Dead Hair Walking, or, Nearly Dis-Tressed.

Currently, my hair hangs down roughly to my shoulders. I probably haven't had it cut in about a year. Normally when it gets this long, I grow irritated with it: It never looks the way I hope it will when it gets long and in the Summer heat, it can be a bit of a problem in terms of comfort. I'm not sure what I expect when I let it grow; just not ... this¹. But since I don't really do anything other than wash it and run a comb through it, I can't really complain about the results. "Product" - however you define that - has never sullied my hair.

When it gets to be around this length, I typically have a moment of weakness during which I turn to Teh 'Bride² and say, "You have 5 minutes to gather your Implements of Follicular Mass Destruction and cut my hair. Hurry. By 5:01, I may have changed my mind."

Now, Teh 'Bride, who loathes hair of all kinds, appreciates this concession, even though there is an undeniable streak of cruelty in it because asking her to find anything that she last used a year ago in < 5 minutes pretty much assures 4:59 minutes of panicked rushing about and screeches of "Waitwaitwaitwaitwait!" and "Where did I PUT them?!" and various other ejaculations which is pretty entertaining for me and almost renders my having made a decision that I'm pretty much assured I'll regret 30 seconds after the cutting is over worth it. I'll end up a sad, shorn Melvin but I'll've been entertained so it has its rewards.

Well, even though right now my hair is at the usual It's starting to bug me-length, it's not bugging me. But yet I have agreed to have it cut.

Not because Teh 'Bride, hater-of-hair, has been bugging me to get a hair cut (And get a JOB, too, Hippie³!), because she knows doing that will backfire and just cause me to become more stubbornly hirsute; but rather because, well ... it's a long story and involves the Phillies.

You see, the Phillies started the 2012 season not doing very well. Lots of injuries, some poor playing, blah, blah, blah. There are reasons for the Phils' relatively poor performance but the details are not germane - in fact, they're not Teutonic at all. Har! Good one, me! This hair gives me the power of Bad Punning!

Thing is, I was losing patience with them and was yelling at the TV when they played and being short-tempered when they lost, etc. I was not exactly fun to be around when the Phillies lost.

But after talking to my sister-in-law, who recommended I be less gloomy and have a more cheery outlook, I figured, What the hey - it can't hurt. Plus, that's a better way to be, just in general.

So with my mantra Don't be a fair-weather fan, I told Teh 'Bride that I was so confident that the Phils would sweep (win all three games from) the Padres when they came to town that, if they didn't, she could cut my hair.

A lesser man might have said, "If they don't win the series" or gone vague by saying "if they don't 'do well'" - whatever that may mean.

But not me. I said - it's a sweep, or I lose my Golden Tresses.

Well, Reader, not to spoil it for you, but the Phils did not sweep the Padres; they lost game two of that series 2-1⁴. And you should have noticed two thing, here, if you're paying attention:

That loss occurred over two weeks ago (May 12); and the first sentence of this post reads "Currently [emphasis added, but fuck you, it's my sentence, I'll add what I want], my hair hangs down roughly to my shoulders", which sure seems to imply that here I am, two weeks+ later with all of my hair intact.

So what the fuck gives? you ask.

Well, first of all ... language, Reader, language. No need for the potty-mouth.

Second: We've been busy so Teh 'Bride just has not gotten around to it. No, I haven't been trying to  weasel out of the deal⁵.  In fact, it being a Debt of Honor, I've been reminding her irregularly ever since the loss that she has won the right to cut my hair. But it either turns out to be a long day and she's too tired at the end of it, or we're just too busy that day or we forget. Whatever the reason, it hasn't happened yet.

But it will.

Sadly ... it will.

---

 Ran 4 miles this morning at an 8:36 pace. Roughly 91 running miles for the month and 475 or so for the year so far.

---

¹ Sorry, no pix. The pix here might give you an idea, but the headband kinda distorts the effect.

Best I can do. Sorry, hair fetishists.

² The only barber I trust because when she cuts my hair, I don't have to worry about having to make barbershop small talk. (I dislike the social aspect of going to the barber, just as I dislike the social aspect of ... well ... everything. Let's just say I dislike having to be social, and leave it at that.)

Other advanatge of having Teh 'Bride cut my hair: I don't have to pay her. At least, not in money. RrrrrrRRRRRowrrRRR!

³ Variant spelling of "Hippo", because I've kinda let myself go, weight-wise.

