Charlie Hustle vs. Big Mac

Mark McGwire is back in the major leagues. Not as an aging, tarnished and decrepit former freakish juiced up home run monster, but as a little old hitting coach for Tony LaRussa's St. Louis Cardinals. Yes, the once and still disgraced by steroids first baseman is bringing, not only his supposed knowledge on the art of hitting (a career .263 hitter who averaged almost a k/game during his 16 yr. career?), but a tarnished image back to his old team, his one and only ever head coach, and all of baseball. McGwire's employment is in stark contrast to the the Cardinals current employed big man at first - the game's purest, most legit all around hitter. Albert Pujols has repeatedly denied any involvement in juicing and claims his monster power numbers are legit. I believe him. Because I want to believe him. Plus, he's never been found guilty of cheating and everything I've read about him points to him being the real deal, that is, a 'legitimate' awesome power hitter who hits for average, gets walked a ton and plays the game hard day in and day out. The key word here being, 'legitimate.' Do the Cardinals really need the unwanted and probably negative attention that Big Mac will bring? Flying syringes from the stands? Bare Ass Mask Giveaway Day? Hitting for the cycle will have a completely different meaning. Ever since his not at all convincing and scared looking and sounding denial to congress about his steroid use, number eight on the all time homer list with 583 and number one on the Mitchell Report has been in hiding for fear of a fan led mutiny - so why bring such an obvious and guilty cheater back to the game? A game that is trying (with minimal success, eg. ManRam, A-Hud, Bonds, etc.) to clean itself up and ultimately (if it's even possible) win back the trust of the fans. The same freckled red headed giant who had Jose or his brother Ozzie Canseco stick a needle in his ass so he could hit more home runs is allowed back - but not Pete Rose. If Pete Rose were the commissioner of baseball none of this steroid shit would have happened at all. Players would have been too busy hanging out with the old time greats, knocking out catchers and betting on horses. If Pete Rose, his 4256 hits (more than 3000 more than McGwire) and .303 career avg were the Cardinal's hitting instructor, they might not have had to stoop (a pity ploy by LaRussa?) and get the one dimensional, over rated McGwire to teach their team to hit - because they would already know how. I'll take a Charlie Hustle over a Big Mac any day - especially in the National League where the fundamentals are key. Has Mark McGwire ever even bunted before? Sacrificed any one over on purpose? His only opposite field hits were sky high fouls and weak grounders to first. Speaking of weak grounders to first, and those who should not do, you don't see Bill Buckner showing the Boston Red Sox how to field ground balls do you? Or Ray Finkle giving field goal lessons in Miami? Is Jose Canseco an outfielders coach in Texas? I don't think so. Chris Webber is not drawing up end of the game plays for Michigan basketball either and Greg Norman is not giving golf seminars on how not to collapse in the last round of a major when leading by six strokes or more. Are they? No. There's a time and a place for everyone. McGwire had his, during the steroid era (hopefully) and now there shouldn't be room for his repeatedly punctured ass on anyone's bench.

WHAT'S THE DEALIO?

Yesterday I felt a cold of some sort coming on. Slowly but surely, it travelled non-stop through the night and arrived promptly this morning - lodged securely in my head in the form of an annoying cough and sore throat. Is it just me or is there an over abundance of germs and virus' floating around, contaminating each and every one of us? I swear I just got over a stupid and long over drawn sickness, so what's the dealio? I take my daily vitamins (multi's/C's/Omega 3-6-9's), eat more than my fair share of veggies, keep a mostly clean house, and wear a coat and hat when I go out in the cold, so what's the dealio? I know yesterday I played hockey without shoulder pads while sweat completely drenched my frigid yet warm body. But, what's the dealio? The older you get is it easier to get sick? I'm no doctor, but I'm not idiot either and I think something's up here. Up until this past year I'd never heard of a cold lasting more than a week, week and a half tops. Now, I'm not so sure I even got rid of that stupid and long over drawn sickness I mentioned earlier - and I felt that one for close to three weeks! Or so I thought. Bizzel even gave me a set of those immune boosting pills he so vehemently stands behind. Nothing. What's the dealio? I thought that once you caught and got rid of a cold, there was some sort of buffer between the next time you get one, like at least a month or two. Or, are there so many different, and undetectable virus' roaming unprovoked amidst the open air that a defense against them is futile and a waste of what little energy is left? I wouldn't care much, because it's freezing out and I have a lot of reading to do, but we have a show tonight and it seems that whenever we do, I don't feel my best. I would like to feel my best when performing in front of complete strangers. Singing isn't the easiest thing to do in the first place. Especially when you have to play the guitar at the same time, let alone when your throat is all torn up. I'd much rather fight stage fright than a cold any day. What's the dealio?

TOMORROW I'M GONNA FEEL IT GOOD. ACTUALLY, I FEEL IT ALREADY. DANG.

