6
Aug 18

Onward and Upward

Dave Empey

Dave Empey has developed five major league
players, including James Paxton, the ace of the
Seattle Mariners, and 
Ryan Dempster, who
pitched for 16 MLB seasons, was an all-star twice,  
and won a World Series ring with the Red Sox. 

Dave has coached 19 pro players, 11 members  of the
Canadian national junior team, and more than
100 collegiate athletes.    

As a sports writer with the Vancouver Sun
Dave interviewed home run king Roger Maris,
iconic heavyweight champ Rocky Marciano,
legendary sprinter Jesse Owens, Hall of Fame
pitcher Bob Lemon, classic daredevil Evel
Knievel, and NHL hard rock Tiger Williams.

Dave has covered almost ever sport you can
name, including baseball, football, basketball,
soccer, hockey, horse racing, lacrosse, boxing,
hang gliding, swimming, figure skating, rugby,
track and field, tennis, curling, and skiing.

In Kelowna he sat next to Billy Schumacher,
the greatest hydroplane driver of all time, as
they blistered through three laps at 150 mph.
 "That ride with Billy was a lot of fun," he says.  

Dave also managed and produced an album for
the rock band "Paul Anthony and The Invasion." 

Dave Empey can be reached at 604 771-9736

Ryan and Dave in Las Vegas

2017 visitors--16,394
January to August visitors--23,395
September visitors--12,844
October visitors--5,588

 

TODAY’S LINEUP

NEW--One Bad Pitch
NEW--"The Players All Love Him"
NEW--The Mick's 600-foot Rocket Shots
NEW--Innocent Until Proven Guilty
NEW--BASEBALL PUZZLE
NEW--The Lethal Weapon No One Uses
NEW--FOOTBALL PUZZLE and ANSWER
NEW--The Ineffable Ernest Hemingway

The Grand Daddy of all Sports Hoaxes
The Incompetence of MLB Coaches


Alabama and Ole Miss Never to be Found
The Bringer of Drizzle
Rowan Wick called up to the Padres
What is wrong with human beings?

The Dempster Slider
"I Gotta Go"
The Rock Star on the South Side
Flamethrower Michael Kopech

The Inane Babble of the Media
Rocky and the Nerds 
Moneyball, the Farce
Killer Koepke and The Assassin

THE PITCHING PACKAGE (2)
Simplify, Simplify, Simplify
Developing COMMAND
Power Pitching
SEE HOW EASILY YOU CAN THROW HARD
Protecting Your Arm
Stride
The Road to Velocity
LOAD--Lead with your Hip
Explode
Finish
Throw through the Catcher

The Curveball


"White Lightning" at 110 mph

Johnny Chung, the Celestial Comet

THE PITCHING PACKAGE (1)
The Catch 22 of Relief Pitchers
Shadow Boxing Your Delivery
Balance Like a Gymnast
A Controlled Knee Raise
The Gold of Coil and Go
Lefthander's Pickoff Move
Stealing Against a Lefthander


Sidd Finch and his 168 mph 
Fastball
What Utter (Bleeping) Nonsense

Selects Rev Up for Canada Cup
Hands as Deep as an Oil Well
Hitters: Forget the Useless Knee Raise
The Terror of The Dreaded Shift

"Knock Somebody Down"
The Cougars are prowling once again
Wind Sprints--Fast Twitch Endurance
Playing Shortstop on a Donkey

What Are Scouts Looking For?
A Cure for Betances

The Six Foot Basketball League
Thank You, Aaron Judge
Sweet, Sweet, Sweet Caroline
Baseball Players--Tough as Marshmallows

We Are All Unique

Sale Shovels Horse Manure
The INCREDIBLE shrinking Strike Zone
How Many Rings are on the Wrong Fingers?

The Cure for Sorearms?

The Saga of Showalter and Bonds
The Tragedy of Brien Taylor
Blue Jays: No Standards, No Discipline

James Paxton--The Blueprint for a No-Hitter
Paxton KKKKKKKKKKKKKKKK

"Play it Loud"
The Sportsnet Cheerleaders
The Blaze Turn Up the Heat
Tyler O'Neill and his Magnum Guns
Back Foot Pivot
Giancarlo, Are You Listening?
The Virus Invading the MLB Cyberworld
Are the Sox an Australian Cricket Team?
Using Ted's Head for BP
It's a RELAY, Buck, Not a Cut
Pillar Didn't Steal Home
Killer Steroids
Eating for Explosive Energy
The Magic of Man City
March Madness and You

 

Much more in the January 2017 Archives

 

                 Keeping DTB Alive and Well

I love producing this blog but it takes a lot of my time, which is hard to justify without some financial return.  I’m a professional writer and I’d appreciate your support--$5, $10, $20, whatever you can afford.    

I’ve set up my PayPal account to accept contributions.  Just click on the "Donate" button at the top of the page.   

 

ROWAN WICK’S BRILLIANT SEPTEMBER

                 One Bad Pitch

There are times when a relief pitcher feels like Sisyphus, although he has no idea who that is.  That’s Sisy with one S.  I won’t meander into the mythology of Sisyphus.  If you’re too uneducated to understand then it’s best you stick to Twitter.  (Migawd, that’s so condescending.  Try Google.)

Suffice it to say Sisyphus was condemned by The Gods to push a huge boulder up a mountain until it reached the apex.  At which point it rudely tumbled all the way to the bottom again.  So Sisy, baby, headed downstairs and got the rock rolling again, all the (bleeping) way to the top.  Where it said “Goodbye, sucker” and blithely spun its way to the bottom of the hill once more.

And this has been going on now for Eternity.  Push it to the top.  Watch it roll to the bottom.  Day in, day out.  No coffee breaks.  No Fortnite breaks.  Eternity, I say, and that, folks, is one helluva long time.  Even longer than Trump’s presidency or critiques on Meghan Markle’s choice of clothes or browsing through the Punch This Number options when you phone any company in the world.

Now it’s a bit of a stretch equating throwing in relief for an MLB team with an eternal struggle with a compulsive, obsessive rock.  Well, actually a stretch as long as the Mars Shuttle.  But I’m pulling the bubble gum apart to make my point.

When you pitch in relief things sort of roll along.  Until.  You run head on into One Bad Inning.  And your ERA balloons as fast as that lump on your forearm when you get whacked by a 95-mph heater.  As fast as divorce when she finds you in bed with a koala bear.   “But, baby, the koala just needed company.”

One Bad Inning.  And your ERA jumps from 1.95 to 6.78 in a blur.  Of course, you’re only on the hill for three or four innings a week so you have to stare at that gross, infected, puffed up, helium balloon of an ERA for the next month and a half before it gradually subsides like a plugged toilet.  Unless the Rock attacks Sisyphus again and it bumps up to 11.40.  It just ain’t fair.

