The Marathon Women

Running is pretty fun. 

I've never run a marathon and I don't think that I ever will. But I am married to a person who has now run three marathons and the whole thing* just seems impossible and difficult, I'm not sure how anyone can physically accomplish it.

* I was originally going to say something clever like, "actually the training is harder than the race itslef", but that doesn't seem correct at all. In fact it's pedantic bullshit. From the minute you start to think about running 26.2 consecutive miles to the last step of the race, it's all difficult. Saying one part is more tough than the other is like saying that preparing one section of your taxes sucks less than the other. 

My wife, Alyson Magrane, completed her third marathon on Sunday in Washington DC with her training partner and best friend Christine Boermeester. (That's them in the picture above.) I couldn't be more proud of both of them. I can gush here for 30 paragraphs about how proud I am--and I definitely will--but it's not going to be a 10% of how I feel.

The first person who ran 26.2 straight miles was a dude by the name of Pheidippides and he busted his ass from Marathon (that's where we get the name of the race) to Athens to tell the Athenians that the Greeks just kicked the Persians' ass in a battle. He literally died on the spot. To honor him and commemorate the huge victory, the Greeks decided that running 26.2 miles was going to be a thing and that it was going to be called a marathon. 

Think about that for a second, each year hundreds of thousands of people pay good money and push their bodies to the limit to do something that killed the first person who did it. It's amazing. 

And that's what my wife and Christine did on Sunday. They were a modern-day Pheidippides, except without the dying part. The reason? They trained. And trained. And trained some more. This is the part that no one sees. It's running 15+ miles in the Massachusetts summer heat and humidity while your goofy husband is laying around watching the Red Sox. It's eating right and finding new powders and potions to help you heal faster and better so that you can go on another run. 

It's heading to the physical therapist once a week so that he can, in Aly's words, "pop you back into place" like you're an action figure who lost its leg. It's hours and hours of wondering whether you're making the right decision or whether you should just back out because this is hard and it's not getting any easier.

This isn't an easy road; it's much longer than 26.2 miles. And it's helpful that Aly and Christine had a friend who was there for each other.  

Every runner has an inner voice that pushes themselves along. But it's important that a runner has a partner and friend that can turn those untold miles into, well maybe not fun, but something bearable. It's coming back from a 20-mile run with Christine laughing (yes, laughing) like loons because you both tried climbing the front steps at the same time and you both realized, also at the same time, that this wasn't a wise idea. 

"Oh god. Why did we do that?"

It's having someone to talk to while running those miles and complain about what they're doing and knowing the other person is listening, relating but at the same time urging you to that it's only "one more mile" and "really, how hard could that be?" 

You can say that running is the ultimate individual sport and I'd be hard pressed to argue with you about that, but if you ask Aly and Christine, I'd bet that they tell you that running is the ultimate team sport. As an outside observer, I think that each of these women are made of the toughest stuff and that they'd be able to accomplish this goal by themselves. 

But would they have had as much fun? I don't think so.

When they crossed the finish line on Sunday and after making sure all of their toenails were still attached, they got some pictures (see above). What's the one thing that you notice the most? The smiles. Smiles as long as 26.2 miles. One of the most grueling mornings of both of their lives and they're smiling, no make that beaming. From their accomplishment that day, thinking of all their hard work they put in over eight months, thinking about how they did it together.

Running is weird. When you're racing you're trying to separate yourself from the pack and the other competitors but at the same time it brings people closer together. 

Try telling me again that running isn't fun.  

My Favorite Teams 6 -1

Back in March and April of this year I was counting up my favorite baseball teams on Facebook in anticipation of The Real National Hot Dog Day. I thought that it might be a good idea to keep them here for posterity. Here are the fifth group of teams along with the FB introductions. 

 6.

You can't honestly say that you hate the Padres, just like you can't honestly say that you hate hot dogs. Kids, the Real National Hot Dog Day is happening one week from this afternoon.

 

We talk a little about Ray Kroc (not about the time he got on the stadium's PA and apologized to the crowd for the Padres playing so poorly) and while he's a hamburger magnate (and a prick!) he was known to enjoy a hot dog or two.

 

Be like Kroc in that way (not the prick part) and enjoy a hot dog sandwich with some potato chips, ice cream and beers. Then watch the Padres pummel someone. They're going to be as fun as the Real National Hot Dog Day this year.

 

We are 6 days away from the The Real National Hot Dog Day and to celebrate, we're counting up, Down Town Julie Brown style, my favorite baseball teams. Wubba wubba wubba.

For a kid growing up in New England, there were two baseball outposts: Seattle (which we'll get to later) and San Diego. The latter seemed even more remote because the M's were in the American League and the Red Sox would play them a handful of times each year, so you were at least semi-familiar with the players.

 

The Padres? They weren't on national TV very much and no one really talked about them. Every once in awhile Sports Illustrated would write something about the Pads or Peter Gammons would jot down some notes in the Boston Globe about San Diego and you got the gist. There was a team near Mexico that was playing ball and they had a player or two worth keeping an eye on. The patron saint of San Diego was Tony Gwynn who hit like no one else. Not only did he star for the Padres, but he played hoops and baseball in San Diego State. And there were some former Yankee castoffs in Goose Gossage and Graig Nettles, but being a Padre was like being in the witness relocation program.

 

The only time that I remember getting annoyed at the Padres was when they signed Bruce Hurst to a big free agent contract in late 1988. Him and fellow free agent signee Jack Clark were going to lead San Diego to the promised land with Tony Gwynn. 

 

They didn't.

 

The only times the Pads went to the World Series was in 1984 and they were hammered by the Tigers. They went in 1998 and were slaughtered by the Yankees. That's it. Any other time they made the post season, they'd get brushed off by the Dodgers or the Cards or the Mets or some other more "deserving" team. Some team that wasn't once owned by the guy who started* McDonalds and then sold to the people who produced "The Cosby Show" and "Roseanne".

 

* Turns out Ray Kroc was a bit of a thief. He didn't come up with McDonald's he just stole the name, the recipe for their food and how they served their burgers so efficiently. The only thing that he really figured out was how to franchise the restaurants. And how to be an asshole and bully the McDonald brothers into selling their name and revealing their secrets. So he's basically a regular rich guy, someone who made hundreds of millions off an idea that wasn't his to begin with and considers himself a genius. Awesome dude.

 

Anyway, whenever the Pads would leave the national stage in October, the undercurrent was that the fans would have to console themselves with living in the most temperate place in the country. Forget Philadelphia, it's always sunny in San Diego. And 80 degrees. And with low humidity. You can literally do whatever you want outdoors and not really worry about weather cancelling your plans.

 

While unfair, maybe there's a bit of truth to that. I can tell you that whenever the Red Sox play into October, it always feels like us New Englanders are getting bonus summer. Every day that the playoffs extends, that's one less day of winter. Even if you love winter, you want that bonus summer.

 

So you cheer a little harder, because you're not just rooting against the team on the other side of the diamond, you're rooting against old man winter. You're rooting against blizzards and spending 20 extra minutes warming up the car. You're pushing back on school closings and slush storms and dark, frigid mornings where you want to stay ensconced in your warm, comfy bed, but you have to go to work.

 

San Diego doesn't have to deal with any of that shit. It's the same on November 15 as it is on February 15 as it is on May 15. Fucking beautiful. Go for a run! Have a picnic in the park! Go surfing! Walk to the most kick-ass taqueria or the second most kick-ass taqueria that's literally right next door! San Diego is practically paradise, who gives a shit if the Pads (or the now departed Chargers) lose? The sun is shining and how can you be angry about that?

 

For a long time, I think that was the Padres' mantra: win or lose, the sun still shines here. But in the last year or two, the Pads have hit on something: they're the only game in town now. The Chargers are gone to LA (fucking LA?). The Rockets left decades ago. The Sails and Conquistadors folded with the ABA. I think even their minor league hockey club packed their bags.

