One Man’s All-Star Team: National League

I don’t watch as much NL baseball as I do AL, so my picks here are more reliant on stats and highlights than they are in the AL. In retrospect, I think I’m also guilty of a distinct anti-Arizona bias. I wonder how the hell that happened…

C: Paul Lo Duca (LA), Mike Piazza (NYM). Lo Duca’s been screwed out of All-Star appearances each of the past two years. His out-of-nowhere season last year may have snuck up on NL manager Bobby Valentine, but Bob Brenly has no such excuse, especially seeing as how his Diamondbacks are looking up at the first-place Dodgers. That the Dodgers could turn over their entire rotation, more or less, and yet improve so much says something for their unheralded catcher. Lo Duca’s not quite the hitter Mike Piazza is, but he runs circles around him defensively. Lousy arm and all, Piazza’s a Star, and still worthy of inclusion here.

1B: Todd Helton (COL), Ryan Klesko (SD). Even with the Coors-induced inflation of his offensive totals, Helton is the best-hitting NL first-sacker, with an Equivalent Average 17 points higher than Klesko (EqA is context-adjusted, so it lets the appropriate amount of air out of those high-altitude totals). Klesko has matured into a complete offensive threat, even stealing 46bases over the past 2 years (though he’s only got 1 thus far this year). Richie Sexson’s having a good enough season to warrant consideration, but I’m going to save my token Brewers representative for another position.

2B: Jose Vidro (MON), Jeff Kent (SF), Luis Castillo (FLA). Viva les Expos! Vidro earned his starting spot fair and square for the surprising ‘Spos. Jeff Kent seems more interested in popping wheelies, Barry Bonds, and his mouth off, in that order, but he’s head and shoulders over most other NL second basemen. I’d still like to see Dusty Baker cuff him one upside that inflated head, followed by Brian Sabean trading him to a contender like, say, Pittsburgh. Castillo, who provides living proof of Yogi Berra’s adage that you can’t hit and think at the same time, edges out Junior Spivey for the final spot because of the hitting streak, and because I still bear a small grudge against a namesake of Junior’s for dumping me several years ago (hey, my heartache, my All-Star team). Roberto Alomar and Craig Biggio each receive The Futility Infielder All-Star Dice Baseball 1982 Home Game.

SS: Jose Hernandez (MIL), Jimmy Rollins (PHI) Neither of these NL shortstops would make the AL team, but on the theory that I have to put somebody there, I’ll go with the guy from the home team as my starter.

3B: Mike Lowell (FLA), Scott Rolen (PHI), Albert Pujols (STL). Another position where the AL has most of the top-shelf talent. Lowell gets the nod here because of a great first half. Rolen, despite all of the drama surrounding him, is having an OK but not great season; that said, he’s still a better player than Tyler Houston. Pujols spent a good portion of both of the last two seasons playing third, not particularly well. Choosing him as a third baseman helps alleviate a thin crop here and an overcrowded outfield. Where has that sweet swing gone, Edgardo Alfonzo?

LF: Barry Bonds (SF), CF: Jim Edmonds (STL), RF: Shawn Green (LA), Sammy Sosa (CHC), Brian Giles (PIT), Adam Dunn (CIN), Andruw Jones (ATL), Lance Berkman (HOU), Vladimir Guerrero (MON). Nine outfielders is a bit overboard, but this is where the talent is in the National League. Barry’s a no-brainer, Edmonds gets the jump on Berkman and Jones in CF because he’s got the best offense-defense combo of the three. Green has been electrifying for the Dodgers, who are winning while Sosa’s Cubs aren’t. The roster-representation issues aren’t as severe here as in the AL, because it’s tough to make a case against ANY of these guys. Luis Gonzalez, Larry Walker, Bobby Abreu, and Pat Burrell will have to take their beef to the Complaint Window

P: Tom Glavine (ATL), Randy Johnson (ARI), Curt Schilling (ARI), Odalis Perez (LA), Kip Wells (PIT), Matt Morris (STL), Roy Oswalt (HOU), Eric Gagne (LA), Robb Nen (SF). Glavine gets the ball over the two Arizona starters because his ERA’s a half run lower than the Big Unit, and more than a run better than Schilling. Odalis Perez has made Dodgers GM Dan Evans look pretty smart for trading Garry Sheffield. Kip Wells has made Pittsburgh GM Dave Littlefield look pretty smart as well. Eric Gagne is one of the reasons the Dodgers are in first place, and Robb Nen is the runner-up to the Big Unit in Current Pitchers I’d Least Like to Face. Pedro Astacio, Hideo Nomo and A.J. Burnett are among the cosolation prize winners here. Pittsburgh closer Mike Williams and Snakes’ closer Byung-Hyun Kim (a.k.a. Byung-Hung Curve), who has rebounded nicely for Arizona after his World Series debacle, are deserving, but miss the cut here.

