Random Thought Of The Day

After cutting someone off on the highway, the resulting feelings of guilt do not justify straddling the line for two miles.

Friday Afternoon's Cubs Game

After a long Thursday at the course, and after waiting half the night in vain to see my brother off to Rome, and after hearing a litany of reasons from Ellen why we suddenly couldn't have plans for the remaining half of the night, I decided that I was taking Friday off. I'd gone to Wisconsin for 11 straight days, and I desperately needed to relax before the long weekend. Also, I wanted to see at least one game of the Braves series. I admire the Braves. The Braves, as an organization, know how to build ballclubs. The Braves are the way the Cubs should be. And, the Braves were the first team to lose to the Cubs in the playoffs in 95 years. They're the anti-Marlins: I hate the Marlins because they beat us, but I like the Braves because we got 'em in 2003.

So, Friday morning followed my usual solo-game routine: shower, coffee, walk, paper, coffee, train, scalper, scorecard, Wrigley.

I sat upstairs in the very last row, just a few feet to the first base side of the press box. I felt like hiding; I don't want to say I was embarassed to be there, but I'm definitely embarassed by the pile of crap that is the 2006 Cubs. Also, I am certainly not in the mood deal with the oblivious, sign-toting, drunken douchebags who sit in the best seats and continue to think that this team might do something. The eternal optimism of Cubdom is starting to bother me. Piles of shit don't turn to gold because you hope they might.

Somehow the Cubs managed to carry a lead into the ninth. In came our closer, Ryan Dempster. He, like the rest of the back end of the bullpen, has been severely underworked thanks to the team's poor play, and he blew a save just a couple days before. Let me tell you: Not a single ounce of confidence could be found in my entire section. Even the typically blustery drunks seemed quiet and unsure. Of course, Dempster blew the save, a three-run lead, thanks to walks, fluke hits, and defensive blunders. Tough. Comical. And lately, typical.

I hadn't been planning on it, but the Cubs' continuing tragedy prompted me to get trashed. I walked down Clark toward Lincoln Park. Seamus texted me at various times about the game. This left me under the impression that he must be at his place. I called him as I approached Diversey, only to find that he had somehow managed to watch the game while on a work assignment in the suburbs. Odd. We vented about Perez and the lack of moves, and he hung up because he was getting onto the expressway, and promised he would meet me soon. (I never did see him, because he opted to go to the Northern Ireland-Romania soccer game at Soldier. I don't care how crazy Romanians are -- soccer sucks.)

It was around 4:45, so people would be getting home from work very soon. I love catching people right when they get home from work, before they slip into fucking-around Friday lethargy. I went to aliveOne. The bartenders were just returning from the game as well, so we bitched about the Cubs. I pounded several beers. I called Sheehan at 5:30. He'd just gotten home, and was having a smoke and a beer on his porch. I warned him, "I'm getting shitfaced pretty quickly, my man! Please get your ass over here now!" He came over at 6, at which point I'd already had seven or eight beers. We bitched about the Cubs for a while. He left a few messages with a few of the Meats about Father's Day weekend, and I talked to Al about coming up to the course on Saturday. Sheehan's phone lit up. Rojas was going to some apartment to finish off a pre-game keg. Sheehan and I pounded a couple for the road and bolted.

At about 8, we arrived at the apartment, which was in a typical older greystone, on a sidestreet at Belmont and Sheffield. It was a pretty good party: several Atlantans decked out in Braves gear, some cute girls from South Dakota, and a few of the usual jamokes I hadn't seen in a while. Some guy was bitching about how crappy yet busy the city courses are, so I gave him the directions to my course. Rojas grilled food, but I didn't eat any. Keeping with a theme, we pounded beers and lamented the most recent Cubbie blunder.

I continued drinking at an accelerated pace. I drained at least six cups before it dawned on me that I'd long since passed fifteen beers. I thought nothing of it -- shocker -- and tried to ignore the growing realization that I'd become overly shitfaced. I followed Rojas into the apartment. Someone shoved a half-full tumbler into my hand. A toast was made. I downed the shot. Ugh, I thought, that was un-fucking-pleasant. For once, mine was not the evening's most shocking reaction. Two other guys had taken the same shot, which turned out to be some combination of SoCo, cheap vodka, and a splash of margarita mix. One of the fat guys curled up in a ball onto the floor in the kitchen, grasping at his stomach, which was pretty weird. The other guy ran right over to the porch railing and blew his guts out about twenty times. And what was my reaction? "Is there still beer left in that keg?" Yes, barely, the ass of the keg remained. I drank it, and it was bad. The keg kicked.

Rojas couldn't believe it when I returned to the porch from the kitchen with three more cans of beer. "Fuck yeah, these are for me," I said, "But I am not gonna stand anywhere near the railing! I am banning myself from the railing!" One of the South Dakota girls made a derogatory comment about my Villanova shirt, and I told her to go fuck the family cow back in the Dakota wastelands. I leaned against the still-warm grill and pounded the beers. Midway through the second beer, I realized that my stomach felt and sounded like a waterbed. I glanced up and saw that Sheehan looked worse than I felt. Sheehan, after all, is the catch-up master; no matter how many beers I'm ahead of him, he invariably laps me before the night is out.