 

So instead of doing what the Pittsburghs and the Cincinnatis and the Baltimores of the league have done, which is cut costs, cry poverty and understand that fans will still flood into the stadium because what else are you going to do in those cities in August, the Padres have flexed their financial muscles a bit. They're signing free agents to big contracts. They're cashing in their prospect chips and making the big trades (who gives a shit what Baseball America thinks about their minor league system looks like) and they're going for it.

 

They're giving the finger to their big brothers in the north (the Dodgers and Giants) and telling their younger siblings (the Rockies and D'Backs) to get the hell out of the way. Padres games are going to be great this year. Watch as many as you can because they're going to be entertaining as hell with that lineup and pitching staff.

 

Will they win the World Series this year? I don't know, who cares? That's not the point. A lot of times, the best team doesn't bring home the championship but San Diego is going to have six months of former Sox broadcaster Don Orsillo describe a fun ass team every single night.

 

The other rad-ass thing the Padres did is bring back the brown and gold as well as the swinging Padre. I'm not sure why, or who, thought it was good idea to name a team after a bunch of Catholic priests (I know it was a leftover from the town's PCL days) but it works for San Diego. Those old Taco Bell uniforms from the early 80s and these things now, just scream Padres to me. I hope they keep them forever.

 

And if things don't work out, fuck it, there's plenty of sunshine and tacos in Southern California. I'm sure that everyone will be okay.

 

5. 

 

To paraphrase another Seattle export that burned brightly in the 1990s:

 

"I like bad teams and I cannot lie.

Teams other fans will just deny."

 

The Mariners are a bad team, but I like them a lot. There are reasons that I talk about in my latest little essay. They were integral to the 1986 Red Sox: they were the team that struck out 20 times against Clemens and they sent us Spike Owen and Dave Henderson. Without the M's, where would Boston have been that year?

 

Despite writing a lot about the 90s Ms, I did not make one reference to Pearl Jam, Nirvana, Soundgarden, Alice in Chains or any grunge band. I am so very proud of myself.

 

We are 5 days away from the The Real National Hot Dog Day and to celebrate, we're counting up, Adam Curry style, my favorite baseball teams.

 

I alluded to this in yesterday's entry on the Padres, but to me there was no team further away from the Red Sox (geographically, ballpark aesthetically and historically) than the Seattle Mariners. They were the bizarro version of an old school, East coast team.

 

They played in a dome where it always seemed like they were in a constant twilight. They wore double-knit pullovers with a racing stripe on the sleeves. Their hats had a weird logo (more on this in a second). Their players were also-rans that the team tried very hard to market as good. They played in the middle of the night, for god's sake. Every time you looked at the batting leaders or the standings, anything that had to do with the Mariners had an asterisk next to it. That was because their games ended too late to make the next day's morning edition.

 

Mariners games were both exotic and romantic to a baseball fan in the East.

 

It felt like the Mariners played in an alternate dimension that the Red Sox would visit once or twice a year. "Shit, the Sox have the M's tonight in Seattle? I have to take a nap and brew three pots of coffee to make it through the first four innings."

 

The Mariners were tucked in the northwest corner of the country, playing uninspired and dreadful baseball with some weird characters while the world was asleep in their comfy beds. Gaylord Perry got his 300th win in Seattle. Alvin Davis won Rookie of the Year in 1984 as an M. Mark Langston was the lefty version of Roger Clemens striking out batter after batter. Harold Reynolds broke Rickey Henderson's streak of leading the league in stolen bases. Rickey was injured that year, and gave Reyonlds shit about leading the league with "only" 60 thefts "Rickey would have had that in half a season!" but it still counts! Probably the most interesting thing that happened to the Mariners in their first 13 seasons was being on the wrong end of the first Roger Clemens 20 strikeout game*.

 

* If you're ever bored, check out the roster to that 1986 Mariner team. It's fucking bonkers.

 

Then something weird happened. The Mariners had the number one pick in 1987 and they chose a dude with a name that most baseball fans knew: Ken Griffey. By the time he made it to the Majors, the Mariners had traded Langston to the Montreal Expos for a bushel of prospects that included the incredibly tall and incredibly wild Randy Johnson. They traded Frank Costanza's arch enemy Ken Phelps to the Yanks for Jay Buhner. And picked up Alex Rodriguez with the first pick in the 1993 draft, and he didn't waste much time in the minors before debuting the next season. 

 

The M's also had another guy on the team that not a lot of people paid much attention to, but they would soon enough: Edgar Martinez. Martinez could always hit, but he couldn't field really well, so it took some time before he was able to crack the lineup and stick. But once he did, the dude started to rake. And rake. And rake. He never stopped.

 

By the time 1995 rolled around, the Mariners looked good. But there was talk that if the city didn't pass a proposal for a new stadium (the Kingdome was a disaster), Major League Baseball was leaving the Emerald City for a second time. The other problem was that the California Angels were playing out of their mind and the Mariners were just doing nothing.

 

Until after the All-Star break, where they caught fire, caught the Angels, made it to the playoffs, beat the Yankees and lost to the Indians. Baseball was saved in Seattle, Safeco Field was built and they all lived happily ever after.

 

The problem with four Hall of Famers in their prime is that they want to be paid like four Hall of Famers in their prime. Which isn't really a problem for you or me, but it is if you're an owner of a baseball team. By the end of the decade, the M's traded Griffey, sent Johnson on his walk-about and let Rodriguez find America. Only Martinez was left. It looked like loserville once again for Seattle, but during the offseason where they lost ARod, they picked up a guy by the name of Ichiro Suzuki.

 

Buoyed by this Japanese import, the Mariners won 116 games and streaked through the playoffs and won the World Series! Actually, only one of these things is true as the team flamed out in October. Hard. Ichiro was still worth the price of admission for many seasons, but the Mariners went through an awful run of no playoff appearance until they made it to October baseball last year. Fun fact: they're also the only team in the Majors not to have ever made the World Series. The Rays have gone to two Series, the D'Backs won a Series, the Rockies have made it, the Marlins have won two and their expansion brethren, the Blue Jays won back-to-back championships in the 90s.

 

Despite the many wonderful players this team has employed, no team has ever put it all together and just got to the World Series yet.

 

And that's one of the reason why I love this goofy franchise. They're perennial losers but they don't wear it as a badge of courage like the Cubs or the Red Sox did. There's nothing big or metaphysical or philosophical about them not making the World Series. They kinda suck when they need to be really great. 

That's it.

 

I touched on this above, but I love that the Mariners are all by themselves in the Pacific Northwest. They don't have Vancouver or Portland to pal around with. They're the Sasquatch of Major League Baseball, all alone in the woods, visible only to people who seek them. You want to be a Mariners fan in Virginia or Boston or Buffalo, good luck buddy, you're going to have to work.

 

When I was a kid and got one of their cards, I had no idea who they were. What the hell is a Lee Guetterman? Is this Dick Williams the same Dick Williams who managed the 67 Impossible Dream Red Sox? Greg Briley's real name is Greg B. Riley and he was just too nice of a guy to point that out, right? 

 

They were all Major Leaguers, even though they didn't seem to be. Like if you were a Mariner, your entire career in Seattle was a rumor.

 

But undoubtedly the dopest thing about the Seattle Mariners was the logo that I added here. The upside down trident (ancient Greeks said that an upside down trident was bad mojo--probably not in those exact words--because all of the good luck ran out of it when it was pointed down) with the star around it rules. I love everything about 10/10, no fucking notes at all.

 

The colors of blue and yellow also rule, the funky lettering, the racing stripes, the pull over jerseys. All awesome, absolutely perfect for this team. Then the M's tried to get traditional and dialed back the uniqueness of their look and it was okay. They kept the yellow and blue and the only cool thing was that this was what Griffey was wearing when he debuted, so I have a lot of fond memories.

 

Then they went to blue, tealish green and silver in 1993 and they've kept that look ever since. It's okay, but it's stale. The Mariners should never be stale, they're weird and they need to go back to that blue and yellow outfit now. Otherwise what's the point of having a team in Seattle?

 

4. 

I think it was French philosopher Busta Rhymes who once said, "Don't mean no disrespect. Brew-ha, Brew-ha, I got you all in check!"

 

The Brewers. The ball and glove logo. Why is this team my fourth favorite? The answer is dumb, but that's the way it goes.

