Many, Many Pitchers Duel in WS G1

ST. LOUIS--As promised, Game 1 of this 2011 World Series ended up a chess match between the managers: stony LaRussa of Saint Lou and fist-pumping Washington of the Republic of Texas.  You wouldn't have guessed it from the beginning, though, as each team's starter threw solid scoreless innings to break in this Championship; three from the Lawmen's Wilson and four from Carpenter of the Redbirds.  Even more so, it was tied up at 2 runs apiece after Five, with both starters still kicking the mud behind the pitcher's plate.

All four of those runs were pretty runs to boot, with St. Louis striking first in their Fourth.  Slugger Pujols (though without a hit on the night) hopped aboard getting ankle-boned by a Wilson fastball.  Then a brace of knife-edge doubles sliced right along the first base line, one from Holliday to move Albert over to third, the second from the salt-and-pepper bearded Berkman to score them both.  The Redbirds pushed to tack on some more, but left Lance and eventually Punto stranded on the bags.

Then in Texas's Own Fifth, one tall dark and handsome home run sent deep into the seats off the stick of Catcher Napoli brought in Two Texans, himself and Cruz, who had reached on a standard-issue single two batters before.

On to the Cardinals' Sixth, alltiedup, and Third Baseman Freese wallops a double deep into the CF gap.  Catcher Molina is up next and he strikes out, but not before Freese moves over to third on Wilson's only wild pitch of the night.  Next up is Second Baseman Punto, who draws himself a walk, and then the chess strategy begins in earnest.  With runners at the corners, Washington offers up the impressive and right-handed Ogando Defense.  LaRussa counters with the Allen Craig Gambit, pinching for his pitcher's number 9 slot.

Here is the crux of the game, and like so many cruxes of good baseball or good chess, recognized as it occurs, but only seen for its true brilliance after it's reverberations resound through the rest of the game.  Here is the flame-throwing Dominican against the sophomore Craig, both just now tapped on the shoulder.  Here is Ogando, throwing hot and hard past Craig, until the erstwhile batter finally slices off just enough of a fastball to curl the ball like a wood shaving onto the very edge of right field.  Here is the outfielder Cruz, charging, leaping like a hurdler, his glove extended.  Here is the ball finding the lawn just in front of him, here Freese around to score, Cardinals ahead 3-2.

Now the two managers make steeples out of their fingertips and eye the board beadily.  The Ogando Defense, though broken, holds.  LaRussa plays a Salas Feint; Salas allows a hit by Cruz and walks Napoli.  LaRussa switches to a Rzepczynski Attack and shuts down the Rangers with two impressive strikeouts, despite Washington's attempt to make a Gentry Switch for Left Fielder Murphy.  Washington, from his list of pitchers, plays a strong Gonzalez Variation, then finishes out the Feldman Line.  LaRussa counters with the Dotel-Rhodes Combination, and grinds out the Series-opening win with a trademark Motte Endgame, and the advantage of Allen Craig's sixth inning pinch-hit RBI single remains the difference.

In this the first game between our two heavy-hitting pennant recipients, the combined eight relief pitchers worked a total of 6-1/3 innings, struck out four, and permitted just three hits and no runs.  Cardinals win 3-2, and lead the Series 1-0.

The Laws of McRae Park Wiffle Ball

1. First of all, this isn’t technically Wiffle ® ™ ©  Ball.  This is a bunch of people in a park with a soft (really soft) foam ball and some bats.  We hit the ball.  We talk a little trash.  We may or may not keep score, or even count outs.  It’s fun.  If you’re going to go complain because we’re not using the skinny yellow bat and the regulation Wiffle ® ™ © Ball, maybe you should just go join a Wiffle ® ™ © Ball league, if you truly desire to suck all the fun out of it for yourself.  But don’t suck the fun out of it for us too.

2. The Ball: Made of foam, fat as a grapefruit, and soft enough that when my kid pitches wild and hits the baby sitting on the picnic blanket in the head, she hardly even notices.  Remember to squeeze it when you catch a pop fly or it will just bounce off your hands.

