Cursed To First - Sox and Pats forever.

I'm a fool for April

I won't bore anyone with the details, but I'm having a bit of a hard time lately. It's nothing like what H.B. has been going through (and for that I count my blessings), but generally, it's been a bummer.

But today it was 65 and balmy, and I went out front tonight in the soft night breeze and watched the world go by, comfortable in my Red Sox jacket and sweatpants, and at least for a minute, I felt ok.

I wasn't going to watch the game, but I remembered what my friend at work had said as I came back in, about baseball lifting the weight of the world off my shoulders in the spring. I sat down and turned the game on.

Daisuke is struggling again as the game opens. Not as badly as he did at the Tokyo Dome, but his location seems off. Still, there he is in bright colors on the screen, pirouetting through his delivery, and even though he's a little wobbly to start things off, in my low mood, he looks beautiful.

Every time Joe Blanton delivers a pitch, I think for a second he's caught his spike. What a weird delivery. The Sox go down in order. Again.

I click the TiVo button at a commerical and flip through the pregame show. Josh Beckett threw 64 pitches today in a spring training simulation and could be slated to start as soon as the Toronto series. Dennis Eckersley, in a pinstriped suit and dashing pink tie, gets glittery-eyed and excited about Manny.

I pause while fast-forwarding through the pregame show at the "Tickets Still on Sale!" false-advertising commercial where they show the four home runs in a row from last year.

"That one's headed for New Hampshire!"

"Number four in a row!"

"They're playing Home Run Derby early this year, at Fenway Park!"

Next pregame segment. A soggy-looking Opening Day at Wrigley Field. Sake Fukudome (!) clubs a three run homer off none other than a wooly-bearded Eric Gagne, looking sullen in a Brewers uniform. Wrigley rejoices. I pause for a moment to be happy for my friend Brian. And for myself, because Eric Gagne deserved it.

Flip back live. In Oakland, they're booing the umpires. Boo, evil Red Sox. Getting guys out at second base.

Back on the pregame. Pedro Martinez gives up a two run homer. Pedro Martinez gives up a solo homer. Pedro Martinez grabs his hamstring. Theo Epstein looks like a genius.

Flip back live. Daric Barton flubs a routine popup, but Lowell is victimized by a "wide strike zone," as Don Orsillo puts it. They're roaringly happy about this in the Oakland stands. Mike Lowell turns to argue as the inning ends.

In this new season the echoes of last year are still heavily present. Just seeing Daisuke's windup carries the same nostalgia as the first breath of spring out on my front porch. Memories of May.

Some of those echoes are bittersweet just now. But even in the slow early innings of a West Coast start, baseball is fundamentally, reassuringly, the same.

Happy Opening Day, everybody.

Did he do it?

The baseball card is laying on top of a printed-out draft of my
World Series essay in this pic, just as proof I really am working on it.

Since his appearance on 60 Minutes last night, the sports world has been abuzz with opinions about whether or not Roger Clemens did, in fact, do steroids, as he is accused in the Mitchell Report. Last night's interview with Mike Wallace did little to help his case, from the reactions I've read.

I watched all but the first minute or so of the segment (flipped over too long during a commercial), and I will say that what struck me about it was how much Roger's body language and gestures opposed what he was actually saying, which some people believe is a signal someone's lying. For example, often when Roger said no--even emphatically--he would nod his head. Even stranger, he'd also do the reverse sometimes, answer in the affirmative and shake his head 'no'.

I'd probably behave pretty strangely if you sat me down for an interview across from Mike Wallace (man's a beast, an icon of investigative journalism, he's interviewed terrorist leaders blindfolded, and he's certainly going to get what he wants from you, sonny). But Wallace, a Yankees fan, is actually a friend of Clemens' and conducted a relatively benign interview. Especially the part where he asked Clemens, "Swear?" And Clemens responded "Swear." As Joy of Sox put it, "Jeez, let's hope that's not Wallace's toughest follow-up question."

JoS also noted that Clemens story on injections has changed, from denying that he was ever injected with anything after the release of the Mitchell Report to admitting that he was injected with Lidocaine and B-12 by trainers in the Wallace interview.