So, the surprising Dodgers, with the second-best record in the league, are the best represented on my All-Star team, with four players. That’s probably not the way Bob Brenly would have it, but I think I’ve already filed my position paper on Brenly’s “thinking”.

There Goes The Greatest Hitter Who Ever Lived

Ted Williams passed away today, at age 83. Our sabermetric methods show that he probably wasn’t quite as good a hitter as Babe Ruth, but he did lose about five years of his prime (24-26, 33-34) to military service, so I think the distinction is debatable. That missed time took away certain membership in the 3,000 hit and 600 home run clubs, not to mention several opportunities at batting titles, MVP awards and pennants.

Williams once said, “All I want out of life is that when I walk down the street, folks will say, ‘There goes the greatest hitter who ever lived.'” For the last man to hit .400 in the major leagues, the man who homered in the final at-bat of his career in 1960, that’s a fitting epitaph. Rest in peace.

Eating Raul’s Contract

Depending on how you look at it, the Raul Mondesi trade between the Yankees and the Toronto Blue Jays was either a lose-lose proposition for both teams or a win-win one.

On the one hand, Toronto gave up a player who they accquired for superstar Shawn Green just two and a half years ago, and in exchange got a 26 year-old AA lefty reliever of no special pedigree. The Jays also get to pay $6 million for the privelege of NOT having the malcontent Mondesi wallowing in their outfield next season. By that same token, the Yankees acquire a perpetual underachiever whose performance this season isn’t even as good as the platoon he’s presumably replacing [Mondesi: .224 AVG / .301 OBP / .435 SLG; Yankee RFs (mainly Shane Spencer and John Vander Wal): .276 AVG / .341 OBP / .423 SLG]. Even without him, the Yanks almost certainly make the playoffs, and there’s little point in threatening the clubhouse harmony by taking on somebody else’s problem.

On the other hand, the Blue Jays get out from underneath a cumbersome contract and shed a sulking player at a time when they’re trying to remake their team from the ground up. The Yanks get a bargain on a player with more tools than Black and Decker, including a howitzer for an arm and 30 HR-30 SB potential. But their needs from Mondesi aren’t much different than what they hoped Robin Ventura would provide at the beginning of the year: stay healthy, play good defense, provide some occasional pop, and keep out of trouble. Mondesi shouldn’t have any trouble living up to those low expectations, and probably will come closer to his career rates (.282/.335/.499).

Mondesi’s acquisition may mean less playing time for another underperformer in the Yankee outfield, Rondell White (.253/.314/.393), as Spencer may steal some time from him against lefties. More likely it means less exposure and more protection for Spencer and Vander Wal, both of whom are solid bench players; Shane has become arguably the Yanks best defensive outfielder, while Vander Wal is one of the game’s premier pinch-hitters. All this deal costs the Yanks is money; they didn’t surrender any of their top prospects or young Yankees (Nick Johnson, Ted Lilly, Juan Rivera) in a trade, and while they do owe $7 million on Mondesi’s contract next year, they’re not taking on another expensive long-term commitment.

There’ s no right answer as to who comes out on top here. Both organizations filled some of their needs but probably overreacted slightly in doing so. Already on pace to break their franchise home run record, the Yanks don’t really need another 30-HR caliber player and would be better served by a patchwork of platooning and giving youngsters a shot. The Jays look intent on squandering an incredibly talented (though perpetually underachieving) outfield in Shannon Stewart, Jose Cruz Jr. and Mondesi and are determined to play for next year at this juncture.

The best news out of all of this is that Yankee fans will now get to hear PA announcer Bob Sheppard intone one of the most mellifluous names in all of sports: “Ladies and gentlemen, now batting for the Yankees, number 45, Rauuuuuuuul Monnnnnnnndesi.” Between here and late October, I’ll take that.

One Man’s All-Star Team: American League

I’m headed to Milwaukee on Wednesday, for a week-long vacation that will include not just the All-Star Game but the whole shebang–the Futures game, the Legends/Celebrity Softball Game, the Home Run Derby, batting practice, and something called the Fan Fest. In honor of my trip, I’ve petitioned the Food and Drug Administration to include bratwurst in the Food Pyramid as both a fruit and a vegetable, and to create a separate category for Ballpark Snacks.