Today Jeff and I did not have any classes or other pressing matters in between the eleven a.m. and two o'clock p.m. hours, and since the Ice Park was offering shinny hockey during that exact same time period, and we both happened to have our hockey equipment handy, freshly taped sticks ready and I, my new Vapour Select II skates sharpened - we went for it. A good a chance as any we thought to begin our much anticipated return to hockey and subsequent reunion tour (eg. a once a week low amateur beer league). Now all we need is Phil Wilson in net (unless he wants to play out, but keep in mind that the net minders play for free. Actually, you probably had to return your equipment back to KMH 20 years ago and you're probably not 4 foot 9 anymore, so...wanna play out?), Brent on defense with his slick skating and wicked backhand (actually, the latter is his father Rick's forte), and J.P on the wing in case we want to practice our open ice hits. It was ten years ago to the day (actually, I have no idea what day it was) for me when I last laced em up (minus that one disappointing effort on New Year's day 2001), so I was expecting at the very least a colossal disaster of monumental proportions. Maybe a lung would burst. Or a leg break off. An eye punched out by an errant slapper. None of that happened, but it wasn't the greatest of sights either, I assure you. However, it was quite cheap and very fun. And very winding. For seven bucks, you get two hours of ice time, the same amount of nets, and a random team consisting of, as Bizzel calls 'em - 'all walks of life.' So, with secret hopes of attracting a lucrative NHL contract, but with more realistic dreams of just lasting the entire two hours without dying from extreme out of shapeness - Jeffrey and I hit the ice. The east side pad because the other one is now being used for Soares' Soccer School. Peter Soares maybe? Probably not. Our stick and puck adventure started out well. Warm ups are always fun, pressure-less, and a great opportunity to see if you still remember how to stick handle, shoot and skate backwards. I did! Well, sort of. I quickly realized that I am now a larger, balder, older, hairier, and slower version of the past player I was - both mentally and physically, but mostly physically. All things considering, I can still skate half-decent with equally decent speed, but my effectiveness is limited to one rush, 35 second shifts or a series of short and sporadic spurts. Whichever comes first. Because my endurance came last. After twenty minutes of skating in circles, a few weak slappers off the net and more than one poor pass, it was game time. Shit. I looked around and saw only three other white jerseys besides my own, five dark and one goalie. I was not looking forward to a two hour sure to be suicide shift my first time out in a decade, for even after the nonchalant warm ups I had to take a two minute break, doubled over, panting and in search of water. This was going to be intense and it might kill me too. Ten minutes later, it was still four on four and somehow I had not yet collapsed. I could barely breath, was dead tired, sweating profusely from my non face-masked face, and spitting white blanks when I saw a few more sweaters of each shade and another goalie come onto the ice. I had never been so relieved to see a bunch of perfect strangers I would barely know and probably never see again. This was better. It was and it did. Get better that is. A painful hour and three inhaler puffs later, I was still sticking to my defensive minded game plan, guaranteed short shifts, and okay outlet passes but, in between the no shots and blind man stick handling, I still found time and energy to make a few misguided, ill advised and ultimately puck losing rushes - but it was fun. And I'll probably play again. I sure hope there are enough subs next time, because the one younger kid, and probably best player (it's between either him or the older moustache sporting cherry picker with a problem) said there is usually only six or so guys with no goalies. A lot of skating, open ice and lame goals off softly undefended posts. That sounds like fun. Not. Well, maybe for a few minutes, but not two hours. "You picked a good day to come," the best player said. Thanks. Oh yeah I forgot, Jeff scored. He looks like a real hockey player out there. I didn't see his dirty rebound and stuff goal, but he said it happened. I believe him, because it's hard to observe and understand anything when sweat's stinging your eyes, your head is spinning and between your knees and your lungs are close to popping out of your chest.

TODAY

Told you so, world! Well, maybe I wasn't the only one who thought that yesterday's nice, warm weather would be short lived, or to proclaim it aloud, but I did write it down on my blog so, there ya go world! I mean Mom, Katie, Philzip, Jeff (when I tell him to read it) and myself. Today is not like yesterday. It's grayer, chillier, wetter, and overall shittier. The type of day that makes it okay for you not to want to leave the comfy confines of your four warm walls. And one warmer higher ceiling and lower colder floor. Today feels like it is supposed to feel right now on October 22, at 2:53 pm in the afternoon later in the year of 2009. Wind howling, cold biting, leaves falling and stray cats scattering. The overcast clouds, lack of life and monotonous quality of this boring, dull Thursday make it not only more depressing for those affected, but it's actually harder to tell what time it is - which is great for those down-and-out-no-life-or-friends-stay-home-all-day-losers (the 'affected'), because without the annoying distraction of seconds, minutes and hours, the 'affected' are free to do whatever they want for as long as they want, whenever they want. (eg. write blogs, play their guitar, or read old fantasy novels) What's to stop them? A phone call? Their creative juices? A dinner date? Their desire to be as anonymous a nobody as ever? But, there are other people other than these who greatly benefit from a day such as this. Like someone who tossed and turned last night because they drank too much coffee, went to school and public skating, played some video games, ate lightly battered fish and read too many words therefore effectively and with tremendous precision shutting out sleep while keeping their brain on high. I feel the day, all around and inside me. I am the day. Today.

GOING OUTSIDE. SO I CAN BE OUTSIDE.

What a pleasant day it is today. A swell chance to put the tear off shorts back on, grab your go to shades, slip on your decrepit Adidas shoes, get the hell outside and enjoy it. The day that is. And the sun. And your fellow same like minded citizens - because they and the nice weather won't be there for long. Even if you are only sitting lazily on a porch drinking a coffee while quietly but carefully observing the subtle nuances of a west side street. It's better than being inside, hidden, dark and not taking advantage of this generous and unexpected gift. There will be plenty of opportunities for holing up in a shitty and drafty apartment, keeping away from Mr. Winter's reach. For, this out of doors and happy comfortableness will not last forever - perhaps only a few teasing hours, so do something with it or in it. Walk around aimlessly and without care. Stare at the passing lake bound freighters. Feed some pigeons or read a book on a bench. Smile at the sun. Anything. Because, for all we know this could be Providence's last little mirage of happiness before he delivers our destined deliverance - a most punishing and severe winter never before seen around these parts. You know it's coming, because even behind the unseasonableness of the day, excess foot traffic and nice happy warmth - the nasty bite of Mr. Winter can be felt, creeping like a shadow. Maybe I should kick it (the pursuing cold) like Akon and like Tae bo. Or jump in my Lamborghini DiLaudo (and pursue warmer climates at ridiculously high speeds). The answer is there - in Akon's crafty and deep, heart felt lyrics. "Smack that! Mr Winter!"

