Yankee Ticker Dandy

....Yanks clinch 12th straight playoff appearance...to put this in perspective, they have made the playoffs EVERY YEAR since the Wild Card came into existence and the World Series was played...kids that were learning to read in Grade 1 are now getting loaded on the weekends in this their graduating year...No wonder Yanks Skipper, Joe Torre was moved to tears on camera during the locker room bubbly festivities...what heart... as big as The Stadium itself... one of the classiest guys in the bigs...do not misconstrue...I give credit where credit is due...I still hope they lose in the first round...this was a guy whose job was on the line at the beginning of the year...12 straight playoff appearances...still no job security...just plain wrong...ball fans in NY are more spoiled than Rick Shroder in Silver Spoons...if this is not reason enough to root against the Yanks this fall take a gander at this pic of A-Rod being doused in champers by his teammates...Disturbing...


Like this doesn't look like some creepy fraternity hazing ritual. Brrrrrrrrrr

Organizational Breakdown

[With another late inning collapse by the Jays, The Skip makes his case to earn a spot on the Jay's pitching staff. Or coaching staff. Or both.]

***

Holy Lord;

I think I could be a relief pitcher for the Blue Jays. I really do.

My heat tops out at 72mph, my slider breaks a maximum of 8 inches, and my circle change is non-existent. And I honestly believe that I could be their closer.

I haven't seen very many Jays games this year, so I can't go into too many details. Also, I choose not to say too much about their bullpen lest I throw up on my keyboard and have to stop writing. My only "case in point here" will be in regards to one Mr. Josh Towers. My god. Have you seen his delivery? A bigger wrist-cock than a $20 "lady of the night" and absolutely no weight transfer. He's not a pitcher. He's a thrower. And you wonder why his record is 1-7 since July 16???

You heard it here first, but I'm calling rotator cuff injury. Watching him flail around on the hill against the Yanks on Saturday, the first and only thing I could think of was Duane Ward circa 1995. No, not the dominant Duane Ward that led the AL in 1993 with 43 saves; I'm talking about the one that came back from shoulder surgery and looked like a 12 year old trying to learn proper pitching mechanics from his friend's dad, the coach.

Bottom line: not pretty. I'm giving it a max of one week after the season to see the ticker on the bottom of TSN read out:

"... Josh Towers (P) to have damaged right shoulder scoped on Thursday ...."

***

If I couldn't pitch for them, lord knows I could manage them. There's a reason they call me the Skip.

Quick note to John Gibbons. When it's extra innings, you're on the road, there's one out, and runners are on second and third, what's the right move here?

WALK THE &*%#$& BATTER!!!

I don't think I've yelled at the TV more over a managerial (non) move since the Grady-Pedro debacle. What an absolute mess.

WALK THE &*%#$& BATTER!!!

For godsake, the only signal coming from the catcher should be four fingers hanging between the crotch.

WALK THE &*%#$& BATTER!!!

What the hell was he thinking?? The runner on second means nothing, an additional batter on first would mean even less, and a base hit or a sac fly wins it anyway. Bring in your corners to cut down the run at home, but keep your middle infield at double-play depth. At least put yourself in position to turn a deuce and get yourself out of the inning. What in God's name do you gain from pitching to the guy???

WALK THE &*%#$& BATTER!!!

Fine. Maybe you're defending against a game-ending walk. Sure. But if your hurler isn't up there throwing strikes, he has no
business being in a tied game in the 10th. By taking such a non-agressive stance, it shed the spotlight on why this team is
hovering around the .500 mark: the absolute benchmark of mediocrity. At that point, they're not playing to win the game, they're playing not to lose. That's no way to steer a major league ship.

WALK THE &^%%$^&* BATTER!!!!!!

If Gibby is in a Jays uniform in Dunedin next March, I don't even know what to say. Even I can see in his eyes that he doesn't want to be there any more. If Monsieur Ricciardi for some reason has his blinders on, then there's no reason for him to be there any more either.

Take some pride in yourself. Take some pride in your team. Take some pride in the game.

If not, expect a copy of my CV in Paul Godfrey's inbox on April 1.

Disgusting.