          Wick's Summer of 2018

Rowan Wick had a great summer, climaxing in a strong finish when he was called up by the San Diego Padres for the last month of the MLB season.  But on September 7 he must have felt like Sisyphus pushing that damn rock up the mountain.

All because of a pair of groundballs, a bunt and run, and a spinner in the middle of the zone.  When the carnage had settled it added up to One Bad Inning.

Which was really created by One Bad Pitch, the only real clunker he threw over his whole 10 games on a big league mound.  Otherwise he was nothing short of brilliant in his first rodeo.

Wick, the 25-year-old righthander from Lynn Valley, has only been a pitcher for three years after the Cardinals converted him from pounding jacks to throwing bullets.  With the Padres he dominated in AA and AAA before they called him up on August 31.

Rowan’s first taste of major league clay was a total conquest.  He threw eight pitches, sizzling fastballs and biting sliders, and retired the side as fast as Hurricane Michael.

Then came the Ides of September.  The 7th to be exact.

The Padres were in Cincinnati and manager Andy Green brought Wick in for the 5th inning, which was as successful as Justify winning the Triple Crown.  Rowan locked it down, including a called third strike on Joey Votto, one of the premier hitters in the game, when he was frozen by a perfect 95 mph heater on the outside corner at the knees.  So far, so brilliant.

                      A perfect pitch to KO Joey Votto

Green sent him out again for the sixth and Rowan was rolling that rock up the hill faster than a tractor on speed.  He opened with another I-95 called third strike.  At which point the Baseball Gods huddled up and said, “Let’s give this young man a taste of DDD, Diamond Demolition Derby.”

An infield single, then another groundball, this time drilled through the hole into right field.  Runners on first and third.

And then the Reds did something as obscure and out-dated as a telephone answering  service.

The Bunt and Run Suicide Squeeze.  (See The Lethal Weapon No One Uses)

The runner on first broke, as if he was stealing, and, of course, Padres second baseman Luis Urias hustled to cover second on the steal with a righthand hitter at the plate.

Which wasn’t a steal.  Phillip Ervin pushed a bunt to the right side.  First baseman Eric Hosmer pounced, scooped, and then ate the Rawlings like it was a ham sandwich.  Because there ain't nobody covering first.  On a bunt and run even if you had Usain Bolt at 2B with a jetpack strapped to his butt there’d be nada, zero, zilch chance of making a play at first.  Unless Urias was schizoid and time travelling.

Meanwhile, the runner on third also broke and scooted home on the blue chip suicide squeeze, as well executed as an MIT engineering robot.

         Where is Ty Cobb When You Need Him?

A Classic Bunt and Run Suicide Squeeze, which the Padres had no idea how to defend, since it hasn’t seen the light of day since Ty Cobb pulled on a jock strap and sharpened his spikes.

And the sneaky, insidious Reds were far from through.  Another bunt single (yes, they bunted twice in a row, which violates the MLB Players Association’s most sacred shibboleths) and the bases were jammed.

But not for long.  “We feel for you Sisyphus,” the Baseball Gods said.  “But, whoops, there’s goes that damn rock again.”  Rowan tossed a 90 mph spinner, belt and middle, which Scott Schebler thought was apple pie and ice cream, his favorite desert.  It took a frequent flier trip and wound up in the right field bleachers for a Grand Slam.

One Bad Pitch.  For the whole of September.  And Rowan Wick’s ERA lurched and leaped from 0.00 to 10.78.  Just like that.

To his credit Rowan persevered.  And finished his first month in the bigs with a 6.48 over 10 games.  What’s more he struck out seven in 8 and 1/3 and only allowed one walk, a tremendous improvement in his command.

All of which augers well for Wick’s MLB future.  Sisyphus can keep rolling that rock but Rowan has his sights zeroed in on other mountains to climb.  Just ask Joey Votto.

____________________________________________________

“I'm not their buddy.  If they need a buddy,

let them buy a dog."

           --Whitey Herzog
_______________________________________  

THE MOTHER OF ALL RED FLAGS

          “The Players All Love Him”

I’m sure John Gibbons is a wonderful man.  He has a bright sense of humour, enormous perspective, and tons of class.  I’m sure he adores his wife Julie and three kids, loves his dog, and tips the postman at Christmas.  Just a God Fearin’ Texas Good Old Boy. 

Going for a beer with Gibbons would be as much fun as an evening with the Marx Brothers at the Playboy Mansion.  I’m sure the dude has a truckload of juicy stories that would flow even faster than the Bud.  You could write a book and clean up like a Goldman Sachs broker.  Call it Gibby and the Duke.   

And…

“The players all love him.”

Whoa.  Hold on, Knute, she’s heading for the rhubarb.  According to Bob Dylan there’s a very large Red Flag blowing in the wind.

When I hear about a manager who is beloved I know there’s Trouble, my friend, Trouble, I say, with a capital T and that stands for Trouble, right here in River City.

Whitey Herzog, who has a World Series ring, is a legendary skipper who never got too close to his players.  “I’m not their buddy,” Herzog said.  “If they need a buddy, let them buy a dog.”

Whitey led the Cards into 3 World Series in 5 years without being their buddy.

Do Bill Belichick’s players “love” him?  That’s Tom Brady gagging.  Do you think Belichick cares?  As a football coach he’s paid to do only one thing.

Win the Super Bowl.  Which he’s done five times.

Do you think Joe Maddon’s players “love” him?  Maybe.  But it matters not.    Maddon is paid to do only one thing.

Win the World Series.  Which he did in 2016.

          Lombardi, the Epitome of Excellence

In his book "Instant Replay" Hall of Fame Green Bay guard Jerry Kramer talked about The Pack’s crushing training camp regimen under Vince Lombardi, who often said, “Fatigue makes cowards of us all.”

Lombardi was not about to allow Demon Fatigue to infect his Packers in the fourth quarter.  When The Pack were surviving a torrent of up-downs and hit the century mark, a new player gasped to Kramer, “I’ve never done this many before.  Are we through now?”

“Hell, no,” Kramer responded, “we’re only half way.”  The newbie turned pale and almost blew chunks.

Do you really think Vince Lombardi, the greatest coach in any sport, any time, any where, spent sleepless nights wondering if the players “loved” him?  Lombardi’s mantra for success was summed up by one word.

Excellence.

He demanded it.   Prescribed it.  Cherished it.  He “loved” it.

In the days before the player’s association and agents ruled the sports world, a running back sent his rep in to negotiate his contract with Lombardi.  Vince said hold on, I’ll be right back, and left his office.  When he returned he told the agent to take his negotiations to the Bears because the back wasn’t playing for the Packers any more.