WOW

C'mon now. Give me a break man. Relax already, will ya? Open up and swallow the world's largest and most lethal chill pill. I get the hint - you've got some seriously unmanageable, possibly psychotic problems when dealing with life. Actually, instead of wasting everyone's time with the world's most obvious diagnosis, how about you just altogether leave because you obviously can't just altogether leave me alone? That's right, you are leaving, but the end of the month cannot, I repeat cannot come fast enough. This year, trick or treatin' isn't the only thing I'll be doing come October 31st. When you finally exit the premises I'll be celebrating like its New Years Eve on my birthday. Ghosts, devils and witches won't be the only creatures I'll be jeering and cheering for on this upcoming All Hallows Eve. I'll be fist pumpin’, high fivin’ and nah nah nah nahin’ all night long in celebration of your long awaited and even more overdue departure into the netherworld. No more barking, just Jeff yelling loudly at the television. The only complaining about nothing will be of my own creation. I will not be forced to listen to your one and only mixed cd blaring through my walls into my unimpressed face. Sure everyone loves Creed, The Black Eyed Peas, and Hotel California, but… "Yeah man, your speakers sound awesome." No more gross coughing, fat creaking and ignorant yelling at poor innocent dogs. Nope. I'm a free man. Free to do what I want to do, in my own apartment which I pay for. Which at this point is pretty simple - to be away from you. Forever. And Ever. Nothing. That's all you had to do and everything would have be fine and dandy. Like butterscotch ice cream with chocolate cherries on top. But no, since you do nothing at all times, it is only natural for one who does nothing to eventually concede to the nothingness of one's own non-life and create something out of nothing. Like a useless and greasy shit sandwich. Or an oracle. Or an overweight magician with an overweight assistant. Though, I must admit, the assistant has been relatively nice to me – and me to her. See how it works? I won't have to pretend to like you (the magician) and you won't have to pretend to like me (the awkward sole audience member at the world’s shittiest magic show). Though, to be fair, I only do it because I'm a mostly civil and courteous normal neighbour with enough friends who happens to live in a triplex. Beside a magician who, on the other hand, pretends to be nice to me so as to use it against me at a later period of time when he‘s more bored than usual, pissed off at something else totally irrelevant to me or fuming over the most minor and stupid of things. Problems that any other normal person would have thought about for five seconds with their functioning and rational brain, and realized that it’s actually nothing at all. (eg. the pop can and wind incident, baseball break cheap plastic light confrontation, speed of the bus and the punctuality of the garbage and mail man). Huh? Who worries about the arrival and departure of junk mail and trash? Oh yeah, the guy who never leaves his house unless he's feuding with his irresponsible and inconsiderate neighbours and can't handle the emotional stress his sometimes bizarre but always uneasy actions have caused him. “Watch out for that bus!” Damn something out of nothing got me again. If I would have known otherwise I would have said no to your generous but loaded offers though, “Thanks for the wine and pie, it was good. So was the fish too." I didn’t know I was secretly signing up for a backhand from a blindsided shit storm. I know I might sound bitter, mean and perhaps just as much a complaining baby as the oracle next door, but it seems David Copperfield saved his finest yet most fake illusion for last. Damn slight of hand got me again. I probably wouldn’t have even thought of writing this if not for last Saturday’s elaborate, unnecessary and not enjoyable performance. I came home Saturday night from a night downtown. I had had some drinks. Played a few games. Listened to a cool band. Downed a Jager bomb. Saw two people from high school. Danced like a goof. Had a good time. You know, the stuff people who like to have fun with their friends sometimes do on a Saturday night. Sure my friend and I came home around 2:30, sure we probably were a little happier and excited than normal, sure we started singing a song we made up about Jeff's oldest brother a little too loudly. Sure. But, we were happy. Happy with drink, funny songs and good times, but nothing too serious – I assure you. Two dudes at the end of a long day and night in an apartment with cinder block walls, no stereo and a small TV on a TV stand on a TV table cannot be that loud – I assure you. BANG! BANG! BANG! Walking towards the door and probably laughing and feeling good, I expected it to be Jeff. It wasn’t. “Could you quiet down because we’re trying to sleep?” Sure, I replied quickly and sincerely to the pissed off and awoken and menacing obese magician. So we stopped singing because we honestly didn’t realize not only how loud we were, how late it was or what we were even singing about and like I mentioned before, I really am a mostly decent and considerate person. So, NHL 10 seemed like a plausible replacement for the guitar and singing. Deal. No goals, one period and two sore thumbs later the banging returned. A little louder and more authoritative than last time. Walking towards the door and probably quietly chuckling and feeling pretty decent, I wanted it to be Jeff. But expected the magic man. Nope. This was one trick that not even that backstabbing masked magician on Fox could reveal. “Hello, yeah, we got a noise complaint,” said the closer of the two cops at the doorway. “What’s going on in here?” he said, scanning the unbearable chaos that was my friend and I playing video games. Somewhat shocked but not really surprised I pointed to the tall television and and the game on the screen, “We're playing NHL 10.” Totally believing me and in an understanding and friendly voice, the cop looked inside and nodded his head, either in satisfaction with my answer or frustration with his time being wasted. Probably a little of both. “I have to say, we didn’t hear anything as we walked up, but we got a complaint so we had to come," said my new cop buddy. “It’s the neighbour. He’s a goof,” said my now up and involved friend with first hand knowledge, a buzz and a warranted bone to pick. “Well, he complained of noise, but it’s obviously just you two playing video games, so have a good night.” Wow. That’s why I wrote this. That’s why I can’t wait until they’re gone and that’s why my friend and other neighbour went back to his apartment and pointed his speakers towards the magician’s apartment, pumped the bass and blared the same song three times in a row. Wow.