- The Skip

Fall Colors

[The Skip, long absent from these pages, sent in this piece from his Montreal HQ to officially mark the changing colour of the leaves outside the sugar shack. Recognize.]

***

“I love the fall.”

I’m hearing that sentiment bandied about quite a bit lately, especially from the fairer sex.

I’m hearing a lot about how they love the inherent beauty of changing foliage. I’m hearing a lot about how they love the crispness and freshness of the morning air. I’m hearing a lot about how they love being able to wear scarves and mix and match their coats.

Even the gentlemen are getting in on the action.

I’m hearing a lot about how they love getting out and taking a stroll down Rue St. Denis and stopping for a finely brewed café. I’m hearing a lot about how they love taking advantage of one last afternoon to sit in the park with their guitar. I’m hearing a lot about how they love heading down to the butcher to pick up an inch-thick filet to throw on the grill later that evening.

Yup. Everyone here in la belle province loves to enjoy the out-of-doors nowadays, no longer subjected to the oppressive July heat and not yet worried about the inevitable deep freeze that graces us for three months a year.

This past Sunday, in fact, was a particularly beautiful fall day. Rays of glorious sunshine penetrating a sky of broken clouds, a “not-too-hot-but-not-too-cool” 16 degrees showing on the mercury, and a slight breeze from the northwest ushering in the first breath of the chills that we will undoubtedly feel all too soon. Truly the kind of day that brings a smile to your face.

Do you want to know what I love to do on days like this?

I love to sit on my fat ass and not leave the house.

***

Now don’t get me wrong. If nothing else, the Skip is a man of the people. By no means am I openly scoffing at those who choose to do more productive things with themselves.

Sunday, however, I had no choice. When I woke up in the morning I knew I had one and only destination (save for brief scheduled stops in the kitchen and bathroom): the couch.

Honest to God it felt like Christmas morning.

Let me tell you, kids, Sunday was one of the finest days of broadcast television in the history of the universe. Scanning the Videotron digital cable schedule, I realized that I had the opportunity to catch all or part of six football games, the season-ending PGA Tour Championship, and two baseball games. Damn near 12 solid hours of viewing pleasure to look forward to….

With my remote control smoking, I managed to take part in:

(1) what can only be described as a war of attrition in the battle for mediocrity (the Jays-O’s tilt);

(2) my beloved Miami Dolphins continuing their quest for the only 0-16 season in history (even a 1-15 finish to the season should be considered an overwhelming triumph);

(3) some fellow named Woods picking up 10 million dollars for yet another dominating performance (the PGA could have awarded him the Fed Ex Cup in January… of 1998);

(4) a young Manning getting slaughtered at the hands of the grizzled veteran, Brett Favre-re-re-re (who really needs to retire already. Please. For all of us…);

(5) the older Manning seeking revenge by narrowly besting the young Longhorn, Vince Young (who is trying desperately to break the “Madden Cover Curse”… Look it up. Trust me on this…);

(6) a second dramatic overtime field goal for the Broncos’ Jason Elam in as many weeks (after some shifty coaching maneuvers by Mike Shanahan);

(7) a helpless Jets offense nearly defeating a supposedly dominant Ravens defense (actually would’ve been happy to skip this one), and finally;

(8) Tom Brady and Bill Belichik overshadowing ‘Spy-Gate’ and absolutely dismantling the so-called favorites to win the AFC title, the San Diego Chargers. (Oh yeah, and for anyone who’s picking a team coached by Norv Turner to win anything, I’ve got some lovely real estate in Chibougamou that I’d like to sell you).

After all of that, you’d think there would be nothing left.

You would be wrong. Oh so wrong.

***

The absolute cherry atop my Sunday was reserved for ESPN Sunday Night Baseball: a classic Sox-Yanks September Fenway battle pitting two ageless wonders against each other. Head-to-head. Mano e mano.

Narrated beautifully by the best booth in baseball - possibly all of sports, possibly the entire solar system - Jonny Miller and Joe Morgan proceeded to reel off sporting prose for nigh on three hours as Schilling and Clemens (in-what-could-be-his-last-ever-start-at-Fenway-just-like-every-time-he’s-done-the-same-thing-for-the-past-four-seasons-when-he-was-threatening-retirement-and-trying-to-milk-one-more-standing-ovation) matched each other pitch for pitch in a 1-1 duel straight out of the 1950’s.