⁴ Though they did win two out of three and Ian, my sister-in-law and I were there for game 3, which they won 3-2 with Cole Hamels pitching a great game. Of course, Doc pitched a great game in game two but they still lost it. Sigh. The Phillies didn't bring their bats that day but that's okay because all it cost me was my fucking HAIR!1!

⁵  Not that I'd be ashamed of myself if I were trying because, as Homer Simpson sagely explained: "Weaseling out of things is what separates us from the animals ... Except the weasel."

Thirty-Seven Seconds

Hahahahaha, yeah that's funny, inevitable commenter who's going to say "What? Is that the longest you ever lasted at sex?"

Way to be predictable, hypothetical yet inevitable commenter.

No. That's not what the title refers to. Thirty-seven seconds is how much faster you can run a 5k race when you haven't dislocated your shoulder a mere two days before the race.

Because I ran the Pennington 5k race back in 2010, two days after dislocating my shoulder, and my time back then was 25:51. I ran it again this past Saturday and my time was 25:14. So yeah, do the math - I was thirty-seven seconds quicker.

One would think having a nondislocated shoulder would be worth more than a mere 37 second, but harsh, empirical reality proves otherwise. Unless of course there were other extenuating circumstances.

Reader, there were. (Bet you didn't see that coming¹.)

They (the extenuating circumstances, that is) being that I ran about a mile-and-a-third right before the 5k race.

Now, Reader, you, having presumably already moseyed on down to that first footnote and seen that I called you, therein, a fucktard², would be well within your rights to ask: "You ran a mile-and-a-third before a 5k race? Who are you calling a 'fucktard'? Because that there sounds pretty fucktarded."

To which I respond, "I was calling you a fucktard, Reader. Go ahead back down to FN1 and read it again if you still don't believe me."

But moreover I would respond (I won't use quotation marks here because I'm not quoting my exact words) that I didn't choose to run that pre-race mile-and-a-third. I had to, and here's why:

(Again, no quotation marks, because I'm paraphrasing myself because my original quote? Frankly? Kinda long-winded, convoluted, poorly phrased and garbled. Really, I should never extemporize; I should only read prepared statements ... kinda like Joe Biden. So I'm doing you a favor by sparing you my original wording.) I had to run it because I got to the race about 15 minutes before it was scheduled to start. And I had to park nearly a half mile away because the Pennington 5k is held on "Pennington Day", whatever that is, but it involves closing down Pennington's Main Drag for a Street Fair, which, incidentally, you run through at the start and end of the race. And so I had a grand total of 15 minutes to get from my car to the race check-in station, check-in, pick up my bib and t-shirt, waste a half minute debating whether I should run the shirt back to my car or just put it on on top of the shirt I was already wearing (or perhaps tie it around my waist like a fucktard?), decide I could make it to my car and back in the 10 minutes I had before the start - which was good because it was hot that morning and I remember thinking at about the 2-mile point in the race, "I'm glad I didn't put that race shirt on" - run to my car and drop off the shirt, and get back in time to line up at the starting line.

Of course, the race then started at about 9:20 instead of 9:15, so it turns out I could have done all of this stuff at a less frenetic pace.

Now I know some people warm up for a race by running a mile or two beforehand but Reader? I am not one of those people. Never have been; never will be. Running that extra 1.33 miles inevitably hurt me. I estimate they added at least five minutes to my finishing time because FUCK YOU, prove they didn't!

And right about now you're probably asking, "Well, as the Jewish mother said to the Moyl mohel [fine, have it your way, SteveQ], 'Why did you cut it so close?' Aren't you the type of person who usually gets to races with 45 to 90 minutes to spare?"

Reader, I am, but I'm not sure how you know that unless you're stalking me, in which case, boy, you must be one bored motherfucker because I lead a life even more tediously uneventful than I make it sound in my blog posts. But back to my explanation - the restraining order against you can wait for the nonce.

That morning, before the race, Ian and I were watching Quick Pitch on the MLB network, QP being a show that goes over the highlights from the baseball games of the previous night. The Phils having beaten the Red Sox the night before and gone two games over .500, I was interested in seeing what they would say about my Phils on QP and I was also, as usual, interested in seeing how other teams had done, particularly other teams in our division. And then for some reason, I lost track of time and/or convinced myself that the race started at 10:00 instead of 9:15. I truthfully don't remember which it was. Maybe both. All I can say is, at some point, I notice it's 8:30 and the race starts (allegedly) in 45 minutes and I'm still at home a half hour's drive away from Pennington.

