R.I.P. Preston Gomez - 1923-2009

There exists an echelon, a level of extreme standard quality baseball man; not quite a star, but definitely men who can be considered "Those Who Served." We're talking about those for whom the more knowledgeable fan would know at least one notable anecdote. Bucky Dent's Sox-killing homer, Ralph Branca's hanging heater to Bobby Thompson in the '51 one-game playoff, Ron Hunt's 50 times being hit by a pitch in one season...the game is riddled with these guys.

They aren't bums. They aren't legends. In most cases they are players who had a few above-average seasons, or at least had a particular talent. But forever they are known for that ONE instance; the one bit of trivia that will accompany (or hound) them throughout their lives, no matter what they accomplish. A couple more examples: Chris Webber's "time out," Joe Pisarcik's brilliant decision to blow off that "take a knee" jazz and try for a last second stunner, and of course, Fred Merkle's celebrated boner.

Original San Diego Padres manager Preston Gomez, a career baseball man in the truest sense of the word. He was a manager, scout, player, asssistant, ambassador...you name it. Peripatetic beyond the metaphoric to the possibly literal, Gomez was a respected lifer whose knowledge and manner touched several generations of players as well as fans.

But as with so many whom devoted their lives to the good of the game, Gomez will forever be linked to the night in 1970 -- the second year of the fledgling major league Padres existence-- when faced with either allowing his dominant starter to stay in for the 9th inning whilst pitching a no-hitter or yanking him for a pinch-hitter to try and get some offense cooking, he chose the latter. Of course, the sub rolled snake eyes, and the no-no was gone in the next inning, but for ages Preston Gomez' name was held as an icon of San Diego's short-sighted failures as a franchise.

Unfair, you bet. For although his career as a manager never dipped him over to the plus side of the wins column, it can safely be stated that his stature as a respected professional was what kept him employed throughout his life, no matter his managerial record.

As a Padres fan for life, I recognize the baseball world is tonight missing a man who gave his all to the game he loved. And for all the right reasons.

Hells Brews

You gotta think, with a legacy including 550+ saves, some impressive 9th inning moments and a few car dealership radio spots, a true TRUE Padres fan would mourn the loss of the most prolific closer in the history of the game JUST a tad more than the current "Holy shit, so glad THAT'S over with" feeling coursing through the veins of a healthy % of SD-ers right now.

But no, this is the 101 case study of the guest that wouldn't leave. Ozymandian in its poignancy, The Bell (Yes! Literally AND figuratively!) ringing on Trevor Hoffman's San Diego Padres career has been a long time coming and is quite welcome to any fan who actually had to watch his last few years. We loved him. We gave him cords and leagues of rope, but it JUST. HAD. TO. END.

He's the Brewers problem now. No more slow starts, blowing of the real easy ones (which for him constituted almost ALL of his saves), whilst embarrassing our already fragile-egoed burg on the National stage (World Series, All-Star games, playoffs, one-game-to-get-into-the-playoffs...), and lest any TRUE fan forget, the "We need a lights-out pitcher" 8th inning with no game on the line fiascoes. Sure, he could polish the pearl on the three-run 9th frame leads, but he also had a snappy knack for making you wonder why any manager would shove a guy out there whose fastball was slower than his changeup.

Mind you now, LOVE Trevor and all he has done for our Padres; giving us a modicum of stability, having an amazing 1998 (not counting any pitches to actual New York Yankees), giving his older brother a job...but you just gotta know when to hang it up. And Trevor hung his breaking ball up in the zone too often for me to miss him all that much at this point.

An Enjoyable Postseason, but.....

Thursday was one of the bad days of the year. The day after the last baseball game of the season. Oh the pain, the long cold winter of my discontent. I thought the playoffs were great, I watched almost all the games. I read a lot of net articles complaining about the timing of the calling of the game Monday night. I was watching carefully and thought they did it just about right. I like seeing nature disrupt the best laid plans of mice and men. Clearly baseball wanted that game Monday night to get played, and get to Tampa if needed, but when the rain comes, the rain comes. You do your best. While writers and talk show callers were complaining that the popup Rollins couldn't catch in the top of the 5th was proof that the conditions were too bad to be playing, no one seems to want to talk about how Carlos Pena, in the bottom of the 5th, caught 2 popups just as difficult as the one Rollins missed. Then with seemingly the World Series on the line ready to be called off in the top of the 6th, with 2 outs, Pena hits a low outside pitch to left and BJ (Bossman Junior) Upton scores the tying run, to stop anyone from even considering calling this game before it could go 9. It was dramatic. I watched over and over with the dvr, BJ steal second, then score. He never slipped. He was running hard, maybe slightly carefully, but he was awesome. The throw from Burrell was good, the slide by Upton was good, the game was tied. The weather was tough, but it was playable.