 

We are about 4 days away from the The Real National Hot Dog Day and to celebrate, we're counting up, Adam Curry style, my favorite baseball teams. 

 

If you name your team after a profession that creates sudsy libations, you better be fun. I don't know if the Brewers, the team, is a lot of fun. There are a lot of years when the club is flat as decades old Schlitz. There are also times when the Brewers do well and the stadium is alive with cheese heads screaming for their baseball heroes. However, the former outweigh the latter by a lot.

 

Despite that, going to a Brewers game is probably the most fun you can have in the Major Leagues. The Brew Crew fans are one of the few fanbases that tailgate before just about every game. That's a potential 81 tailgates, which is absolutely awesome. And they're not grilling veggie burgers and sipping mimosas. They're chowing down on dogs and sausages, dipping everything in cheese and pounding brew dogs as if the local brewery's existence depends on it.

 

When you get into the stadium, it's a lot of fun too. There's Bernie Brewer in his chalet waiting for someone to launch a ding dong johnson so that he can take a trip down his slide and release the celebration. Back in the day, Bernie used to slide into a mug of beer; but I guess that sent a bad message to the kids, so it's no longer that tasty beverage.

 

Have we evolved as a species? I'd say no.

 

The whole atmosphere is a daily party with some baseball thrown into the mix to keep our attention away from our expanding waist lines and our now crippling love of beer. That seems really bleak, but not as bad as some of the teams that Milwaukee has run on the field in their existence.

 

The Brewers were a team that began its existence as the Seattle Pilots--you can read all about them in Jim Bouton's seminal book, "Ball Four". The Pilots lasted a year in Seattle and no one was sure what year two held for them. Prior to Spring Training, the team was in discussions to be sold and then moved. But nothing had happened yet by the time the team reported to Arizona. And the sale stayed in limbo for eight weeks. There's a story that after 1970 Spring Training was over (the team first played in 1969) that the equipment truck driver was at a stop in the desert and was waiting for a phone call to drive left to the Pacific Northwest or go right to Milwaukee.

 

He was told to go right by used car salesman, new owner and future Commissioner of MLB Alan "Bud" Selig.

 

And the rest was history. Sorta. History has a tendency of moving slow as the Brew Crew wasn't really good in the 70s until Robin Yount, Paul Molitor, Cecil Cooper, Ben Oglive, Gorman Thomas and others showed up, coalesced and became a bad ass team. The early 80s was all Milwaukee as they made their only World Series (they lost to the Cards in a seven game thriller) and continued to push the favorites in the American League East.

 

The 90s was a completely forgettable era of Milwaukee baseball as they were always in the second division, playing a lot of very boring baseball. As the new century dawned, things started to turn around a bit. They got rid of County Stadium (where the Braves played in the 50s and 60s once they abandoned Boston) and moved into a new state-of-the-art stadium.

 

The Brewers started a boom-bust sort of tradition where they'd be really good for a few years, empty their minor league coffers for a player or two that might put them over the line, lose in the playoffs and then have to rebuild. That lead to a lot of exciting teams with Prince Fielder, CC Sabathia, Zack Grienke and Ryan Braun. Once those players left and after a year or two of bleh teams, a new generation of younger players took their place.

 

The Brewers can be confusing sometimes. Unlike the Astros who switched leagues but have always felt like a National League team cosplaying as an American League club, the Brew Crew seem like a National League team that was stuck in the AL because they couldn't figure out a way home. Beginning with the Braves Milwaukee was always a National League city. Even before the big club moved here, the Boston Braves' AAA team was in Milwaukee.

 

Fun fact: while in the American League, the Brewers are the only team to play in all three divisions: East, Central and West. The currently sit in the NL Central.

 

They've had their ups and downs and while it's fun to go to the games, the best part of the Milwaukee Brewers is their logo. How long did it take you to notice that the glove is actually an M resting on top of a B? It took me a long-ass time, my friends. When I was a kid, I'd look at that hat and wonder, "Why do they have a glove on their hat?" like of all the baseball equipment you could use as a logo, why would you choose a glove?

 

It seemed dumb.

 

But then I saw it. I saw the "M" and the "B" and everything changed. I was obsessed with this idea and even though it was the days before the Internet, I read everything I could about this thing. Like did you know that the logo was created by a father and son for a "Design the Milwaukee Brewers new logo" contest? You know what they won? Two seats to every single Brewers game in perpetuity. Lifetime passes! How awesome is that?

 

I think that MLB players are given lifetime passes to any game in any stadium if they meet a certain requirement (years in the league) and the Iran hostages got the same perk when they were freed, but they don't give these out to normies. So you're telling me, I get to watch baseball in my hometown for free, any time I want AND I get to see my favorite team play with the logo that I designed?

 

I know that at the end of the day this father and son team were royally screwed on the merchandise dollars, but who cares. That prize is totally worth it. I wouldn't think twice about the lost revenue. Honestly. This logo is probably the first or second best in all of sports (big ups to the Hartford Whalers logo, which rules too).

 

In the woebegone 90s, the Brewers dropped the glove logo and replaced it with an interlocking M and B that sorta looked like the Notre Dame logo. And it sucked. There were too many sharp angles, it looked like something that you'd find at an old church--there was no whimsy to it. After awhile the team got wise and brought the ball and glove back, with an updated look. And it looks terrific.

 

Is this why I have the Brewers ranked so high? Yeah. Finding that secret was a seminal moment for me. It really got me interested in design. It made me pay attention to details. It taught me that there are little secrets everywhere, you just have to look.

 

And did it hurt that the initials of the Milwaukee Brewers represented in that logo are the same as mine? Hell no. I'm nothing if not completely self-absorbed.

 

3.

 

I like underdogs and Oakland is the ultimate 'dog. I really love this forgotten team and hope that it doesn't find its way to Las Vegas.

 

 

We are about 3 days away from the The Real National Hot Dog Day and to celebrate, we're counting up, Adam Curry style, my favorite baseball teams.

 

Confession time: even though I tell everyone that I've been a Red Sox fan for my entire life, the truth is there were a few years where I took a little sabbatical. No, despite my anger at the front office and ownership, it hasn't been the last few seasons, it was in the late 80s.

 

I was an unabashed (pun intended) Oakland Athletics fan. From 1988 through 1990, the A's were undoubtedly the best team in the league and I was all in. They were a dominant machine (until the third week in October when the World Series is played) that had power hitting, speed, hitting for average, defense, starting pitching, relief pitching and a good manager. They had young players, wily veterans, reclamation projects and random dudes who played above their pay grade when they put on the gold and green.

 

Plus they played in a cool city and the Oakland Alameda County Coliseum wasn't a complete dump yet. The Raiders still called Los Angeles home, so Mt. Davis wasn't in center field and you could see the rolling hills behind the park. The place was banged out for every game and it seemed as if the baseball universe revolved around Oakland for those years.

 

Rickey Henderson, Carney Lansford, Dave Henderson, Jose Canseco, Mark McGwire, Dave Parker (or Don Baylor), Terry Steinbach, Tony Phillips (or Mike Gallego or Willie Randolph or Glenn Hubbard) and Walt Weiss was the lineup. The starting staff was lead by Dave Stewart, Bob Welch, Mike Moore, Storm Davis and Curt Young. A rejuvenated Dennis Eckersley nailed down any leads and the righty-lefty combos that emerged from the bullpen was deftly mastered by manager Tony LaRussa.

 

For a baseball obsessed kid, this was nirvana. This was how baseball was supposed to be played. Oakland could play any type of game: they could win in a pitcher's duel, they could play home run derby, their speed was a killer so if you want to engage in a track meet, good luck, they (except for Canseco) defended masterfully and they were all battle tested, so it's not like they were going to make a ton of mental errors. You could watch a week's worth of A's games and not see the same thing.

 

Even though there was a ton of flash and star power, it seemed like the thinking person's way to play baseball. 

 

Then they bottomed out. Players got old and they retired. Players' acts got old* and they were shipped out. Some players got too expensive, the ones that the team kept were often injured. It happens to the best teams. By the mid 90s, the Oakland A's were a shadow of their past glory.