Around midnight, someone called for a move to a bar. "Pizza," Sheehan said. "Home," I said. Rojas tried to get us to go to the bar; we told him that it was probably a bad idea. We went downstairs. Sheehan asked me again to go get pizza, but I had a more realistic view of the situation: "I'm beyond food, dude. It's only a matter of time before I hurl. I might, might, might make it home if I get a cab in the next five minutes." We walked for a little, maybe three blocks, and I froze. I'd forgotten my scorecard in the apartment. Fuck. I told Sheehan I had to go back for it.

I browned out shortly after the scorecard realization. I have a flash memory of plucking up the scorecard from the floor by a couch. Sheehan might have waited for me on the sidewalk, but neither of us remembers if he left when I went back upstairs. I have no idea if the cab picked me up outside the apartment, or if I had to walk to an intersection. At any rate, I got into a cab.

Chicago cabbies tend to freak out when drunk people get into their car. Why they pick people up in Lakeview between 10 and 4, then, I'll never know. In this case, my cabbie treated me like a ticking time bomb. However, I am the rare ticking time bomb that comes with detailed instructions. The cabbie asked me at least five times if I was okay. I said, "No, not at all, I'm a complete mess, but listen to me: Take the Inner Drive to Bellevue, drive slow, and don't make any fast turns or sudden stops. Please, for the love of God, do as I say. I might have to puke, so be ready to pull over. Now, I'm going to pass out, okay?" I don't know if he responded or not, and I'm not sure if my words were intelligible. I passed out.

The next thing I knew, the idiot was whipping along on the Outer Drive at a ridiculously fast pace, positively hauling ass. Since we were peeling down a highway, and not slowly cruising on a regular road as I had suggested, I was left with no choice but to puke all over the place. I hit every square inch of the back of the cab, including my pants and my shoes, as well as the entire empty seat to my left. The cabbie screamed, "Oh fuck man! You're puking in my cab!" Between eruptions, I shouted back at him, "I said Inner Drive, asshole, Inner fucking Drive!" I continued puking all over the back of the cab for the remainder of the ride, figuring the damage was already done.

We pulled up to my intersection. I admired my handiwork in the streetlights, and found it to be rather impressive. Unfortunately, the cabbie was already standing at the door, and he was pretty fired up. I told him I was sorry but those were the risks. (It's not as though I had done this at two in the afternoon in Elmhurst; he picked me up at midnight in Lakeview, and I tried to give him clear protocols, which he completely ignored.) I took out my money clip and gave him $32, explaining that this was all I had on me. "This is not enough for fare and a wash! We go to ATM!" he screamed. I screamed back, "That's $14 for the fare, and $18 for the wash. You can get a fucking wash for that!" He wouldn't hear it, though, and the next thing I knew, he gave me a little shove.

Right then, Gary the doorman jumped into the growing fray, wedging himself between us. "I'll handle it, man," he said. I ran into the building. Went upstairs. Stripped. Set my alarm. Wondered why Ellen couldn't bother to call me back. Passed out with all of the lights on.

This Means You

With all the porn that's out there nowdays, it's only a matter of time before you recognize someone you know.

A Thousand Words

"Listen, Larry, here's what's going to happen here: I'm gonna strike out this chump on four pitches, unintentionally intentionally walk the next guy on five pitches, and induce the third guy into a 4-3 double play on a third-pitch cutter. I know you're probably confused because it's the fourth inning and I still haven't broken the 80 pitch mark yet, but this is how pros play the game. Now, get your ass back into the dugout, tell Dusty to try to look awake, and don't you dare warm anybody up until I give the word."

Democratic?

Welcome to Chicago, the most undemocratic, Democratic city in the world.

Incremental Chunks

I don't know. Not finished. I'm a bum.

I'm referring, of course, to nearly everything that's ever gone on in my life, but in this case in particular I mean the two promised posts, "Narrow Calm" and "The Day-To-Day." They are taking me a really long time to finish, and I have two excuses. First of all, I haven't had much time to write lately, what with all the driving and getting lost in the computer-free zone that is my golf course. For the last week, I've been either at the course, at the ballpark, hanging out with Ellen, or asleep -- I barely even check my email, unless it's from my cell phone. Second, I noticed that the pieces are bleeding in and out of each other, and I don't have the energy or the time to fix this complex problem. "Narrow Calm," I fear, might therefore fall victim to my laziness, though that title will no doubt come in handy at some point this summer, probably in early August.

As far as "The Day-To-Day" goes, the idea for has mushroomed into a massive project, and I keep adding a little something to it almost every day. It is, for the most part, my attempt to explain to you all the little things that make the daily trek up to Wisco tolerable. On a different level, it has helped me to gain some clarity as I try to figure out what I'm doing with my life. How Dr. Phil of me.