While I have mixed emotions about partying in Bud Selig’s back yard (and his parking lot) while Mr. Bad Rug does his worst to ensure a strike, I’m excited to add another Big Event to my Been There/Done That list. I’m taking this trip as an opportunity to provide my own brand of daily coverage from Milwaukee, sleep and computer gods willing. Maybe I can even write this sucker off…

Today I’ll present my picks for the American League All-Star team, with the National League selections to follow later this week. I played by the rules of representing each team, which made for some interesting choices and some admittedly glaring omissions. Seven of my starters, eight reserves, and seven pitchers match Joe Torre’s selections, and I’ve got one twist to offer. So without further delay…

C: Jorge Posada (NYY), A.J. Pierzynski (MIN). Last year, Posada ovetook Pudge Rodriguez as the best all-around catcher in the AL. Though his defense doesn’t hold a candle to Pudge’s, it’s not exactly Piazza-esque, and his offense, even in a relatively down year, is better than solid; Jorgie gets on base, and he hits the ball a long, long way. Pierzynksi has generated a surprising amount of offense and deserves a good chunk of the credit for the Twins finding themselves in first place in spite of several key injuries.

1B: Jason Giambi (NYY), Mike Sweeney (KC), John Olerud (SEA). First base in the AL is packed with studs, so somebody’s going to be left crying over spilled Yoo-Hoo. The top-to-bottom difference between Giambi, Sweeney, Olerud, and Jim Thome right now is seven Equivalent Runs. Give Olerud a nod for his defense, Giambi a nod for living up to the New York pressure, and Sweeney a nod for toiling in oblivion and for filling the obligatory Royals’ spot on the roster. Sincere apologies to “Three -Gorilla Strong” Jim Thome and to Paul Konerko.

2B: Alfonso Soriano (NYY), Adam Kennedy (ANA). Soriano has emerged not just as a bona fide star, but as an MVP candidate. For all of his well-publicized lack of walks and 7:1 K/W ratio, the kid has a legitimate shot at a 40 HR-40 SB season, not to mention 200 hits (111 at the halfway mark), 400 total bases (202 so far), 100 RBI (he’s at 48) and 120 runs scored. After a shaky start, his defense has been solid. If you can find a more exciting all-around player in the AL, put him on your own damn All-Star team. The reserves are a weak field, with last year’s golden boy, Brett Boone, returning to earth in an unsurprising fashion. I’ll give the nod to Kennedy, who’s having a very solid season for the surprising Angels.

SS: Alex Rodriguez (TEX), Derek Jeter (NYY), Nomar Garciaparra (BOS), Omar Vizquel (CLE). There’s an embarassment of riches here, but A-Rod has long since separated himself from his peers in terms of his offensive production. Jeter hasn’t quite been himself yet, but he’s still on pace for 200 hits and 20 homers, and he’s 19/20 in stolen bases. Plus his defense is noticeably improved now that he can move to the left again. Garciaparra’s finally healthy–enough said. Miguel Tejada’s been good, but Joe Morgan’s on crack if he thinks Tejada has surpassed all but A-Rod among the AL shortstops. I’ll take Vizquel instead, in part because we need to represent Cleveland.

3B: Eric Chavez (OAK), Robin Ventura (NYY), Eric Hinske (TOR), Shea Hillenbrand (BOS). More riches. Robin Ventura’s stabilized the left side of the Yankee infield defensively and put up some monster numbers. Eric Chavez has been strong in Oakland after a red-hot start. Eric Hinske and Shea Hillenbrand have had breakout years. Tony Batista has re-emerged as a good hitter. Troy Glaus and Corey Koskie also have a case. No one’s head-and-shoulders above anybody else here, but I’ll give the nod to Oakland’s Chavez because he’s on my fantasy team and I see more of him on a day-to-day basis (sort of) than anybody but Ventura.

LF: Manny Ramirez (BOS), CF: Torii Hunter (MIN), RF: Ichiro Suzuki (SEA) Maglio Ordonez (CHW), Randy Winn (TB), Melvin Mora (BAL), Robert Fick (DET). When he’s healthy, Ramirez is awesome; his .371 EqA is tops in the AL by 22 points over Jason Giambi. Hunter has starred for the Twins this season with the bat and the glove, and Ichiro has raised his OBP by 50 points, having surpassed last year’s walk total by June 11. I’m unabashedly covering my roster requirements with reserves Winn, Mora, and Fick, all of whom have their merits, but none of who are honestly as worthy as Bernie Williams, Johnny Damon, Mike Cameron, or even Garrett Anderson. Those men win three-day vacations for their troubles.

