Vindication!

WSJ:

Contrary to popular belief, the Yankees are only the fifth-most despised team in the majors, according to an Internet algorithm built by Nielsen Co. that analyzes how people feel about certain things.

Fuck You, Curt Schilling

Seriously:

"I never, ever thought the move to New York the first time was a good one, and I didn't think this (move) was good as well. I don't think he suddenly learned how to pitch when he went back to Atlanta and dealt last year," Schilling said. "It's hard to say this without sounding disrespectful, and I don't mean it that way - the National League is an easier league to pitch in, period, and some guys aren't equipped to get those same outs in the American League. And he's one of those guys."

...

"(Vazquez) thrived in Montreal and he thrived in Atlanta, and those are both second-tier cities from a baseball passion perspective. He's not a guy that I've ever felt was comfortable in the glow," Schilling said. "... You're seeing what you're gonna get from him consistently all year. Having said that, he could turn around next week and throw a one-hitter with his stuff. I just don't see him being a consistent winner in the American League."

That being said, Javy has stunk up the joint. But we will not allow even our shittiest starting pitcher to suffer under the verbal lash of Curt "Ketchup Sox" Schilling.

Updating Fight Songs?

Over at Bats, the NEW YORK TIMES asks if it's time to re-write the fight songs for NYC baseball teams, then posts the lyrics to "Meet the Mets" and "Y.A.N.K.E.E.S." I don't know that they need a rewrite:

Meet the Mets

Oh, the butcher and the baker and the people on the streets,
Where did they go?
To meet the Mets!
Oh, they’re hollerin’ and cheerin’ and they’re jumpin’ in their seats,

Y.A.N.K.E.E.S.

Everyone knows they play to win, ’cause
They’re the New York Yankees.
Show them today why you’re the Yankees.
No other way when you’re the Yankees.

Revision seems unnecessary.

There's Still Hope

Sort of:

Beisbol!

Can I get a FUCK YEAH?

Meet the Mets?

The New York Mets apparently failed to check this Wikipedia article before doing irreparable, if hilariously ironic, damage to the phrase "written in stone."

Man And Ball: An Existential Crisis

This can't be happening! Are you real? Am I? Is this just a dream? A nightmare?

It Works On So Many Levels

NASA Knows My Weakness

Space-baseball. STAY ON THE BASEPATHS NEIL, JESUS CHRIST.

The Division Series

Over at the Atlantic, Ross Douthat has a series of thoughts about the AL/NLDS, and is vaguely in favor of increasing the series to seven games.

I have to agree, and not because I think it's unfair but rather because I find it psychologically boring. There's so little development to the series. A couple of bum starts and suddenly you're in do-or-die territory. Great baseball stories barely have time to take root before they're resolved. Now, I don't have a problem with the way the various DSs played out. The Angels stranded an absurd number of runners against the Sox and gave up a 3 run single (the first ever in postseason history) by failing to call a ball in shallow center. Kendrick (a culprit in that play) also bobbled an easy DP opportunity that brought a run around to score. I'm not saying that John Lackey's whining is justified but I understand where he's coming from. The Cubs flat-out sucked and the White Sox just weren't up to handling the Rays.

Now, I'm hoping for a little Yankees methadone in the WS, with Torre finally completing his first Mandarin hand ("Mandhands") with a Dodgers ring. Although I doubt Torre could've managed the '08 Yankees to the postseason this year, it still hurts a little to see his craggy face in the dugout for another team. I think, however, it'll be Phillies/Rays in the Serious, with the Rays walking away with it all. And quite honestly, I'm fine with that, since the Rays worst-to-first story in the AL East is a narrative I can get behind. I'm sure the novelty will wear off in a few years. The ALCS should be a lot of fun. It'll be interesting to see whether an injured Beckett and a lights-out Lester can handle the depth and strength of the Rays.