Until the 8th.

Until some guy named Jeter strode to the plate with two on and two out.

Until he had two red bulbs burning under the “Strike” indicator on the Monster.

Until Schilling tried to burn a “this-is-all-I-have-left” 87mph fastball by him on the inside corner.

Until the aforementioned #2 brought his hands in, dropped the barrel of his black Slugger, shifted his weight to his left foot, and sent a ball sailing towards the over-sized Coke bottle 360 feet away.

4-1.

Here we go again.

Shades of ’78.

As the bottom of the inning revealed itself, the ball was handed to a 21 year old hurler named Joba Chamberlain, a fire-balling righty straight out of the mould of his predecessor on the rubber. Hell, it wasn’t only the ball that was handed over at that point; it was the torch.

After quickly retiring the first two batters, young Chamberlain inexplicably grooved one to Mike Lowell, who deposited the mistake in the stands perched 37 feet above the left field track. It’s now a two-run game. We’ve just witnessed the first earned run that Chamberlain has ever given up.

How will he respond? Was this enough to shake his confidence? Was the brilliant start to his career a fluke? Was he going to start doubting his stuff?

How about no.

How about chalking up a backwards “K” on the scoresheet, making a hapless JD Drew look even more pathetic than he already was.

How will he respond, indeed…

Enter the bottom of the ninth. Enter the greatest closer ever. Enter Sandman. Having converted 27 of his 30 save attempts this season, seeing Senor Rivera standing atop the hill lets you know that you’re standing but 60'6" from the gates of hell.

Shall Dante’s Red Sox now all hope abandon, ye who enter [the batter’s box]?

Who do you want to be up in a situation like this? Who has the steel in his eyes to face the beast? Who has the stones to guide us on our journey through the afterlife?

There’s only one answer, and there’s a reason there’s a “C” branded on the chest of his jersey.

Give me Jason Varitek.

Give me Virgil.

After enduring an epic battle, he was allowed to trot to first base, having earned himself an all-too-rare free pass from the dragon.

Mission 1: bring the tying run to the dish. Check.

Now what?

If only. If only. If only. If only Papi was up next in the order. Surely Papi would hit the dong to end this puppy.

Unfortunately, the Big One’s slot in the order was still seven long ticks of the scoresheet away. Mathematically speaking, the only way that he could come to the plate would be if… somehow… these fierce troops could get one run in… then load the bases… with two out.

Impossible.

A weak Eric Hinske ground out followed by a virtual mirror image from Coco Crisp essentially cemented it. There was no way for The Man to reach the top step of the dugout, let alone the on-deck circle, let alone the box.

Not a chance.

And then…

Julio Lugo: two-bagger to left center. Varitek crosses the plate. One run game.

Improbable.

Bright eyed rookie, Jacoby Ellsbury: hit by pitch.

Unlikely.

Odds-on rookie of the year, Dustin Pedroia: base on balls. Lugo advances to third. Ellsbury advances to second.

One run in. Bases loaded. Two out.

Holy crap.

Here he comes.

Of course he’s going to do it. He’s PAPI, for godsake. How can he not?

First pitch. A mighty hack that says “let’s end it right now.” Fouled straight back…

Ball one, outside…

Ball two, low…

Holy lord. Two more pitches outside the strike zone and that’s that. Rivera doesn’t have his stuff tonight. I may yack…

Another mighty hack. Another foul ball. Another inch down the barrel of the bat and this game would’ve been over…

Here it is. The payoff pitch. The cursed Rivera cutter. You know it’s coming. Few who have seen it have lived to tell the tale…

Pop to short. Trademark Jeter fist-pump. Game over.

WHAAAAAAAATTTTTTTTT?????????

I lack the words to describe my confusion. To have all the stars align for Papi to win it yet again, only to see a weak flare towards the six-hole? No way.

Impossible.

***

Despite the mind-boggling close to the evening, Sunday had all but lit the fire beneath me for the coming stretch run and for the subsequent grating sounds of Joe Buck, Tim McCarver, and Scooter the cartoon baseball informing me and all of my Fox-viewing compatriots as to what a sacrifice fly is. Thanks for clarifying that, Scooter. Wouldn’t have known without you.

