Skip Bayliss, Go To Hell

I was lucky enough to miss Cold Pizza yesterday, but no so lucky that my roommate didn't tell me about how good ol' Skip Bayliss made somehow an even bigger idiot of himself on national television -- this for a remarkable 300 days in row. According to Bayliss, A-Rod, upon hitting his soon-to-be 500th home run, should not rejoice in the accomplishment, but shrug it off as nothing more than a menial side note in a career full of "things A-Rod should do, without question." Actually, Bayliss (according to my roommate) remarked that A-Rod should at most lament that the achievement took so long as it did. Of course the other moron of a host failed to really question Skipper on this day's "dumbest thing I could say on television" moment, but, hey Skip, I've got one. Who the hell would A-Rob think he was if he didn't feel some pride in joining a list containing the greatest sports heroes in our nation's history? Who the hell would A-Rod think he is, scoffing off any connection to Mantle, Mays, Ruth, Foxx, Banks, and Williams? But I take solace in my knowing that A-Rod isn't half the asshole Skip Bayliss is, and has some comprehension of the importance of sports - particularly baseball - and sports records in this fine country of ours.
But in the world of Skip Bayliss, those aforementioned names engender no thoughts or feelings of reverence, or even gratitude for what they and their records have meant to baseball fans. In his bizarro world, here is now, and the past tells us nothing of who we are or where we came from. It is why he can so easily pass judgement on every athlete whose name is hurled into the great media machine created in no small part by his employer, ESPN. In this world, A-Rod should hit 1,000 home runs; Howard 80 in a season; and Ichiro 4,300 hits. Why, because Skipper said so. You know what Skipper, you can go to hell. I hope A-Rod dances all the way down the line.

My heart's a flutter

Who are these Cincinnati Reds? Better yet: Who are these Milwaukee Brewers? In just barely over a month, the Chicago Cubs have cut an 8 1/2 game deficit to the Brewers to just 1 1/2 (and 1/2 a game in the wild card), thanks most recently to some timely solid play by the quizzical Cincinnati Reds. And tonight, as I watch in desperate hope to what just might be the alignment of a 99-year long star pattern, the Cubs could move to within just one game, one simple, small, delicate game, of the division lead. Who do we have to beat? No one but our divisional and historic rival, the St. Louis Cardinals. Who do we have on the mound? No one but last year's divisional rival, former Cardinal Jason Marquis. But Marquis is now a Cub and the luster which remained hidden most of the year but reared its ugly head during the playoffs is once again vacant from the Cardinals' play.

So as I prepare my pregame Heineken/Hot dog/Heineken ritual, I cogitate on such a change of pace on which these not yet entirely trustworthy Cubs have embarked, and notice a small flutter in the rhythm of my heart, and say a quiet prayer of thanks to the baseball gods for reminding me how glorious baseball can be when the context matters and, most important, the game is played with grace, power, and fire - the way we hope it was intended.