Jumpy body-language...conflicting stories...in the Steroid Era, it's all you need. And the circumstantial evidence against Roger is huge, probably enough to convict him in the Court of Public Opinion, but no more than that, for all the Congressional subpoenas and defamation suits flying around.

Roger has come out denying it up and down because he knows it's his word against his trainer's, and he thinks it'll at least be a draw, even in the worst case. He also seems like a man genuinely eager to salvage his own legacy, regardless of his guilt, and that type of emotion can also make you act, well, a little jumpy.

From what I know of the hotheaded Texan, I can't imagine him acting all that differently--angry, aggressive, not entirely articulate--if he was simply responding to being falsely accused. That's the problem, and I think Clemens hit the nail right on the head when he said, "I don't know if I can defend myself. People have already made up their minds." That's absolutely true, regardless of whether or not he's actually guilty.

Again, the circumstantial evidence against Clemens is compelling, especially when you factor in both Andy Pettitte's admission of guilt and Clemens' claim he had no idea about Pettitte's situation. Please. The two of them are practically married. Clemens' insistence that he knew nothing about his best friend's drug use left me more incredulous than the rest of his interview combined. He had to know how unbelievable that sounded. And what further damage is there to be done by admitting he knew of Pettitte's drug use? Admitting he knew of Pettitte might have actually helped his credibility.

But that's where they've got him. It would take the most skilled of politicians to navigate these choppy waters, and so athletes can be counted upon to make blunders, especially given they also frequently lack fine verbal skills and are in the business of fiery competition, not soothing public address. We'll never definitively know if Clemens did steroids unless his trainer produces hidden-camera videotape of it actually happening, but he's been given more than enough rope to hang himself as a public figure, regardless. Just like Bonds.

All of that makes me wonder what this is really about, though I've been a Bonds and Roger hater with the best of them. Is all this really about solving the problem of the use of damaging and unfair performance-enhancing drugs among young athletes, or is it about finding enough public scapegoats to appease Congress and the baseball audience?

The Mitchell Report

and minnesota, and baseball, wept, originally uploaded by Boston Wolverine.

The most significant document in the history of sports? Perhaps. Certainly the most significant sports-related document in recent memory, the result of an investigation by Congressman George Mitchell into steroid use in baseball. Among Mitchell's other claims to fame? Brokering the peace process in Ireland. Also, the President of the United States was called upon to comment on the document; I heard his statements rebroadcast last night.

I do have to wonder if perhaps our interests as a nation would be better served by having our politicians focused on, oh, the quagmire in Iraq or the current foreclosure crisis / financial downturn we're seeing at home. But you know. Baseball players are doing 'roids, so.

The two biggest names featured in the Mitchell Report are Andy Pettitte and Roger Clemens, who "even if he refutes it all" now finds himself in the same disgraced category as Barry Bonds, who also has never tested positive or been formally convicted of using performance-enhancing drugs, but it's an all but foregone conclusion among the public (myself included) that he did. The scenario presented for Roger is that his juicing began with his departure from Boston, ensuing comeback in Toronto, and whaddya know, later career with the Yankees. "I think we owe Dan Duquette an apology," remarked one WEEI commenter, according to my dad.

Pettitte hasn't been as divisive a figure as Clemens; nor has he enjoyed similar celebrity. However, he, too, has been a key cog in the Yankees' pitching staff, particularly during better years around the turn of the millenium. Add on top of that other past Yankees notables such as Chuck Knoblauch, and yesterday was not a very good day to be a New York fan. "At least Derek Jeter's not on the list," said a Yankees fan friend of mine.

This is our pattern as fans in digesting the steroid era. In future it will be difficult to understand the mental adjustment that has to occur for fans now; in future Clemens' name may become as synonymous with 'steroids' as Bonds, but right now there is still the matter of his legend to reframe, rationalize, and preserve in whatever form for posterity. The pattern I've seen emerging in that difficult process, particularly for people whose idols have been touched by this Angel of Death passing over baseball, is to find a single player, a single role model, to cling to in the midst of a world of mistrust and potential betrayal. A single player one is willing to place a bet on, of unlikelihood that he is a cheater, of probability that he is what he says he is. For my Yankees-fan friend, it's Jeter. For me, it's...well, this is where it gets tricky. I have my One Player, but I'm afraid to even mention his name in these conversations. That's how devastating it would be for me if my One Player's number gets called. But I think it's pretty easy to guess who it is--the guy's hard to miss. And I'm fairly certain I share this One Player with many, many of my fellow Red Sox fans.