 

* In Howard Bryant's excellent biography on Rickey Henderson, during the 1990 World Series, Jose Canseco was bitching about being in the postseason. "It's no fair that since we're so good, we have to play all of these extra games every year." Fuck you, dude. Seriously.

 

As the A's were sucking and being ignored, they started making some nice front office hirings including a former fringe big leaguer named Billy Beane. Beane had an interesting way of building up a club and he started putting it to the test in Oakland. And it worked. With cast-offs and overlooked players (and a few legit stars), the A's started winning again. They made the postseason a bunch of times, though they never won it all.

 

The one problem with Beane's system was that the A's had no money, so they couldn't keep good players when they wanted to get paid. They either traded them for prospects or they let them walk for nothing. The issue is that if you're going to keep replenishing your stars like this, you need to have a high hit rate. That's almost impossible, so the A's bottomed out again.

 

They have done the boom-bust thing for awhile and they are currently cratering big time. The 2023 A's might be one of the worst teams ever assembled. If you've seen the movie "Major League" you'll know why. The owner wants to move to Las Vegas and he's doing everything in his power to turn off fan support. There has been some talk of a new park (which, in fairness, they really do need) but the city has no intentions of building a stadium for a billionaire for free.

 

This is refreshing. They've already lost the Warriors and the Raiders in the last five years, so it's probably adios A's. If it's a good deal, they'll do it, but they're not going to screw their tax payers in order to assuage the ego of a billionaire. And here's the thing, I'm not sure how much Las Vegas wants the A's, TBH. They love their Golden Knights, but the Raiders haven't been that much of a success in the desert and there's a lot of talk that the NBA (lead by an ownership featuring LeBron James) is going to go there too.

This might not be the best place for the A's to land, you guys. But you know what, the A's bounce around so expect them to go somewhere else in 20 years.

 

Whether the A's stay in Oakland or move to Las Vegas, I hope that they keep their green and gold. They have the best uniforms in the league, bar none. The scripted "Athletics" on the homes and the "Oakland" on the aways are classic. In 1987, I think six (out of 26) teams completely updated their entire uniform sets and the A's were the best. I loved them so much that I bought a black starter jacket with the script Athletics on the front and the elephant patch on the left sleeve. It was my favorite jacket ever.

 

Not only can they do classic, but the yellow and kelly green alts are also really cool updates too that don't look out of place wherever they play.

 

Everyone has their favorite ball club, but I think that you also need another one--an underdog--to root for. The A's could be your underdog. I wish the Athletics ownership would get their heads out of their asses and wake up to discover that Oakland is an awesome place filled with die hard fans who would rather root for the Dodgers than step into Oracle Park and cheer for the Giants. The place used to be an absolute mad house (in a good way) in the not-to-distant past and it could be again--this team could own the entire city!

 

I really hope that they don't move. And I hope that they get a new ballpark. And I also hope that they're good again. They've spent more years in Oakland than they spent in their original city of Philadelphia (and way more than in their second stop of Kansas City), so even though they may look like vagabonds, they're not. As their marketing statement goes, they're rooted in Oakland. And that's where they should be.

 

2.

 

I know. I know. I've lived in Boston my entire life, but the Dodgers are my second favorite team. The LOS ANGELES Dodgers? Yes. But it's more than just the team, it's what the whole city represents to me.

 

We are officially 2 days away from the The Real National Hot Dog Day and to celebrate, we're counting up, Adam Curry style, my favorite baseball teams.

 

I've been to 29 different major league parks, but I've never been to Dodger Stadium. I have seven parks left on my list (I've been to eight parks that no longer exist) and I am eagerly anticipating going to Los Angeles and experiencing Dodger Stadium.

 

To me, Dodger Stadium is baseball. Opened in 1962, it's the third oldest park in the Majors, but it doesn't look it at all. Somehow it seems both modern and old at the same time. The symmetry of the place along with its clean aesthetic just appeals to me. To me, the obvious parallel is old Yankee Stadium, but while YS always looked dark, dirty and lived in, Dodger Stadium always looks pristine, bright and clean.

It's a perfect metaphor for the two cities themselves.

 

While I love New York, I never wanted to live there. It seemed like a lot of a lot, if you know what I mean. And there's a lot of excitement to that and it's why I love visiting there, but you also seem to be on top one another at all times. There's no personal space, it's drab and dark and cold--in more ways than just the weather.

 

Los Angeles seemed like a sunny oasis. A place that was ridiculously sprawled out where you can have your space, but be around a lot of people too. Obviously there are some disadvantages to that, but the weather covers up those detriments. Plus, if I lived in New York, I'd have to watch the Yankees. LA has the Dodgers.

 

As a Bostonian, it feels strange rooting for an LA team. Los Angeles and Boston don't have the rivalry that Boston and New York have, but it's there. And when push comes to shove, Boston has taken care of Los Angeles in the games that matter. Aside from St. Louis where Boston has beaten a team from all four majors in a Championship, Boston is a Bruins Stanley Cup series victory over the Kings from doing the same to LA.

 

The "BEAT LA! BEAT LA!" chant rings loud and true.

 

Unless they're playing the Sox, I can't root against the Dodgers. Their manager is literally the catalyst for the greatest sports moment of my life. How can I hope Dave Roberts fails? They traded for (and paid) the best player that the Red Sox developed in two generations in Mookie Betts. Just because he's on the Dodgers, I'm supposed to hate him?

 

But it's more than that. Growing up, the Dodgers were ubiquitous. From appearing on practically every "Game of the Week" to manager Tommy LaSorda starring as the Baseball Wizard on "The Baseball Bunch" and shilling for NutraSlim to Don Drysdale guesting on the "Brady Bunch" to Steve Garvey, Fernando Valenzuela, Orel Hershiser, Kirk Gibson, Mike Piazza, and many, many more appearing on multiple TV shows, you either became a Dodgers fan or you hated them.

 

I'm not made of stone, guys, I definitely became a Dodgers fan and bought all of the "I bleed blue" LaSorda bullshit that came with it. That's because when you talk the propaganda about the Dodgers, you're pretty much speaking the same propaganda about baseball in general. At this point, the messages are 

practically intertwined.

 

I haven't even begun to get into the person who was the soundtrack of baseball for almost 70 years, Vin Scully. I had a friend who was adamant that Scully was "overrated". Everyone has opinions, it's cool to believe what you want, but as soon as he said this, I thought, "This is not a serious person. This person's opinions from now until infinity need to be ignored."

 

Amazingly, Scully mostly worked alone in his booth for his career and was able to effortlessly paint such a vibrant picture of what was happening in Chavez Ravine that his lyrical gymnastics were as poetic as anything the Bard wrote. I'm fucking serious, man. The ability to talk into a microphone, describe the action, start and continue a story while pausing for balls and strikes, in the course of a half inning, night after night, without notes is a mutant ability. What I'm saying is that Vin Scully should have been on the X-Men.

 

Whenever I think of the Dodgers I think of blue sky, 80 degree days, sunshine, palm trees and the sounds of Scully on the radio--even if you're taking in the game at the stadium. I think of crisp white uniforms with blue writing and red numbers on the front with a blue cap and white button on the top. I think of baby blue colored outfield walls ringed by faded maize seats and those diamond shaped scoreboards. No matter who's playing and what the score is, it's as relaxing as a day at the beach.

 

I know that I've built up Dodger Stadium in my mind as the be-all, end-all baseball nirvana and I've been around the sun enough times to know that it's not all that. But there's a sliver of a chance that it might be and that's what baseball really is, right? That's what keeps us watching the game; the chance to see, to experience, to feel, something that we never have.

 

That's what baseball, the Dodgers and Los Angeles means to me. It's not so much that I'm a huge Ron Cey fan, but I'm a fan of the idea, the promise really, of the sport and ultimately this team.

  

1.

 

Y'all it's no surprise who my favorite team is. I wrote a lot about the Sox below.

 

You know what also isn't a surprise: the Real National Hot Dog Day is tomorrow. We're having quite a crew to Case de Magrane's House of Awesome tomorrow. Now you have to get cracking too. Dogs, beer, chips, ice cream and pretzels are on our menu. What's on yours?