Somehow with these Rays especially, I feel like if these guys had come up 5 years ago they'd be on the A's. Upton and Longoria especially, seem like they should have been A's players. The league seems like it has caught up with Billy Beane on scouting. I hope he can reinvent himself again, cause it sure would be great to see the green and gold in the postseason again soon.

It was great to see all the A's guys in the playoffs, I couldn't help thinking these guys should all still be on the A's. Maybe some of them would still be A's if some of the other A's guys had been better and the wholesale rebuilding wasn't happening. There were 13 of them on 6 teams, not counting Ethier and Hinske. I counted Bradford, Pena, Blanton, Stairs, Dye, Swisher, Dotel, Kendall, Durham, Harden, Gaudin, Lilly, Kotsay. It is just proof that the A's have had a lot of great guys, and gotten rid of a lot of great guys.

My daughter Deedee, thought Bradford was bouncing the pitch off the mound into the catcher. He is so awesome, but he gave up the hit that scored the run that won it. I thought Maddon was outstanding, but it was a little weird for him to pinch hit for Baldelli on the next ab after he had homered, just to get the righty-lefty matchup. Also what was that reliever, J P Howell doing batting for the rays in the top of the 7th? I thought those were a couple of managerial calls which were questionable. All I really wanted was to see it go to 7 games, just string it out as long as possible. Just give me more games.

That's it, all done, the season's over. I don't know if it was that amazing in any respect except that it's baseball, the greatest game ever invented and proof of God's love for us. But now it's over and the cold dark winter takes over. I should not complain, living in San Jose. But after 5 months of nearly perfect weather, on cue, all day Saturday it rained. How am I ever going to make it to spring?

Glad it's All Over!

Anyone who knows me, and that might be one or two of you, know that one of my favorite movies is the mighty Repo Man. And you may also know that I really really hate the abhorrent auditory stylings of king-of-the-hack-announcers Tim McCarver. As know-a-thing-or-two, can't chat his way out of a paper sack douchebags go, McCarver stands head and shoulders above Harrelson, Krukow, and any other regional radio third wheel somehow still pulling a check.

By now it is apparent that his inane droning is even getting to the surprisingly worth his weight Joe Buck. Now, Buck, for all the nepotistic, Bud commercial, rent-a-car commercial nonsense and Fox Sports going-along-with-it crap he has subjected us to --in my opinion-- is still a pro. He calls a fine game and doesn't take himself too seriously. But that discussion is for another time. I digress. It's what I do.
When McCarver used to opine with his slow "I...am...really...espousing...vital...pearls...of...wisdom" commentaries of what it means to pitch from one side of the rubber or another, or how a manager brings in a lefty, or the sequence of a catcher's signs, Buck would be right there with him to hurriedly pick the pace back up and recap you on the last three pitches. Judging from his reactions in the '08 playoff and World Series games, he has learned to just shut up, wait a second, and let the silence of "Shut up, McCarver" being spoken a world over resonate.Then he moves on to the game at hand. That's subtle intelligence. That's maturity.

Now do you recall in Repo Man, the character of Plettschner, the rent-a-cop? To quote: "Three times decorated in two world wars! I was killing people while you were still swimming around in your father's balls! You little scumbag! I worked five years in a slaughterhouse, and ten years as a prison guard in Attica!" Yeah, but they are all telling him: "Shut up, Plettschner!"

Why, cuz he's a douchebag. A loser. A McCarver.

Now, I know we aren't rid of him yet. Fox Sports still controls baseball. For some reason they still want Tim on the job. And all we can hope for is Joe Buck, during a particularly long-winded slooowwwww, "poignant" drivel-thon, shouts "Hey McCarver!...COFFEE BREAK!"