Getting back to the idea for the post, I have a million ideas for stories based on my experiences at the golf course. Since we are open-to-the-public and inexpensive, I end up dealing with a broad cross-section of society: farmers, executives, laborers, retirees, immigrants, my fellow Cubs/Sox/Bears-leaning Chicagoans, our Packers/Brewers/Bagers Cheeseheads, not to mention quite a few Nascar fans, a couple of homies, and number of military guys. I find myself continually fascinated by my interactions with my customers, because they are all so amazingly different.

Ours is not a private club, but we essentially run a club nonetheless; 90% of my clientele are regulars, and most of them feel like it's "their" club and that is fine by me. While I don't usually remember their names, I recognize just about everybody. As I describe intimately in "The Day-To-Day," I have created a long list of nicknames for my clients, a small deception which feeds Nick the Nicknamer, my alter-ego. I smoke butts, fret about the weather, keep an eye on the register, and, most importantly, listen to what people have to say about every topic under the sun. I ought to turn on a tape recorder; doing so might speed up the completion of my thought. But I don't think that'd go over too well with my customers, and as we are in the business of making people feel the opposite of uncomfortable, I guess I'll keep chipping away at the idea in incremental chunks.

So, incremental chunks being the case, you'll probably have to wait just a bit longer for some substantive and non-Cubs WIS material. So sorry! Ciao for now...

Random Thought Of The Day

Who decided that having a baby gives a woman the right to get a really, really ugly dude haircut?

Uncivil War

In this Civil War, the North loses. Motherfucker.

As evidenced this week against the World Champion (hurl dry-heave hurl) White Sox, the current Cubs team isn't close to competing at a high level. Yet, pretty much all of these idiots are signed through next year -- players and staff alike -- and it's unlikely that we see any (vital) changes. Dusty's contract is up at the end of the year, but deep down you and I both know he's getting another contract. Simply put, MacPhail and Hendry are idiots and can't be bothered with finding a manager who knows how to teach basic baseball tactics. From the Tribune's point of view, the Cubs are one of their only business segments that actually turns a profit, so who gives a shit about win-loss records? It's the same old sad story, over and over and over.

We're getting absolutely murdered in this Crosstown Classic, to a point that it's not even funny. After the debacles of Friday and Saturday, do I really need to list additional reasons why the Three Stooges Should be fired? Is a 4-15 record in May not enough? How's about this:



"Glendon throws 80 and straight. Let's lock him up for two years, and slot him into the third spot in the rotation."







"Jim does a great job of doing just barely not enough. Let's give him a two-year extension, and hope Dusty can cobble together a .500 record, so we can make a nice profit and keep the press somewhat off of our ass."









"Neifi swings and misses well from both sides of the plate. Let's lock him up for two years, and work him into every single game."



Hendry is primarily to blame for the current mess, but it's not like MacPhail or Baker have done anything to help the team get stronger. I doubt either of them had a problem with Hendry raiding the minors over the off-season to arrange this pile of crap squad, and now what we're left for the future appears to be another pile of crap. I mean, at this point, who the fuck would want damaged goods like Guzman, Wuertz or Williams? Thanks to the psychological damage inflicted by being called up too early and receiving zero instruction from the world's most detached coaching staff, none of our prospects appear to have any prospects. The way I see it, thanks to the Three Stooges, the Cubs have a whole bunch of young guys that are going to need a lot of un-learning if they're ever going to get good, which more or less ensures Cub futility for several years to come. And, in a sick and twisted way, the certainty of a rebuilding effort serves as job security for these boobs, because who else would even be willing to rebuild the organization AGAIN? They made this bed, let them sleep in it -- or so the thinking from the Tribune Tower seems to be.

Cubs fans are clamoring for a trade involving some veteran superstar, but what do the Cubs have to offer in a trade? All we have is problems, and who wants those? Who in their right mind would take Neifi or Glendon off our hands? Who'd want to assume nursemaid responsibilities for Wood or Prior? We've got two catchers, one of who can hit but not catch, and the other who can catch but not hit. We've got six guys who can play second, but only one of them can bat his weight. We've got a strong bullpen that we barely use and never get to, but can't afford to part with because godforbid we need them at some point. For fuck's sake: Our best pitcher is probably going to retire after this year. What a train wreck.

Basically, we're stuck with this pile of crap for the rest of the summer, and probably for next summer as well. Forget that we should never have signed half of the bench in the first place -- but what do the fans know anyway? Well, I'll tell you what I know: I was able to establish a long, long time ago that Rusch is terrible, that Perez was way over the hill, and that Blanco is capable of batting under .100. While it is extremely difficult to guess which youngsters will be superstars, it doesn't take a genius to point out a veteran guy who completely blows. And that, for all of you outsiders, is the essence of why the Cubs have always sucked: Cub history is liberally sprinkled with horrendous veteran personnel moves, teamed with a bunch of young guys we got lucky with.