 

JDI, mofrackies. JDI.

 

We are officially 1 day away from the The Real National Hot Dog Day and to celebrate--tomorrow is the day everyone!--we're counting up, Adam Curry style, my favorite baseball teams.

 

Was there really any suspense or surprise in this pick? Of course, it's the Boston Red Sox. Who else would it be? I've written so much about the Sox on this site, my blog, Instagram, Twitter that anything that I write now is bound to be a rerun.

 

But having said that, the Red Sox are my team and they will always be my team. It's not just the team itself that brings me a ton of joy (and frustration) but its the ancillary things.

 

• The Red Sox were a huge part of my wife and I getting together. She's a Yankees fan and when we first started dating* her, I liked her but I wasn't sure how much she liked me. So in order to get more time for her to like me, I offered a wager m; which ever of our teams won the season series the other had to make dinner. This bet was made in April 2003 and I figured I had about six months to work my magic. The series game down to the final weekend in September and the two teams were tied at eight wins apiece. During the last game Bernie Williams took Scott Sauerback deep in the eighth and the Yankees won the game and the series. I made enchiladas for the first time in my life and Aly and I were engaged about a year later.
  
  

* Our first date was Opening Day at Fenway. We got SRO tickets but as we were walking into the park, a guy asked us where our seats were and gave us his tickets in the grandstands behind third base--which I took as a good omen about this potential relationship. Pedro got lit up by the O's--which I took as a bad omen. I guess getting good seats outweighs a Hall of Famer getting shellacked by a shitbum team. 

 

• The Red Sox have strengthened a bond between my mother and myself. I'd watch games with my mom and we'd talk about our favorite players (hers was Marty Barrett, mine was Jim Rice). And even when I was at my most assholish, the way that we'd smooth that over was by first talking about the Sox and then discussing what the real issue was. I think that it disarmed both of us and got the ball rolling--not an easy thing to do with a teenager, as I'm finding out now.
  
  

• I've met countless friends through the Boston Red Sox. Not just my online chums, but real life people too. Going to a ballgame with a friend is one of life's greatest pleasures. You can have a beer, eat a dog, catch up about life, talk about nothing, reminisce, watch and comment on the game--it's better than a bar, better than a restaurant, better than hanging out in someone's living room. There's no better place to learn about what's going on in someone's life than at Fenway (or really, any ballpark).
  
  

• It kept me connected to my brother. My brother passed away a little more than two years ago and while I wouldn't say we were super tight, I'd give anything to talk to him about the Red Sox just one more time. We wouldn't argue (all the time) but we'd discuss the day's baseball events and he'd ask, "Why did the team do this, By?" "Why are they doing that, By?" and we'd just hash it out. It was about the only time that we really got along without any pretenses. And I miss it.

 

• Any time I'm at a social function where I don't know many people, the Red Sox keep me from feeling awkward. Everyone has an opinion on the Sox. "Did you see the Sox game last night? Fucking unbelievable right?" (The last sentence can be taken two completely different ways.) Even in the offseason, "Did you see who the Sox picked up? Fucking unbelievable right?" And you're off to the races. The thing is, the Red Sox--and baseball really--is an amazing ice breaker. Unlike hockey or football, just about everyone has played baseball at some point in their lives. Hoops has always been marketed toward younger people, so it could be a gamble to talk about basketball--and then it could be about either the NBA or NCAA.

 

But baseball? Everyone knows about baseball. 

 

Even if they haven't watched an MLB game in years, there's a ton to talk about. You can focus on the past: "you went to THAT game, no shit, that's awesome?" "Yeah, I know what you mean. My coach used to make us do the same stuff. What an asshole, right?" You can talk about today: "I know, I can't believe that Devers hit a ball that far. It's crazy." You can talk about the future: "Dude, I feel you. Chaim Bloom does fucking suck. I don't know what they're going to do this year."

 

The Red Sox, and baseball in general, allows you to purge all of your feelings: extreme joy, epic frustration, intense fear, ecstatic happiness, but since it's game played every day for six months (seven if you're lucky) it also allows you to just relax, take the game in, let it wash over you. Games tend not to matter that much in long run.

 

It's that mundane events that lends to its specialness though. I don't normally text at night, but every once in awhile a friend and I will trade texts if something good is happening during the midle of the night, "Yo. You watching MLB Network right now? Ohtani is dealing." or "Sox in Seattle, what do you think?"

I don't think that the Red Sox are aware of just how many doors they've opened for me in my lifetime. I don't think that they're clue in to just how big of an influence they've had on my life. I know it sounds silly, but it's all very true. There are some obsessions that you can't pinpoint to when you started them, they just happen and next thing you know, you can't stop thinking about them. But I can absolutely tell you the exact moment I became completely and totally immersed in the Red Sox, the exact moment when that team, and sport, dug its claws in me and never let go.

 

It was Sunday October 12, 1986, Game 5 of the American League Championship Series around 5:00 pm EST. The Sox were down 3-1 in games to the California Angels and were losing Game Five by a score 5-4 with two outs in the bottom of the ninth. Angels starter Mike Witt was carving up the Sox like a turkey on Thanksgiving. This was the first team that I loved and I could not fathom that it was going to end this way. This team had kicked so much ass for six months and they were going to let it slip away? Like this? With a whimper? This sucks.

 

Let's back up a few moments: entering the ninth inning, the Sox were down by three. The announcers were going on and on about after so many near misses, California Manager Gene Mauch was finally going to his first World Series but they just had to dispatch the listless Sox first.

 

After a hit and a couple of outs, up comes former Angel Don Baylor, who deposits a Witt pitch into the left field bleachers for a two-out, two run homer. It was something he did in that stadium, many, many times. Mauch freaks out and instead of letting his dominant pitcher get one more out, goes to the bullpen and summons Gary Lucas. He promptly plunks the next batter, Rich Gedman, sending him to first. After that at bat, Mauch has apparently seen enough of Lucas so he sends him to the showers and summons Angel closer Donnie Moore.

 

Stepping to the plate is seldom used--and quite honestly a guy who hadn't been very good for the Sox since coming to the team in a late summer trade with the Mariners--Dave Henderson. Henderson entered the game earlier after regular centerfielder Tony Armas pulled up injured. Within an inning of entering the game, Henderson attempted to rob a home run but the ball landed in his glove and his momentum when he hit the wall forced the ball to pop out of his mitt over the wall. He was sorta wearing the horns. Armas was too old to try that shit, it probably would have been a double.

 

Anyway, Henderson takes a couple of cuts on some offspeed stuff and looks completely clueless against Moore. But Moore decided to get cute and tried to sneak a fastball by him. Henderson, the absolute last dude on this 24-man roster you'd think would be a hero, puts the ball in the bleachers. The Red Sox score FOUR in the ninth and end up winning in extras. They roll through the rest of the Series and play the Mets in the World Series where some stupid shit happens.

 

It doesn't matter. That moment where a person who should never have been in the game, a person who effectively lost the game for the team earlier in the contest, a person who wasn't even on the team as last as July 4th, who was playing in Seattle of all fucking places, that guy--THAT FUCKING GUY--was able to turn the entire series around. Dave Henderson made a name for himself that day. He was a hero.

 

That's what we all want, right? The ability for redemption. The ability to be exaulted. The ability to tell everyone that you can do the job, just give me a chance. Baseball gives everyone that ability. That's what I love most about the sport, it's the most American of all the games.

 

2004, 2007, 2013 and 2018 were magical and crazy and brilliant and amazing and any other adjective that you have. But at the same time, there is nothing like the magic of baseball when you're 12-years-old, your favorite team is down to its last strike and the season is on the brink of being finished and some dude comes out of nowhere and saves it.

 

Guys, I've been chasing that dragon for 36 years and honestly, I doubt that I'm ever going to catch it. I've come close a few times, but it won't happen again. But it might. And that right there, that feeling of maybe it will, is what baseball--and the Boston Red Sox--means to me. 

 

Forever.

