Tag Archives: new york

Well, So, The Cardinals.

I have avoided talking about the Cards up until now because I had a somewhat irrational belief that if I just ignored them (and, yeah, clicked my heels together and said, “There’s no place like home!”) they would just vaporize into the mist of Eliminated Baseball Teams.

Not so, apparently.

The NLCS is all tied up, 2-2, between St. Louis (I will not call it St. Lulu.  I repeat, I will not call it St. Lulu.) and it’s altogether a lot tighter than I would have expected.  And it’s killing me.

It’s not that I hate St. Louis, because really, they’re a fun team and they beat out the Braves to the wildcard, which is enough to make me love just about anyone.  Rationally, if they beat the Crew, I would sigh and be done with it, after mourning for the disappearance of Axford’s mustache from my TV screen.  But as it is, I can’t stand them at all.

It goes back to ancient history, I think.  Not ancient in the sense of those awesome reliefs from the 8th century, B.C.  Just in the sense of coughcough2006coughcough.

Anyone else remember?  I’m sure you do.  The Mets epic downfall in the NLCS.  What some people called the greatest collapse in the history of everything (that is, Major League Baseball).  I remember that series vividly and the serious case of Baseball Fan Heartbreak that followed.  And then watching the Cardinals go on to the win the World Series?

Not fun.  Not fun at all. 

And that, my friends, is why I can’t bring myself to even marginally like the Cardinals even though I’m sure they’re a totally lovely group of guys.

Well, that and the fact that I am IN BEAST MODE!  Duh!

Diamond Girl

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5 Things I Am Loving About the Playoffs

For whatever reason, the playoffs bring out the non-verbal barbarian in me, so…

5.  This.  Antlers.

4.  This.  Beltre.

3.  This.  Brauny.

2.  This.  Verlander.

1.  This.  Granderson.

Diamond Girl

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“Disgusting!”

You pay me (well, you don’t pay me.  Hint, hint.) to be honest so that’s what I’m going to be:  the band who opened the Home Run Derby was painfully bad.  I don’t know who they are because I turned it on in the middle, but I promptly turned it off then and waited for the real thing to start.  The pitchers who were supposed to be live tweeting from the sidelines had bad phone reception (think: roof closed) and so their tweets were delayed about an hour.  Not so live.  And the first round was mind-numbingly boring.  I munched on my licorice and cherries and sketched heart shaped faces with different haircuts while I watched.  All I remember is the strange broadcasters yelling, “Disgusting!” after one particularly impressive shot.  They were… strange.

Then came the second round.  That was a little better.  Fewer people, more drama and the broadcasters had run out of home run calls so they piped down a little.

Then came the third round and that was actually way exciting.  I have a bit of a Gonzalez vendetta (vendetta may be a strong word, but first he was on the Padres, now the BoSox.  Needless to say, I can’t stand him.) and I really like Robbie, not to mention the sweetness of his dad pitching to him.  So Cano’s come-from-behind victory was dramatic and lots of fun.

The other really sweet thing about the HRD was how many of the players had their kids on the field/in the dugout with them.  Matt Cain, his wife Chelsea and their daughter Harley Mae for sure won the prize for Cutest Ever.  Gotta love that darling headband.

This isn’t the first time Cainer or his fam have rocked the orange and black tastefully.

Maybe he’s a sleeper for the Best Dressed MLB’ers.  Who would have thought?

Carlos Beltran is fueling his own little The Decision fire, dropping hints about teams he would waive his no-trade clause for but I think the absolutely beautiful way he says “Pablo Sandoval” is a sure sign that he’s harboring a deep wish to come to the Giants.  I’ve read up about him a bit and I hope they let him sleep for part of the flight because he loves sleeping and I also hope they served him rice, beans and pork chops (favorite meal).  Playing Marc Anthony wouldn’t have been too bad either.  That’s his favorite singer.  If the Red Sox get him or something, I will blame it on a lack of rice, beans and pork chop on the charter plane.

The main event is tonight.  I think I need to go stock up on licorice.  I already miss Ryan Braun.

Diamond Girl

p.s.  Dave Robertson in the All Star parade.  I’m not usually a squee person, but… squee.