Anyway, not surprisingly, the Cubs' play this weekend has left me bitter and defenseless, and when I feel bitter and defenseless, I start insulting people with impunity.

Today at the course, for example, a teenaged kid asked me if I like the White Sox. Reflexively, I said, "No. The bodywork on my car is one contiguous color, and I have all of my teeth." He gave me a look of utter confusion and walked away. Of course he didn't get it. He's a White Sox fan. I engaged in two other verbal confrontations as well, one involving a woman, another involving a barista, neither of which I care to comment upon.

Welcome to Chicago's on-going civil war. If you're a North Sider, Barrett was provoked and cracked a universally despised asshole. If you're a South Sider, Barrett wontonly attacked Pierzynski, because everybody knows how A.J. is sooooo misunderstood. My fucking ass. I actually heard him whine on the radio afterwards that he doesn't know why he's always involved in controversial plays. It's because you're such a huge fucking asshole, A.J. Figure it the fuck out.

I can't believe the White Sox are this much better than us. F them. And, while I'm at it, f the DH, and screw the whole American League. I forget how much I hate the Sox until we actually play them, then I boil over with anger. I still hate the Cardinals more, though, for the record. If Whichever Molina pulled a Pierzynski, I'd be the first one waiting by the Cards team bus with a cup full of piss.

Global Supporter

Most of the world is obsessed with soccer. On the other hand, most of the world can't read, write, or industrialize. Go figure.

And Still Going Strong

Happy birthday to me! (This is number 29, if anyone's counting.) Now, send me presents!

Crossed Up III

The Cubs lost to the Padres again today, 9-0, in a two-hit masterpiece delivered by some guy you never heard of. This weekend's sweep at Wrigley and last weekend's four-game sweep in San Diego represent the first season sweep in the club's 131-year history. This afternoon at brunch, G-Man's dad said, "This is my 57th summer of a broken heart. I can't take the losing any more, but they're still my Cubbies." I don't know what else to say, except: The 2006 season might as well be over.

Patpourri

Come, said my soul,
Such verses for my body let us write, for we are one,
That should I after death invisibly return,
Or, long, long hence, in other spheres,
There to some group of mates, the chants resuming,
Tallying earth's soil, trees, winds, tumultuous waves,
Ever with pleas'd smile I may keep on,
Ever and ever yet the verses owning -- as, first, I here and now,
Signing for soul and body, set to them my name,
Walt Whitman

Cubs.com Fantasy Headline

"Top Brass Struck By Lightning; Steve Stone Era Begins"

Happy Motherf#$@er's Day

My mom: "You know what? You're bein' a real biatch!"

My sister: "Ew! Bite me!"

Lennon & McCartney: "All you need is love."

Crossed Up II

It was raining when my first alarm went off at 6:30 a.m., so I went back to sleep. My dad called at 8:30. I told him I wasn't going up to the course; he wasn't surprised. He said my sister was going to a bachelorette party at Wrigley. He predicted that they might last four innings, and asked if I was going. Well, hell, if my sister could tough it out in this crappy weather, so could I. I went back to sleep for a bit, and took a shower after my second alarm sounded at 10. I read the internet for a while, and left my apartment at 12:15. I hit up Starbucks for an espresso and an iced tea for the train ride. Just a few steps from the Chicago Red Line stairway, some drunken homeless douchebag slammed into me, which sprayed a giant dollop of coffee all over my left knee. (Bad omen.) I got down to the platform just as the train pulled up, and I noticed that the car was less packed than usual for a Cubs afternoon game. My brother called just as the train pulled out of the subway. He needed the car to get to a study session in Rogers Park; cool with me, I told him.

I climbed down the stairs at Addison and made quick two lefts to see my scalpers. I said, "They can't hit, they can't throw, they can't pitch, they can't win, so what the fuck am I doing here?" The four guys laughed. "You're a sick man, pal, but we love ya," Donnie said as he slapped me on the shoulder. I have a standing order with these guys: I really don't care where I sit, just get me in cheap. Late last year one of the newer guys put me in the 200-level behind a pillar -- granted, I was directly behind home plate, but my view was still terribly obstructed -- and I went back right after the game and chewed the guy out. The gist of my rant, which I delivered as the other guys nodded and looked on, was, "I am an annuity for you guys. I come here twice a week, minimum. Go ahead and make your money on the tourists from Moline, but I am NOT a fucking tourist. I will not hesitate to give my $1,000 annually to somebody else, so you better hook it up." Ever since then, the guy has stumbled over himself to give me a good deal. Today I ordered the usual, but with a twist: I wanted a covered seat, just in case it rained. Easy enough: Section 431, Row 10, just past first base upstairs, for $25. The fifteen dollar discount on the ticket reduced my dollars-over-face-value to $0 for 6 games. Really, who needs season tickets when you've got your go-to scalper? If the Cubs keep playing like they're playing, I'll end up spending much less than face value for a half-season's games. Not too shabby.