Really - that's why I was late. Told you my life was tediously uneventful.

And two years ago, I ran the race thirty-seven seconds slower. One of the Youth Services librarians at one of our branches ran it that year, too, and I beat her time by probably more than two minutes. And even though I didn't see her there this year, I checked to see if her name appeared in the results list.

It did.

She beat me by about a minute and a half.

FML.

I was 86th out of 285 (top third, anyway), with a time of 25:14, which is roughly an 8:06 8:07 pace.. I think I was fifth out of 16 in my AG.

Not horrible.

---

¹ I say that because I am provisionally assuming, here, that you're an utter fucktard.

² If you haven't yet, well then - SPOILER ALERT! - I call you a fucktard in that first footnote. Also, too ... what the fuck are you doing reading this second footnote before that first one?

Man, "fucktard" doesn't do you justice!

Dealing with Aging

Your Humble Author having turned fitty-two just a couple days ago¹, you might be excused for thinking today's post's title refers to me and my ongoing geezerdom. But it doesn't. I don't have to deal with the issue of my own aging because I accepted, long ago, that I am old and decrepit and these tight jeans I wear to show off my body, which is far softer and doughier than I realize, really just make me look ridiculous². The titular aging referred to is Ian's.

But the dealing part?

Yeah, that's all about me.

Because when Ian and I are driving to the local baseball diamond to get in some fielding and batting practice, I'll occasionally sneak a peak over at him as he sits beside me in the passenger side seat³ and I'll be quietly shocked (and yes, "shocked" is the word I want here) at how grown up he looks. It's amazing to me each time. And also unexpected. This is why I like it when he calls me at work on Monday nights, because on the phone, he still sounds like a little boy - his voice hasn't changed yet - and you can really notice that better over the phone because you can't see the pre-teen face that that voice is emerging from.

But he's starting to look like a young man and it is actually far more difficult for me to deal with that than it is for me to deal with the fact of my own aging, and not merely because the latter, as I've mentioned, is not really an issue as far as I'm concerned. It just that, cliche though it be, I still see in him the mohawk-haired baby who came to us on a flight from Korea over 12 years ago.

It's somewhat helpful that Ian is not a particularly mature 12-year-old. By that, I don't mean to imply that he's immature for his age, either. But he's not interested in girls yet, and he still seems sweetly naive on quite a number of things. He still asks innocent questions, and he still, it seems, would rather spend time with Teh 'Bride and me, not avoid us as the embarrassment to him that we, as his parents, are destined to become.

For instance, Teh 'Bride found a vacation spot for us to go to this summer which is a lot like Tyler Place up at the top of Teh Great Concavity. This place, however, is in the Poconos, which will save us about 5 or 6 hours of driving.

But the big thing for Ian is ... Tyler Place forced kids, during the day, to go with a group of other kids their age. There was a two- or three-hour family time in the middle of the day, after lunch, but then the kids went back to group until 8:00 p.m. This was so parents could have each day together to do what they wanted without the kids.

Well, Ian liked Tyler Place - he gets along well with kids his own age - but he can't wait to go to this new place because he's re-written history a bit, claiming he hated having to go to group at TP, which is an outright lie, but he's chosen to see it that way⁴. He says he'd rather have been with us. That part is true, I think.

Well, this new place won't make him go with a group of kids his own age during the day. And boy is Ian looking forward to that change.

Truth be told, so am I. How much longer will it be before he wants to spend as much time away from us as he can?

Because it's gonna happen.

---

The Cubs have a really good pitcher named Matt Garza, whom the Phils faced last night. Weirdly, the guy, who can pitch the ball with pinpoint accuracy, gets the yips whenever he's forced to field a bunt and throw to first. Last night Juan Pierre bunted the ball back to him twice, and each time, Garza's throw to first looked a lot like this:



This video in and of itself is interesting for any number of reasons; not the least of which being - that girl obviously worked on her pitching form for quite some time, because it looks perfect. Also, you don't need to understand Korean to be able to make an accurate guess as to what the broadcasters are saying: Broadcast Guys' banter is probably exactly the same even across all ethnic lines.

But most of all, those weird anime-headed mascots give me the yips.