P: Derek Lowe (BOS), Roy Halladay (TOR), Pedro Martinez (BOS), Freddie Garcia (SEA), Barry Zito (OAK), Eddie Guardado (MIN), Kazuhiro Sasaki (SEA), Steve Karsay (NYY), Bartolo Colon (CLE). Count Colon as a selection with an asterisk, the 31st man; in my All-Star game he gets to pitch an inning for each side without costing either team a roster spot. If you’ve got a more cockamamie idea, I’ll help you start your own damn web site. Lowe gets the ball for a spectacular first half that included a no-hitter, and also because I’m willing to test the theory that his arm will be crying for mommy in August as the innings pile up. We’ll give him a couple more here. Pedro’s leading the league in K’s, is 10-2 and third in ERA (behind Lowe and Colon), and while he isn’t exactly the one in the catalog right now, he’s still better than most of the rest of the league. Halladay’s come back from his 10.64 ERA in 2000 and been the one of the brightest spots for the Jays this season. There are a truckload of pitchers around the next rung for consideration; I chose Garcia and Zito over Mark Buehrle, David Wells (even more burly), Jeff Weaver, Jamie Moyer, Ramon Ortiz, Roger Clemens, Mike Mussina… you get the idea. Among closers, Mariano Rivera, Eddie Guardado, Kazuhiro Sasaki, Troy Percival, and Ugueth Urbina all merit consideration. Rivera’s recent stint on the DL is enough to keep him at home, but it also offers me a good excuse to reward set-up man Steve Karsay, who’s been just as important to the Yanks. From the closers, I’ll take Everyday Eddie because he’s got more games and innings than the rest of that bunch (living up to the name) and Sasaki because he’s allowed only three earned runs.

So that’s it. Six Yankees, five Red Sox, four Mariners, three Twins, two A’s, two Jays, and one from everywhere else, plus Colon. The Angels certainly deserve better than one representative, but the Yanks, Red Sox, and M’s had players on the bubble who didn’t make it and had a better case. You can’t please all the people all of the time, and I doubt too many Angels fans are reading this…

Postscript: Pedro Martinez opted out of the All-Star Game, saying he preferred to rest his fragile body. In other sports, players such as Karl Malone (who bangs bodies 82 times a year without missing a game, rather than taking the hill once every five days) have been nearly crucified for similar comments and forced to appear at the game under duress. I’ll let it slide without the deservedly catty comment, boot his ass off the team, and replace him with Troy Percival (getting the nod over Mark Buehrle) due to pressure from the surprisingly vocal Angels’ lobby (see comment).

Dogs, Chickens, and Other Appetizing Tangents

I came across a couple of interesting items while chasing down some of the tangents for my dream piece. Jim Bouton (who immortalized manager Joe Schultz’s “pound the ol’ Budweiser” directive) had been on my mind a few weeks ago, when admissions from Jose Canseco and Ken Caminiti about steroid use touched off a furor and a torrent of editorializing that made it all the way to the steps of the Capitol. In his classic 1970 book Ball Four, Bouton had written, “If you had a pill that would guarantee a pitcher twenty wins, but might take five years off his life, he’d take it.” What, I wondered, would Bouton make of these recent revelations?

I wasn’t the only one wondering, of course. The pros over at ESPN’s Page 2 interviewed Bouton for a Ten Burning Questions With… piece, and leading off with a question about steroids, Bouton drops in that exact line. “The only thing I didn’t know at the time was the name,” says Bouton. His views on steroids as expounded in the piece (he thinks they should be banned, they give cheaters an advantage, they move the game closer to the realm of professional wrestling, etc.) aren’t especially noteworthy beyond that, but any interview with the ol’ Bulldog is worth a read, and he has some interesting insights as to the influence of Ball Four thirty years later.

One thing Bouton didn’t mention in that interview is that he’s apparently got a new book in the works. Waconeh Park is about Bouton’s efforts to save the oldest minor-league ballpark in the country, an 83-year old park located in Pittsfield, Massachusetts. Says the press release: “With his trademark irreverence and sharp-eyed observations, Bouton recounts the battle being waged over whether to build a new stadium to replace 83-year-old Wahconah Park, a contentious struggle that pitted the wishes of the people against those of the local power elite.”