In the meantime, while I support and encourage the revelation, and hopefully, correction, of the use of performance-enhancing drugs in Major League Baseball, there is always the dark whiff of witch-hunt to these things. Take, for example, the leaked list of ballplayers' names that preceded the release of the actual report by about an hour. The more conspiracy-minded side of me thnks it reads like a reporters' wish list of names that would be on the report if they'd have their druthers, names that would truly have made it the biggest story in baseball since the 1918 Chicago White Sox, names like Albert Pujols's. Names like Jason Varitek's.

Names, it turned out, that appeared nowhere but this bogus prior report.

Word spread quickly that the leaked list was misinformation, but unfortunately not quite as quickly as the list itself. Personally, I have to question the decision by several otherwise reputable news organizations to put out that list when they knew they'd be receiving the actual, confirmed report in about an hour. Maybe if for some reason Congress was dragging its feet with the official list, or if the leaked list had come out two weeks before the actual report was scheduled to appear, but to open up players like Pujols and Varitek to speculation solely to get an hour's jump on the story? Shame.

Once a player's name is mentioned in the same sentence as steroids, it doesn't go away, at least not for quite a while. Jason Varitek will probably be asked questions about it now. I support the attempt to put an end to steroids in general, but that thought also makes me furious. The slavering lust for pedestal-crushing going on in many corners of the press right now just isn't my cup of tea.

Bat Incident

Former Red Sox (!!) All-Star (!!!) Jose Offerman has, one can only hope, reached the rock bottom of his baseball career, having attacked a single-A pitcher and catcher with a baseball bat. The Connecticut Post has a slideshow of the incident here (link via the Boston.com blog). Another piss-poor thing that happened: it appears an opposing coach tackled the poor pitcher once the benches cleared.

Insane.

Almost as regrettably, two other former Red Sox starred in this video (link via Amy).

P.S. ALL HAIL THE BUCHHOLZ!

Thoughts on an off-day

From the very beginning of my time as a baseball fanatic, (c.2003) a recurring theme in the game for me has been ghosts. In 2003 it was Derek Jeter promising a young teammate that no matter how tough things seemed against the Red Sox in an air-tight ALCS, "the ghosts come out in October." The ghost of Babe Ruth was frequently invoked. In 2004 it was about the ghosts of everyone from the former Red Sox greats to passed-away relatives as the Promised Land was finally reached. Graveyards filled across New England with fans raising toasts alongside family graves.

Tonight, however, is one of the few times I have encountered that period, of the Championship year, and felt I was once again in the presence of ghosts. They're replaying a game against the Orioles from September 21, 2004. Curt Schilling on the mound for the Sox. But not the Curt Schilling we're dealing with now. We're talking Curt Schilling Curt Schilling. I'm shocked at how young he looks.

The Sox come up to bat and it's Johnny Damon at the plate leading off. We are far enough away from this era now that this startles me at first. That thought in turn unleashes a flood of nostalgia. Guess I know what I'm watching tonight.

Bellhorn comes up. I am charmed to hear a chant start: "Let's go, Bell-hoahn. Let's go, Bell-hoahn." You can hear the Boston accent in a shouted chant. I am fondly reminded of the graffiti I found in a bathroom in Kenmore Square the next year.

Bellhorn grounds into a double play. I am reminded suddenly of many, many additional things about Mark Bellhorn. Boos are heard faintly from the crowd. The Bellhorn Era was a crazy, schizophrenic time.

Manny makes a mighty hit to right. Papi walks. Manny's batting third. And he has what looks like practically no hair at all, but I remember how we all thought his hair was like, sooo crazy. Little did we know.

A little while later. Miguel Tejada, new to Baltimore, still pretty pissed at Derek Lowe, at bat for the Orioles.  And then, a voice comes out of the crowd.