                             It's all about excellence.

Lombardi was tough but fair, as straight forward as a ramrod, as honest as red wine, as loyal as a German Shepherd.  When Vince died, defensive end Willie Davis said, “My dad passed and I think about him quite often.  But I think of Vince every day.”

Is that love?  Sure.  But it’s much more.  And there is only one word to describe it.

Respect.

Love is almost easy.  Just be a nice guy who cares.  But respect is much harder.  You earn respect.

What does a manager do to collect that respect?  He’s honest, he tells them where they stand, he has their back, he takes responsibility, he never attacks them publically, he works hard, he leads by example.

And he demands excellence.

It’s blatantly unkind to rip on Gibbons.  He’s surely one of the most likeable dudes in the game and undoubtedly qualifies on just about all those criteria.  Except the most important one of all.  His Achilles Heel.

____________________________________________________

                  The Skinny on Gibby

Astros manager A.J. Hinch: “He loves baseball and he loves people.  He’s comfortable in his own skin and he’s really genuine.”

 Yankees manager Aaron Boone: “He’s one of the real good guys in the game with a good-natured, light-hearted way about him.  But he also has intensity and toughness.” 

Former Toronto GM Alex Anthopoulos:  “He never loses the clubhouse.  No drama because he doesn’t do anything for show.  When he didn’t have success it was probably on me because we didn’t give him a good enough team.  Overall, he’s as good as anyone I’ve ever been around.”

 Tampa Bay manager Kevin Cash: “We all kid him about his laid back persona during a game, but he doesn’t miss a beat, he’s very well prepared.”

 Russell Martin: “He’s like a second dad.”

Pat Tabler: “He’s loyal and fair and that’s why the players love him.”
_____________________________________________________

But his strength is also his weakness.  When a manager gets too close to his players his decisions are clouded by friendship.  Obviously, a skipper should care about his guys but, as Whitey Herzog knows best, it's hard to bench a player when he's your buddy.

I’ve been through all of this before and now I feel like I’m piling on.  But I just can’t understand how a manager can allow lard asses like Kendrys Morales and Yangervis Solarte trot to first on a groundball or saunter around the bag on a single that should be a double or just succumb and refuse to run when the catcher blocks a third strike in the dirt.

                             "Oh, hell, now I have to run."

Ty Cobb would have left multiple cleat marks on their fat butts.  And I’ve mentioned before how Dustin Pedroia reamed out David Ortiz when Big Papi didn’t run out a groundball.  Ortiz took it to heart and never shirked again.

But Gibbons did nothing.  Or at least nothing that made a dent in their sloth because they were the same from game one to 162.

It’s been said the Jays love Gibby so much they’ll run through a wall for him.  With the Lard Ass Twins it’s more likely they’d trot lethargically into the wall and then call for the SWAT team.

By contrast, Maddon immediately erased Javier Baez, a budding super star, from the lineup the instant he dogged it.  And Baez thanked him later, knowing that his manager respected the game.  And you Better Damn Well Respect It Too Or You Will Get Splinters In Your Glutes.

          A Player's Manager

Apparently, Gibbons thinks Excellence is a term for royalty.

But his players love him.

You will not hear any negatives from the Blue Jays Sycophantic broadcast crew and their gullible fans. “Gibby the Best” the signs read.  The best what?  The best gatherer of sloth?  The best at ignoring the lethargy of slugs pulling down $20 million who think hustle is an American Greed con game?

Gibbons is a player’s manager.  Of course, they love him.  Wouldn’t you if  you were gulping down millions of dinero and the manager did nothing when you loafed like whole wheat bread?  (Wasn’t that clever?)

_____________________________________________________

“Canadians are a lot like Texans.  They appreciate good hard work, they’re honest people, that’s who they are."       ____________________________________________________

Now that’s a winner.  A wonderful tribute to all those wonderful Canadians who wonderfully supported him and wonderfully beloved him.  As we all know you’d never find a Canadian watching porn on his office computer or doing as little work as possible or cheating on both his income tax and his wife, resembling a lurid cross between Pinocchio and a politician.  There is no mendacity in Canada.

And Texans?  Well, you know.

But we’ll toss Gibby a pass on that one because it was a perfect way to say goodbye to Big TO.

And, to paraphrase the inimitable Leo “The Lip” Durocher, one of the most demanding managers ever, “Nice guys finish ahead of the Orioles.”

 

NOTE: With all that launch angle (bleep) and exit velo it's a Home Run Derby era.  But there's no need to uppercut to jump the yard. 

Mickey Mantle and Roger Maris never heard of launch angle.  But they were Jack Hammers.  I get tired of the nonsense spewed out by current stars and analytic nerds.  So I decided to do a rewrite on my original Mantle story.

POWER?  THERE’S MANTLE AND EVERYONE ELSE

           The Mick’s 600-Foot Rocket Shots

So you think Aaron Judge and Mike Trout and Bryce Harper are blasting King Kong jacks?

Compared to Mickey Mantle they’re short about 200 feet.

Mantle is the greatest power hitter of all time.  No one even comes close to the soaring, long range rocket shots he hammered from either side of the plate.  Some of them still haven’t landed.  He makes today’s Home Run Derby icons look like they’re bunting for a base hit.

How far did Mantle muscle his eruptions to jump the yard?  Obviously, they didn't have the high tech of this age so sometimes we have to trust eye ball estimates.  But there were wrecking crew atomic blasts that could be easily measured.  By all accounts his top 10 were as impressive as Mr. Olympia.  The shortest is 530 feet.

And the longest was astronomical, measured at 734 feet.

Impossible?  Maybe.  But...

Roger Maris and Mantle.  Take a look at Mickey's forearms.  Sheer power.

No one ever hit a ball out of the Old Yankee Stadium.  But Mantle crushed the façade at the top of the roof three times.

In 1956 he blitzed a Pedro Ramos fastball.  It left the field at the 370 mark and came within inches of exiting the stadium.  Now get this.  The façade was 117 feet high.  That sonic explosion was 39 yards above terra firma when it collided with wood.  You don't need to be an MIT grad to figure out it would have travelled well over 600 feet if it hadn't gotten into an argument with the facade.

For reference, take a look at the nearest high rise.  And I mean HIGH rise.  Count 12 storeys up.  That's where Mantle's towering blitzkrieg caromed off the top of the stadium roof after already soaring 370 feet.

The 734 shot off Bill Fischer in 1963?  It also rammed the sky high façade, again only a few inches from freedom.  And, for what it’s worth, there were multiple fans who swore it was still going UP when its flight was interrupted.  Some Neanderthal math wiz calculated it's trajectory would have carried it well over 700 feet into the wild blue yonder.