---

¹ A fact I mention in part because, based on the number of happy birthday messages I got via this here blog - viz., ZERO - none of you effers seems to've remembered.

And after all I do for you!

Hahahahaha! Just kidding! I never do squat for you!

But you're still a bunch of effers.

² Am I turning you on, Ladies?

³ Which itself is a bit of a shock because it wasn't that long ago that he was required by law to ride in the back seat.

⁴ We know this for a fact, because Teh 'Bride and I found a secluded spot on a hilltop right at the edge of Lake Champlain to which we would repair each evening after dinner, tiny three-beer cooler in hand, to watch the sun go down and listen to the water lap against the shore. Ian's group often did outdoor events of various types - treasure hunts and such - and a lot of the time the events were near where Teh 'B. and I were hidden in a little copse of trees, and we'd hear Ian laughing and yelling and carrying on louder than any of the other kids in his group. He was always having a great time.

Even so, I have little doubt he's sincere when he says he'd rather have been with us. And not just because that's flattering to believe. I think it's true.

Walk-Off!

The titular "walk-off"¹ has nothing to do with the Phillies (I'm pretty sure they haven't had a walk-off win yet this year); it's what Ian's team did this past Friday night: win it in a walk-off!

The Red Sox (Ian's team) came into the bottom of the 5th² down 12-8 but they managed to score FIVE RUNS and win it in a walk off - the winning hit, a single back through the box, being hit by the kid who ended up being the winning pitcher. Way to help your own cause, kid!

The only downside of the comeback- and it's a small one - is Ian didn't contribute. He would have come to bat two batters after the kid who got the winning hit.

Still ... a walk-off win! He was excited by it, as were Teh 'Bride and I!

---

Unrelated: Two pix of me from before the Clinton Country Run:

In this first one, I saw the photographer pointing her camera my way so I turned to look behind me, not to be a dick, but to see what she was aiming at. So then she says, "You turned away!" I said: "I was trying to see what you were shooting! I'll stand still now that I know it was me." "I wanted to get your headband," she said.

So here's that pic:

At every water station, foax were saying "Bonsai!" or - odder still - "Konnichiwa!" Then I realized, O yeah. The headband. I always wear this headband, so you'd think I'd hear that more often. Maybe people say it and I just don't hear them over the music on my iPod.

---

¹ A "walk-off" is when the home team scores the winning run in the bottom of the 9th (or later, if the game goes into extra innings). So-called because the losing team has to walk off the field in humiliation. The winning hit can be any kind of hit - it could even be an out (e.g., a sacrifice fly). The best kind of walk-off is a walk-off homer (assuming it's your team doing the homering); the best of the best is a walk-off grand slam (which is a home run with the bases loaded).

Yesterday, there were two walk-off grand slams: the Marlins' Giancarlo Stanton's against the Mets; and the Reds' Joey Votto's against the Nationals.

The latter walk-off was the best because I had been watching that game and when the Nationals went up 6-3 in the 8th, I turned it off in disgust because I wanted the Reds to win because the Nationals are in the Phillies' division and I always want them to lose. But it looked like a sure win (and a series sweep) for the Nats, so we started to watch something we had dvr'd. But when that show was over, the TV was still on the Reds game and, lo and behold, it's now 6-5 Nats in the bottom of the 9th.

Needless to say, the Reds loaded 'em up and Votto hit his third home run of the game to win it in a - use your newly-learned word here - walk-off!

This is why the Reds are way better than BrianFlash's Cards because I asked him to have his Cards sweep the Braves (the Cards were playing them in a 3-game series in St. Louis), and the Cards lost all three games, including the one where David Freese came to bat in the bottom of the 10th with the bases loaded and one out and was poised to be a walk-off hero except he hit into a fucking double-play ... with Liván Hernández pitching!

Now, last year, the Cardinals only got into the playoffs because the Phillies obligingly swept the braves in a three-game series in Atlanta. If Atlanta wins even one of those games, they force a one-game playoff with the Cards at least.

But do the Cardinals return the favor this year?

 No.

They may have lost Pujols, but they're all a bunch of poo-holes, if you ask me!

Tee-hee! Poo-holes.

² These games are supposed to go 6 innings, but if a game goes for more than two hours, they can't start a new inning. The Friday night games started at 8:00 p.m. and it was just before 10:00 p.m. when the Sox came to bat in the bottom of the 5th, so everyone knew this would be the last inning.