A MIRACLE. ON ICE

Yes, I decided a few days ago to start playing hockey again. On ice. Wearing skates. Against other people. I haven't actually done it yet, but I want to. Also, I haven't played in a little while - since the late 90's to be exact, so I'm more than a bit nervous. And out of shape. Way back then I still knew how to skate, was quite a bit lighter and more agile, had never smoked a cigarette, or done a jager bomb, Phil (I mean Philip, as he was known then) Wilson was the goalie on my team and Matt Staples was slow and pudgy but also a great teammate (now he's in great shape, loves life and has an awesome beard). Now, some decade plus later, I find myself equally anxious and apprehensive about my sudden return to the rink. And in possession of a shiny new pair of $180 Bauer Select II Vapor hockey skates that I bought from a small and friendly sports store down the street from my apartment. But why, may you ask, did I need to purchase new skates when I used to play and my old equipment should have been more than appropriate and comfortable for a one day per week, non-competitive, no committal nor contact beer league? Well, then I will tell you. I suppose that during or in between, after or before my various movings and upheavals over the years (to and from Kingsville and Windsor's many different neighbourhoods then back down to the county and still back up again to the city) - I must have misplaced my hockey bag. The same bag that housed, not only my stinky pants, stinkier cup, ripped socks, moldy helmet and torn & crusty gloves - but my magnificent & awesome Bauer Supreme 3000 skates. I loved those skates, but now they're gone (because of my own immature ignorance) and I have to deal with it - because now I'm slightly more mature and a little less ignorant. However, thanks to my Dad (who, with no other reasons than to get me playing and having fun graciously and happily outfitted me with his old equipment) - I didn't have to buy a whole new set of stuff and could therefore afford (barely) to purchase the aforementioned Vapors. He would have easily given me his skates as well and one of his five composite sticks - but his feet are a little wider and his hand a little lefter. So, inside Nantais Source for Sports I tried on the blades and they fit great. The fiftiesh and unassuming salesman (possibly Nantais himself?) was very helpful without being pushy or annoying. I don't know if it was his pleasant demeanor, soft voice, or what, but he seemed so sincere and not at all worried about making the sale, that it seemed like he had to be giving me a great deal. Whatever it was I bought 'em. For forty bucks cheaper than the listed price and with a shammy and some guards thrown in. I tried to trade the shammy and skate guards for a cheap wooden stick and he would have done it - had he had any cheap wooden right handed sticks. Damn handedness got me again! Hopefully this first triumphant step of my comeback campaign translates into success on the ice and not just on the showroom floor. Actually, I hope I can remember how to stop on skates, take a wrist shot and any shift anything longer than 15 seconds will be considered a miracle. On ice.

"THANK GOD FOR TURKEY...and life!"

Thanksgiving. A time to sit down, and give thanks to all that we are thankful for getting and giving and receiving over the last year, no, that's Christmas, but, right - Thanksgiving. Besides being thankful for the obvious things (eg. life, liberty, shelter, use of all my limbs, bank loans, a functioning [though sometimes malfunctioning] brain, good friends, family and girl, a sweet woman's cruiser [thanks girl], fresh air, common sense and good eyesight, an addiction to coffee and catchy tunes, a friendly cat, and my guitar) I am also thankful for multiple Thanksgiving dinners. There is nothing better than leaving one tasty and delightful turkey dinner for another equally, but different tasty and delightful turkey dinner. For some reason or another, I can not eat as much as I'd like to at the first, (is it b/c of the five hour build up to a nine minute stuff fest, or do I get full on the preceding aroma?) - so the second feast is a great chance to make up for missed opportunities. "Why can't someone just pinch me, so I'm on the ball?" Now I know what Craig meant there. Wake up, put on a decent shirt (with sleeves, preferably) and stuff your face full of delectable bird and hog. Twice. And creamy mashed potatoes with a hint of cream cheese and chives. Or, sweet potatoes with more than a hint of super sweetness. Stuffing. A classic and a must for both dinners. Bread, butter and beets. Corn, carrots and peas. Broccoli, cheese and cauliflower. Gravy. Lot's of steamy gravy. Wine, beer or... wine. Beans, beans the magical fruit, the more you eat 'em the more you want pie. Pumpkin cheesecake or straight up and stripped down regular old pumpkin pie (my personal fav) to be exact - topped high and heavy with cool-whip, vanilla ice cream or a la mode. (actually, a la mode means with ice cream or the prevailing style or fashion, so yeah - give it to me like everyone else, please). We also got the world famous apple pie (a la mode or with a strip of cheddar cheese for you real Canadian old-schoolers), and the ultra exclusive and mysterious berry pie. Besides the superb quality of all this amazing, fresh, warm, sleep inducing food and drink, there are four things that you are guaranteed with a Thanksgiving dinner: 1) there will be at least five times too much food at the table, which is fine with me because I get to take the left overs home. 2) No matter how fast the fan is or wide open the windows are, it will be very hot. Partly because of the steamy food and over worked oven and stove, but also because of the heat produced by voracious chattering, chewing, scooping and pouring. 3) Speaking of chatter, there will be endless speak of old times, catching up and dumb, funny stories, and 4) At least one person, maybe even two will, towards the end of the meal, announce clearly, concisely and with a sense of profoundness as fast filling eaters look on in amazement - "Well, it took five hours to make, and nine minutes to eat!" Happy Thanksgiving World! I mean loyal readers. I mean Mom, Katie and Philzip.

Stay inside and take cover. There's a wind coming this way!

Last night, the wind was blowing so hard that it didn't matter that I couldn't sleep or get that one long song out of my head, because the thunderous roar of debris and current flying by my window was louder and bothersome than any lack of sleep could ever be. Or repetitive brain numbing song. And slightly more frightening. The howling of the wind sounded more like a fast flowing freight train only freeway, with multiple overlapping overpasses, overlapping frenetically over my head. Now time for your rush hour road and weather report with Mr. Everyday Weather Man. "Due to the the severity of the wind, you should stay indoors or only travel in groups, by armored tank or attached to a tether. For, branches may crack like twigs and snap you like a twig, or scrape and bang the outside of your windows repeatedly throughout the night, like an annoying and playful bending twig. Also, watch out for shaking, breaking and falling glass, walls, and entire trees because of the intense pressure of this same wind. Duck! Watch out for that toppling and out of control Smart car. Ha, ha. Who's smart now? Anyways, the only real true and accurate forecast comes from the big man upstairs who, besides brainstorming and ultimately creating this severe and windy weather, must be telling us something also. He's clearly saying that he hates toupees, the Minnesota Twins, non scattered litter, pedestrians and Windsor. But, that he loves kites, surfing, large flags, scattered litter and those full face ski masks. Back to you Mr. Mr. Mouth and Ms. Face!"