"YOU KNOW IT'S COMIN', MIGUEL!" a male voice stands out above the rest of the crowd, probably just dumb luck its owner is seated near a NESN crowd mic. "YOU KNOOOWW IT'S COMIN'!"

Tejada, surprisingly, looks perturbed. I can't tell if he can hear the heckler and it's actually bothering him, or if he's upset about something else. But the heckler seems encouraged.

"IT'S GONNA BOUNCE IN THE DIRT! AND YOAH GONNA SWING AT IT!"

Schilling winds, kicks, delivers. Both the pitch and Tejada do precisely what the heckler has just predicted. Precisely as the pitch comes in, with the tone of an incantation, comes the cry, "THE SPLITTAHHH!!"

The crowd erupts. Above their roar, faint but rapturous, the voice can be heard, still triumphantly screaming. "HOW WUZZAT?! HUH!?! HOW! WUZZAT!!?"

At the time I first watched this game, I was probably annoyed with this guy and the fact that his annoying mosquito-voice was in my ear on the TV when I was trying watch my man work, goddamnit. But now, he gives me goosebumps.

***

I've been a sourpuss about this whole Barry Bonds thing, I'll admit. But I also have to admit that my issue of Sports Illustrated which just arrived is incredible, and I'll probably be saving it for posterity. Its "leading off" photos section features double-page scenic spreads of the ballpark where Barry Bonds was hitting his 755th home run, the ballpark where Alex Rodriguez was hitting his 500th, and the ballpark where Tommy Glavine was pitching in an attempt at his 300th win.

Let's talk about Tommy Glavine for a bit. I am conditioned to call him "Tommy Glavine" because I am from the Merrimack Valley, where he is also from. In fact, Tommy Glavine and I share a childhood dentist. Little-known fact.

Around here there are down-pat lines of dialogue so unchanging and ingrained--and yet so necessary, apparently, to repeat whenever Glavine is brought up that they have the feeling of a mantra: Tommy Glavine is from Bricka, ya know. "Bricka" being the Merrimack Valley pronunciation of Billerica (which my fiancee, who is from Southeastern Mass, once hilariously pronounced "Bill-AIR-ica".) That is, of course, unless it directly precedes a word that starts with a vowel, in which case it is pronounced "Bricker."

Also, Tommy Glavine's aunt and uncle still live one street over from my parents, and my dentist once assured me I probably saw his cousins and him in my neighborhood when I was a kid. If I did, I don't remember.

It is also necessary, you see, to repeat whatever personal connection to Tommy Glavine one has, the flimsiness of that connection notwithstanding.

My one personal memory of Tommy Glavine was the Chelmsford High School Thanksgiving Day football game against Billerica High one year, when he came to the game, and the announcer actually alerted everyone over the PA system that he was at the field. He was, as you can imagine, utterly mobbed. I don't remember him coming back after that.

Then, about Tommy Glavine, it is necessary to point out that he was probably a better hockey player than he was a baseball player back in high school, but he probably went for the money in baseball. (I am aware of the preposterousness of this assertion. The meaning of this comment is not to be intelligent about sports, but merely to cement one's I-knew-him-when credibility.)

And now, that talented kid with the icy blue eyes from my hometown's rival and neighbor to the south has probably just become baseball's last 300-game winner. How about that.

Ask some kids in my high school when I was growing up about Billerica, and the reflexive response would be, about any subject within that category, "It sucks." But Tommy Glavine's light years bigger than that. He's big enough that just having grown up within 20 square miles of him is enough to afford us an extra measure of pride.

WORKING CLASS HERO

Billerica native earned stardom the hard way: dedication

By David Pevear

BILLERICA-- He is not a Lefty, a Rocket, or a Big Train. No flashy nickname has needlessly attached itself to baseball's newest 300-game winner. Billerica's Tom Glavine is still what fits him best. "He has reached the pinnacle," Billerica High baseball coach Jon Sidorovich says. "But he's never placed himself above Billerica. His parents are still here. His roots are still here."

The Lowell Sun did a huge full-color spread about Glavine for his 300th win this week. You will note that in the first 75 words of this article, including headline and sub-headline, "Billerica" occurs 5 times.