Yanqui No Home!

The beast is finally slain.
Yankee Stadium is over.
That big hideous foul territory is now a thing of the past, as is THE Monument Park, and all other vestiges of the House That Ruth Built. Thank fucking god.

Gotta suck to be a Mets fan. Can't really see that magnitude of National kiss-ass with Shea. Same for the Tigers. No one seemed to give a shit when that tomb bit the dust. Old Comiskey? Riverfront? Candlestick...Qualcomm?

The quote I hope they play on a loop:
"These fans never seem to amaze me."
--Derek Jeter

Annual Fan Depreciation Day in Miami

So now this is an annual event? If you dig only slightly through the site you'll see photographic evidence of tremendously bad attendance for a late-season Marlins game in '07. So while this year they have some pretty good excuses (tropical storm/depression/what-have-you, not being in first, they're in Miami...) 600 patrons at a MLB contest featuring a contending home team is still quite a shocker.

(click on title to see main article)

El Gato Grande, y el appreciación de los juegueros de Venezuela

El Gato Grande

Did you ever have those certain players that --no matter how many favorites crossed your path, regardless of your team, your rival's team, whatever-- just took your attention and ran wild with it, making them "your guy," no matter what they did to your team...again, whether they were on your team or not?

I think of this because for some reason, throughout the more recent history of the MLB...say, 1970 onward, it's the occasional Venezuelan badass that makes me take notice and think, "damn...I just love this game...and (he's) why!"

Why Venezuelans? Good question. Why? No idea. But if you think of when the electricity of infielders became prevalent, you can easily start at the Aparicio era.

It can easily be said --by me, cuz I'm saying it-- that the whole Latin American standard of quick and excellent infielding began with the White Sox' Luis Aparicio.
Known more for his glove and arm than bat, his cat-like instincts and winning attitude forced a country to rethink the value of a player.

Where would Ozzie, or Ozzie, or Omar be without the path burned by Luis Aparicio? Before him, the hackneyed "good glove, average bat" player stereotype was perhaps the domain of the Rizzutos and Mazeroskis of the game; known more for so-called "hard-nosed" play or being a "gamer." Nowhere among the ilk was mentioned the notion of flash or transcendent ability. Maybe if Big Maz did backflips or if Scooter could track a bad hop like the Wiz', but no...this is the kingdom...the template of Luis Aparicio.

Which eventually (sorry, I'm tired and need to wrap this up) makes me bring up this: I fucking MISS the Big Cat. El Gato Grande. Andres Galarraga.

First base, Colorado Rockies.

To the hardcore fan, he first caught the eye as the power-hitting wall-eyed behemoth of the lowly Montreal Expos. As expected, the National (International, I suppose) media was continuing their Selig-imposed ignorance of Les Expos. But to those who gave a shit, we watched every Big Cat at bat we could. His Rod Carew-like open-stanced slugger persona. The smile. The superlative first-base play.

By the time he escaped the great white North he was already a legend to the scouts and true believers. An anomaly. That's a thing without a name. Lucky, or unluckily , for him, he landed in the great unknown that was (and perhaps is no longer...thank you el humidor) the Colorado Rockies.

Because of its mile-high reputation, you just couldn't get a fair shake being a Rockie. No matter where you whacked them dingers, you were looked at with the askance glare most often regarded to the most homely circus freak or spastic twerp. He was entering his prime as both a contact and power hitter, but the myth of the park relegated Galarraga to sideshow status, no matter what.

Once, I witnessed his power in the cavernous confines of the Murph in San Diego. It was blowout time. Dante and Vinny had already met the bleachers, but the Big Cat just had to show them some real power. He launched an Andy Ashby hanging curve at least 450 feet, well beyond the Loge bleachers tunnel his blast encountered. And you just know, he had that beatific grin cooking the whole time. How could he not?

But I do go on. A Venezuelan influenece? A coincidence? Just some great players who happen to all be from the same country? Who knows. Alls I'm saying is, just take a sec' to line up some of your favorite players of the last 30 years. What do you think? Omar Vizquel, perhaps the best shortstop that ever was? Ozzie Guillen. Do you recall him turning two with Jose Cora in his prime? If you're a San Diegan, "NumberelevenEnzo...HerNANdez!" Where would baseball be without this influence?