That sounds as apocryphal as Big Foot but the story somehow makes it seem plausible and Mantle called it, “The hardest ball I ever hit.”

And here are two of Mantle’s most memorable jacks that were measured for austerity.

In a 1951 spring training game at USC he ripped a massive drive that not only left the ball park it also cleared the adjacent football field.  It finally landed on the far sideline, 656 feet from the batter’s box, before hopping the fence bordering the field.  And Boy Wonder Mantle, the Yankees answer to Ruth and Dimaggio, was still only 19 years old.

            Mike Trout goes fishing.  (Boy, is that line lame)

That was one of six of The Mick's cannonades estimated at more than 600 feet, including a ballistic blast that rocketed out of Tiger Stadium and bombarded a lumberyard across the street, 643 feet from the plate.

There are also a horde of observers, including many players, who swore The Mick's missiles left Yankee Stadium at least three times during batting practice.

Yes, I know, they didn’t have the computer software we have today.  But if you’re a physics major punch in the numbers.

Over the wall at the 370 mark and still rising faster than a NASA space ship.
Jumping the yard 117 feet in the air.
Exit speed at least 120 mph
500 feet?  Easy.
600 feet?  Odds on.
700 feet?  We'll never know.  But for Mantle it even seems possible.

Eat your heart out Mike Trout.

 

    NOTE:  I wrote this story before the charges were dropped against Roberto Asuna.  At the time it seemed there was a strong case for domestic abuse.   

Still, I'm a great believer in Due Process and I felt Osuna was being convicted before he had his day in court.  The Blue Jays, MLB, and the clowns who booed Roberto should consider what it means to be Innocent Until Proven Guilty.

I've up-dated the post to include the current information.        

 

CHARGES DROPPED AGAINST OSUNA

          Innocent Until Proven Guilty

I’m going to get in a lot of trouble for this one.  I know that.  But, what the hell. 

When Roberto Osuna returned to Rogers Centre he was roundly booed by a lynch mob of IQ deficient Blue Jays fans who undoubtedly impressed their wives or girlfriends.  So be it. 

“You heard a lot of people booing and reacting angrily,” said Jamie Campbell, the Jays resident Sycophant Supreme.  “Which frankly seems justified because of the accusations…I guess.  It’s not for me to say.   Ross Atkins feels they have a debt to their fans and that’s why they traded him." 

We'll leave Jamie spinning in 360's, trying to find an all points opinion that keeps his job intact.  They seem justified...I guess...But it's not for me to say.  At least we know unequivocally, positively, for sure, without doubt that GM Atkins cares more about Toronto's PR image than bull dung like Justice, Loyalty and Integrity.    

Now the charges of domestic violence have been dropped like an anchor on condition that Osuna stay away from the mother of his 3-year-old son for one year.

I have always been a bit bemused by Osuna.  The guy has lightning stuff, a sizzling heater in the mid-90’s and a slider that slices up the zone like a skilled swordsman.  He could well be a brilliant closer for another decade.

But, when he leaves the bull pen or mounts the mound (I like that one) he genuflects, stares at the sky, and crosses himself.

Apparently, Roberto’s God is more aware of baseball than the tragedies of this world.  Six-year-olds dying of leukemia, terrorists beheading journalists, famines, hurricanes, tsunami floods, genocide, serial killers, mass shootings in schools, rapes, assassinations, and magnificent innocent rhinos and elephants slaughtered by evil prick poachers for the ivory in their tusks.  If I had the money I’d hire a lethal hit squad to erase those filthy swine once and for all.

But these are obviously minor problems.  Osuna is convinced God Is On His Side.  He, She, It is focused on Roberto when he steps on the hill.  Or He, She, It is a true blue Blue Jays fan.  Whoops, Astros fan. Maybe The Good Lord has a bet down with Jesus and he’s taking Houston.

Is Roberto's life of playing a little boy’s game more important than a kid in a Children’s Hospital or a massacre in Syria?  Why would God be paying the slightest bit of attention to a guy throwing a baseball?

            "I Wanna Hold Your Hand"

Then there’s the Feeding Frenzy of the MeToo Movement.

A young friend of mine who I coached several years ago is pitching for a college in the States now and he tells me the players are virtually terrified of having consensual sex with a girl on campus.  Because tomorrow she may reconsider and claim it wasn’t consensual after all.  And the dude’s life is ruined.

Hold her hand and its groping.  Compliment her on how great her hair looks and it’s harassment.  Kiss her?  Are you (bleeping) kidding me?  That’s open and shut sexual abuse on the edge of rape.  The gendarmes will be knocking on your dorm door tomorrow morning.

Paranoid?  Of course. But can you blame them?  When your life can be torn apart in one night, when you thought you were in love or in consensual lust,  you’re either paranoid or you’re crazy.  You give up on sex and turn to Monday Night Football.

Or you traipse to Tibet, enroll in a monastery and become a celibate monk.  Or try your hand at this Gay Thing.  Hmm, maybe not, that could also create a consensual problem.

Please, please don’t claim I’m condoning rape.  That’s asinine.  But accusations should not be a loaded weapon ready to fire at will.

Remember when I played shortstop?  That was before I held her hand.

          But I digress.  Back to Osuna.

Roberto was suspended 75 games by MLB on the strength of an accusation of domestic abuse.  Accused.  Not convicted.  Accused.  Not proven guilty.  (Bleeping) accused.  Which means he was deprived of a truckload of income for four months.  Ironically, half of that lost $2.5 million would have gone to the estranged mother of his child.  Thanks MLB.  He (and she) should sue both baseball and the Blue Jays.

Accused.

Consider this.  A Gangland bunch of ruthless hoods are betting against the Red Sox in the playoffs so they can get sizeable odds.  So they threaten the wife of a Sox star, forcing her to accuse him of domestic violence just before the season ends.  Or they’ll kill her children.

Bizarre?  Ridiculous?  Of course.  But.  What if.  No proof.  Nothing but an accusation.  What does the self righteous MLB do then?

And please, please don’t claim I’m condoning domestic assault.  That is also asinine.  I despise domestic abuse whether it’s against a woman or a man.  Any 200-pounder who beats up his 120-pound wife is scum.

“I still don’t quite understand how a league can suspend him for 75 games and yet the matter has not been settled in a court of law,” Joe Siddall said, showing a sudden wild surge of intelligence.  “But, when I heard the suspension was 75 games, that spoke volumes about the evidence they had.”  Sorry, the surge sputtered out.  Because MLB always covers its ass like a nudist sleeping in a tornado. 

Yes, there seemed to be a pretty good case against Roberto.  Apparently, the concierge at the front desk of Osuna's residence called the police, who saw "significant injuries" on the alleged victim.  Not good.  