And so it is necessary to return once again to the opening line of the chant, d'al signo to close out this particular bit of locally-fixated liturgy: Tommy Glavine is from Bricka, ya know.

As much of a religion as baseball is around here, this region produces relatively few actual professional baseball players, let alone players of note, and forget about players of legend. When we get to experience what local yokels in places like Texas and Southern California get to experience all the time--the hometown kid everyone remembers when he was knee-high to a grasshopper made good--we are going to cling to that experience for all it's worth.

So add this to my ever-expanding list of reasons to resent Barry Bonds: this lavish spread from the Sun is one of only a few I've seen from any reasonably sized news outlet. Glavine's record has, through the dumb, blind luck of timing, become something of a footnote to Barry Bonds. Or, at least, the second story on sportscasts, and not the lead.

Beyond the obvious reasons this sucks, it's also probably worth noting that while some people think Barry Bonds' record might be broken again within a decade, some people also think this is the last time anyone's going to break the record Glavine has just broken. And yet, check all the sites and all the talking heads shows. First order of business: Barry Bonds. Ptooey.

On the bench outside the Mangia Mangia Italian Kitchen on Boston Road, Howard Finestone, 43, soothed 12-year-old son Alex's disappointment about not making a soccer team he had hoped to make.

"Work harder and earn what you get," father told son as they waited for their pizza to be ready. "Things aren't handed to you. Tommy Glavine obviously had to work hard. And he's made it last."

***

So I'm watching this broadcast, from before the World Series, and you know? Let's just come right out and admit there's a different character to the lot of us now. Back then, when Curt was coming barking off the mound after his 14th strikeout, the voice, shall we say, of Fenway had a different accent. A broader, more definite local inflection. The voice of things before the deepest of the feeding frenzies on the national stage, before some things twisted, some things soured, and all of a sudden, the "Let's Go Red Sox" chants started getting louder and louder at away stadiums.

"Every time he's on TV, they say 'Tom Glavine from Billerica,' and the story (of what makes Glavine such a source of pride) falls into place," says Paul Barber, who was one of Glavine's youth hockey coaches. "I see Fred stop by the Dunkin' Donuts before getting ready to hit the road to watch Tommy pitch. Great people, his family."

Scott Crandall, who was a high school teammate of Glavine's and remains one of the pitcher's closest friends, still can see himself picking up Tommy for Billerica High practices and games in a 1983 Trans-Am.

It seems like yesterday.

"It's so weird," Crandall says. "But how could anyone have predicted what he's done? It's amazing. But like my father says: 'Tommy comes from good stock.'"

I'm not saying those new fans "from away", to quote another New England saying, aren't welcome. But it's times like this I'm reminded of where my own personal love for baseball comes from in the first place: my love of my home, my home state, my home town. The two things, my love for the Red Sox and my love for the place I come from, are inextricable from one another. Tommy Glavine's probably the only single player in which both things come together in equal measure. So I'm naturally inclined to be more focused on him than Bonds, and more naturally inclined to be annoyed when the national eye and the talk around water coolers is focused on San Francisco, especially given my manifold conviction that Bonds is at the opposite end of the "deserving" spectrum. It would be ridiculous to expect a total reversal of these fortunes, but I guess I had naively hoped for at least equal time in the national spotlight.

Let me just reiterate: some say no one will ever do what Tommy Glavine did again. Ever. And where I come from, we will almost certainly never see his like again: that chosen one who, over miles and years, has come to belong to all of us.

Uncle

Had a somewhat shitty day today as it is; Angels just took three-run lead over Sox; falling asleep again anyway; Barry Bonds just broke home run record, eerily just after the clock struck midnight Eastern time. My one wish had been that I would not be around to see the break-in to whatever other game was going on announcing the record had been broken, which ultimately, officially was not granted.

In short, I am going to bed.

Man, I take ONE night off from baseball...

And I miss EVERYTHING.

Barry Bonds ties Aaron (with Eric Frede reading Clay Hensley's name on today's pregame show as if announcing a lottery winner, which, in an albeit unpleasant way, I guess he was). A-Rod hits 500. And, most importantly, the Red Sox losing streak at Safeco is snapped! Worse, not only did I miss the drama and majesty of a lights-out Daisuke start, but also I blew getting to see a fist-pumping tandem of new crush Eric Gagne and crush everlasting Jonathan Papelbon.