I grabbed a scorecard from my guy, the old man with the beard by the right-field entrance. We both shook our heads and looked down when I put my $2 on his stand. I know what he's thinking, and I'm trowing the same vibe right back at him: What a train wreck. I sat in the Friendly Confines cafe for the first few innings, and watched the start of the game on the flat screen, to ensure that I had the correct starting lineups. I eventually moved up to my seat in the upper deck, which was just a little down the right-field line from first base. The wind was not as strong as I had originally feared, and the sun was throwing off a considerable glare through the thick cloud cover, though the lights were turned on as a precaution. I had a big Diet Pepsi, nachos no peppers, peanuts, and a '99 Panic show on the iPod. A Cub win would have rounded out the perfect afternoon, and it looked like such would be the case for most of the afternoon.

To my amazement, the Cubs manufactured two runs in the first. Juan Pierre saw three pitches and flew out, lamely, once again doing a really, really bad job with the leadoff spot. Ronny Cedeno reached base on a cheap hit (thank God for cheap hits). Todd Walker flew out to center. Cedeno went first-to-third on an Aramis Ramirez single. Ramy went first-to-third on Jacque Jones' single (his 1,000th career hit), which scored Cedeno: 1-0 Cubs. Jerry Hairston, who hasn't done much at the plate this entire year, laid down a beautiful, surprise bunt to third for a single, driving in Ramirez and sending the crowd into a frenzy: 2-0 Cubs. Neifi Perez did what we expect him to do, which is not very much. He struck out swinging to end the inning, stranding two runners. This is pathetic to say, but for a team that's played really, really badly of late, two runs in the first is a huge deal.

Most of the game was classic Maddux. He was efficient, kept the ball down, made the most of the wind blowing in, and got the ball to corkscrew, stop, drop, and cut with surgical precision. He made a couple of great plays in the field, as usual. One play in particular stood out: On a high chopper by Adrian Gonzalez, Maddux fielded the ball over his right shoulder (it would have been the second baseman's play, if only Perez weren't manning second), launched himself into the air with a graceful pirouette, and excecuted a perfect line-drove throw, nailing Gonzalez in plenty of time. Also, Maddux reached with a two-out single in the fourth, and stole second base two pitches later. (The way he figures it, and he's right: The pitcher isn't going to pay any attention to me; if I'm out, the top of the order is up next inning; if I'm safe, I've got a chance to score on a single. The guy is a genius, no two ways about it.) Here's a first-ballot Hall of Famer who, at the tender age of 40, still goes out there and busts his ass on every single play. I recommend that you watch him play if and when you can, because he's one of the greatest all-around pitchers ever, and he won't be around forever.

After several very quick innings, the Cubs tallied an unearned run in the sixth, after Perez doubled to the right field corner, followed by Brian Giles dropping an easy Henry Blanco pop-up: 3-0 Cubs. Maddux had been on cruise control up to that point, giving up just 2 hits through 7, and stranding both Padre runners on third base.

Vinny Castilla, the Padre third baseman, led off the eighth with a line-shot to the gap in right-center. Jacque Jones and Juan Pierre broke over to it, but Jones got there first and forced Castilla to turn back after a wide turn around first. Inexplicably, Perez didn't bother to catch the relay throw from Jones, which allowed the ball to trickle lamely towards the infield, whereupon the slow and ancient Castilla ambled over to second. The theme of yesterday's piece was: Winning teams don't throw away outs. The theme of today's piece is: Winning teams don't give away bases. Padre first baseman Gonzalez grounded out to second, moving Castilla to third. Remember: If Neifi had bothered to catch the relay, Castilla would have been at third, and the double play would have been in effect. Instead, with Castilla moved over to third on the grounder, Josh Barfield dropped a ball into short left to drive in a run: 3-1 Cubs. Maddux walked a rookie named Paul McAnulty, who was batting for the pitcher, putting runners at first and second, with one away. Scott Eyre came in to relieve Maddux, facing former Cub Eric Young who (for a reason I don't understand) pinch-hit for the red-hot Dave Roberts. But Young grounded over to Ramirez who stepped on third and threw to first for the inning-ending twin killing.

The Cubs bats were silent in the last of the 8th, but no one sitting in my section was worried. In a year where quality starts, reliable middle and long relief work, and fundamentally sound at-bats have been in short supply, the end of the bullpen has proved to be the only real bright spot. The problem is: The Cubs don't get to the set up men or the closer too often. Going into today's game, closer Ryan Dempter pitched 17 innings with an ERA under 2.00, but is credited with just 7 saves. He finally had a save opportunity or the first time in forever. His last save was May 1 versus the Pirates -- a whopping 11 games between chances.