As the story goes, Bouton (who lives in the Berkshires near Pittsfield) was involved in a partnership which attempted to bring an independent league team (from either the Atlantic League or the Northern League) to Waconeh Park and keep it there as they renovated the stadium. The city of Pittsfield ultimately accepted a competing proposal to field a Northern League team there, with an eye towards building a new ballpark. The battle was clearly an acrimonious one which gave Bouton some new insights into what he calls “America’s new hostage crisis,” the practice of team owners extorting publicly-funded stadiums out of taxpayers under the threat of moving their franchises. That does ring a bell these days, doesn’t it?

The press release for Bouton’s book, which will be published by PublicAffairs in time for the opening of the 2003 season, claims that just as Bouton laid bare the clubhouse in Ball Four, so will he lay bare “baseball’s corporate and political strong-arming” in Wahconah Park: “Fans are having their pockets picked by the new-stadium juggernaut, and Jim shows the absurd lengths to which the advocates of these taxpayer-financed stadiums will go. It would be sad if it weren’t so funny.”

While I think the term “hostage crisis” overstates the case a bit in this political climate, the promise of a new Bouton book is not a trivial one. Is it too early to buy a copy? Or as Homer Simpson said: “Two questions: how much and give it to me.”

• • • • •

Fred “Chicken” Stanley was an exemplary member of the Infielderus futilis classification during the 1970s and early ’80s, playing for some awful teams (the ’69 Seattle Pilots, where he was a September call-up after their famous author was traded to Houston, ’71 Cleveland Indians, and’72 San Diego Padres, all of whom lost at least 95 games) and some great ones (the ’76-’78 Yanks, and Billy Martin’s ’81 Oakland A’s). With a lifetime batting average of .216 and 10 homers in 14 years, Stanley certainly won’t be confused with Derek Jeter in Yankee lore. But he was a solid glove man who had his uses under the right manager (Martin); the A’s even traded young Mike Morgan for him and Brian Doyle to reunite him with Number One.

As Yogi Berra said, “You can learn a lot by watching.” Futility infielders, like backup catchers, absorb a lot of the game from the bench and tend to stick around after they retire, becoming successful coaches and managers. Count Stanley among these; he’s in his third year piloting the San Francisco Giants’ Class A entry in the Northwest League, the Salem-Keizer Volcanoes (as in Mount St. Helens). Last year, he and the Volcanoes won the league’s championship, and Chicken’s taken home Manager of the Year honors two years running. It’s not exactly the big time (the Volcanoes stadium seats only 4,252), but you’ve got to start somewhere, and after serving for nine years in the Milwaukee Brewers’ front office, Stanley’s off to a great start in the dugout. Here’s wishing him continued success.

Oh, and there really is a dish called Chicken Stanley: “Chicken breast sautéed with mushrooms and zucchini. Finished in a creamy mustard sauce, ” according to this website. For those of you cooking at home, you can even find a recipe here.

In Your Dreams, Jaffe

For a short time this morning, I was a New York Yankee. Those of you reading this, worried that some minor transaction slipped past you in the agate type on the Sunday sports page can rest easy–I slept through the whole affair. Baseball slipped into my slumber, and suddenly there I was in the Yankee clubhouse, with a locker next to Alfonso Soriano.

I have no idea how I found myself in that position. Perhaps Enrique Wilson simultaneously sprained his tailbone and his second chin while riding the pine, requiring the organization to find another futility infielder, and what with Luis Sojo now managing their AA Norwich team and Fred “Chicken” Stanley pushing sixty, I was next on the organizational depth chart. Whatever. I glanced nervously at my watch as I strode into the locker room, carrying a shoulder bag and trying to look nonchalant. It was 3:20, which seemed an OK arrival time for a night game. “What time is infield practice around here, anyway?” I wondered aloud.

I found my locker, right next to Soriano. Multiple uniforms, caps, and spikes, neatly arranged, awaited my arrival. If me being a Yankee wasn’t farfetched enough, the well-organized locker should have been the tip-off that I was dreaming. My biggest concern as I arrived at the locker was remembering the combination to a small safe for valuables. Sori reminded me that the combination would match my uniform number, in this case 32 (apologies to Elston Howard for infringing upon his retired jersey. Hey man, I was asleep at the time…). I dialed the combo and the safe opened, much to my relief. Lord knows how I expected to actually secure anything in there when everybody knew everybody else’s one-number “combo,” but… insert Ruben Rivera punchline here.