Still, he insisted he was not guilty.  "No one knows what happened but me," he said.  "Everybody is quick to judge me and say all kinds of things.  What the media says is not true.  People are judging me for things they don't know.  I don't like that."

If you get a chance check out a brilliant piece by Toronto Star columnist Rosie DiManno back in August when Osuna was traded to the Astros.  She writes it a helluva lot better than I can.

       What kind of filthy swine could shoot these magnificent animals?

So now the assault charge has been dropped.  Partly because the alleged victim intends to stay in Mexico rather than testify.  Of course, that leaves a large ? still hanging over Osuna's head but at least he can take to the hill, crossing himself left, right and center, and get on with his life.   

Which brings me back to what I am condoning.   It's the basic foundation of a society of law and not hysteria.

   Innocent Until Proven Guilty.

Ever heard those words?  I’m sure you have.  Unless you inhabit Rogers Centre.

   How about  Due Process.  Does that one ring a bell?

It means a trial by a jury of his peers, which would have been quite hard to find.  Unless they throw 95.

Apparently a tribe of sanctimonious clowns in Big TO have never heard of Due Process or Innocent Until Proven Guilty.  Unfortunately, they are not alone.

 

                    BASEBALL PUZZLE

There are three squeeze bunts.

1) Amateur suicide squeeze
2) Professional suicide squeeze
3) Safety squeeze

What's the difference in these squeeze bunts?

 

 

WELL, ALMOST NO ONE

    The Lethal Weapon No One Uses

The Bunt and Run.

Used about as often as it snows in Phoenix.  Creates absolute havoc.  The second baseman sends out for a psychiatrist.  Not to get cured.  To get schizoid so he can go in two directions at once.

Runner on first.  Righthand hitter at the plate.

When the pitcher starts his delivery the runner breaks.  Looks like a straight steal.  Unless the shortstop is a suspicious and devious young man (more on that later), the second baseman will cover the bag on the steal.  He shuffles toward second.

And then the hitter screws him up royally with a HARD PUSH BUNT to the right side.  He drives the bunt deep, past the pitcher, forcing the first baseman to come in to field the rolling Rawlings.

So we have the 2B heading toward second on what looks like a steal.  And the pitcher and the 1B scrambling to get to the bunt.

Unless the right fielder is Usain Bolt with a rocket on his back there ain’t no one covering first.

             Usain, Usain!  You forgot your glove!

Both the hurler and the 1B are focused on the bunt.  Until they realize first base is as lonely as a hermit.  At which point full throttle panic invades their psyche and one of them has to get to the bag before the bunter.  Even if one guy figures it out fast enough he’ll have to brake to a halt and then turn around awkwardly to receive the throw.

If the bunter has any speed at all the chances of throwing him out are slim and none and the remarkable Slim Pickens has been deceased for 35 years.

What’s more, with all the confusion, the baserunner has a shot at circling second and winding up at third.

           Bunt and Run Plus Squeeze   

Now it gets even more interesting.

Runners on first and third.  Bunt and run as above.  But now the runner on third scores on what has also become a squeeze bunt.

This can be a suicide squeeze or a safety squeeze.  Which we’ll explain later when we decipher our current BASEBALL PUZZLE.

If you execute successfully you wind up with a number on the board and runners straddling first and second or even first and third.  In which case, you can do it all over again.

The Bunt and Run Plus Squeeze.  The most under-used weapon since Davy  Crockett fired his .40-calibre flintlock.  But, of course, the Alamo second sacker was well coached on the B and R.  They run it a lot in Mexico.

 

                 FOOTBALL PUZZLE

Why is the LEFT TACKLE on the offensive line so important?

                         ANSWER

When a right-handed quarterback sets up to throw a pass he has his back toward the left side of the offensive line.  Ergo, he's vulnerable to being sacked by a defensive lineman coming from his left because he can't see the rush.

The offensive left tackle is responsible for protecting his QB's blind side by blocking the defensive end, who is often a great pass rusher.   And that's why the left tackle is so important.  Even if most football fans don't know his name. 

 

           The Ineffable Ernest Hemingway

“If people bring so much courage to this world the world has to kill them to break them, so of course it kills them. The world breaks every one and afterward many are strong at the broken places.

"But those that will not break it kills. It kills the very good and the very gentle and the very brave impartially. If you are none of these you can be sure it will kill you too but there will be no special hurry.”

                   --Farewell to Arms, Ernest Hemingway

                           The incomparable Hemingway

I offer this gift to you because Hemingway is the greatest writer who ever lived.  He could say more in one page than other writers could say in a book, more in a paragraph than other writers could say in a chapter, more in a sentence than other writers could say in a page. 

He was ineffable.

 

WHEN CAL TECH WON THE ROSE BOWL

       The Grand Daddy of all Sports Hoaxes

We’ve covered All American running back Johnny Chung and Sidd Finch’s 168 mph heater.  But they disappear into the mist compared to the Great Rose Bowl Hoax.

This one was part CIA, part Cat Burglar, part Tony Soprano, part Nerd Supreme, part Gonad Testosterone, part Buddy Flick Heist Caper, part Lock Picker 101, part Ferdinand “The Great Imposter” Demara, and part Bizarro Genius.  Is that enough parts?  Because my cerebral cortex is fully depleted of analogies. 

At any rate these scattered parts coalesced into the Prince of Pranks, the all time king of sports hoaxes.   

New Years.  1961.  The Rose Bowl is salivating for the Huskies of Washington to grapple with the Golden Gophers of Minnesota.  The dogs will snarl, the gophers will dig holes.

And Cal Tech will sulk.  As usual, Tech was nowhere to be found, having only a smattering of 1,000 students and a football team that would struggle to score against a junior high eleven.

But a small group of Cal Tech rabble rousers, who later became known as the Fiendish Fourteen, were convinced their hallowed halls were being royally snubbed and dissed by the distinguished Rose Bowl honchos.

After all, the CT campus was barely a swing pass down stream from the Pasadena stadium and they often competed on that turf, although I’m not sure why.  The cathedral seats 100 grand and even if the whole Tech alumni and their mommies and daddies and aunts and uncles and nephews and nieces and every dude and dudess they’ve ever talked to since birth burst through the turnstiles the joint would still be as empty as a Jewish stomach on Yom Kippur.

          "Get that Sumo dude off my tail"

So once again NBC and the Rose Bowl was devoid of Cal Tech and the FF was as teed off as a rattlesnake who has just realized a sumo wrestler is stepping on his shaker.

A 19-year-old engineering iconoclast named Lyn Hardy was determined to toss a hand grenade of humour into the mix.