3. The Bat(s): Fat, skinny, foam, plastic, big or little, depending on your age.

4. The Bases: Yes, we will be running the bases.  Yes, grandma, we WILL be running the bases.  Preferably in the order 1st, 2nd, 3rd, and home; though some of the under-5 set have been known to go in reverse or random order (sometimes both at the same time).  Whatever.  12 paces apart seems to make it a good race between the baserunners and the fielders.

5.  The Players: Everyone plays: me, the wife, the kids, grandpa, grandma, random kids and/or grown-ups who happen to wander by.  Even the baby, though she is the perpetual catcher/backstop/occasional ball thief.  Players may join in at any time.

6. Balls and Strikes: Will not be counted.  Throw the ball where they can hit it.  Otherwise, the rest of us are just standing around.  If the batter is under 4 their mom or dad might help with the hitting.  Being hit by a pitch does not entitle you to first base, but it does entitle you to pretend to wince and/or writhe on the ground and/or dance about in simulated pain and agony.  Charging the mound is not discouraged by these laws.

7. Ground Rules: If we’re under the pine tree, over the fence is a home run.  Everything else is playable.  If you hit it into the pine tree, you’re out, and everyone else is entitled to free hits on you for as long as it takes my eight-year-old to climb the tree and shake the ball out.  Otherwise, if you hit it foul, it’s your job to go get it.  If you hit a home run, somebody else has to get it.

8.  Making an Out: Outs can be made in several ways.  A caught fly ball is an out.  Force outs and tag outs are made in the usual manner.  If you don’t have a fielder nearby, just throw the ball at the runner, and if you hit him, he’s out.  Tackling and/or holding a baserunner upside down by his or her ankles is also a valid way to make an out, provided the baserunner is under age 12 or is married to the fielder.  Nothing in these laws should be construed to discourage tickling, either by the fielder or the runner.  Similarly, blocking, dragging, holding hands, doing somersaults, leaping, diving, and crying as a ruse are all valid ways of making or avoiding an out.

9.  Scoring a Run: Congratulations!  Now get out and field.

10.  Batting Order: If there are enough players to form teams, the teams can decide their own batting orders.  (As a side note, teams MUST pick a name before coming up to bat.  Traditionally the two youngest players compromise on the name; such a compromise usually consists of combining the favorite animal/color/natural disaster/mythical creature/disgusting bodily fluid of each one.)  If we play work-up, then we bat youngest to oldest, with the standing exception that a newcomer gets to bat immediately.

11.  Finishing the Game: A game is completed when one of the following conditions is met: A. It’s dark out.  B. We’re out of soda (does not necessarily end the game but usually will at least provide the opportunity for a Seventh Inning Stretch).  C. We have lost all the balls and/or broken all the bats.  D. Dinner is ready.

M's, A's Pitchers Meet at High Noon on Main Street

SEATTLE--Sport, at its finest, allows us to sample the greater emotions not usually found in our quotidian lives, to order off the children's menu the feelings of pride, nobility, heartache, and despair.  Nowhere, I believe, are these emotions more finely threaded than in a true Pitchers' Duel, decided by one run: our man against all of theirs, their man against all of ours.  Baseball is a team sport and yet a battle of individuals, and in such a Duel as transposed last night in the rain-washed yard of SafeCo field, the two pitchers stood in and delivered.

Felix Hernandez was recently presented with Cy Young's old trophy by the American League, more recently presented with a Loss by the Kansas City Royals with a matching set of 6 hits and 2 ERs over 5 innings.  Felix fits his name on the mound, he is expansive in body and spirit.  He mutters in frustration when a close ball is called against him, he shares a laugh with the catcher in conference, he covers first, he pumps his fist to see his teammates make a saving play in the infield.  He is broad-shouldered, with a bad haircut and scruff under his chin.  I can picture him--if he were not throwing elusive, freight-train-like pitches past spectating Oakland batters--working in an auto shop or putting together airplanes with the same mix of seriousness, exuberance, and commitment to excellence.  Last night, every mechanism of his pitching rhythm was in gear; he struck out eight.  He inspired his teammates to sharp defense behind him, highlighted by a double play on a sharp line to Figgins outing Sweeny, then throwing to first to stomp out Willingham and his lead-off single.  When Felix walked off the field for the last time, the Seattle crowd stood on its feet, able to recognize Good Baseball when they see it, and the King humbly ducked and touched his cap.