WELL, AT LEAST WE HAVE NEXT YEAR

Tigers lose! Tigers lose! But did you watch the game? As heartbreaking and saddening as MLB's only 163rd game of the season was - it was as equally edge of your seat thrilling and exciting. Who was going to give in first, or hold on last? The power pitching and streaky hitting Tigers or the fundamentally sound NL style Twins? The tie-breakin', winner gets in extra game between the Detroit Tigers and Minnesota Twins had it all: Crushed upper deck home runs, line drive no doubt jacks, season saving diving infield plays, season ending half-sliding outfield miscues, sawed off bats, doubles to the gap, hushed crowds, maniacal crowds, amazing double play throws to home, clutch hitting, choke hitting, superb pitching, poor base running, excellent base running, terrible bunts, perfect bunts, slides to first, a first baseman with bruises and a drinking problem, an MVP/All-Star first baseman sitting on the bench, terrific defense, leads, deficits, errors, small and inconsistent strike zones, strikeouts, stranded runners, missed calls, close calls, and many calls to the pen, plus much much more. The game had it all. Everything except a Tigers victory. In first place since May 10th, up 7 with three weeks to go and three with four to play, the Tigers of '09 let a pretty good season slip away - and if you ask me they kind of deserved to lose to the never-give-up-minus-Morneau-team-full-of-ball-players, Minnesota Twins. No team, in first place since May, had ever lost the division title in the last week of the season, nor when up three with four to play. I guess history and stats and division leads are made to be written or broken or taken over, and the Tiger's of '09 were doomed to fail. First and third + no outs = zero runs. Bases loaded + one out = zero runs. The Tigers left twelve base runners stranded, hardly the clutch hitting a team needs to, not only get into the play offs, but succeed when they get there. Against the formidable and monstrous Yanks, the Tigers would have had little or no chance, but they would have had a chance. However, after last night's marathon five hour twelve inning back and forth nail biter, the Twins will get that chance. And since I was hoping for at least three more Tigers games this year - I'm going for the supremo-underdog-no-chance-in-hell Twins to take down the Beasts of the East.

I, a need a pizza

Windsor is world renowned for it's a pizza. No, I did not a know that either. Apparently some ex-Windsor man now living in England wants to bring the taste of the Rose City's pie across the pond and serve them at his popular bbq restaurants. The pizza here is so good in fact that it's the answer to a Trivial Pursuit question. And some guy out east has his parents send him slices of Capri because he craves it. Do they at least send them express wrapped in tinfoil, or can you buy a mini portable pizza oven bag from the Post Office? Anyways, I was unaware of the exceptional quality of pizza in the city in which I currently reside. And I had a Delissio last night. Go figure. Though, despite long lines, stoned drunk patrons and sometimes cold and hard pizza, 'Slices' was decent and different - however, when it was located on Chatham Street near all the action. Now it's somewhere else, I don't know where, but I never see it so it must be where all the action is not. Because I am action oriented. Driven by brew ha ha. A man of motion, commotion and turmoil. Not really, but I do love pizza. Actually, if someone claims to not love pizza, then there might be something seriously wrong with them. I wonder what other secret gems are lurking throughout the city in which I currently reside? Hmmm. I'll have to think about that one for a while.

GAMEDAY

The Tigers are playing their last game of the season. It's do or die time and I'm dying to watch my team and cheer them on to the finish. But, I'm not watching the game and that's okay. Because it's just a game. Production is necessary if consumption is to exist. I don't have the baseball package on satellite or even satellite, or cable, or even some bunny ears - and my tv only turns on after you press play on the combo VCR, then stop, twice. But since that only produces a nice clear blue screen, I've been watching Legends of the Fall for 8 months now, 4 seconds at a time. Might I mention, quite a good movie. The game isn't even on the radio because apparently the Lions fourth game of the year takes precedence over the Tigers 162nd and most important. America's past time, on two different channels, nothing - a season defining ender effectively silenced by the radio. Ironic, because the Lions are on everyone's television today. I guess at least one Detroit franchise per week must be blacked out. So be it. I can't afford tickets, nor do I have a ride to a cool, low-key sports bar within driving distance from my apartment. I could pedal to the pub , it's a bit chilly, but I don't even have anyone to go the dang pub with. How pathetic. I will not sit and make small chat for a whole nine innings or more, with an equally pathetic, loner, loser who's only at the bar for a stool, cheap beer and company. Sunday afternoon isn't the local pub's best looking day. I could rouse up four bucks, grab my ID, jacket and Tiger hat, bike downtown, jump on the tunnel bus, run five blocks to Comerica, climb up the fence, and catch a partial view of the last two innings next to a couple of dirty bums. The game might be do or die, but I'm not gonna die if I don't do it - watching the game that is. Or die doing it. Watching the game, that is. 'Cause that's pathetic. At least I still have my pride and a slower but dependable connection to the Net, so I can check the ball to ball real-time action via that little diamond video box that pops up on the Tigers homepage. It's 4-0 in the 6th. The Sox have a runner on first and Verlander's pitching solid. That is, from what I can tell from the cartoon diamond, 'Now batting, Now pitching' icons, arrows and little red boxes with the telling box score underneath it all. The application is called, and rightly so - 'GAMEDAY.' Check that, the game was on the radio. Couldn't locate the station between the white noise and crude dial. The Tigers won. But so did the Twins. Final tiebreaker, 163rd game of the season - on Tuesday.

"Hello? Is it me you're looking for?"