I looked around the locker room. My Yankee teammates were for some reason dressing in road greys, rather than pinstripes, so I followed suit. This didn’t seem nearly so strange as seeing the player dressing on the other side of Soriano’s locker: Keith Hernandez. The former Met first baseman with the cheesy mustache was dressing in uniform number 23–the number belonging to the former Yankee first baseman with the cheesy mustache, Don Mattingly. I didn’t have much problem with Hernandez taking Mattingly’s number (being in the business of retired-number stealing myself), but I was puzzled why Keith was hanging on with the Yanks.

A large cardboard box was sitting in front of my locker. I opened the top and peeked in. It was a trophy of sorts, a large chalice that was apparently intended for Yogi Berra. I understood instantly–it was because Berra had entertained the fans during a recent rain delay by talking to them over the scoreboard Jumbotron (what, you DON’T remember?), and the Yankee organization once again wanted to show their gratitude to Yogi. As I explained this to Hernandez, he sneered and took issue with it. I told him, “Keith, you should be so lucky. If you were a nicer guy, maybe Cleveland wouldn’t have let you go.” Keith frowned at me, a Yankee official came by to pick up the trophy as we watched a clip of Berra on the clubhouse TV, and that was the end of the dream.

Even in my dreams, I apparently have a good grasp of baseball arcana. Hernandez finished his career with the Indians in 1990, though it was bad knees, and not a bad attitude, that did him in. I have to admit that I never did like him as a player, and I don’t like him much as an announcer either–he’s got a condescending air about him, and that mustache always seems to be hiding something. Not that I’m lying awake at nights thinking about my dislike of him–apparently, I’m dragging it down to my subconscious, where a rookie like me can sass back to Keith Hernandez.

This wasn’t the first time baseball invaded my dreams, though it happens surprisingly infrequently. One of the most memorable ones involved me conversing with Mariners manager Lou Piniella as we took a shvitz together. The discussion was going along fine until I reminded Lou that his being doubled off of second base during Game 3 of the 1981 World Series was the turning point in that series–a good one for the Dodgers, for whom I was rooting. That dream took place in the winter of 1995-96, hot on the heels of the great 1995 ALDS in which the M’s beat the Yanks–back when I was still rooting against the pinstripes. In the dream, Lou grimaced as I reminded him, then unleashed a torrent of obscenties so beyond my comprehension that I could only read his lips, as I’d done back in that Series game. Wow.

Another great baseball-related dream, this one from ’97 (I wrote it down at the time, just like I’m doing now) involved me and actor Steve Buscemi. He and I were teammates on a Mexican League ballclub, and we were pounding the ol’ Budweiser and consoling ourselves following a tough loss. Poor Steve had been the losing pitcher, and he winced every time he took a swig of beer, rubbing his sore shoulder (imagine, Steve Buscemi wearing a pained look). Buscemi confided that his sore arm had him thinking of hanging it up. I was feeling pretty proud of myself despite the loss, because I’d gotten a base hit with the handle of a garden rake.

Clearly, it was clutch hitting like that which brought me to the Yanks’ attention. It took a long time, but I finally got called to The Show. Now it all makes sense…

Comments Upgrade

I upgraded the comments system today. Not that you’d really be able to tell, though the page does seem to load a little bit faster.

Moving Along

I can’t presume to speak for the moronic radio shock-jocks or the rabid Roger-hating Red Sox fans out there, but the rest of us baseball fans are happy that the Clemens@Shea affair is in the rearview mirror. No, the Mets didn’t exact the kind of eye-for-an-eye revenge that the most bloodthirsty zombies who walk among us would have liked–newsflash to the zombies: if you’re clamoring to dine on Clemens’ brains, you’re bound to be disappointed by what a meager meal they make. And yes, Shawn Estes looked somewhat ridiculous for throwing at Clemens and missing him.

But the Mets did hit Roger where it hurt, beating him like a rented fifth starter. Clemens brainlocked on a misplayed Estes bunt, failing to cover home and allowing the first run of the ballgame to score. Then he gave up a two-run homer to Estes, the first time he’d surrendered a gopher ball to a pitcher in his Hall of Fame career. When Roger looked to exact some amount of retribution by poking a double of his own down the leftfield line, his ample posterior clogged the basepaths and took the Yanks out of a potential rally. Clemens also slightly injured himself running the bases. And for the coup de grace, he surrendered a homer to Mike Piazza, an outcome which is exactly what this earflap-dusting flap was all about in the first place. On top of that, he was treated to a Shea serenade as he left the ballgame trailing 4-0. If you’re a Mets fan who actually cares about winning a ballgame here and there, what the hell more could you ask for?