If I hadn't been having the best day of my year so far (if not the best day in recent memory) road-tripping out to Tanglewood with my fiancee to hear Yo Yo Ma and Dvorak's New World Symphony at sunset in the Berkshires, I'd be downright depressed to have missed all that.

Except it was worth it. Seriously, yesterday was that good.

So now, the only fly in my ointment? Yesterday starts the clock on a dark new period in my life: Having to Root for A-Rod. 

Come give your new binky a kiss! (Ree...ree...ree...ree)

And yet, in my personal opinion, yes, Barry Bonds manages to be that evil.

______________________________________
*Copyright police take note: I have no idea where this picture came from. Take it up with this kid.

Random Semi-Coherent Notes on the All-Star Game

(In other words, it's a liveblog)

Pre-Game

Yes, Derek Jeter was involved, but that All-Star opener where he and Ken Griffey Jr. visibly GEEKED OUT over meeting Willie Mays? Wonderful. Although I could have done without the clearly scripted question, "When Barry Bonds breaks the home run record, how are you going to celebrate?"

Hey. If you thought you had a bad day, it could only have been brightened by the Taco Bell guy. Not only did he piss away a million dollars, but he also embarrassed himself in front of millions in the process. I don't care what happened to you today, you at least weren't that guy.

ZOMG THE ALL STARS AS SIMPSONS CHARACTERS. I expect some enterprising baseball fan to have screencaps of each available on the Internet within hours. Such is my faith in the power of the Inter-dweebs. And God bless Matt Groening for the sulking (and hilarious) portrayal of Bonds.

Introductions

Beckett and Papelbon both clearly practiced their All-Star waves in front of a mirror. Also they showed them off to each other before the game, and each of them told the other exactly why his wave-style sucked.

What in the living fuck was Manny doing? Who was he talking to?! Why did he duck behind Joshie as Mike Lowell was being introduced? What could possibly have been going on there?

Dudes. Booing people at the All-Star Game, even if they are division rivals? Not cool.

Roy Oswalt is a teeny tiny little man.

Separated at birth: Cole Hamels and Elias from Clerks II.

Standing Papi between A-Rod and Jeter? Euggh. Gives me the willies. A-Rod appeared to be trying to say something in Spanish to Ivan Rodriguez, and Ivan Rodriguez was seen staring at him blankly.

Enough with Mellencamp on the commercials already, FOX. Enough.

Willie Mays hit for the cycle in the All-Star Game in 1960. Holy God. Do they just not make baseball players like they used to, or what? And this man is expected to celebrate Barry Bonds?

In comparison with Tim McCarver, Joe Buck seems like a genius, but listening to him struggle to put together a complete sentence during his ad-lib on Willie Mays reminded me that in comparison with McCarver is really the only time he's tolerable. 

Eric Byrnes. In a kayak. With a bulldog. I have nothing to say to that.

The Home Run Derby: helping to heal Boston baseball xenophobia, one towering blast at a time.

There are very few baseball players who do not play for, and have never played for, the Red Sox that I would claim to be a fan of. It's not like I dislike anybody not affiliated with the Red Sox--most of the time, I just don't know them. Brian makes fun of me for this East Coast myopia all the time, and he's probably got a point.

However, I can honestly say at this juncture that I am a fan of Vladimir Guerrero. I am just in awe of him at the plate. This was true before tonight's Home Run Derby, but this was one of the few times I could watch him hit home runs without having them mean a run against the Red Sox.

Not only did he tie the round-one high of the Home Run Derby (tho it was only 5) but in each round the homers he hit were towering, lingering beauties, most of them to the back rows of the left-field bleachers. That 503-foot rocket he hit into the glove out in left-center field made me gasp right off the bat--just the ferocity of his swing was something extraordinary, before I even saw where it ended up.

It's pretty clear I'm not alone in my nonpartisan admiration--the whole crowd stood up for him at the end, right before he won the whole thing with his third home run in the final round, even though most of them probably aren't fans of his team.