The Postseason

As every member of this blog has been postseason disenfranchised, I think I can say this after the NLDS LA/CHI game 2: WHAT THE FUCK CUBBIES, GROW A PAIR! Also, as much as the Mets have suffered in the past two years, consider the travail of Yankees fans everywhere. This is the first time we've had to deal with missing the postseason since the early-to-mid 90's. You guys can't possibly understand what that feels like. It's like pulling your head up from a bump of coke, looking around and realizing your life is a shambles. The Mets have been passed out in the gutter since 2000, so they're used to it.

A Great Article

Ken Tremendous on Bruce Jenkins and his mediocre defense of complete games. However, in spite of Bruce's deeply retarded arguments, I still really enjoy watching a pitcher finish a game.

Since the general election is underway and Sarah Palin has provided numerous opportunities for me to rant about "foreign policy experience" I promise we'll get back to politics soon.

Well, Fuck.

[Homer and Bart are chasing the rolling rotisserie pig. It rolls through some bushes]
Homer: It's just a little dirty! It's still good, it's still good!
[the cart falls off the edge of a drainage culvert, and the pig floats down the stream]
Homer: It's just a little slimy! It's still good, it's still good!
[the pig reaches a dam at the end of the stream and plugs the drain hole. The water pressure builds up behind it, until it launches out of the hole into the air]
Homer: It's just a little airborne! It's still good, it's still good!
Bart: It's gone.
Homer: I know.

A Worry-Filled Week

As we kick off the penultimate Yankees-Sox series, Yankees fans everywhere have to decide whether or not they're true fans. Although recent Yankee history has been filled with first round exits, the idea of missing the playoffs altogether is not one that they've had to face since before I had a single manly hair on my body. This series will separate the bandwagon fans from the bleeding pinstripes crowd.

In honor of this series, the good people at Bronx Banter have collected a number of articles about the history of the Sox/Yanks rivalry. Among those tales of heroes and villains I found this Pedro Martinez quote. As much as I hate to admire an ex-Sock, current Met, this is probably the right way to look at George Steinbrenner:

Martinez replied, "He'll probably buy the whole league. But not my desire and not my heart. He's not going to put any fear in my heart."

Yankee Doodle Dandy at the Deadline

In a daring midnight raid, we at FTB have obtained secret audio recordings from the inner sanctum of Steinboro, the secluded underground palace of the Steinbrothers. Our team of trained monkeys labored in bananaless conditions for over 12 hours to transcribe them for your reading pleasure:

Hal: After years of feigning weakness, we have lulled our enemies into a false sense of security. First there was our inspired scrub out against the Indians in the ALDS, codenamed Operation: Kenny Lofton's 25 Bitches. Then we dumped Joe Torre overboard, but not before filling the water with chum. Finally, we opted to pass on Johan Santana and stick with The Big Three--if you square them, you get their ERA! Now we make our move! (cackling)

Hank: (smoking) Brian, have you purified yourself in those fuckin' oils yet? Those midwestern types won't jaw with you unless you've nanced yourself up a bit. They like their New Yorkers a bit whiffy, you know. Confirms all their fuckin' prejudices. 

Brian: Yes, my lords. I am prepared to depart for Pittsburgh to do your bidding.

[Unfortunately, we were not able to place an agent at the meeting in western PA, but our sources indicate that Brian Cashman was able to call in some markers. A posse may have been involved, but reports are spotty. We were able to insert a small recording device into Brian Cashman's lapel when he brushed up against us in a familiar manner on the 4 train on his way to Detroit.]

Brian: Now I know what you're thinking. You're thinking "why is he holding a bag of poop?" But watch... Look! It's on fire! And this is no ordinary bag of poop--it will burn for a thousand years and light your diamond from a cheery perch atop the pitcher's mound. Now in return for this fecal miracle we ask for only one thing: that washed up 'roid-rod you keep behind the plate. In return, I give you my word--my word, mind you--that this poop will burn forever, and that you will never be left holding a bag of slightly charred offal at some point in the near future. What do you say to that, gentlemen?