So, it comes down to this. Or maybe that. We might even have to wait til tomorrow. Regardless of the outcome, this present flop by the Tigers has added some unneeded controversy and intensity to what could and should have been really, a casual coasting into the post season. A long, sometimes boring and monotonous 162 game season could use a severe pick me up from time to time - some synthetic passion, or pseudo drama are guaranteed to make things more interesting. But, never are they necessary. They just make the situation more fun, a reason to watch, albeit a tad more dramatic and unnerving as well. We all do things, like procrastinate, fuck around, lose focus of 'what should already be present and burning brightly' - ahh, intensity. Why study for 24 maddening straight hours the day before a tough and long mid term examination? Because you've known about it for a month but didn't do any of the prescribed homework before hand, therefore, it's like you're looking at the material for the first time - so, it might as well be the first time. Why, once every few months are uninterpretable and snippy Indian cubicles urgently, annoyingly and without fail, trying to reach you via your cell-phone? For the same reason that your bill for that same cell phone is three times more than it should be, and it's already expensive. It's not a wrong number, but I'm still not picking up. But is this another example of slacking off, or just a coy ploy for a speed bump of action? "I'm late yes, but isn't that what you want me to be?" I ask when they call, or "I'm very busy right now, but can I call you back in five minutes?" I never do, or intend to, but that doesn't matter - because they call back in four.

C'MON NOW! (The Fade Out Remix)

The Tigers are tied with the Twins with one game left. No team in the history of the game has blown a three game lead with four to play. Colossal Collapse. Devastating Defeat. Precarious Play. This could be the year history comes back to Detroit, again for all the wrong reasons. (eg. Riots of '67, Kwayme in '07, 119 loses in '03, and 0-16 last year, etc.) And the Tigers have been in first since May, until today that is. All year, Coach Leyland has refused to pitch his starters on short rest (less than 5 days), as he says he is looking "past this year." Just this year? What the fuck does that mean? When you've led the division for five months and in the most crucial game of the year you throw in Alfredo fucking Figero instead of your Ace (Verlander)on three days rest because you 're thinking of "past this year?" Awww, how considerate of you Jim. You should be worried about next year, because your career in Detroit might come to a sudden halt - again. Your team can't hit, your bullpen can't pitch and tonight, Figero gave you a solid 1 and 2/3 innings. Good performance in a pressure filled situation from an inexperienced 25 year old. Jack Morris in 1980 at the age of twenty five, threw 250 innings and completed 11 games. He went on to play 18 seasons in the majors, record 254 wins, almost 25 hundred strikeouts, was a four time World Series Champion and 1981 AL TSN pitcher of the year. Congratulations Jack! And congratulations Jimmy! Verlander is 26 years old and he's thrown 232 innings this year. Illich didn't spend millions just for the fans, contrary to what Sports Illustrated says. He wants to win too, and if it seems like you're not giving the team the best chance they have to win - his money will go elsewhere. As in not in your pocket. Someone on the radio mentioned that Bobby Valentine is on his way back from Japan, and looking for work. Hey Coach! Play the best you got. 'Cause that's all you got. You've been doing better than you should have all year, in a weak division, with little production and stayed mostly afloat until now. Why now, at the most inopportune of times do you go with the most unsafe, safest move in history? Figero for Verlander? Two wins versus 18? Unheard of nobody instead of a heard of somebody? A sub for your Ace? In 1972, 25 year old Nolan Ryan, then of the California Angels, threw 284 innings and won 19 games. He went on to throw 326 and 332 innings, respectively, the next two years. He ended his 27 year career at age 46 after throwing 5386 innings, 5714 strikeouts with 324 wins. When he was 43 he struck out 203 batters. And beat up Robin Ventura. In 1986, Roger Clemens, at a mere 24 years old threw 254 innings, went 24-4, won a Cy Young, MVP and went to the World Series. Though a career marred by steroids, infidelity and "misremembering" the "Rocket" had even more memorable moments - like 354 wins and 118 complete games. The Nolan Ryan "Express" had 222 complete games. Morris, 125. Times sure have changed. Back in the day of the real 'starter,' strict pitch counts and middle relief didn't exist - men finished what they started. Vaseline, mustaches, whiskey and chew. The traits of a real man. Today's seven inning + 100 pitches = pull + set up man then closer formula for pussies would have seemed pretty complicated and unnecessary to say, a Phil Niekro, Tom Seaver, Gaylord Perry, or the mecca of the most innings pitched and all things pitching - the award himself, Cy Young (7354). If a pitcher throws ten complete games a year his coach is deemed a reckless, no-feeling brute endangering his prized possession for a chance to win. WIN? Yes, WIN! That's why they play, that's why their paid, and that's why they should pitch when the entire season's on the line. The current emphasis placed on the well being of the 'starter' in today's game has gotten about as far away from the original one as possible. Yes, all the aforementioned greats were All-Star's and Champs and were just that - great. But isn't Verlander supposed to be just that as well - great? And sure, there are astronomical amount's of money involved in each and every sacred arm, but then again - they are getting paid (a lot), so they have to play (when most needed). And produce and recoup their worth in playoff baseball (or the entire season will be a waste).

THANK FULLY FOR YOU, IT'S NOT REAL

I was perusing on-line through some Tigers pages looking for some sweet ass Chet Lemon pics for my desktop, when I came upon Razzball.com. It's a Fantasy Baseball Advice page, possibly run by this guy (right and up) and the link from the Chet pic sent me to the February 19th, 2009 page, where Bill Ferris from "The Detroit Tigers Weblog" was answering some pressing questions pertaining to the upcoming baseball season. The season that will wrap up tomorrow. Possibly with a Tigers' division championship? Or a colossal fall to the Twins? Anyways, I noticed that the ever helpful Bill Ferris was quite off with some of his predictions, here's how he scored:

Question 1) Last year’s acquisition of Edgar Renteria and Miguel Cabrera led to a defensive rotation that saw 3 regulars (Guillen, Cabrera, and Inge) bounce around the field. Has the musical chairs ended? Does Carlos Guillen really play the whole year in LF?

BF - "I think Guillen will get the most at-bats out there, but I’d see that being only about 60-65% or so. The impending injury to Gary Sheffield will likely free up the DH spot at some point and things will get shuffled around. I think he’ll likely fare okay at the position, but it will be other factors that may force him to move (like the need for more offense in the infield for example)".