To have been this emotionally involved in a regular season game gives me the fear for what the following weeks will bring. Will I fall over convulsing at every swing of the bat?

Probably.

Will I endure back-breaking agony with every foul tip that was inches away from being a jack?

Likely.

Will my spleen rise into my throat, peek out of my mouth momentarily, then return to the darkness within, all because of a called third strike?

Most definitely.

Bring on October.

I love the fall.

- the Skip

A September Not To Remember

Bottom of the ninth. Two out. Comerica Park, Detroit. Jays: 4. Tigers: 3.

Good for baseball:

1. The Jays and Tigers in a September tilt, both trying to earn a playoff berth. (At this point I realize we're 8 1/2 out of the WC, but I hate admitting defeat. Indulge me.)

2. The Doc. 8 and 2/3rds innings strong with one run allowed. Always solid. When NASA is putting together the Mars Explorer squad in 2019, Halladay definitely warrants consideration.

3. Curtis Granderson. The Detroit centre fielder with his billowly Tigers uni and nonchalant swagger LOOKS like a ball player. Bona. Fide. The epitome of 1916, you know he would climb the wall to rob the Babe of a ball that would surely to sail over. Hell, he should change his name to "Cap".

Bad for baseball:

1. Detroit middle reliever Joel Zumaya leaving the game with a broken finger nail. This guy is 8 feet tall with a goatee, throws in the high '90's, sometimes hits triple digits on the speed gun, and looks like he should be throwing down with Batista on Monday Night Raw. Left the game with broken fingernail.



The line on Zumaya for the night: 1 1/3rd innings. One hit, two runs allowed, both earned. Left the mound with a boo boo.


2. The Jays pulling the Doc after he has allowed two base runners in the ninth. When he left we were up 4-1. So he let a couple of cats on base. Let him see finish it. He'll get that last out. He's The Doc.

3. Inserting Casey Janssen as tonight's closer.

4. Watching him allow two more runs score putting our lead to a razor thin 4-3. "Cap" Granderson leading the charge.

5. Watching Gary Sheffield come up to the plate with two out and two on. A single ties this game. But you know a walk is coming.

6. ...And there it is. And AL MVP candidate Magglio Ordonez is up. A single will now win this game.

7. ...And there it was. Shades of 1987. That's a collapse I don't need to relive.

8. Two huge blown saves in three days. In September. The final tally on this one: Tigers 5 Jays 4. Unbelievable. Who is our bullpen coach? Miguel Batista? Byun-Hyung Kim?

I know I said early in the game/blog post that I hate to admit defeat, but after this horrific, MTV award worthy display I am officially hanging up my hat on the '07 Season. Oh I'll still watch an inning here and there, but all October hopes have evaporated. The late August push was nice, especially when we hit 5 1/2 at the end of said month, but I'm going to join the rest of the lower mainland and follow the Canucks' training camp, new unis be damned. If October shakes down to be worth watching I'll tune back in then.

And since I am delving into hockeyland early this year, let me turn the page on the calender early by citing a sports cliche penned by Bay Area Punk Veterans, Green Day:

4-What?!!!!

I saw the ticker earlier in the day Tampa Bay 5. Jays 4.

"Oh drat", I thought to myself, "They got to us again."

Then came home and saw the highlights that practically gave me the ebola virus.

WE BLEW A FUCKING 4-1 LEAD IN THE NINTH?????

IN SEPTEMBER???!!!!

IN THE MIDST OF A WC PUSH?!!!!

There's a difference between giving up a jack in a tight 2-1 game, but our closer, Jeremy Accardo squandering a 4-1 lead at this time of the year makes me ask the question if he is somehow a sixth cousin to last year's occupant of the role, Miguel Batista. Who now pitches for the Mariners and who has so much bad ju-ju surrounding him that he most definitely is the reason for Seattle's end of season collapse.

Four runs allowed in the ninth.

Unfathomable, unthinkable and absolutely unacceptable.

Hey lads. Get your shit together asap and just win the fucking thing because if I wanted to ride a roller coaster I'd go the PNE.