Which would eventually garner nary a chuckle from the U of Washington cheer squad, who had created a massive halftime flip card routine that would mesmerize NBC and the 30 million football fans watching.  This was their moment of glory.

Lyn Hardy, still grinning 57 years later

Hardy went to work two days before game time.  Posing as a reporter from a local high school, he visited three Husky cheerleaders where they were staying in the Long Beach State dorms.  “They were very nice guys,” he says.  “They talked me through the whole thing and showed me where they kept all the cards.”

Now the Cal Tech subterfuge was in high gear.

***When the cheerleaders left for dinner, Hardy and two Tech buds broke into their room by picking the lock.  They quickly confiscated an instruction card and headed back to Pasadena.

***They hired a printer for $30 to duplicate 2,232 cards.

***Then, early on New Year’s Eve, while the cheerleaders were visiting Disneyland, the Cal Tech desperadoes broke into the dorm again and lifted the master instructions.  That’s all they needed to roll.  These were, after all, engineering students at a high tech college and it didn’t take long for them to break the code.

***Recruiting as many CT students as possible, they altered the 2,232 cards by hand so the seat numbers and instructions would synch perfectly.

***And now the last piece of the jigsaw puzzle.  The Hardy Boys trekked to Long Beach for the third time, picked the lock again, replaced the master plan, scooped up the original instruction cards, and left the fakes in their place.

                         Bob Schloredt, the Huskies main man

Now the fun began.

At halftime in Pasadena the Huskies, led by QB Bob Schloredt, had a 17-0 edge and their cheerleaders and marching band were riding an adrenaline high.  The colored cards and instruction sheets had been deposited on the seats in the section reserved for the Washington faithful.  When the cheerleaders gave the signal the students held the cards over their head and the images appeared like magic.

There would be 15 in total and the first 11 received roars from the 100,000 in the bowl and instant focus from the 30 mill NBC viewers.  So far so good.

But number 12.

This flash card image was supposed to look like a Husky, obviously the Washington mascot.  But it had…buck teeth…and round ears.  More of a beaver than a husky.  More like the mascot of…well, Cal Tech.

Must be a glitch.  Carry on, dudes.

Then number 13.

This one would get them back on track.  It would spell out HUSKIES.  And it did.  But backwards.  SEIKSUH.  What the hell is going on?

Now the cheer squad and the marching band were getting bubbles in their gut.  This was not good.  No, sir, no way, just not good.  But it had to be some strange mix up because the first 11 were aces.  Which is a classic example of the Cal Tech genius.

Okay, fire away.  The cheerleaders persevered, giving the signal for number 14.  The cards went up, following the explicit instructions right their on their sheets.

And they spelled out CAL TECH.  In big, bold black letters on a white background.

The silence was deafening.  The band was stunned, the music froze in the air, the cheerleaders stared, unable to comprehend.

And then the laughter rolled through the stadium like a tsunami.

The perplexed band marched off the field and the cheerleaders Deep Sixed the final image, probably wondering if it was a word starting with F.  Too bad because it was the American flag and Cal Tech, being good citizens, left it pristine.

“There was never any intent to make the world’s greatest prank,” says Lyndon Hardy, who is 76 now and a respected physicist.  "There's a fine line but I think we stayed on the right side of it. It could have been obscenities or something in very poor taste, but we didn't do that. So I'm proud of that — we acted responsibly and nobody got hurt."

Then he reflects, “There was a lot of luck.  What were the chances of pulling that off?  I'd say zip.  But you don't know that when you're young.”

Hardy, who has written three sci-fi books, adds, "As you mature you get more conservative.  Life starts hitting you with brick walls. If I was approached tomorrow and someone asked if I’d do this I’d say it was crazy.  But here we were, 19, and committing felonies.”

Then he laughs.  "I hope the statute of limitations has run out."

And, oh, yeh, the Huskies took the Rose Bowl crown 17-7.

 

 

THROW THROUGH THE CATCHER

       The Incompetence of MLB Coaches 

September, 2002.  Friday night.  The Cincinnati Reds playing at home against the Cubs.  Shortly after the game I dial Ryan Dempster’s cell phone to leave a message.  He answers.  I’m surprised.  He lives in an apartment near the park but he should still be in the clubhouse.

“What’s happening?” I ask.

Ryan sounds unhappy.  He says he doesn’t feel right about the way he’s been throwing.  Then he asks what I see.  “You’re throwing the ball to the catcher.  Not through the catcher.”

Ryan contemplates this observation.  Then he says, “You’re right.”

We talk for a few more minutes.  Nothing profound, I must admit.  He’s pitching the next day.  “Just watch me tomorrow,” he says.

The next day Ryan is brilliant, his best start of the year.  He finishes everything.  His velocity is up two or three mph.  His fastball is down, his slider is tight and nasty.  He has late life.  He wins big, striking out 10 and giving up only three hits as the Reds top the Cubs 3-1.

             This is ULTIMATE FINISH.

Ryan makes two more starts in September—both as strong as this one.  And he's throwing through the catcher.

We teach this.  It's the same as a martial artist breaking wood.  Those dudes aren't focused on the piece of lumber.  They're aiming six inches below the target so they'll drive through the wood with all their power.  When you apply that theory to finishing pitches it jumps your velocity like a bolt of lightning.

The Cincinnati pitching coach takes the credit, telling the media Dempster got the ball down like they wanted.  Which is true...but it had nothing to do with the Reds coaching staff.  I know, I know, I'm puffing my chest out and bragging.  But that's not the point.  I wasn't throwing the ball.  Ryan Dempster was.  He did it.  Not me.  I just helped him focus.

And here is the point.  Please don't listen to the drivel spewed out by pseudo analysts like Buck Martinez and Pat Tabler who will smooch the collective Blue Jays butts to make sure they keep their job.

They'll insist Kendrys Morales is a mentor to the young Jays.   And they will ignore the inexcusable sloth of Morales and Yangervis Solarte, who set a great example by refusing to run out groundballs, as if hustle is a six letter word called I'm Going to Be Out So Why Should I Run Hard and Use Up All That Energy When the Clubhouse Spread is Waiting?  If Morales is your mentor, your leader, you are stepping out of a Cessna Skyhawk at 10,000 feet without a parachute.

So I haven't got to the point yet.  But here it comes.  Morales and Solarte only get away with this because John Gibbons won't deposit their lard asses on wood.  Jog to first on a groundball?  Nothing happens.  You think the other players don't notice?  What's the point of hustling when the slugs dog it and stay in the lineup?

And now the real point.  A lot of major league coaches don't have a (bleeping) clue.  When Dempster was with the Marlins the pitching coach would come out to dispense some wisdom and Ryan was thinking, Stay away from me, don't come out here, you don't know anything.

  

         Scott overcame injuries and a jerk to become an ace in Japan.