KPW - Wrong! Sheffield is long gone to the awful Mets and having a so so year. Guillen has missed half the season with injuries and is batting a measly .246 in 268 at bats. His replacement in left, Ryan Rayburn has had a good, though limited season. (14 HR's in 110 games). Inge has been better than good enough at third (despite some tender knees) and has produced offensively as well - a career high 83 RBI's and 27 HR. He is fourth in most at bats on the team (549), behind first bagger Miguel Cabrera who has 600. Second baseman Polanco, Cabrera and Inge have combined for 70 home runs and 255 RBI's. Guillen has 11 and 40. I see plenty enough offensive in the infield, but not much Carlos anywhere. Score - 90 percent wrong.

Question 2) What are your thoughts on Verlander and Bonderman for 2009? Bounce back candidates or more challenges to come?

BF - "I expect more from both of them. I think Verlander will make the tweak or two he needs to regain his control. Plus he didn’t pitch that badly in terms of his peripherals last year, I’d expect some natural regression (progression). Bonderman I think will be a big boost to the rotation. He’s had injury problems the last 2 years, but last year’s injury should have him available to pitch the bulk of the season. Plus it gave his elbow some extra rest and I think he’ll be healthier and more effective than at any point in his career."

KPW - This one he got half right. Justin Verlander has bounced back big time from a disappointing '08 (11-17, 4.84), but who wouldn't have called that one? This year, he completely took over as the fast-working leader of an otherwise shaky rotation - and was rewarded with his second All-Star nod. He has naturally progressed (or as Bill says it, regressed) into the dominating pitcher the Tigers knew they had, but what about Jeremy Bonderman you ask? Well, Bondo has pitched a total of ten innings all year, is 0-1 and has pitched in only 20 games in the last two years combined. Because of shoulder problems, he hasn't been effective since '06 and two days ago, while mopping up in the 9th against the Twins in an 8-3 loss, he smoked Delmon Young with a thigh high behind the knee fastball - earning himself a three game suspension. Talk about regression. Score - 50% right.

Question 3) Would you take the over or under on the following HR/RBI projections: Miguel Cabrera 35/110, Gary Sheffield 20/80, Magglio Ordonez 20/100, Adam Everett 2/40?

BF - "Over, Under, Over, Push."

KPW - Wrong, Wrong, Wrong, Right. Cabrera is close (33/101), Sheffield is gone, Magglio's now Singlio 7/47 and Everett, well, you nailed that one, Billy. Score - 75 percent wrong.

Question 4) Who ends up with more saves: Fernando Rodney, Brandon Lyon, or Joel Zumaya?

BF - "Brandon Lyon. If Zumaya is healthy I think he’ll be the guy ultimately, but given that is such a big IF I’m penciling him in for 0 at the moment."

KPW - Early on, Lyon started out as the guy, but after blowing 3 out of 6 saves he lost his job to Rodney, and ultimately turned into a good set up guy (2.96 ERA) for his successor. The Dominican Ticking Time Bomb is a miraculous 36 for 37 in saves opportunities. As for the big IF, Zoomin' Joel Zumaya? Zero. (1/7 in SVO, 22 BB's/30 innings) Score - 33% right

Question 5) My blogmate Grey sports an impressive moustache. Rank the moustaches of these noteworthy Detroit Tigers baseball cap wearers: Jack Morris, Jim Leyland, Kirk Gibson, Chet Lemon, Magnum PI?

BF - "Great question. Tom Selleck in a landslide followed by Jack Morris, Kirk Gibson, Jim Leyland and lastly Chet Lemon. As an aside, I saw Tom Selleck hit a couple balls out during batting practice at Tiger Stadium one time."

KPW - Wrong again! Though Magnum PI's 'stache is nothing to scoff at and you know I love me some Chet, here's my list of top Tiger's moustaches and one television personality: Tom Brookens, Tom Brookens, Tom Brookens, Tom Brookens, Tom Brookens, Geraldo Rivera and Tom Brookens. As an aside, I think Geraldo is a terrible reporter.



DESCRIPTIONS OF TOM BROOKENS' MOUSTACHE'S:

Starting at top right corner, then going down and around the horn, ending with the biggest picture of Tommy Baseball. Got it? Here we go: "Side swingin' stache," "Playing catch in my jacket stache," "Still kinda dozy and a little hungover late morning stache," "Look at my bat, then look at my moustache! stache," "Hot corner handlebar," "Geraldo Rivera," "I'm a sexy and available third baseman stache," and "Signed, sunny and smiling, looking forward to the day stache."

"The End of the Bless You Boys Era"