My Favorite Teams 12-7

Back in March and April of this year I was counting up my favorite baseball teams on Facebook in anticipation of The Real National Hot Dog Day. I thought that it might be a good idea to keep them here for posterity. Here are the fourth group of teams along with the FB introductions.

12.

My 12th favorite team is the Sox. The WHITE Sox. Ha, ha, got you. 

 

Now you should read what I wrote about them. Also get your collective asses ready for the Real National Hot Dog Day because it's coming whether you like it or not: April 3.

 

 

We are 12 days away from the The Real National Hot Dog Day and to celebrate, we're counting up, Ryan Seacrest style, my favorite baseball teams.

 

To me, the White Sox were always a strange team. They shared the same city with the Cubs, but they seemed like the anti-Cubs. They played in a run-down old park (which in retrospect was pretty cool) with obnoxiously bright yellow bars dividing the seating sections compared to Wrigley's classic brick facade. 

 

They played mostly at night, the Cubs played during the day. The White Sox were in the western division of the American League while the Cubs were in the NL East. The Cubs wore the same home uniforms since the 30s, while the White Sox seemingly had new unis every other year.

 

The two teams didn't seem to play in the same universe, yet they somehow managed to share a city.

 

As a kid growing up in Boston, it bugged me that the White Sox "stole" the Red Sox' name. There was only room enough for one team to be named after hosiery and that team called Boston home. You steal our catcher and you take our name?

 

With the crumbling stadium and the so-so teams, the White Sox always seemed to have one foot out the door too. Until the state ponied up some cash, the White Sox were about to move to St. Petersburg and play in the dome that the Rays now called home. Yes, that's how long that stupid stadium has been around, it was used as leverage for a new White Sox stadium, which opened in 1991.

 

The White Sox had players that you sorta knew but it seemed weird to see Carlton Fisk and Tom Seaver in jerseys that screamed "SOX" on the front with horizontal blue and red lines around it and numbers on the front of their pants. And the home grown stars that they had were fine. Harold Baines was a quiet professional hitter. Ron Kittle was a power hitter that looked like a substitute chemistry teacher that got too friendly with the kids. Catcher of the future Ron Karkovice looked like he'd buy you a 12-pack if you gave him enough money so he could get a sixer.

 

They were anonymous and strange looking and almost always an afterthought.

 

Then in late 1990 the White Sox did something really interesting. They rebranded. They no longer wore red, white and blue and their logo was no longer an abstract guy hitting a ball over the word "SOX". Suddenly the White Sox shifted to black and silver, they added pinstripes to their home uniforms, they looked like a baseball team again. But beyond that, with the black and silver echoing the LA Raiders and Kings with a nod to gangsta rap culture, the White Sox looked like a team of bad asses.

 

They also started to promote players from their minor league teams that could play a little. The Big Hurt Frank Thomas. Robin Ventura. Alex Fernandez. Black Jack McDowell. They picked up free agents like Tim Raines and Bo Jackson. And they started winning.

 

Their was a buzz around the White Sox in the early 90s. Hip hop videos were filled with dudes wearing White Sox caps (Dr. Dre named checked the team in a song) which meant that goofy suburban white kids were wearing White Sox hats (myself included). I told people that I liked Frank Thomas, but in reality I probably liked Dr. Dre and Eazy-E more. Not only that but I spent my hard-earned dough on an official away White Sox jersey (THE KIND THE PROS WEAR!) because I thought it looked so cool.

 

To their credit, the White Sox have stuck with this look for almost 30 years. They bring the only beach blanket bingo unis (the ones from the mid 80s) out on Sunday and everyone has a good time remembering how shitty those things looked (except for Chris Sale, who when he was with a White Sox, went ham and cut up all of the jerseys with a scissor because he didn't want to wear them, which okay Chris thank you 

 for your input) but the next day they’re always back in their usual silver and black.

 

They've had their ups and downs since the 90s--winning a World Series in 2005 for the first time since 1917, so their streak was longer than the Red Sox by two seasons yet people nationwide seemed to care less about that, which is odd--but they're been a pretty consistently good team. They have an interesting nucleus of a team now and they're without the ancient Tony LaRussa, which is a good thing.

 

How good? We'll just have to see.

 

11.

I wrote about the Royals today, so you know that I'm going to spend a lot of time writing about Bo Jackson. Not that much though. Just enough.

 

 

We are 11 days away from the The Real National Hot Dog Day and to celebrate, we're counting up, Ryan Seacrest style, my favorite baseball teams.

 

Growing up, the Kansas City Royals were one of those teams that always gave the fits. At Fenway, the Sox were glad to split a series and really lucky to take two of three. This despite the fact that the Sox always had the power bats. Jim Rice, Dwight Evans, Tony Armas, Mike Easler, Don Baylor, etc could outhomer the entire Royals lineup with one arm tied behind their backs.

 

But the Royals played a type of baseball that was alien to Boston, it was based on speed, defense and good pitching. They'd pinball the horsehide all over Fenway, the Sox would end up running in circles trying to chase it down and Willie Wilson or Lonnie Smith or Frank White would be standing on third waiting for George Brett to drive them in.

 

When they met in Kansas City, the Royals were nigh unbeatable. The Sox would come in on a winning streak and the Royals would run them into the ground, National League style. Kaufman Stadium was expansive and had miles of astroturf. KC would slam the ball into an alley, it would get by Armas (or Rice) and the those Royals rabbits would run forever. When the Sox were up Baylor or Evans would drive a ball deep, Wilson would glide over and make a catch 390 feet away from home plate. Lots of loud, long outs for the Sox.

 

It always seemed to be hot there, which sucked if you were an old guy like the Sox always seemed to have, and that was usually evidenced by the thermometer that WSBK TV-38 would show where the mercury would reach 130 on the field (astroturf didn't absorb heat really well) and announcer Ned Martin would say, "Hot one today, eh Monty?" and his partner Bob Montgomery would chortle, "Glad I'm not playing Ned!"

 

An organization that was built around speed and defense took a strange turn in 1985 when they drafted and signed Auburn running back (and Heisman Trophy winner) Bo Jackson. When he debuted in 1986, all eyes turned to KC--which is strange because the Royals won the World Series the season prior. Was Bo an immediate hit when he showed up in Missouri? No. But that didn't matter, much like Ohtani has captured the imagination of kids today, Bo did that for another generation. And his legend only grew when he signed with the Los Angeles Raiders.

 

Dude plays baseball and football? How? Why? Can he do that? He could and did. Now the Royals had a legit power threat (sorry Steve Balboni) in their lineup who was a world-class athlete and star. 

 

Unfortunately, Bo got hurt. A bunch. He got hurt playing baseball and he really got hurt playing football. He's the ultimate what if and that makes him a legend.

 

Read "The Last Folk Hero" by Jeff Pearlman. It's fucking amazing.

 

After Bo got hurt and left and the Royals legends retired, Kansas City went into a deep, deep funk. They lost a ton. They wouldn't spend money (despite being owned by a family member that owns WalMart). They would develop players, but trade them the minute that they wanted more than the bare minimum. They were adrift in a shitty wasteland. And for someone who remembered how scary it was when his team visited KC, it was depressing.

 

Somehow in the early 10s, the Royals got the message and started developing (and keeping) their players. There was a bit of a Royals renaissance. They actually made it to the World Series one year. The next year, they did even better and won the World Series. It was awesome, the underdog (owned by one of the richest families in America) actually beat the team from New York and won it all. Amazing.

 

It didn't last though. In subsequent years, the Royals have played okay--most of the nucleus of the World Series winner were either traded away (WalMart has to spend money to smash local mom and pop stores!) or got old. They're not terribly bad, but they're not terribly good either. They're, as the kids would say, mid. I guess that's okay.

 

The Royal's uniforms are excellent. They shouldn't change a thing, but they did in the late 00s adding the mean looking, sinister black to the color palette. It looked dumb. It looked as if they were trying way too hard. It reminded me of the dork that left school in June and showed up in September with an earring and a scowl. You can't fool me, I know that you cried when you got hit in the face with a kickball. Quit frontin' Kansas City.

 

10.