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An Email to Scott Hairston, The Giant Killer

Dear Scott,

I actually think we could get along.  You’re tight with Ian Kinsler, right?  I totally like him.  And you have a cute nickname.  And you’re good.  See, I don’t mind you being good.  Against other teams.  I don’t even mind the occasional hit off the Giants.  That wouldn’t jeopardize our relationship.  It’s just that you are, well, The Giant Killer.

In case you think I am exaggerating or being overly dramatic, check out this sentence from your Wikipedia article: “He has been particularly tough against the Giants, with 11 of his 58 career homers coming off San Francisco, as well as 23 RBI, by far the most against any team he’s faced.” 

Wikipedia says it.  It’s fact.  So, understandably, I’m annoyed with you and your game tying homer in the ninth.  And why didn’t you tell me you were leaving the Padres?  An “im a met now” text would have cut it.  I think I read it in the media probably, but I was still sort of shocked when you came out on deck.

Then again, I can’t decide if this was an example of your hitting skills or some lame pitching.  I am inclined to think the latter.  Any lingering Wilson fondness you may have detected in my talking about Assyrian beard yesterday has vanished (you read my blog, right, Scott?  So you saw that post?). 

I know I’m overreacting and it’s just one loss.  It was just a little bit of a crushing one because of Nate’s splash hit and also because you guys aren’t, ahem, the greatest team this year.  No matter.  We’ll get you and your friends in black tonight.  Don’t think this will go un-avenged, Hairball.

Or… well… I have to ask… would you maybe be interested in a trade to the Giants?  If you can’t beat ‘em, get ‘em to join you, right?  We would love to have you.  I’ll deliver fresh dinner rolls to the club house every weekend.  I make really heavenly dinner rolls.  I will also make some really trendy mixes for the clubhouse and I promise not to put any Lord of the Rings soundtrack on there.  I’ll take you pedal boating in Golden Gate Park and get you the greatest gelato ever in Berkeley.  Interested?  Let me know ASAP.  Ideally, you know, before tonight’s game.  Thanks.  Have a great game.  If you’re in orange and black.  Otherwise, feel free to go 0’fer.  We’d understand.  The Giants great pitching and everything.  Makes total sense.

Love,

Diamond Girl

p.s.  Congratulations to Jeter on his 3000th hit!  What a beautiful baseball moment.

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The Tale of the Sleeping Offense

Welcome to Offense Castle!

Please come through the hedge quietly and one by one.  I’ll be giving you a tour and telling you the legend behind this castle, but you must promise to talk only in whispers and not venture near The Tower.  We wouldn’t want to wake the Offense up.

Why is the Offense sleeping, you ask? 

It all started when Buster Posey, the King of the Offense went to get a haircut at a place called MagicCuts (the name was a rather bad sign) in San Francisco.  Little did he know that MagicCuts is actually run by an evil witch who is a Dodger fan, originally from Santa Monica.  As she saw Buster outside of the shop, signing autographs and taking pictures she grew very jealous, so as he got his haircut, she conveniently put a spindle in front of him and out of curiosity, he reached out and pricked his finger on it.  The effect was obvious instantly.  He could tell he’d been put under a charm.  So he bravely brandished a baseball bat he happened to be carrying around and said, “What spell have you put on me, Evil Witch?”

The Evil Witch cackled as Evil Witches are wont to do and said, “You and the whole Giants offense will sleep for 100 magic years (in real years, that’s until the All-Star Break) and nothing- and I mean nothing ­- will make the spell go away before it’s time.”  Buster closed his eyes and he could see the whole offense being led on this very path we are now on, through the hedge, to different parts of the castle.  Pablo, to the kitchen and DeRosa to the infirmary and Huff to the parlor.  And he could see himself, being led to the Great Tower in the middle and when he went in, he saw the door being locked securely behind him.

“Isn’t there anything I can do?” Buster cried.

“No.”

Buster went home and called Bruce Bochy and told him what had happened.

“Don’t worry, Buster.”  Bochy said.  And he put on his silver knight helmet and valiantly went out to break the curse and wake the offense up.

***

Yes, that is a parable. (Did anyone think the restaurant scene in The Social Network when they read that, or am I the only geek who’s seen that movie four times and knows every line?)  To say that there is hope for even the deepest sleepers to be awoken.  I am a case in point of that every morning.  New York is the perfect city for a wake-up call (you know, the loudest garbage trucks in the world at 6:00am) and there are some great flights from Fresno to JFK this afternoon. You know what that means.

Diamond Girl

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