to do that?"
"Normally, yes. That's why I have all those walks, and why I'm always in scoring position for you guys. But that extra-inning pressure is too much even for the katana-grade carbon damask steel nerves I had installed a few years ago. Now, with nerves of plamsa-tempered titanium allow, I can lay off any pitch, anywhere, any time. This is gonna come in handy real soon, I can just feel it. With these new nerves, I can carry this team as far as I have to."
"That's awesome, then. Say, can you hook me up with your nerve doctor?"
"Sure, Brian. But keep in mind that metal nerves, whether steel or titanium allow, aren't for everyone. Consult your own physician first to see what's right for you."
Atlanta at Washington. Nationals 8, Cowards 6.
It has come to BallWonk's attention that his selection of Esteban Loaiza, whose net moral ERA on the night was 0.00, as Majority Leader is not, ahem, universally accepted. Seems some folks think the ballot was rigged, and that a handful of felons might have been allowed to vote, and legitimate votes not counted, and so the whole thing was neither free nor fair. Even noted Atlanta fan Jimmy Carter is questioning the legitimacy of this ballot.
BallWonk would rather talk about what Bobby Cox was thinking when the Nationals once again burned Atlanta for the series win, or how awesome Gary Bennett's bat was last night, or how Old Man Robinson pulled his second double-switch in as many games, or how the eighth wasn't really Assassin Majewski's fault, or what a thrill it was to see the Chief spank the Braves in the ninth, or just how very much Guzman doth suck in every inning. But if the readers would rather count chads in the M.L. race, vox populi, vox dei.
Let's do this California style. It's recall time! Single ballot, multiple questions. Simple majority to recall, plurality to award the M.L. delegate if the recall passes.
Atlanta at Washington. Rebs 5, Nationals 4.
BallWonk was briefly unable to hear the game as Team BallWonk left the house and got in the car. Two, three, no more than five minutes elapsed. Then, when the car was started and the radio on, the Nationals were in the midst of intentionally walking Wilson Betemit.
"Things must have taken a turn for the worse if we're walking Betemit," BW said to Ms. BallWonk.
Then another break from the game, this time a couple of innings, while Team BallWonk ran a couple of errands. Back in the car, the radio on, and it was deja vu all over again.
"You've gotta be kidding me!" BallWonk shouted. "You don't intentionally walk Wilson freakin' Betemit twice in the same game. He's a guy you want to pitch to when you're in trouble. For crying out loud, Frank, this guy rides the pine when he's not batting eighth."
So of course the next time Betemit came up, with Langerhans on second and first open, Frank had Hector Carrasco pitch to him, just like BallWonk wanted. And of course Wilson freakin' Betemit hit a home run to tie the game.
Some people say the universe is indifferent to our insignificant selves with our brief lives and our petty concerns. But Oedipus and Achilles learned long ago what every baseball fan knows: The universe is never indifferent to pride. The universe hates pride; Sophocles and the 1919 White Sox can confirm that if you let yourself become arrogant, this supposedly uncaring universe of ours will kick your ass. Just ask John McNamara, or Grady Little, or Joe Torre. Ask Mariano Rivera or Derek Jeter. Ask Pete Rose or John Rocker where pride gets you.
Or ask BallWonk, who was as sure as can be that Wilson freakin' Betemit was the one guy in Atlanta's lineup we should have pitched to.
Yet although BallWonk is chastened by the smackdown the baseball gods delivered to his hubristic self, BW still does not understand how Wilson freakin' Betemit managed to hit a ball out of RFK Canyon National Monument. This is a guy with only one homer in 91 previous big-league at-bats, whose minor-league slugging was often below a good player's on-base percentage. He looks like a kid who sent away for the Ozzie Smith upper-body strength program. BallWonk just doesn't see the physics of a guy like Betemit hitting a ball out of RFK Canyon.
Atlanta at Washington. Nationals 5, Rebs 3.
Kindred spirits
He's got the Civil War reenactor hair and beard. He's got the tall socks. He's got the 95-mile-per-hour fastball. And he's got the one-pitch, one-K killer instinct he needs to dominate.
He's Gary Majewski, assassin.
A Majewski inning is a thing of beauty, in a primal and cruel sort of way. Like watching canny wolves take down an innocent baby moose on Wild Kingdom.
Here's how it went on Tuesday:
Strikeout swinging.
Walk.
Strikeout looking.
Groundout to short.
At which point the assassin shouted, "Sic semper Atlanta!" and jumped over the fence into the dugout.
It was a typical Majewski inning, made all the more impressive by comparison with Chief Cordero's also-typical ninth. The Chief put on his usual dramatic road show; give him a two-run lead and he spots the other team a run for sport, all the better to crush their spirits when he shuts them down on consecutive Ks. Here's how the Chief's inning looked:
Home run.
Single.
Single, runner to second.
Fielder's choice, runners at the corners.
Strikeout swinging.
Strikeout looking.
Which was, all things considered, a heck of an inning, just the sort of thing you want to see from your closer - the lead preserved, and absolutely no wilting under pressure. Let us not forget to praise the added excitement that the Chief's penchant for allowing early baserunners gives fans. Point is, that was a terrific inning of relief pitching. But as good as that was, Majewski's eighth was better.
PS: BallWonk isn't sure what to think of the Latchkey trade that fell through on account of a secret broken wrist. Sure, Day has had his problems, among them his manager completely disrespecting him, but is Latchkey really so bad that we have to write him off? Would you trade Latchkey for someone like Juan Encarnacion? And who do you suppose the trade was for? Encarnacion or someone else? Sure, we know who Deep Throat was, but BallWonk would rather know the true identity of the guy we almost traded Latchkey for.