Much to my dismay, the Cubs proved once again that our team is cursed, and that this season will contribute to the Cubs' never-ending nightmare. Cameron reached with a lead-off single, and went first-to-third on a Giles single. Then, Mike Piazza proved why he's still got a job (it's not because of his defense; see yesterday's post), by just barely dropping a high fly ball into the left field basket: 4-3 Padres. Another collective groan bellowed forth from the Wrigley faithful; further proof that the baseball gods have abandoned us. My chin dropped to my chest; I stared down at my peanut shells in disbelief; there was no way to stomach what had just happened. Trevor Hoffman came on to do what he does best, by forcing cheap outs by Mabry and Pierre, and striking out Cedeno, to earn his 7th save. 54 outs. Game over.

As was the case in yesterday's game, the Cubs' offensive performance was average at best. The Cubs earned 30 bases, 7 hits, and three walks, in 32 at-bats. (Three walks! From a Dusty Baker ball club, that's like a dozen!) San Diego, hardly an offensive dynamo, accumulated 25 bases, 7 hits, and only one walk, in 33 at-bats. To give you an idea of the lack of offensive excitement produced by these two teams in this 4-3 Padres victory, the simplified runs-created equation -- [TB(H+BB)]/(AB+BB) -- indicates that the final score ought to have been 8-6 in favor of the Cubs. These two teams managed to score half as many runs as predicted--statistical proof that this game was the pinnacle of frustration. It is also important to note that the Padres stranded only three runners, while the Cubs stranded eight. The Padres are not an abundantly talented baseball club, but they are long on leaders who know how to pounce when the pouncing is good. The Cubs won the first 7 innings but lost the game, which is eerily parallel to their ability to get guys over to third but rarely home.

I blame this loss on Neifi's half-assed blunder. You really can't put all the blame on Dempster's poor performance. For God's sake, this team is so bad, he's only pitched 18 innings this year. Every once in a while, the closer is going to blow a ball game. Hoffman, for example, blows about one save for every nine he earns, and he's one of the best in the business. Sometimes shit happens, and the tater goes flying. However, it should go without saying that the second baseman MUST receive the throw from right field. Neifi's lollygagging bullshit was the straw that broke the camel's back; the single grain that toppled the sand castle; the butterfly's flight that stirred the hurricane. If he had done his job and kept Castilla at first, it's possible that Piazza never even comes up to bat in the ninth. When you're constantly tettering on the edge of disaster like this Cub team is right now, you CANNOT afford to make ANY sloppy plays.

Why did Dusty leave Perez in the game? Joe Torre, Ozzie Guillen, Bobby Cox, or any other manager with half an ounce of pride would have burst out of the dugout and dragged Perez's ass into the clubhouse for the ass-whipping of his life. But Perez stayed in there, and he looked like he was unaffected after the blunder, even mouthing off to the luckiest man on the Padres (bullpen catcher Mark Merila). Baker could have made any number of moves to replace the lazy oaf (Theriot; Bynum; Murton or Mabry to left, Hairston to second). Yet time and time again, the dog goes unpunished for shitting all over the floor, because you don't want the poor little doggie to feel bad about himself. Welcome to the Dusty Baker school of management.

Remember that, prior to this season, everyone was concerned that Cedeno and Murton didn't know how to play the game the right way. Sure, the kids have made a few mistakes along the way, but at least they're making hustle errors. What's killing us is washed-up veterans like Perez and Blanco, each of whose production long since passed the point of bad comedy. This club simply doesn't have any fire. We need DLee back in the worst way. We need his bat. We need his defense. We need Walker back at second, batting sixth or seventh. And we need to not have bench-warmers in the starting lineup everyday.

And, where's Felix Pie? If you're going to start Hairston in left a few times a week, why not give Pie those at-bats? What's he hitting in the PCL, anyway -- over .400? MacPhail, Hendry, and Baker should be lined up and shot, because the situation is incorrectably pitiful.

I'm going to have a few beers and try not to think about Cubs baseball.

Once again: Indecision is a decision.

Random Thought Of The Day

Qatar is the new Hong Kong.

Crossed Up I

It was very cold and drizzly yesterday and today, so I've been trying to keep busy downtown. This is not as easy as it sounds, since all of my friends are at work, and the weather is too crappy for long walks. Tired of sitting in the house, and having gone to the movies yesterday ("Thank You For Smoking"--very funny), I figured I'd go up to Wrigley this afternoon, grab a standing-room-only ticket, keep score, and listen to my iPod. Bad baseball with good tunes is preferable to the alternative when the alternative is watching the game on TV.

At about 10:30, I went downstairs for a coffee, but the weather couldn't have sucked more. It was cold, clammy, wet, and windy--a stark contrast to the low-70s, clear-skied beauty of the last couple weeks. I walked around the block once and immediately headed back inside, already soaked through by the irritating mist falling from the sky. Today required layers of sweatshirt and pancho, and sitting outside all day would certainly be a gross affair. I thought to myself, "You have to sit under the upper deck--200 level, first 8 rows, or you will be completely miserable." Something about the specificity of that realization turned me off, and I began to wonder if I'd be miserable regardless of where I sat.

