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?

Determination

You've got to hand it to this guy: Rich Pohle has an interesting story to tell, and while his offbeat story of determination (and deception) to become a pro ballplayer might not necessarily make a great movie, it's one hell of an ESPN article.

RIP George Carlin

"In baseball, the object is to be safe at home! I hope I'll be safe at home!"

Ker-Plunk!

Here is an interesting article by Rick Reilly on the controversial beaning of an umpire during a high school championship game in Georgia. Apparently, the pitcher, catcher, and (recently-drafted-by-the-Dodgers hotshot) shortstop conspired to bean the home plate ump in the facemask in retribution to his shitty job of calling balls and strikes. Take a look at the video.

Funny how my dormant yet passionate hatred of both umpires and dickweed punk-ass jocks renders my judgment of this specific incident neutral. But it makes me consider the circumstances on a larger scale.

Thinking back exactly 10 years ago to the 1998 high school Vermont state championships--in which I was the starting pitcher--and the asshole in blue who squeezed me out of successfully executing my two bread and butter pitches--outside corner fastball and inside corner backdoor slider--let's say it would have felt mighty good to get some retribution out of a losing situation like those little bitches from Georgia.

But I'm not a little bitch, and for better or for worse I generally subscribe to virtues of sportsmanship; ie., patience, grace, strength, blah blah blah...you know what sportsmanship is. Not showing up the opponent in a winning situation; stoicism when on the losing end.

The catcher who ducked to allow the ball to hit the ump--Matt Hill--might have to pay the ump damages and lost his opportunity to join his college team in the fall. Certainly, he is paying for his part in an unusual, blatant, and dangerous act of poor sportsmanship.

I probably have stressed it before numerous times, but I think of guys like this Hill kid as sacrificial lambs--despite being guilty--because they take the fall when athletes--hell, all people--do dumb shit like this everyday. For instance, take this kid, who faces 38 years in jail for cheating in school. Really? Kids cheat? You mean, like the student athletes who used to pay me and any other smart kid desperate (or greedy) enough to write their essays at $50 a page? God forbid high school teachers or college professors acknowledge how many students cheat these days. We'd have a mass suicide in the profession. Both cheating and ignoring the problem are too easy to do, too easy to get away with.

Ultimately, sure, if you bust an 18- or 22-year-old kid doing something they damn well know is wrong, you hold them accountable. But here's an idea--how about holding the adults responsible for them accountable as well? Hill's coach "believed" his team's catcher when he said he just missed the pitch, as he was expecting curveball.

I had a hard time liking the majority of my coaches (and teachers for that matter) over the years. With a lot of them it's either too military or too lenient. But when it comes to the on-field behavior and off-field safety, there's no denying that they have a huge obligation to do the right thing. Otherwise, should we wait to investigate or accept responsibility when the evidence of unacceptable behavior is rubbed in our face? Do we wait until it's too late?

RIP John Marzano

A man known more for his career as a baseball analyst than as a baseball player, John Marzano was found dead two days ago at the age of 45 at his home in Philadelphia.

I recall Marzano as being a very personable guy when I was a kid. He played for the Red Sox in the late '80s/early '90s, and I remember him chatting with fans before the games while doing his warmups, always signing autographs for kids around the dugout. He was a backup to Tony Pena for a few years, and that duo has always remained my favorite defensive catching tandem (with apologies to Varitek/Mirabelli, despite the two rings).

One of my all-time favorite memories is a game I attended on July 7, 1991, a game which saw the Red sox win 7-4 over Detroit. I was 11 years old at the time. In the second inning of this game, Roger Clemens gave up back-to-back moon shots to Pete Incaviglia and Rob Deer into the net above the Monster. So, in obvious retaliation, he nails the next batter (John Shelby, who batted .154 that season) in the back with a fastball that made an audible impact from the stands.

Shelby didn't just charge the mound--he sprinted out after Clemens (who stood there like a dumb lump) with a bat in his right hand. I was prepared for Clemens' head to be the next item whacked into the screen when Marzano leveled Shelby with an NFL-style tackle. The benches and bullpens then--of course--cleared, and what followed was a hilarious pushing-and-shoving match, followed by a jolly little pigpile on the mound. Instead of a Yankees-Sox boxing match, we got to see a fight worthy of an elementary school playground, with Cecil Fielder and Mo Vaughn sumo wrestling over by the first base bag. It culminated in a pile of bodies at the center of the diamond, who oddly didn't seem to throw any actual punches. When Clemens didn't get ejected, Sparky Anderson lost his mind and flipped out on the umpire. While 34,000 fans chanted "Throw him out!" in unison, the umps needed little swaying, and Shelby and Anderson got tossed, while Clemens went on to perhaps his weakest victory of his third Cy Young season.

It was a memorable game for an impressionable kid. That day etched the name "John Marzano" in my mind as a gamer, as well as a childhood favorite.

Opening Day in Montreal

Apr 1, 6:35 PM EDT

Montreal Opens Labatt Park In Style

By ALEXANDER POUTINE
Associated Press Writer

MONTREAL, QC (AP) -- After a six-year delay held up by the complicated sale of the Montreal Expos by failed businessman Jeffrey Loria to Stephen Bronfman, the Montreal Expos celebrated the long-awaited opening of Labatt Park by pounding the Philadelphia Phillies 11-6.

Nick Johnson's tiebreaking RBI double off Tom Gordon highlighted a five-run ninth inning--a satisfying opening before the sellout crowd of 36,287 long-suffering fans.

"The 1994 pennant was stolen from us, and then we had to sit by and watch the offseason firesale," commented fan Francois Cochon. "Things looked pretty bleak for a long time--but that relocation proposal in 2003 seems like a distant memory."

Thanks to private investors and mounting public pressure to excommunicate Loria without compensation, the jewel at the corner of Peel and Saint-Jacques opened to rave reviews.



Providing relief from the current trend of "retro" ballparks, Labatt Park features a unique post-modern design, incorporating rare dimensional symmetry and a one-of-a-kind glass facade with the best elements of the throwback park: limited seating (smallest in baseball) that is close to the field, open air, natural grass, and a city sightline rivaled only perhaps by Pittsburgh in all of Major League Baseball.

In stark contrast to the weather-screening, rooftop blocking owners of Chicago's Wrigley Field, Labatt's unique construction offers many views from the outside to the inside, lending a sense of closeness and intimacy to not only the players and the playing field, but to the surrounding community.


And located a mere two blocks from the Molson Centre, "The Big L" has inadvertently become a part of North America's finest urban sports complex.

"I've long believed that Montrealers will support a team that has a chance to win," said former manager Felipe Alou, who threw out the first pitch to Hall of Famer Gary Carter. Forgive Alou for his error: Montreal fans have showed support for even the mediocre clubs, ranking seventh in the NL is attendance during the 1980s.

With a new stadium and the security of knowing "nos amours" are nowhere near leaving town, the city of Montreal can now breathe a sigh of relief, welcoming a new age of Canadian baseball in the Labatt Park Era.

First Padres Manager Preston Gomez Injured In Accident

Just got word that the manager of the original Major League SD Padres, Preston Gomez, got hit by a truck in Nowhere, CA (a.k.a. Blythe, it's kinda on the way to Laughlin, NV).

He is 84 years old and was really a pretty bad manager, twice having taken out pitchers with pending no-hitters, in the eighth inning, for failing pinch-hitters. San Diego has never thrown a no-no, and aside from the extreme misfortune befallen the '84 World Series team, these two instances are considered a curse upon Padres pitching.

In spite of his managerial ineptitude he is revered as a favorite in Padre lore.

My best wishes for a full recovery.