Adversity

It has been said before¹ by people far more intelligent than I² that you can learn a lot about yourself by how you deal with adversity — one salient thing (in the particular case of adversity being discussed in this post) being the fact that you are now willing to claim that your ball team's bullpen's giving up 8 runs in three inning to blow yet another potential win somehow qualifies as personal "adversity" of some kind, which, let's face it, seems kinda silly and self-indulgent when there are others out there who are dealing with the real thing, genuine adversity, like cancer, job loss, financial ruin, or being married to Newt Gingrich³.

The fact that you consider your team's blowing what should have been yet another surefire win "adversity" should tell you: Man! You're pretty fucking shallow!

But in my case? No, that is not the lesson I am drawing from this situation. (I'm probably just too shallow to.)

So let me tell you about my latest heart-rending bout with adversity — and be ready to have your heart rent⁴:

Last night the Phillies had a 4-2 lead after six innings and for the third night in a row their bullpen blew the lead⁵ and allowed the Mets to come back and win the game, thereby enabling the Mets to sweep the Phillies at home, 3 games to none⁶; and of the three straight fuck-ups, last night's was the worst because the bullpen gave up eight fucking runs in three innings!

But that is not the point of this post. The point is, how did I handle this adversity⁷? 

Reader, not at all well. [<--NON-SPOILER ALERT!1!]

Because when Ian asks me, "Who's pitching tonight?" and I answer "Blanton" or "Kendrick"⁸, he'll be all: "Ooooooooo-wuh! He sucks!" To which I would always respond, "Don't root against your own guys, Ian." Because these are teachable moments and as Dad of the Year I don't squander opportunities to teach my son about good sportsmanship and grace in adversity, etc., etc.

But do I walk the talk?

Uh, not so much.

Because of course last night, when the Phils were ahead 4-2 and they took starting pitcher Cliff Lee out after the 6th, I was like, "Here comes the bullpen to blow it for us again!" I said this outloud. Multiple times. Much to Ian's annoyance.

Reader, to be honest, there was more than a little Ooooga-Booga-Hex-Hex-Hex! in this ejaculation of mine (because when a bullpen's about to blow it for you, who doesn't have an ejaculation?) because I was thinking, "You know, if I say the bullpen's gonna suck again, maybe then they won't just so the universe can show everyone how wrong I am and I'll be all 'Thanks, Universe, I'm happy to be proved wrong in this instance!' because what are the chances, really, that they're gonna blow three games in a row? But just in case, I better say they're gonna, that I expect it."

Added upside to this strategy: If the bullpen does fuck up again, you get to say, bitterly, "See! I told you they would!" An "upside", needless to say, that's about as satisfying as it sounds.

Reader? Ooooga-Booga-Hex-Hex-Hex! no longer works. Assuming it ever did. Wearing a different Phillies hat? Doesn't work. Putting on your now-out-of-date #29 Ibañez jersey? Amazingly, even that ... doesn't work.

There's only one thing left to try, and that is to do what you've been telling your kid he should be doing, which is express confidence in your team, say you're sure they'll work things out and get on track, and that winning streak you've been waiting for is just around the corner.

So here goes:

The Phillies definitely will not lose tonight.

Because they're off.

Hahahahahahaha!

Baby steps. Baby steps!

Okay, fer realz: I believe that by the end of this year, the Phils will be first in their division. I will stick with them and root for them and, even if they don't achieve that goal, I will strive to be more graceful under the pressure of that adversity. They've hit bottom, pretty much - last in their division. Up is the only direction they can go.

I have to believe this because all my gloom-and-doom talk last night?

Yeah, Ian made it clear it was really getting on his nerves. "You always tell me not to root against our team!"

Ouch! Hoist with my own petard!

We go to see the Phillies play the Padres this Sunday.

Go Phils!

---

¹ Or so I assume. I haven't actually researched this issue by looking for quotes. This is, after all, merely a stupid fucking blog post.

² Not you, Reader. If you're reading this blog, I think even you have to concede that that proves you're a bit of a fucktard.

No offense.

³ Or, in the case of one of Gingrich's wives, three out of those four types of adversity. Possibly all four.

⁴ If you allow foax to rent your heart, that makes you a bit of a heart whoo-wer, doesn't it, Reader?

Just saying.