(Loud yelling and whooping, cries of "Long Live the Poo!" and--faintly--the sound of Kyle Farnsworth weeping into his hands.)

Cashman's put together a real contract year, folks. Marte, Nady and iRod for some blocked prospects and a relief pitcher who's name inspires a shiver of hatred throughout the Yankees Universe (TM).

Words of Wisdom

"The only choice for the final roster spot on the 2008 American League All-Star Team is Jason Giambi. He not only represents the great Yankees dynasty previously led by the likes of Reggie Jackson -- the father of the mustache in modern-day baseball -- but Giambi represents the hopes and dreams of the previously downtrodden mustached American, a breed that was on the U.S. Endangered Species list as recently as 2005. Clearly, the voting public must take into account Giambi’s powerful lip fur, as it signifies great intellect, good looks, and the ability to stare down the most powerful of martial arts gurus." -- The American Mustache Institute

"Like a Yankees Fan in April"

An American colloquialism meaning "frustrated," "moody" or "homicidal." Related : "Like a Yankees fan in October." I'm about an inning away from going all Wicker Man on Kyle Farnsworth.

Opening Day: Fenway Park

The Red Sox Nation is real. Ultimately, however, the reality of the RSN is that of a group of people pledging allegiance to an illusory vision of America that can only find purchase in New England. That said, from the field box of Fenway Park on opening day, you wouldn't know it for the fever dream it is.

The sun shines down from a clear sky, providing a crisp day with just the right amount of warmth for a baseball game. The light lends a clarity and depth to the colors: the grass  is emerald, the caps crimson and navy. In the stands, a sea of white faces. On an equally pale blanket in center field the Boston Pops plays the national anthem against the backdrop of an American flag draped over the Green Monster. Planes fly over. Bill Buckner, freshly released from the gulag, throws out the first pitch. Every sense tells you that this is America as you understood it when you were six, when finding a lizard sunning itself on a rock was still a major life event.

On some level, I can appreciate the allure of that pollyanna vision and all that it encapsulates, from Field of Dreams to apple pie. But it's not my America. One of the things that I miss the most about NYC is the sheer overwhelming diversity of the place, the dizzying array of faces, colors, clothes, sounds, sights and smells that pervade the city. Similarly, at a Yankees game there's a variety you just don't find at Fenway. Fatcats behind home plate, latinos, nuns, Italians, blacks, straight brims, bent brims and on and on. Thousands of people from thousands of different Americas screaming, yelling and drinking to the same team. 

So yes, the Red Sox Nation does exist. It has a uniform, an anthem ("YOOOOOOOUK!") and legions of jackbooted irregulars. And, while I have my problems with the whole "Yankees Universe" idea, it does capture the bewildering diversity that makes NYC and the NYY so much fun.

Yankee Doodle Dandy

So, I'm about as far from a stathead as you can get when it comes to baseball. I love to watch the games, end of story. For me, that's where the real drama takes place. While the works of stat wonks add some depth to that pleasure, it's not something I find necessary to understand in order to enjoy baseball. So, when it comes to baseball, you'll be hard pressed to find any numbers here. What can I say, I'm a purist.

In that vein, the fine folks over at Bronx Banter brought up an important point: what should Joba Chamberlain's song be? We're talking about a kid who, being part Native American, is even more American than apple pie. And he plays baseball! Also, his stuff is just lights out. So he needs a song that is quintessentially American and also intimidating as all get out. I'd like to suggest When the Lights Go Out by the Black Keys. Listen to the first 10 seconds. Can't you just hear that percussion blaring over the speakers as he swaggers to the mound? Those bluesy guitar riffs? And the refrain, God, it's so good: You'll know what the sun's all about when the lights go out. 

Perfect.

Edit: Of course, I also love to break rules. Joe Posnanski's article, Statheads and True Wins, is a great defense of the "new" statistics against the old. He makes a very strong case against the absurdities of ERA and BA.