If there was any hope for this year, I guarantee you that I would have been at this game. Tickets would surely be cheap and abundant after this terrible road trip, and with the drizzle falling, I might have even gotten a free ticket from someone. But, as I standing there, toweling myself off after the unusually short walk, I realized the absurdity of walking into a guaranteed double-bitch slap, with nothing but bad weather and shitty on-field performances in store. I looked out at the dreary scene outside my window, and decided not to go to the game.

12:40--my departure time for 1:20 starts--came and went; I stayed put. I turned the game on at 1:29. The Cubs were already down 1-0. Because they were already losing, I messed around on the computer and listened to the first couple of innings with only half an ear. Occasional glances at the screen showed players who were soaked to the bone, and a tiny legion of fans who couldn't have looked more depressing.

There were two crucial innings in this game: the bottom of the third, and the top of the fifth. Those two half-innings encapsulated everything that wrong about this club. They are: Dusty Baker's continuing strategic inaptitude, as evidenced in the bottom of the third; and the team's careless pitching and defense, during a three-error fifth inning.

First, with the score tied 2-2, Neifi Perez lead off the Cubs half of the third inning with a single. The Padres catcher is Mike Piazza who, at this late stage in his career, has the worst arm in the Major Leagues and basically is incapable of throwing to second on a fly. Even if you've got the pitcher at first, you can just take off against him--he has caught a mere 11% of potential base stealers this year (3-for-34). Perez, the Cub at first, is not really fast, but he's not really slow either. He is 56-for-100 lifetime and stole 8 out of 12 tries last year, though he has not attempted a stolen base so far this season. However, with no outs and the worst arm in baseball behind the plate, this would seem like the ideal opportunity to send Perez, probably on the second or third pitch.

At the plate was Ronny Cedeno, our young phenom at shortstop, who was batting third today in the absence of DLee (injured) and Walker (resting). Cedeno is hitting the ball well this year, considering how our genius minor league coaches' were full of concern about his offensive capabilities at higher levels. For the 2005 AAA I-Cubs, Cedeno's OPS pushed the magical 1.000-level, and he's batting a tidy .300 in 200 big-league at bats over the last two partial seasons. Granted, 200 is not a large number of at-bats, but I think it's pretty clear to anyone who's paying attention that this kid can hit.

So, the Cubs found themselves with a reasonably quick player on first, an over-the-hill arm behind home, and a hot bat at the plate. What should be the obvious chain of events here? This is like a lesson Baseball Strategy 101. Perez steals second, Cedeno waits to swing away, then the middle of the order is up with a speedster on base. Instead (and I shudder as I type it) Dusty called for Cedeno to lay down a sacrifice bunt. Never in my life have I seen such an egregious example of throwing away outs. Perez moved to third on a fly out by Ramirez, and was stranded when Barrett hit a grounder to second for the final out. Wasted lead-off hits are mortal sins against the baseball gods, and the Cubs have been doing it a whole lot this year.

If ball games were decided by getting runners up to third base, the Cubs would have won the World Series every year since Dusty got here. Unfortunately, the scorer is only concerned with the 90 feet from third to home. Baker's Cubs tend to get guys over to third, but very few of them ever score. Sure, a lot of it has to do with where balls are hit, how hard they are hit, who was fielding and throwing, and a host of other things. And, there are times when a sac bunt is a perfectly acceptable tool in a manager's arsenal--as a jump-start in the first or later innings, or with a really cold batter up. But in a tied game, in the third inning of a crummy afternoon, in the midst of a really horrible stretch of play, with all the skill factors outlined above, a manager simply cannot call for a strategy that boils down to, "Let's waste outs."

If the third inning embodied the team's offensive struggles, their play in the field was equally disappointing. The top of the fifth was easily the worst half-inning of baseball I've seen in my entire life. The Cubs defense accomplished every Little League mistake imaginable: a bone head error, balls lost in flight, slipping on the wet turf, blowing cut-off men, uncontested steals, and an ill-advised double play try. Horrendous.

It was a pile of shit all around, another nightmare to add to the dwindling chronicles of Glen-done Rusch's fast-fading career. Though difficult to get guys out when the defense isn't paying attention, there is no excusing an utter lack of pitching ability. He hurts the team every time he takes the ball, which is not surprising considering how bad his stuff is. His curve ball moves--about three inches, at 80 mph, and right down the middle of the plate. His fast ball approaches the plate with the utterly flat trajectory that makes professional hitters' mouths water. His pickoff move is completely terrible for a lefty, and he's too slow to offer much fielding help. Simply put, he does next to nothing to help get guys out. What good is he, then? What is the mystery trait that Hendry, Dusty, and Rothschild see in him that I cannot recognize? He blows, even as an innings-eater, and that's the bottom line. They should cut him, but no one will pick him up off waivers, and I don't believe for a second that the Tribune Company, with its earnings in the shitter, would be thrilled to pay someone millions to sit on their ass. I can't believe they signed him in the off-season. It's definitely one of the team's worst deals in the new millennium.