Hot Dogs Rock! Hot Dogs Rock! Hot Dogs Rock!

 

Apologies to Drew Carey, but it's true. Hot Dogs, like Cleveland, do rock*. And there's only 10 days left until the Real National Hot Dog Day, so get your shit together.

 

* Kids, whether you like the Guardians name or not, I think that we can all agree that we dodged a bullet when the Cleveland brain trust decided not to use the name "Rockers". What a dumpster fire that would be. Ughhh.

 

We are 10 days away from the The Real National Hot Dog Day and to celebrate, we're counting up, Ryan Seacrest style, my favorite baseball teams.

 

So yeah, the Guardians. I'd have liked the Spiders better but after you know why they're named the Guardians (Cleveland has these eight huge art decco statues called the Guardians of Traffic as you enter the city) the name sorta grows on you. Plus, I guess if the Guardians were cheap, they only had to change four letters from their last team nickname. So, cost savings over Spiders!

 

As far as the name, whatever. These things weren't handed down from the gods. The old ones were mostly made up by sportswriters and the new ones are created via marketing focus groups. YMMV on which is worse. But, coming from a high school that had the same name, Indians is a dumb nickname. All permutations of sports nicknames based on Native American heritage are dumb.

 

You want to honor Native Americans and make everything square? Don't name some shit baseball team in Cleveland, how about you give them back their land? How about you admit and apologize for knowingly giving them diseased blankets and pushing them further and further west, essentially wiping out their people. How about that?

 

As far as the franchise goes, I have a soft spot for Cleveland ever since I got my first Sports Illustrated baseball preview issue that screamed "Indian Uprising". Cleveland outfielders Joe Carter and Cory Snyder were under the grinning mug of Chief Wahoo and SI was telling us that this was Cleveland's year.

 

 Sports Illustrated was huge back in the day and everyone bought into the hype. What did Cleveland do? They sucked. Hard. Finished last that year, a billion games behind the Tigers.

 

Those people love their sports so much and they get gutted so many times, yet they keep coming back. Again and again and again. Is it a coincidence that the world's biggest optimist in the face of realism is Charlie Brown? I think not.

 

But the Guardians have gone through just as many heartaches as the Browns have. The team it had in the 90s was absolutely stacked and they lost some heartbreakers to the Braves and the Marlins. The Marlins? Are you kidding me? That team had been around for four hours compared to the (then) Indians.

 

And since this is Cleveland, they had to (HAD TO) sell off their stars and they floundered for a bit. But then they built the team back up and went to the World Series against the Cubs. THE CUBS! This was like a street fight between Greg Brady's Hawai'ian tiki idol and some other equally shitty luck trinket (I can't think of one off hand). Cleveland tied the game going into the ninth and had a ton of momentum, they were going to win this motherfucker. And the rain came down, Jayson Heyward rallied the Chicago troops and they won it in the tenth.

 

BTW, you know the last team to win a World Series Game 7th in the tenth? The Marlins. Who did they play? The Indians.

 

Once Cleveland wins, they'll probably fall a few spots down the list. But until then, let this team win. Good lord. Maybe changing their name might lead to better luck. But what do I know, I couldn't even think of another bad luck charm that wasn't on the fucking Brady Bunch.

 

9.

When I was younger (like when I was 44-years-old) I used to call this team the Oreos, because I didn't know what an Oriole was. I guess I could have looked at the logo and assume that it was some sort of bird, but what do you want from me, I was probably trying to figure out what channel Battle of the Planets was on. 

 

Anyway enjoy this piece on the Oreos! (FUCK, I did it agan.)

 

 

We are 9 days away from the The Real National Hot Dog Day and to celebrate, we're counting up, Down Town Julie Brown style, my favorite baseball teams. Wubba wubba wubba.

 

The Baltimore Orioles used to be good. Actually, strike that; the Baltimore Orioles used to be really fucking good. From the late 60s through the mid 1980s, the Orioles were a consistent force in the American League. They won AL East flags, they made it to the World Series and they actually won multiple World Series titles.

 

Not only that but the way they did it was through smart trades and a player development program that netted them a handful of Hall of Famers. Jim Palmer, Brooks Robinson, Eddie Murray, Cal Ripken Jr. and manager Earl Weaver all came up through the Baltimore system, all won World Series rings, all ended up in Cooperstown.

 

And it wasn't only Hall of Famers and fill in the blanks, the Orioles minor league teams were rife with 

MVP and Cy Young candidates, players who had big years, platoon players and relief aces that performed well in their roles. It was the Oriole Way and they just crushed it for almost 20 years.

 

Then the wheels started falling off, the early 90s weren't a great time to be a Baltimore fan--aside from Camden Yards which was a game changer in the way that Branch Rickey and California baseball were game changers--and the O's scuffled a bit. Ripken was getting close to Gehrig and I guess the front office thought that people were going to pay a lot of attention to them, so they started filling in the gaps with primo free agents.

 

And it worked. But free agents tend to be old guys and wear out their welcome after three of four seasons. The once fertile Baltimore minor league system was what my aunt used to call me, barren (she couldn't say Byron to save her life). Once the free agents couldn't produce and the prospects quickly turned to suspects, Baltimore baseball was dead.

 

For a long, long time the Orioles were just awful. The new century wasn't kind to the people of Baltimore either and continued to be shitty for about 15 years. Then they got good for a few seasons before bottoming out again. 

 

I'm not a Baltimorian (is that what you call someone from Baltimore?) but I like the Orioles. I remember when they were the Cadillac of Major League Baseball. The crowds always supported them, they always were loud and wild and crazy and games looked fun in Crab City. Despite having the OG retro stadium (that still rules) the way that the Angelos family has mismanaged this franchise is a crime. The city of Baltimore, hell Major League Baseball, deserves better.

 

I like when the Orioles are good, it reminds me of being a kid; so I always pull for the Orioles to be good. With that goofy cartoon bird and their orange and black togs, the O's look like a fun club. This year, the Orioles might surprise a few people, they have a nice young base that the Angelos family can't fuck up (mostly due to them being cheap) and perhaps the O's are on an upswing.

 

There has been talk that the Orioles might move to Nashville, apparently one of Peter Angelos' failsons has a wife who wants to be a country singer or these two buttholes like to cosplay as "salt of the earth country folk" or whatever, but if they move from the city, that would be a huge black mark against the league.

 

Baltimore is really into football, no doubt, but I think that they really love baseball. Taking baseball away from a region that loves it is dumb.

 

8.

It's a GIANT day here at Real National Hot Dog Day Central. Why? Because we're about a week away from the high holiday and you had better get your stuff now!

 

Also, if you like what you read, consider giving The Real National Hot Dog Day page a like or a share. I'd appreciate it.

 

Today we talk about the first pro hat the I ever bought (it's more interesting than it sounds) and why I thought that I was so damn cool walking around in a black wool hat, sweating my ass off during many Massachusetts summers. We also get into the Giants a bunch. It's a lot of fun.

 

 

We are 8 days away from the The Real National Hot Dog Day and to celebrate, we're counting up, Down Town Julie Brown style, my favorite baseball teams. Wubba wubba wubba.

 

The first fitted pro hat that I ever bought wasn't the Boston Red Sox. Though I purchased it at one of the souvenir shops in Fenway Park, it was the San Francisco Giants. I wish that I could tell you that there was so deep reason why I bought this hat, that there was a real connection between myself and the Giants franchise or the city. 

 

Maybe my grandfather grew up idolizing Mel Ott. Perhaps my parents met on the corner of Haight and Ashbury in 1967. Was I related to Willie Mays, who's to say?

 

I would expect that the real reason why I bought the interlocking orange squared "S" and "F" is three-fold.

 

1. I liked the colors. Orange and black rule. Not a lot of teams use those two colors, but when they do; they look so good. 

 

2. I really liked Kevin Mitchell and Will Clark. With his ferocious swing Mitchell spent a few seasons absolutely demolishing baseballs. And there were whispers (started by Mets GM Frank Cashman who stupidly traded him) that made him sound like a complete bad ass. Those whispers weren't really true and they were coded bigot-speak, but at the time I thought that this made Mitch sound more awesome.