 ⁵ Okay, technically two nights in a row because when Papelbon, on Monday night, gave up that three-run dinger in the 9th to some nobody rookie who'd never had a hit before, the game was tied, 2-2. Point is, the bullpen lost if for us.

⁶ Okay, okay, the "to none" part, above, is redundant because that's what a sweep is, i.e., losing all of the games. So you got me, okay? But cut me a break, Reader! I'm in mourning over all this fucking adversity I'm in the midst of!

⁷ Yes, that's correct, Reader: It's about me. This crushing blow happened to me and is my adversity. If you, too, are a Phillies fan, start your own blog if you want it to be your personal adversity.

⁸ I try to patiently explain to him that it can't be one of the Phils' three aces (Lee, Halladay, Hamels) every game. Or one of their four back when they still had Roy Oswalt.

Funny thing is, for awhile, when the Phils first got Oswalt from the Astros (they traded pitcher J. Happ for him), Ian hated to hear that Oswalt was going to be the starter because we traded for him mid-season and he was basically parachuted in on July 30^th and made to start against the Nationals and he got shelled and the Phils lost, 8-1. After which Oswalt proceeded to go the rest of the season without losing, racking up something like seven or eight straight wins.

But during that Nationals game, and until very near the end of that season, Ian was all, "Can't we get Happ back?" and "Oswalt's starting? He sucks!" Until around September when even Ian had to admit Oswalt was a great pitcher.

Adoption

Calm down. The title doesn't mean what you think. Assuming, of course, you don't think it means that I adopted an American League (aka, girl league¹) team to root for, in which case, yes - yes it does mean what you think.

Specifically, I have adopted the Cleveland Indians and for those of you who think the things I say/imply about girls/women above (and below) are insensitive and insulting, get a load of the Indians' logo:

Now ask yourself: Logo? Or yet another hate crime perpetrated against Native Americans²? (Trick question! It's both!) Both team name and logo depiction are shockingly insensitive and it is little wonder that for years in Cleveland a movement has been afoot to get the Indians to change their name back to what it was before - Teh Drunken Micks:

Actual Team Logo, shockingly insensitive AND inaccurate because we drunken Irishmen don't vomit in toilets ... we search out the nearest Brit and THEN let fly. Because, yes, we have THAT level of vomit control. Remember: If an Irishman vomits on you, he MEANT to do it.

 

I adopted an American League team just for fun, and the reasons to pick the Injuns are myriad: They haven't won a World Series since 1948; they are currently in a tough division that they have little hope of winning, so they're underdogs and we all love underdogs; their second baseman, Jason Kipnis, may not be the Kippiest player in the league, but he does have just the right amount of Kipnis, not too much, not too little ... The list goes on ...

But the real reason I have chosen the Injuns is their radio play-by-play guy, Tom Hamilton, whose voice I first heard while watching a program called Quick Pitch on the MLB Network. QP basically just gives you, each morning, the highlights from all of the games played the night before, frequently using audio from the various teams' TV and radio play-by-play guys. When they'd do Indians games and use Hamilton, he never failed to crack me up because he has this flat Midwestern accent that is pretty unremarkable, but as soon as something exciting happened (which is all they show on QP, it being a highlights show), his voice would go up an octave or two and he'd shout and I half-expected him to drop dead of an apoplectic fit. This here video should give you an idea of what I'm talking about:

HE MADE THE CATCH!

 This one is even better:

How is this guy not dead of a heart attack?

I get DirecTV's Extra Innings, so I can basically watch any baseball game I want, so I try, whenever I can, to watch Injuns games (as well as Phillies games, of course).

The only thing that makes me sad is that Hamilton is the Tribe's radio guy, so I never get to hear him on these broadcasts.

O, well. There's always Quick Pitch.

---

¹ So called because they adopted the designated hitter rule, aka, the girl rule, which allows each team to let someone else hit for their pitcher. Actually, it's an insult to girl leagues to call this a "girl rule"; I should probably call the American League the Tee-ball League, except then I'd have the powerful Toddlers' Lobby on my ass. So I'll keep calling it the girl league because girls have no lobby I know of and that makes them defenseless against my barbs, even though this particular barb is not aimed at girls, but rather at the American League (aka girl league).

In case you can't tell, I hate the fucking designated hitter rule.

² Because it should be obvious from that logo that the team name refers to the Woo-woo-white-man-speak-with-forked-tongue Indians, not the Thank-you-come-again-convenience-store-owning Indians.