None of the Mets had any complaint with the outcome, at least publicly. But that didn’t stop the ESPN knuckle-dragger Rob Dibble from finding fault with the team’s reaction. D(r)ibble–who if he ate brains for breakfast would at least then be able to claim temporary possession of some–questioned Estes’ toughness and surmised that his teammates felt their pitcher had let them down. Manager Bobby Valentine fired back at Dibble, calling him “the most unprofessional player to ever play, or one of them.” Piazza was equally unequivocal: “”I just wasn’t impressed [with Dibble’s remarks]…if you’re going to respond to him you might as well sit by talk radio and analyze every call.”

Dibble, of course, wasn’t the only media personality to open his mouth and remove all doubt as to how bright he is. Joe Morgan, who had a reputation as the smartest player in the game but whose intelligence seems to age like a vat of mayonnaise in the hot sun, showed he wasn’t above calling for blood: “I believe the Mets’ pitchers are obligated to retaliate for what happened two seasons ago…Piazza felt Clemens threw at him; that is all that matters.”

New York Daily News media critic Bob Raissman does a good job of calling out some of the flame-fanners, including Dibble, Morgan, and Fox’s Joe Buck. Raissman writes:

“In the third inning, after Tim McCarver said he thought Estes did enough to appease Mets fans and ‘everybody is satisfied,’ Joe Buck said fans were ‘almost’ satisfied. ‘They’d like to see him (Clemens) in pain and they’d ike to see a bruise.’

“Shortly after that exchange, a botton-screen crawl, for Fox Sports’ Internet site, asked fans to vote on whether they would like the Mets to continue to try nailing Clemens. In the fourth inning the results were posted, showing 84% of the fans wanted to see a Mets pitcher dust the Rocket.

“‘How do you know about the 84% of the people we are dealing with here?’ McCarver said. ‘It could be 84% of the people who thought ‘Gladiator’ was a comedy.'”

That may well be the most perceptive thing McCarver ever said, but he showed admirable restraint for a Foxie during Saturday’s broadcast. Buck, whose father (broadcast legend Jack Buck, who passed away Tuesday) undoubtedly taught him better, didn’t come off nearly as well. Raissman doesn’t indicate it, but Buck kept pressing the issue while the rest of the game (i.e., situations which didn’t involve Roger) unfolded. Let’s hope his old man didn’t roll into his grave over that one.

Because it makes for good theater, some desperate members of the media will continue to fan the flames. But this is the last you’ll hear from me on the matter. Like most sane human beings, I’m ready to move on.

The Inevitable World Cup Column

As sports-related fevers go, baseball is running a distant second in my household this month. My roommate Issa, a soccer fanatic, is in the full throes of World Cup fever thanks to the time-shifting magic of the TiVo system he purchased a few days before the tournament started. Committing to full immersion in a month-long tournament being held halfway around the globe isn’t for the ill-equipped, so Issa got himself a little help in the form of a marvelous machine which puts every VCR ever produced to shame. Thanks to that contraption, and no small amount of sleep deprivation, Issa has watched 85% (by his estimate) of the tournament thus far. I can vouch for that figure–frankly, I’m surprised he’s still got a job.

But he’s not walking the soccer path alone. Virtual neighbor Nick (“Clubhouse Lawyer”) is a huge soccer buff, a two-sport threat who can yammer about Manchester United, the English Premier League, When Saturday Comes and David Beckham’s haircut du jour until the Spice Girls come home. My brother Bryan grew up starring in the sport and throwing hair-pulling temper tantrums whenever I wanted to change the channel away from PBS’s “Soccer Made In Germany”. These guys have been gathering regularly for 7:30 AM viewings of the previous night’s action–the better to combat what I’ll call Nagano Syndrome: the pre-emptive ruination of a time-shifted sporting event by discovering the result. I see their point–it’s the best way to avoid finding the score inadvertently (not a difficult thing amid the ethnic mix of New York City)–but I only partake when the U.S. plays. Breakfast with Tommy Smyth (imagine an Irish cross between Dick Vitale and Yogi Berra, calling a soccer game) doesn’t carry quite the same allure for me.

I’m not exactly a stranger with the game. I grew up playing soccer, not baseball, toiling for five years on some fairly disinterested rec-level teams in Salt Lake City. I scored the grand total of one goal in my soccer career, primarily because I spent most of my time as a fullback or goalie, where my less-than-stellar attention span and loathing of running weren’t quite so damaging (hey, at least I never sunk to the mud pie-making, dandelion-chasing level of my teammate Benji Smith. Sheesh). I did enjoy one championship season as the starting left halfback on an undefeated (7-0-1) team, but that was the high-water mark. Nepotistic coaches, poor sportsmanship, and a dearth of talent among my cohorts made for some lean years which leave me with the regret that I didn’t pursue my first love, baseball, instead.