 

As for Will Clark, he had the picture-perfect swing. He was nicknamed "The Natural" and it wasn't because he was a naturally nice guy (writer Jeff Pearlman says he's one of the absolute shittiest people he's ever had to interview). But that swing, man. It was a thing of beauty. I had posters on the wall of my bedroom of Mitchell and Clark and they were both cool as hell. But the Clark one captured the follow through of his swing and I'd stare at it wondering how I could ever have something like that. Baseball osmosis doesn't work, kids.

 

3. The main reason why I bought this hat (back in the day it set me back a cool $25, so this was a [pardon the pun] major league fashion investment) is that no one else in my town had one. When you're a teenager there are a lot of pushes and pulls to your daily social life. But the biggest one is that, for me, I wanted to stand out but I didn't want to be so different as to be noticed and ostracized. Everyone wore baseball caps, but they were the same ones: Red Sox, a ton of Bruins, Celts here and there, (never the Pats), maybe the New York Giants but the San Francisco Giants? A National League team in an American League city? Never. 

 

So I felt like I was making a statement in a very silent way. "Why am I wearing this hat? Have you ever seen Will Clark and Kevin Mitchell hit? That's why." No one ever asked me that question, of course, and that answer would have been completely obnoxious, completely dorky and deserving of an ass kicking, but it always sounds a bit cooler in my mind.

 

I finally made it to AT&T (or PacBell or Oracle or whatever they call it) Park in 2008 and it was really cool--I never went to Candlestick Park. By this time Clark and Mitchell were faded memories (I may well have been a Carl Hubble or Christy Matthewson fan growing up) but the Giants were starting on a decade of dominance. Prior to this there were stretches where the Giants were bad--they were so bad that they almost moved to Toronto in the 70s and St. Petersburg in the 80s (the Tampa/St. Pete area was used as boogeyman to shake down more municipalities) but they got their new park and really started to pour money into the team. 

 

They picked up a guy by the name of Barry Bonds who did some stuff. They went to the World Series in 2002 (and lost to the Angels) and then they went on this strange every-other-year run where they kept winning the World Series with a homegrown team that played their best in the biggest situations. Buster Posey, Tim Lincecum, Madison Bumgardner, Pablo Sandoval and others beat the Rangers, Tigers and Royals in nonconsecutive series in the early 10s. 

 

It was cool to see a city of real baseball fans who had come so close in so many years (1962 and 2002 specifically) finally win a couple titles. If I still had it, I probably would have jammed that small sized hat on my overly sized melon and walked around with a boring, self-serving monologue in my head ready to answer anyone who asked, "Great game last night. How long have you liked the Giants?"

 
 7.

You know what the We Are Family 1979 World Series winning Pittsburgh Pirates ate when they sat down to family dinner every night? Hot dogs. Mounds and mounds of wieners. That's because everyone knows wieners is Austro-German for winners. 

 

But you don't have to pitch a no-hitter tripping balls on acid to be a winner, all you need is some hot dogs, buns, chips, a bevie of your choice and some ice cream. That's all it takes to celebrate the Real National Hot Dog Day!

 

So be like Doc Ellis and Load up on Some Dogs a week from tomorrow! It'll be groovy, man. In the mean time, read all about the Pirates and how Pittsburgh fans (just the baseball ones, fuck Steeler and Penguin nation) deserve better.

 

We are 7 days away from the The Real National Hot Dog Day and to celebrate, we're counting up, Down Town Julie Brown style, my favorite baseball teams. Wubba wubba wubba.

 

I feel like I say this a lot about a bunch of these teams, but it's true: the Pirates weren't always horrible. What sucks about writing this is that baseball owners have figured out that that a lot of times, putting a winning team on the field leads to losing money. You have to get good players to win and good players are usually expensive (unless you hit the jackpot and draft a good player who's cheap, but he can't be drafted too high because he might cost a bunch to sign) and expensive players tend to eat into your profit margin.

 

Not only that but these owners have also determined that even a shitty team is going to get a certain amount of fans in the stands and a better team isn't going to tip the scales into profitability. Not only that but the bulk of teams' revenues don't come from attendance anyway, so fuck it, run out a AAAA team to keep payroll low, get paid from TV licensing and partnerships, preach about a "process of self-sustaining player development system" (as if you just created that idea) and then bitch about how the city isn't supporting you and that you need money to fix up a 15-year-old ballpark or you're moving to Tucson.

 

That's sports ownership in the 21st Century--the never ending cash grab.

 

But there was a time when owners felt pride in making sure that they had the best team on the field. Yes, they wanted to make money and yes they were mostly all assholes (and racist to boot) but they thought that the way to make money was to have a good team because that brought in the fans. And the fans would buy hot dogs and beer and pennants and ice cream.

 

The Pirates were once one of those teams. From the 1950s through the mid 90s--aside from some down years in the 80s--the Pirates were usually pretty decent. They had the great Roberto Clemente, Willie Stargell, Doc Ellis, Dave Parker, Bill Madlock, John Canderlaria, Bobby Bonilla, Barry Bonds, Andy Van Slyke, Doug Drabek. Some of these guys were Hall of Famers, others should be in Cooperstown, others were consistent All-Stars and award winners.

 

They won World Series, they went to Championship games, took the National League East flags and were in legit pennant races just about every year.

 

Then it was over. Even when they were kicking ass on a regular basis, I don't think that the Pirates ever owned Pittsburgh--those Yinzers love their Steelers--but they were a popular group. I don't live in Heinz City but these days, it seems as if they're number three behind the Steelers and the Penguins. The blame isn't to put at the feet of a fickle fan base, it's due to decades of franchise malfeasance.

 

The Pirates are lucky that they have one of the most beautiful parks in the league, because without PNC they'd be in Portland or Nashville or some other city begging for Major League action (which could be the title of a book about my teenage years). The Pirates scrimp and save and cut corners and let every star leave western Pennsylvania for the same reason, "we just don't have the money" and that's just bullshit. They do have the money, the just don't want to spend it. And that's a shame.

 

The Pirates played in the first World Series (they lost to the Red Sox -- in your face, Pittsburgh!) and they should be one of the Cadillac franchise. The have the pedigree, they have the park, they have the fans; there's no reason why the Pirates can't be like the Cardinals or the Giants.

 

After my dalliance with the Giants in the late 80s, I turned my gaze to Pittsburgh. I loved what they were doing there, their outfield of Bonds, Van Slyke and Bonilla was the best in baseball. Their infield wasn't as good, but with Jeff King, Jay Bell, Chico Lind and their first baseman du jour, it was a solid force. UMass Lowell's most famous alumn Mike "Spanky" LaValliere was no star, but a stable presence behind the plate. And their pitching staff, led by Drabek, was good too. Jim Leyland smoked in the dugout and managed this rag tag bunch but they just never could get past the Braves.

 

Not only were the players cool as hell, but lead rapper(?) singer(?) Chuck D of Public Enemy wore a Pirates hat pretty much all the time (not to mention a Pirates Starter jacket once in awhile) and I thought that was dope as hell. They had history (important to a dork like me!) and street cache (inexplicably important to a dork like me!), the Pirates were riding high.

 

However, the sun set on this budding-dynasty-that-never-was as players started leaving the city. The Pittsburgh ball club never recovered and went through some truly dark times for years and years, the emerged as wild card contenders in the mid teens but have since fallen back to sucky. Though former Boston GM Ben Cherington is leading the Buccos and he says that he has a plan, which, sure Jan. We all have a plan.

 

I actually just bought a Pirates hat about a month ago and I got some positive comments on it. Maybe this is apocryphal (most definitely) but the Pirate fan base is around, they just need to get a few wins under their belts to bring it back.

 

Screw the plan Ben, get some money and bring some talent to Pittsburgh. How much money does this ownership need (all of it, that's the real answer)? Spend it. Build that system with can't miss prospects. Sign a free agent or two that isn't five years past his prime. Give the people what they want. God damn.

Oh yeah, and another thing, don't use red as accent color anymore. It looks stupid. Keep it yellow and black. And bring back this happy Buc on the wanted poster. This dude rules.