Keith Olbermann found some neat stuff at the Baseball Hall of Fame over the weekend, although mostly I link to it to show this:
Is it just me, or does Keith Olbermann have the same body shape as me? Thick calves, slight gut, enormous fricking head? And he’s even taller than I am. Remind me to never anger him. By, you know, voting Republican, or something.
Keith Olbermann is disgusted, and for good reason, frankly.
…[I]n the Bronx 70 years ago today, Lou Gehrig composed himself in such a manner, with a strength that eclipsed even what he showed on the ballfields of the ’20s and ’30s, that he could give one final measure of himself with such honesty, with such courage, with such a simple and direct connection to the human condition, that it is quoted, somewhere, every day.
But first, let’s take you out to San Diego where Manny Ramirez is just back from a 50-game suspension. For cheating. For cutting corners. For breaking rules. For lying. For deception…
Ramirez, of course, homered today in his first at bat. And some people cheered. As if he were just back from an injury, or a death in the family. As if he were a hero. As if he were an honest man. As if he were somehow worthy of sharing the meaningfulness of this day with Lou Gehrig.
Credit to Fox’s Tim McCarver – who has never gotten enough of it for this one quality he has shown, often at such great risk to his own security and even employment – for his honesty in pointing out the inappropriateness of the reaction to Ramirez’s return. He is not making a comeback. He is out on parole and it will be years – if ever – before many of us will believe he did not do something illegal, improper, or immoral, this morning.
I must be honest: I watched exactly zero innings of last night’s Phillies game. I tend to tune out of the West Coast swings, with the attendant 10pm starts, for the simple reason that I hate watching a few innings and then missing the ending. It’s like watching only the first half hour of “Twilight,” except that “Twilight” sucks and the Phillies are awesome (4 games up on the division! Woooo). So this morning I got up and checked the box score on my phone.
What the heck? Cole Hamels pitched a gem! A diamond, baby! As someone who prefers good pitching and smallball to “let’s all just swing for the fences and see what happens” (and who, while I’d never question a World Fing Champion manager and GM, frequently gets annoyed with the way the Phils play the game), I kinda wish I’d stayed up.
Oh right, my daughter kept me up all night the night before, and didn’t do much better last night. (She ended up sleeping next to us so that we could rub her belly anytime she started screaming with the gas and constipation she’s got going on this week.)
Anyway, what’s keeping Cole from doing this every night, or at least more frequently than once a month? It’s not like he was facing scrubs; the Dodgers have the best record in either league by a large margin. He shut them down. Is he finally in shape for the season? I’m not asking for a shutout every night, but I think we should expect more from our ace than a 4.40 season ERA.
Charles has sort of entered a mildly regressed, whiny, misbehavin’ state since Josephine showed up; a little jealousy, a little boredom, a little attention-seekin’. So I try and make sure he gets to be the center of attention every so often. To this end, he and I went to purchase ice cream at a little place up the road from us. He got a vanilla soft-serve cone covered liberally in sprinkles, 1/3 of which he ate, 1/3 of which he rubbed over every inch of his body, and the remaining third of which I put into the freezer after he left it to melt onto the coffee table. I got a chocolate milkshake the size of Charles’s torso, and picked up a peanut-butter shake for Sarah, who remained home to feed Josephine.
While we were there, I met an aged gentleman who had on, of all things, a Philadelphia Athletics Historical Society tshirt. I was unaware that such a society existed, and asked him about it; apparently they have a little museum somewhere up near Hatboro, PA. After he went on his merry way, I whipped out my phone and did a little googlin’. As you might surmise, they have a website. More importantly, they have a store, filled with stuff like this. Daddy want. Wait, wait, no. Daddy really want, except without Foxx’s name, since players didn’t have their names on their uniforms until 1960. Plus then people would be like, “What the hell is that you’re wearing? Oakland’s colors do not include blue,” and I would say “It’s a replica Jimmie Foxx jersey, man, know your SHIZNIT.”
I have strange conversations.
Crazy day for baseball today. First, Manny Ramirez suspended 50 games for using a banned substance. MLB didn’t specify what was used, but Manny explains:
“Recently I saw a physician for a personal health issue. He gave me a medication, not a steroid, which he thought was OK to give me,” Ramirez said. “Unfortunately, the medication was banned under our drug policy. Under the policy that mistake is now my responsibility.”
In sadder news, Danny Ozark, Phillies manager in the 70s when they were pretty darned good, passed away this morning at age 85.
To brighten the mood, here’s a touching piece on Stan Musial. It’s from last summer, but I just found it today and wanted to make sure my homies saw it. I never knew much about Stan, but over the last few months have been learning more, and he’s rapidly becoming my favorite “Non-Philadelphia Ballplayer That I Never Actually Saw Play.” I even selected his batting stance as the one I use for my MLB2008 “The Show” 3rd baseman (who obviously throws right, but bats left, like Jesus Chase Utley).
Stan’s somebody I would have liked to ask my grandfather (a lifelong baseball fan, as well as a darned fine semi-pro player in the 1930s) about before the Alzheimer’s. Too bad.