If I had, I might have brought the intensity to baseball that my brother did to soccer. My father likes to tell the story of how on Saturday mornings you could find Bryan kicking a ball against the garage door, revving up his competitive engine as he waited for his ride to the game. I, on the other hand, had to be rousted from my books, my baseball cards, and my cartoons to gather my gear in time for the match. I liked the game, but even then, I would rather expended my energy on baseball. Bryan could score hat tricks at will in his rec days, and went on to play on state champions in junior high and high school. I couldn’t even make my freshman high school baseball team. Anyway, enough time on the psychiatrist’s couch…

Despite the biases I project onto the sport thanks to these childhood scars, I am managing to enjoy the World Cup without too much trouble. Of course it helps to have a home team to rally around, one with stars as bright as Landon Donovan, Brian McBride, DaMarcus Beasley, Travis Bickle-lookalike Clint Mathis, and John Malkovich-lookalike Brad Friedel (all hail the goalkeeper!). There’s not much that compares with being able to holler out “GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAL!” at 8:30 AM in imitation of the Univision announcers while watching an American make a restaurant-quality crossing pass to set up a score. That’s the bulge in the ol’ onion bag, as Tommy Smyth is fond of saying.

The pro-U.S. fun will probably end soon–we’re not going to win this thing, are we? But at least the shame I felt watching the Americans lose to Iran in ’98 and score one measly goal in three games in France has been banished. Advancing through their group by beating heavily-favored Portugal, tying home-team (and Olympic revenge-motivated) South Korea and then flopping listlessly against Poland before sneaking through the backdoor and into the Round of 16, the U.S. had already outdone itself. But in stifling Mexico 2-0 on Monday morning for the biggest soccer win in this country’s history, the U.S. has finally made a dent in the World Cup.

I still think soccer faces an uphill battle for acceptance as a big-time sport in this country, even with the men’s success, the U.S. women’s World Cup victory in 1999 and the birth of a new women’s league last year. The continuous action of the game makes it difficult for TV advertisers to latch onto. Unlike football, baseball, and basketball, with their built-in (and TV-exacerbated) delays in the action, soccer runs 45 or so minutes at a clip without a full stop in the action. This is hard on the average American sports fan’s attention span, not to mention his bladder. The other is that said fan, at least the male subspecies, is already so saturated with other viewing options that the prospect of taking up an unfamiliar sport induces a rational admission: it’s time to pull my ass out of this E-Z chair and get some fresh air, even if it means mowing the damn lawn. Call this the NASCAR Syndrome. Hell, I’m as susceptible to a sports bandwagon as anybody, but living in a veritable soccer-fever hothouse, I haven’t caught the bug.

I do think certain changes in the game would aid its acceptance in America: shorter halves, perhaps divided into quarters, translate into more opportunities for advertisers. Unlimited substitution would allow for fresher legs and more dynamic action (and more commercial cutaways). It would also familiarize audiences with the type of specialized roles that basketball and hockey players carry (go-to scorers, defensive specialists, etc.). If all that sounds like your vision of hell, relax–I’m not actually advocating them. Your average soccer purist would be as horrified by those suggestions as we baseball fans would be if some crackpot Futility Midfielder suggested 18-man offense-defense platoons (a side full of designated hitters!) for 6-inning ballgames, with a TV commercial every time a runner reaches base.

Not that it really matters much. Soccer is the international game, and it’s the U.S. sports fan’s loss for not embracing the sport, for not being able to appreciate the fervor that grips entire nations as they pull for their teams. Then again, we’ve got a enough potential for mob violence without tossing a round ball into the mix. As for me, while I’m a quick study in any sport provided the stakes are high enough, I only obsess night and day about one. So while I’ll be waking up early to watch the U.S.-Germany match on Friday morning, my boys will have to forgive me if I put the admittedly tantalizing Brazil-England match (scheduled at 2:25 AM, to be viewed at 6 AM here) under my pillow instead. I’ve got to study those On Base Percentages etched on the backs of my eyelids.

Headline of the Day: Ventura Can’t Predict What’s Going to Happen

I wince as I think how many $3.99-a-minute phone calls I’ve made to Robin Ventura’s Psychic Hotline. I feel so suckered….