Scott Mathieson pinned his Phillies pitching coach up against the wall and threatened to punch him out.  The coach insisted he throw too much when Scott's arm was healing from an injury.  Mathieson knew better as he's proven over and over again pitching in Japan.

Adam Loewen is the most talented Canadian to ever play baseball.  As a 17-year-old the 6-6 lefthander threw 96 mph with an easy, explosive delivery.  He was the best bet for the Hall of Fame since the ineffable Sandy Koufax.  Adam was so good he could have been a first rounder as a pitcher or a hitter.

             The greatest Canadian athlete to ever play baseball.

The Orioles paid over $4 million dollars for his signature and then somehow managed to flush his immense talent down the drain.  He wound up throwing 18 inches against his body, a super recipe for destroying your arm, his velocity plummeted to 88, his best pitch was his slider, and he wound up with a steel plate in his elbow.

Dellin Betances throws 100 mph but he's off balance and off line and can't throw consistent strikes.  Any good coach could straighten that out in a few bull pen sessions.

I give you this wonderful revelation because I hate the (bleeping) manure shoveled out by countless sycophants.  Take it or leave it.  You've been warned.

 

BUT THERE’S ALWAYS TOTAL DIVAS AND DISC GOLF

        Alabama and Ole Miss Never to be Found

I have an incessant, obsessive need to watch Alabama Crimson Tide football.  For my money Nick Saban is the best since Vince Lombardi, the Messiah of Block and Tackle.  Nick is even better than Bellichick.

But on Saturday I can’t find Alabama beating the ole miss out of Ole Miss.  The game ain’t nowhere to be found.  I search the Sports channels.  There are a couple of dozen teams in the spotlight, including Ohio State, Auburn, LSU, Texas, USC, Wisconsin and even Florida International, whoever they are.

But number one ranked Alabama and Mississippi are lost in the shuffle.

I can watch the Blue Jays and the Yankees twice plus the Blue Jays in 30 minutes, which is more of an overkill than seven hours of the B.C. Legislature.

There’s Fantasy Football and Asian Tour Golf and Out of My League, whatever the hell that is, and Glory 58 and the Best of Pride, which sounds like the Gay Triathlon but turns out to be martial arts, and Total Divas and Drag Racing (more gay sports?) and the Lucas Oil Speedway and World Poker (is that really a sport?) and Disc Golf and the 2018 Evian Championship (don’t ask) and Live With Lucia (?) and ARCA Racing and women’s curling, which is always fascinating, especially when they’re yelling “Hard! Hard!” and Bundesliga Soccer and the 2014 NBA Finals.

But no Alabama and Ole Miss.

                                                And he has his shirt on.

Now this undoubtedly seems trivial to you and I understand.  But it’s not.

When you consider the age of their young athletes college football and basketball are the best played and best coached sports on the planet.

I once used Saban’s Crimson Tide as an example when I was coaching the Vancouver Cannons.  I told them Alabama epitomized commitment and perfection.  And, as I watched their reaction, I soon realized none of them had ever watched Alabama play.  And they were not alone.  Teenagers seldom pay attention to anything that will advance their knowledge or their careers or their understanding of what it takes to succeed at the next level.

That’s too bad.  Because a dose of the Alabama Crimson Tide is like a shot of Wisdom.  As Doctor Empey I recommend it to all of you.

If you can find it.

                     Nick Saban with some unknown Alabama fan.

          McConaughey and the Surfboard

Fun to see Mathew McConaughey on hand when Texas locked Longhorns with USC.

McConaughey is a Texas grad and proud of it.  He is also a remarkable actor with almost unlimited range, everything from Dazed and Confused (“All right, all right”) to The Lincoln Lawyer to Two For The Money to Dallas Buyers, True Detectives and White Boy Rick.

McConaughey is also famous for wanting to take his shirt off in every movie to show of his muscles.

But I have a better story.  I think.

Ryan Dempster was visiting one of his buddies, former Chicago Black Hawks star Chris Chelios, who retired at 48 years of age and was staying in an ocean front mansion in Malibu.  Beautiful sunny day in SoCal.

         Who in the hell plays hockey until they're 48.  Unless it's Gordie Howe.

Doorbell.  And, when Chelios answered, he saw Mathew McConaughhey and Robert “Ironman” Downey on his doorstep.

“Can we borrow a couple of surfboards?” they asked.

Chelios, of course, handed over the boards.  Unfortunately, Dempster is not a surfer.  But it did give Mathew another chance to take his shirt off.

 

               Go Ask Alice, when she’s ten feet tall

“If you can locate your fastball in all three quadrants of the strike zone you can pitch."
                       --Buck Martinez
Three quadrants?  Enough said.

 “David Price’s wind-up is almost pitching from the stretch.”
                      --Dan Shulman
Well…hmm…maybe that’s because he is throwing from the stretch.

                 _______________________________________

“If you're 10 years old and your coach says get on top of the ball, tell him no.  In the big leagues these things they call ground balls are outs. They don't pay you for ground balls, they pay you for doubles and home runs.”

                          --Josh Donaldson
__________________________________________________

 

$630,000 EVERY GAME

          The Bringer of Drizzle

At the moment Josh Donaldson is being paid $630,000 for every game he’s played this season.  There are billions of hard working Great Unwashed on this planet who won’t make that much in their lifetime. 

I chuckle when I read the endless Donaldson tributes that spew non-stop out of the bowels of Toronto’s sports columnists and pseudo gurus.  Somehow they equate The Bringer of Drizzle with Robin Hood, the Lone Ranger and Gordon Lightfoot.

Or is it Geddy Lee.

              Can Geddy also play third base?

Donaldson didn't play for over three months because he had a “sore” calf muscle.  A sore calf muscle.  A sore…calf muscle.  It was sore.  And, what the hell, if they’re only paying you $23 million to play a little boy’s game why would you suit up when your calf is sore.  Poor baby.

Apparently, he now claims the calf was ruptured.  In which case why was he working out at all?

The quote?  It’s classic.  The guy is even more of a clown than I thought.

I can only imagine how many guys coaching kids from 8 to 18 went into a Spasm of Cringing over that one.  Maybe a few even had heart attacks.

I have never taught hitters to get on top of the ball.  That makes no sense at all.  So I agree with Josh there.  But I also don’t want them upper cutting.  That just leads to long, looping swings and they’re dead meat when a pitcher brings even medium heat.

I just want solid barrel contact.  Inside the ball, direct to the ball, through the ball.  That simple.  As Chipper Jones pointed out (when he took a swing at Donaldson’s asinine philosophy) he tried to hammer the ball off the outfield fence from pole to pole, which gave the Rawlings backspin and 747 lift off.