The Detroit Tigers can clinch the division title for the first time since 1987. 1987 - what a year. The late 80's. What a time. What fun. The last time the Tigers were in a legitimate race, has some legitimate parallels with '09's race with the Twins. I was only seven in '87, but I was big time into baseball. And even more big time into the Tigers. I adored the team and watched for them inventively on Channel 50 or listened in awe as baseball's holy breath - Ernie Harwell, gracefully and with smooth execution delivered the action on the field to my eager open ears. But, in 1987, on the corner of Michigan & Trumbull the press box wasn't the only prime time location for some prime time execution. Executing spectacular double plays and as equally exciting clutch base hit and homers since their call up together on Sept. 9th, 1977, stalwart Tigers, and all around great players, Lou Whittaker (All-star second baseman) and Alan Trammel (second in MVP voting) were the unspoken leaders of a hardworking and determined 1987 team (today's team is actually, overall, better defensively - .985 to .980 fielding %) It took me a while to figure out that the fans at Tiger Stadium weren't booing him - "Louuuuuuuu!" Still slugging old-timer Darrell Evans was still at first base, still knocking 'em out (34 HR's, 99 RBI's) and scooping 'em up at forty years of age. His stats, were similar to 09's big first baseman Miguel Cabrera (.329, 33 HR 101), everything that is except the age. Miggy C is only 26 and already has 208 long balls and 751 ribbies. At least one of the multi million dollar a year players traded from Florida panned out. How about gritty and tough Chet Lemon, the left fielder with a heart? Number 34 in '87 gave it his all, day in and day out, sacrificing his body, and neatly puffed Afro for a win and a chance at the pennant. For these reasons, including his formidable moustache - he was one of my favourites. Just as the speedy and powerful lead off man and overall nice guy center fielder Curtis Granderson is on the present team. Old school types with a little flair. Another favourite of mine twenty two years ago was Tommy Baseball at the hot corner. Though only a .246 career hitter (similar to today's Brandon Inge (.236) but with less power), Brookens was a likable guy, with an even more likable moustache and quick glove (yes, I like myself a classy, groomed 'stache). Every team needs a Tommy Baseball, just like every team needs an Inge. For, "Baseball is a game of Inges". (thanks for that one, Nick) Twenty two years ago, rookie back catcher Matt Nokes had a breakout campaign (32 HR) that included his one and only All-Star appearance and third place in AL Rookie of the Year voting. However, the baby-faced 24 yr. old would only play 100+ games in a season four more times in a disappointing and injury plagued ten year career. But in 1987, he was a rookie and he was good, and Lance Parrish was easily forgotten - at least for one year. (Parrish went to the Phillies as a high priced free-agent in 1987. The fans in Philly made their slogan for the season, "Lance us a Pennant." The Lance Love Campaign ended quickly when the former 8-time all star batted .215 in 1988). This year, 20 year old starting pitcher, Rick Porcello, is the team's first year fireballin' phenom (14 wins, 170+ innings). He has a great chance at winning rookie of the year. Speaking of one season of superior play, another new key part of the '87 run was Doyle Lafayette Alexander (9-0, 1.53 ERA) who was acquired later in the season from the Braves for minor leaguer and sure future Hall of Famer John Smoltz. At the time it seemed like a big piece of the World Series puzzle, but in hindsight the Tigers sure could have used the native Detroiter's career 213 wins and 154 saves, as Doyle went on to win 20 more games for the Tigers and retire two years later. That trade could turn out to be reminiscent of last year's trade, again with the Atlanta Braves: Thirty three year old shortstop Edgar Renteria, on the backside of a once successful career, was shipped from Hotlanta to downtown Detroit for nobody outfielder Gorkys Hernandez and more importantly, Dutch born top pitching prospect Jair Jurrjens - (14 wins, 2.61 era in '09), who has turned out to be a standout ace in Georgia. Similarly lopsided trades both in age, potential and overall lopsidedness - except at least for one year, Doyle produced. Renteria (as has Washburn and Huff in '09) did nothing both offensively and defensively in '08, and cost the Tigers 12 million dollars, however, he did lead them to a disappointing last place finish. Anyways, back to better times and division leads - 1987, and now. Renteria is gone as is Jurrgens. Placido, Magglio, Guillen and "Nasty' Nate Robertson are still here, as were Gibson, Matlock, Herndon and Wille "Guillermo Hernandez back then. Now, speaking of production and pitchers, names and not of the present, the Tigers rotation of '87, as it is now, was small, not by design, but also reliable. Led by ace Jack Morris (18-11, 208 K's), Walt Terrell (17-10) and Frank Tanana "Daiquiri" as Chris Berman called him - with rookie stopper Mike Henneman coming out of the pen. This year's similar three man rotation by necessity is headed by it's own horse - Justin Brooks Verlander (18-9, 264 K's), who, if not for the pitiful Royals' Zack Greinke and his 2.06 ERA - would have received serious consideration for the Cy Young. He still could win it, but...the pundits think otherwise. (Though he only has 16 wins, you can't argue with Z's 6 complete games and 236 K's) Anyways, in support of baseball's current leading strikeout king V, is Germany's own and the Tiger's leader in ERA, Edwin Jackson (13 wins) and the aforementioned kid, Porcello. Taking the mound in the ninth for these Tigers is the very efficient yet extremely sporadic, heart tugging closer Fernando "OH OH" Rodney who, despite a dramatic-pressure-packed-style, has consistently closed the door. And his thirty six saves in thirty seven tries speaks the hard truth in easy numbers. It's just that watching him do it, is harder to handle than the simple truth of his stats. Emotionally that is, not mathematically. Sure, every winning team needs good players to come through at the most opportune of times in order to be successful. But it also needs a good skipper to keep the boys in the game, every 162 of them, if just for one slim chance at winning it all in October. George "Sparky" Anderson (2195 wins and three World Series rings) and his good friend and successor, Jim Leyland (2847 wins 1 title) were and are two of the best coaches in the game. In fact, if Jimmy "Marlboro's and Mixed Lineups" Leyland wins another title with the Tigers, he will become one of only three managers to win a World Series in both leagues. The other is his buddy Tony Larussa, (A's & Cards) who beat the '06 Tigers to tie his mentor Sparky's record, who won two in Cincinnati, with the "Big Red Machine" and their perfect lineup - and of course, with the "Roar of '84." However, after a 98 win season, the Tigers of '87 eventually lost the AL Championship Series in 5 games to the pesky Twins, and, in similar fashion, the boys of '09 (2 up with 3 to play) could still blow their slim lead in the Central to those same annoying Twinkies. 2009, the last year of the Metrodome. Many omens, but only a few games to play. The truth will speak in the numbers, remember? After a respectable '88 season, the Tigers went downhill from there. Fast and hard and without a chance. In 1989, Sparky took a month off to deal with the stress of losing. The team lost 103 games. It wasn't until 2006 after Leyland came back to the team that he spent his first 18 years of pro baseball with (as a minor league player and coach), that the Tigers, (three years removed from losing 119 games) had their best season in 19 years - since 1987. Coincidences? Maybe, but hopefully the Baseball God's of clutch hitting, pressure pitching and sound defense brought their winter jackets, luck and some much needed wins to Detroit - because the 2009 Tigers could use all the help they can get. And it's cold outside. Detroit just lost 8-0 to Peavy and the White Sox and the Twins and Joe Mauer's .367 average are up 10-0 in the 4th against the hapless Royals. Up 1 with 2 to go. Anybody want hot chocolate? A toque? Maybe a scarf or one of those little padded cushions for your seats? God of Baseball, we need help. Send Ty Cobb, Al Kaline, Mickey Lolich's three complete games, even Denny McLain and the mob. Oh, the last three are still alive? Well, suit 'em up them. GO TIGERS!