Early in the exhibition, Vladi was the recipient of a special Papi blessing (and with the Papi stamp of approval, how can you argue the guy's not awesome?). After Guerrero had hit some majestic and terrifying base hits, but no home runs, on his first few swings, Papi came out bearing a beautiful polished-wood box which he opened up by way of a series of delicate little hinges and interlocking panels, to unveil an equally beautiful dun-colored bat, which he removed from its luxurious home and kissed before handing it to Vladi.

Vladimir launched his rainbows with that bat, while Papi grinned and cheered with genuine happiness from the sidelines.

I was reminded, watching this, of what I wrote last year about the Derby:

That sound off Ortiz's bat--that ringing, meaty THWACK--and the way the ball goes tailing off into orbit while he stands and watches, a great dark figure under the stadium lights...there's something so sublime about David Ortiz, his happiness, his booming power, his unfailing interior light. People talk (at least half-jokingly) about Albert Pujols being divine, but I think that if God chose to incarnate himself as ballplayer, it's a pretty safe bet he'd be this one.

He didn't swing a bat this year, but that's still how I feel. (Though I also made sure to suggest out loud to the screen that Papi should get that bat back from Vladi when he was done with it.)

Before Vladi was retired in the first round, a random very happy person ran up and hugged him and then wiped his face lovingly with a Dominican flag. I loved it. And Vladi just sort of smiled like, "Um, dude, we're on--uh, ok." Which made me love him a little more, too.

P.S. Matt Holliday can stay also.

P.P.S. A-Rod sighting: nodding solemnly as Barry Bonds pontificated to him, wearing a crisp suit even though absolutely everyone else was wearing jerseys. A-Rod's practically the only person on Earth who can stand next to Barry Bonds and still seem like the bigger jerk.

P.P.P.S. Peter Gammons reported that Josh Beckett and Jake Peavy Brad Penny* were lobbying for a pitchers' home run competition next year. Which, I mean, first all, who let those two hang out together? Were they supervised?

*Thanks to alert reader mouse for the name correction. Now that I have seen Brad Penny's introduction at the All-Star Game it was definitely him Joshie was hanging out with, and my questions still apply. Jake Peavy looks more like he was probably hanging out with Cole Hamels.

Lonesome Dove

In the seventh inning of a game tonight between the St. Louis Cardinals and the Milwaukee Brewers, Dennis Dove, RHP from the AAA Springfield Cardinals, made his big-league debut.

He sweated his way through three routine outs, having relieved Kip Wells as a mop-up man in a 7-1 rout at the hands of Milwaukee. He got Craig Counsell to ground out to second before JJ Hardy reached on an infield single back to the mound.

Prince Fielder was then rung up on a questionable pitch that the charitable among us (which apparently include the umpire) would say was on the outside corner. Thus gifted with a crucial second out, Dove induced a weak grounder to short, which was relayed lazily to second, where the fielder's choice out was made to end the inning, and Dove's appearance.

Wholly unremarkable, except for two things: in the bullpen and in the dugout, the gray jerseys, HANCOCK 32, mounted by Dove's teammates on wire hangers.

Dennis Dove was making his Major League debut tonight not just overshadowed by the death of Josh Hancock--the twenty-five-year-old righthander also has the unenviable distinction of being Hancock's replacement on the Cardinals roster.

I had to wonder, watching: what goes through a kid's mind when such a thing happens? Who does he call up on the phone, in private, so he can smile and laugh and yell? Or does he? How do you react when that's how you get the news?

And what do you say to the other guys, in the clubhouse, and especially in the bullpen, when you get there? How do you spend time with them, when you're not just a rookie--you're a rookie who's instantly the embodiment of something terrible in your new teammates' minds?

The Cardinals wound up losing by the same score under which Dove had taken the ball, 7-1; the rest of the innings for the devastated Cardinals bullpen were just as uneventful. Jeff Suppan, himself a former Hancock teammate, on the mound for the Brewers this year, wound up pitching a complete-game, one-run effort. The half-full house in Milwaukee stood as the last out for Suppan fell into into the third baseman's glove.

The game goes on.