Backspin and Jacks speak the same language.  It’s called DiamondDustese.

I’m not much of a fan of some dude named Chipper, unless he’s still in diapers.  But in this case his advice is as good as Bitcoins.  And Chipper is in the Hall of Fame.

                     The Bringer of Drizzle

Where are the most base hits?  If you guessed groundballs up the middle you win a million dollars, courtesy of John Donaldson who has a few to spare.  Even The Shift hasn’t Deep Sixed that trend.

Line drives and hard groundballs produce the most hits and the most runs.  Isn’t that the point?  And every youth coach knows fly balls are outs.  Outs.  Outs.

          Fly balls are outs.

Very few young hitters have the power to leave the yard.  Especially when you consider that amateur ball parks are quite often bigger than MLB fields, a fact that somehow seems out of whack.

Kids play on diamonds 330 down the line.  A lot of MLB band boxes aren't that deep.  Ken Griffey loved hitting in the Kingdome because it was 312 down the right field line, which gave him a leg up on the Hall.  When they built Safeco he defected from Seattle to slug for the Reds.

      312 down the line?  Not much bigger than a Little League park.

So how many fly ball outs will a kid survive before he just quits in frustration and plays lacrosse?  And does Josh Jackass give a damn that he's screwing up a lot of kids?  Thanks, Josh.

Kids should just learn to hit.  Solid contact.  Don’t even think about home runs.  The power will come as you mature.  That makes a lot more sense than a 10-year-old upper cutting to loft hopeless fly ball outs as preached by the Bringer of Drizzle.  Who didn't play for over three months because he had a sore calf muscle.

Yes, his calf was sore.  For $23 million a lot of dudes would play with a broken leg.

UP-DATE

Bloop and a Dribbler…but Wick Locks the Door

Padres manager Andy Green must have liked what he saw in Rowan’s debut because he hustled him back onto the mound faster than a speed reader.

And Wick was even better.

If you’re a slave to stats that sounds as irrational as skydiving without a parachute.  In his second go round Rowan was on the hill for another frame and this time he threw a load of 25 pitches, giving up two hits and a walk.

Yes, the Rockies didn’t score.  But how could that be better than his first rodeo?
_________________________________________________________

"Green’s not wasting any time.  He’s putting Wick to the test.”
   --Mark Sweeney, Padres TV analyst
_____________________________________________________

For openers, Rowan faced the meat of the Colorado order.

And the two hits were misfires.

Nolan Arenado, one of the premier belter's in the game, fell behind 0-2 and then reached across the plate to poke at a 96 mph heater…and bloop it down the line, where it settled softly three feet fair.  “That was probably one of the worst swings he’s taken all year,” Sweeney said, “and he dumps it into right field for a double.”

Veteran Matt Holliday battled for nine pitches, fouling off everything he could handle, until he worked the walk.  And Ian Desmond loaded the bags when he dribbled a groundball for a weak infield hit.

But in the middle of all this Rowan handcuffed Trevor Story with elevated fastballs and sliders away for the K and served a jar full of jam for a pair of infield pop ups.

Not one hitter got a good swing on Wick's heater or slider.  Not one.  In fact, they were universally late on virtually everything, chopping a flotilla of oppo foul balls.

But here’s the clincher.  The bloop and the dribbler did absolutely nothing to shake Rowan’s resolve.  He took it all in stride.  And passed Andy Green’s test like a Harvard grad.

AND HE OPENS WITH A BANG

          Rowan Wick Called up to the Padres

                                         43   K   63

Rowan Wick joined the San Diego Padres last night.  And he just didn't walk through the door.  He kicked it open. 

The 6-3, 230-pound righthander from North Van threw blanks in the ninth inning as the Padres shutout the Colorado Rockies 7-0.

In his first taste of the major leagues Rowan threw exactly eight pitches to retire the side before the very enthusiastic San Diego fans.

Wick blitzed a 95 mph heater to get David Dahl to groundout to second base on the first pitch he saw.

Then Ryan McMahon fouled off one fastball, took a slider that clipped the outside corner for strike two, and fanned on an elevated blazer at 96.  Catcher Austin Hedges tossed the Rawlings into the Padres dugout and Rowan had a souvenir of his first big league K.

That set-up the final zap with Chris Iannetta in the box.  Rowan started him with a 95 mph heater on the outside corner that had a wrinkle of cut and Iannetta took a hack and came up empty.  Then he swung and missed on a laser up and away at 96 before fouling off another fastball.

At which point Wick threw a perfect pitch, a 90 mph slider that broke sharply off the outside corner and Iannetta slapped a groundball to short to end the game.

Rowan was called up after posting a brilliant 1.99 ERA with nine saves for the AAA El Paso Chihuahuas.   He was in Fresno with El Paso when he got the word at 4 in the morning.  Two flights later he was in San Diego, thriving on adrenaline.

Rowan arrived just before game time, riding a whirlwind.  "It still hasn't settled in for me," he said after the game.

Wick was signed by St. Louis as a power hitting outfielder.  Even though he hammered a barrage of home runs the Cardinals liked his arm even more than his swing and converted him into a pitcher.  The Padres added him to their system earlier this year.   

This is only Rowan's third full season on the hill, where his repertoire includes a high 90's fastball, tight slider and curveball.              

            

       What is wrong with human beings?

I’m watching Pawn Stars, something I do every once in awhile when I want to see fat dudes (I refuse to call them “fat pigs” because pigs are noble animals) negotiate with other obese diabetes candidates.

Yes, I know, reality shows are all rehearsed and staged.  That’s the irony of Reality TV.

At any rate, a guy ambled in to the pawn shop and tried to convince Rick he had the legendary piece of wood that was in the hands of Babe Ruth when he ripped the famous “Call the Shot” home run.  (Look it up.)

And he was asking for $2,000,000.

Yes, $2 million.  Two million dinero.  Yes, he was.  And Rick was intrigued.  Thinking about paying that much.

Until he found out it was a fake.

             Are these incredible beings not more sacred than a baseball bat?

Now I ask you.  Why would anyone pay $2 million for a (bleeping) baseball bat?  No matter who’s sweaty palms it rubbed against (did the Babe wear batting gloves?) and no matter which Rawlings left the yard.

History?  Icons?  Tradition?  For $2 million?  Does insanity run in your family?  Or do you buy Picasso paintings?

       Was this the bat?  Or is this really Kendrys Morales?

There are innocent, wonderful animals being slaughtered for a few bucks by ruthless, savage mercenaries.  Every (bleeping) day.

There are innocent, wonderful children being discarded and emotionally abused by soulless parents.  Every (bleeping) day.

And a baseball bat is worth $2 million?

What the (bleep) is wrong with human beings?