Why yes, I did used to work for Rush Limbaugh. Why do you ask?

Sportsmanship

I believe I've mentioned more than once, if not on this particular blog then on its predecessors, that for the longest time - more than a decade and a half, in fact - I had pretty much given up on all professional sports. I didn't follow any of the teams, having slowly come to the conclusion that doing so was a waste of time since there were far more important things in the world to worry about. No, it wasn't even that simple; it was more along the lines of ... Can you think of anything that people invest so much emotion in that is of less importance than how their city's professional sports teams are doing¹? Yes, professional sports is big business and it makes certain people a whole ton of money, but I've never been one to think that money is the be-all and end-all of what matters ... that it is the determining factor in gauging an activity's, or a person's, worth².

But when it came time to move Teh 'Dad into an assisted living facility, I wound up spending a lot of time with him and Teh 'Bro, and this time period happened to coincide with the Phillies' 2008 run for the playoffs. And that's what Teh 'Bro and Teh 'Dad talked about, mostly, and I kinda felt left out because I had no idea who Ryan Howard or Chase Utley or Jimmy Rollins or Cole Hamels was. And we were putting Teh 'Dad in assisted living because he'd broken his pelvis in a car accident, so we were kinda going through some personal issues ourselves, so neither Teh 'Dad nor Teh 'Bro was up for talking about world hunger all the time because, hey, that's a bit of a bring down when you have your own, albeit admittedly less earth-shattering, issues to deal with.

And so I slowly started to learn who these Phillies were, just so I could be a part of the conversation. And it turns out I jumped on the bandwagon at just the right moment, because the Phillies won their division, then they won the pennant, and then, ultimately, they won the World Series, by which time I could actually pretty much name all their starters. And it had been 28 years since they had last won it all - I had been twenty at the time - and their 2008 victory brought back those memories, too.

And I realized it - that is, rooting for your team and seeing them do well - could be fun ... even though, by any objective standard, it didn't matter much. It still wasn't World Hunger-Important.

Now, I spend a lot of my time watching the Phillies and thinking, worrying, about how they're doing³. You could say I am obsessed, to a degree, and I wouldn't argue with you.

But I guess the thing is not to lose perspective.

The Washington Nationals, currently in first place, are an Eastern Division rival of the Phillies; they just brought up from the minor leagues a 19-year-old phenom named Bryce Harper. If you follow baseball at all, you've heard about Harper because the hype around him has been just absurdly overblown. But, of course, that is not the kid's fault. I have to keep reminding myself of that because I quickly got to the point, because of all of this hype, of thinking, If I never hear the name Bryce Harper again, it'll be too soon. I'm trying hard not to dislike him because of the hype because he doesn't deserve to be disliked.

Two nights ago, the Phillies played the Nats and in the first inning, Cole Hamels plunked Harper in the back with a fastball. It was pretty obvious at the time that it was intentional, and it became even more obvious as the game went on because Hamels had great control of his pitches that night and there's just no way  he could have made a pitch that bad unless it was intentional.

Then, of course, Hamels removed all doubt after the game when he outright admitted he'd hit the kid on purpose. Intentionally hitting guys (for various reasons) happens all of the time in baseball, and it's not that big a deal, usually. The Nats, for instance, took care of it by hitting Hamels on his first at-bat.

I thought at the time it was stupid of Hamels to hit Harper because why put a guy on base? Even if there are already two outs, which was the case? As it turns out, Jayson Werth, up next, hit a single and Harper went to third and then he stole home on Hamels (which was the only run Hamels gave up) so ... advantage Harper.

No one ever admits they hit a guy on purpose. (Usually they'll deny it with a nod and a wink designed to betray the truth while maintaining deniability.) It was incredibly stupid of Hamels to admit this because it means an automatic suspension of 5 games and a fine, which is exactly what Hamels got. Hamels rationale for admitting it was frankly fucktarded; he claimed hitting Harper was "old school" baseball, exactly what Bob Gibson or Don Drysdale would have done to teach a rook not to crowd the plate or whatever. True, as far as it goes ... except Gibson and Dysdale would never have admitted intent. Shutting yer yap and letting the ball do the talking for you is also old school.