I hate to say it, but with this shaky starting rotation (three, count 'em, three rookies: Guzman, Hill, and Marshall) and a roster that sorely misses their best player, maybe the Cubs should resort to swinging for the fences. As currently constructed, this team will not win many games. Going into the spring, I didn't think they'd win 100 games; I figured they had a shot at the Wild Card if the position players stayed healthy, and if a combination of Wood, Prior, or Miller returned in some regular capacity. I never in a million years thought this would be one of the worst teams in baseball. It's a train wreck, and there's nothing to be done about it, because, at this rate, the season will be lost before they can make any sort of significant change. Hendry will pull some moves, but I think they will be limited to on-field personnel. It is a shame that Dusty isn't the bench coach with some other manager making on-field decisions. There's no doubt that the players love and respect him, but he makes fatal strategic miscalculations with abundant frequency. If I had to guess, I'd say Dusty costs them about 100 runs a year, through either unwise offensive plays, or horrible late-inning switches. However, I wonder if anyone else could really do much better. After all, you can't polish a turd. And that's what the 2006 Cubs are: a steaming pile of poop.

The post-game show was pure torture; each and every replay on the lowlight reel inflamed my disgust. Studio analyst Dan Plesac opined, "This game went on forever and ever. It was just boring. It was about as boring as a baseball game can get." A chuckling Mark Schanowski replied, "Way to sell the product, Dan!" But, from the comfort of my couch, I must agree with the old lefty: This one was as brutal as they come, all 4-plus hours of it.

Though the Cubs were only out-hit 14-11, the final score of 10-5 points to their their many offensive inefficiencies, and their three errors speak for themselves. Adding insult to injury, today marked their fifth straight loss to the Padres in the last week. The Cubs are now a whopping 2-9 for the month of May. They are 1-8 against the NL West, a division which experts regard as the weakest collective talent pool in the Majors. To lose like this to the a bunch of mediocre squads is nothing if not nauseating. I bet you thought I'd never say it, but I'm actually glad I didn't go to Wrigley this afternoon.

Remember: Indecision is a decision.

The Drunk Baron

Seamus: "He sounds like Tommy Chong!"

Just So You Know

As you've noticed, I haven't had much time to write lately. I gave up on "Keyed Up" because it was boring and, frankly, I've already forgotten many of the retellings of events which transpired during my brownouts. There are also considerations such as requests for censorship and other personally sensitive factors which lead me to think that "what happned on the rock, stays on the rock" is good policy. However, "The Day-To-Day" and a new one, "Narrow Calm," are coming along nicely. Hopefully the skies will open tomorrow so I can make the time to finish them. Until then, I apologize for the wait.

Bleeding Cubbie Blues

In the midst of this awful, horrific losing streak, I've taken some solace in the words of Walt Whitman: "Let us go forth a while, and get better air in our lungs. Let us leave our closed rooms. The game of ball is glorious."

Win or lose, that's really all there is to it.

I Love Philly

Cubs.com Fantasy Headline

"We Blow; Team Sold To Pat for $26"

So Much Things To Say

In a break from usual writer's block situations, the current absence of WIS updates results not from a lack of solid material, but rather from my excessive physical tiredness. This state descended upon me for three major reasons which I do not at the present have the energy to explain to the fullest. So, much like Wood, Prior, and Miller, I am confident that they'll be there at some point, but I'd prefer not to set a concrete date.

Baseball on the brain aside, keep an eye out for "The Day-To-Day" and "Keyed Up" any day now.

One Year Birthday

Wow! I wrote quite a lot this calendar year. Good for that. It's nice to keep everything organized. I've actually been publishing old unfinished posts, if you want to do some treasure hunting.

I would just like to reiterate how What I See is totally not the newspaper of my life. It is, in fact, a random collection of rants, mostly about baseball and (let's face it) nothing, as well as sketches from situations I find curious or amusing. Sometimes unintersting things find their way in, while awesome things are omitted. Maybe I'll post all of my stories one day, but it won't be for a long, long time. I need to keep a piece of me (sob sob) for me. :-)

Try to have a good time on here. If there's one thing you need to know about me, it's that I'm terrible with unpleasant things. If I see something that sucks, I try to make it better. If I can't, I move on as quickly as possible. I don't want to be bothered by things that fail to contribute to my pleasure, because life is too short to be miserable. If it's boring, I'm not wasting my time. Call it ADD, call it selfishness, call it whatever you want. I hate things that piss me off.

As a matter of fact, this very post --- all this looking back, when all I'm trying to get at is: check out the archives -- has become one of those uncomfortable things. I don't get hung up on birthdays, even my real birthday, unless it's a really big deal, and this is just one year of many.

So, to quote Dieter: "Liebe meine abschmenkee!"

Quote Of This Past Weekend

Me, upon arriving at Dahgren's bachelor party: "What's with this, 'We're going to Key West' shit? Whatever happened to drinking a case of tequila and killing a hooker the night before the wedding?"