So when Hamels admits this, the Nats' General Manager gets involved, calling Hamels "chickenshit" and adding utter absurdities about this incident being the worst thing he's seen in thirty years of baseball, which just makes you kinda wonder if the guy watches baseball much. Understand, I am not backing away from my position that Hamels was not merely wrong here (for a variety of reasons, not all of which having to do with a concern for Bryce Harper), but also stupid. But the Nats' GM's overreaction is a bit risible, as well⁴.

It's hard to see this as anything other than bad sportsmanship and I really hope Hamels grows up a bit as a result because he's a great pitcher and he pitches for my team and I want to be able to root for him in good conscience.

But though this was The Big News of that game - Media Darling Bryce Harper Intentionally Plunked By Hamels!! - it wasn't the worst example of bad sportsmanship that came out of that game.

In the sixth inning, Jayson Werth broke his wrist trying to make what would have been a great catch on a Placido Polanco drive to right.

A couple of things you need to know about Jayson Werth: His career was nearly ended 7 years ago when he broke the same wrist. He needed special surgery and he lost a year of play because of that injury. When he came back, the Phillies acquired him, and he was a big part of the Phils 2008 World Series win and he was a big part of their returning to the WS the next year. Jayson left the Phillies as a free agent a couple years ago; the Nationals probably overpaid for him, but they signed him.

Jayson is a great player. I still like him. If you watch that video I link to above. you'll see that, even though he is in obvious excruciating pain, he still tries to throw the ball into the infield. Most people would be crying.

This is where the bad sportsmanship comes in: Some Phillies fans never forgave Jayson for doing what all free agents do, which is sign with the highest bidder, which, for Jayson a couple of years ago, was the Nats, not the Phils. And so when The Phils play the Nats, they razz him, make fun of his beard, etc. Not exactly my style, but I guess they have that right. (Still, I always point to them when I tell Ian: Don't become that.)

The Nats launched a Re-Take the Park campaign recently, and it was aimed straight at Phillies fans. The Nats don't draw very well (whereas the Phils sell out every game), so Phillies fans tend to travel the 140 or so miles to DC to watch the games when the Phils play in DC. Phillies fans frequently outnumber Nats fans in the Nats' own park.

Re-take the stadium didn't quite work; because there were a ton of Phillies fans at the game the other night.

And from them, this is what Jayson heard as he walked off the field:

"You deserve it!" "That's what you get!"

Jayson (in an email he sent to the Washington Post) :

After walking off the field feeling nauseous knowing my wrist was broke and hearing Philly fans yelling ‘You deserve it,’ and, ‘That’s what you get,’ I am motivated to get back quickly and see to it personally those people never walk down Broad Street in celebration again.

Even though I would love to see the Phils win it all again, I'm with Jayson in principle, at least. What kind of people would do that? Cheer to see a man hurt? A Man who did so much for their team a few short years ago? And just on a human level? What kind of sadist enjoys seeing someone else in pain? Someone who's done nothing to them?

Now would be the time to add Not all Phillies fans are like that or even Most aren't or All fan bases have assholes like that.

But even if those facile statements are true, I'm going to forgo them and just say that today I am reminded of the reasons I stopped following sports; and I am, moreover, ashamed to be a Phillies fan.

Sports could use more sportsmanship. Particularly in Philadelphia.

---

¹ When you think about it, this latter is the only defensible objection to allowing yourself to get obsessed with sports; because if your criterion is, There is so much more in the world that far exceeds this in importance, then how do you defend, e.g., sitting on your fat ass on the sofa, drinking beer and watching a favorite sitcom? (Which was not something I wanted to give up doing.) Because, let's face it, there are things in this world that are slightly more important that that, too. Still, I had no intention of becoming a How can you be playing Nintendo/watching sports/brewing beer/whatever when people are starving in Ethiopia?-type scold; I just wanted to be the type who recognized that world hunger should probably be higher up on one's list of what matters than, say, the Eagles getting into the playoffs or getting high score on Donkey Kong.

² Donald Trump is allegedly a billionaire, yet you'd be hard-pressed to think of a more worthless human being. Lots of money ... zero worth. QED.

³ FYI, this year? Last place at the moment, so ... not well. For now, at least.

⁴ Probably the last thing Harper wants is for it to seem like he needs his daddy to run out on the field and protect him from the Big Bad Pitcher. N.B.: This is not meant as a defense of that mindset, but I'm sure that is the mindset. Or, let me put it this way: I'd be surprised if it wasn't. Players take pride in being able to say: I can take care of myself.