Brandon McCarthy, after missing all of last season with an injury, appears more tightly controlled than Felix.  His jaw is set, his motion to the plate is lean, economical, and spare.  His expression is intense and unchanging.  He methodically struck out six last night, and like Felix, his infield sprang into defense behind him, turning a classic 6-4-3 double play, catching Peguero trying to steal, catching pop fouls to convert them into outs.  McCarthy was disciplined, only allowing a single walk, and facing just two batters over the minimum.  If he had been in the Oakland Stadium, he too would have likely received a standing O as he trod off the field.

In the end, it was a single swing of the bat, a single pitch from McCarthy in the Fourth, left up too high for First Baseman Kennedy; and Kennedy sent it up higher, up up and over the right field wall, and that pitch made all the difference in the game.  

Both men's lines are worth listing here:

FHernandez, 7.2IP, 4H, 0R, 0ER, 8K, 3BB, W

BMcCarthy, 8IP, 3H, 1R, 1ER, 6K, 1BB, L

M's Try to Brake Skid Against Jays

SEATTLE--The Ancient Mariners slouched onto SafeCo Field last night with the ugly stench of seven straight losses swirling around them.  Even King Felix, Slayer of Dragons, was affected by the smog of defeat, and was harshly treated by his guests the Toronto Ten (DH included).

For those Maple-bedecked, lovable lugs from the North were playing Socialized Baseball for the first seven innings (“Line up here in an orderly fashion: everyone will get at least one run and one hit paid for at public expense”), and their portly hurler Litsch was moving at the pace of a Canadian hospital: slow but cruelly efficient.

Or were Our Seamen just that inefficient?  There were signs of life in the First, with consecutive hits by the Itchy and Figgy Show, plus a two-out walk to Smoak to load the bases.  But then the catcher Olivo stepped in and bounced one right over to Lind manning first: full stop.  Fast forward to the Thrifty Third, and the bases were loaded again, this time with Figgins, Bradley, and Cust.  Now it’s Smoak and Olivo who partner to leave our noble base runners picking bright teal lint out of their navels, as Smoak fanned and Olive Oil flew out to left.  (Throughout the night, Catcher Olivo singlehandedly stranded a batting order’s worth of base runners in various and lonely positions among the bases.)

Manager Wedge was overheard in the dugout after the Third explaining through The Moustache to our young Mariner team the concept of What Is Home Plate and How Do I Score Runs With It.  (This isn’t Junior High any more, we should be getting past third base, he may or may not have scolded.)

In the Fourth, Luis Rodriguez came in for an injured Figgy, who had rolled wrong chasing a sharp grounder the previous inning.  Luis is clean cut and broad shouldered, and even as he was introduced I hoped he might be the Secret Sauce that would turn the tide for this obviously wallowing Mariners offense.

Meanwhile, the Birds spread the hits around to manufacture seven very blue-collar runs over six innings against Hernandez, and all of them but Lind earned a hit.

In the Stinky Seventh, as the Jays had already begun their walk down Bullpen Lane, and the Mariners, down 7-0, were coasting along a trajectory easily recognizable to any Seattle fan as Hopeless Defeat, Left Fielder Bradley hit what seemed at the time to be a freak home run, the clutch at the straw.  7-1.

But wait, what’s this?  With Reliever Laffey facing only four batters in the Toronto seventh, and Wilhelmsen pitching himself out of a jam in the eighth, this was starting to smell suspiciously like Solid Relief Pitching.

Then in the Easy Eighth, the M’s scored not one, not two, but five more runs!  Mind you, they didn’t so much score them, but were more so taken by the hand and gently guided around all the bases by three consecutive bases-loaded walks issued by an international alphabet soup of Canadienne relievers: Purcey, Dotel, Rzepczynski.  Oh, home plate, says First Baseman Smoak, and singles two more across for the 5-spot.

For those of you scoring at home, that’s 7-6 now, with the Good Guys’ eighth brought short by Catcher Olivo’s GIDP. 

Please, go the prayers of thousands of Seattleites who have seen all this before, Don’t let the bullpen fuck this up!  But Lueke came out looking sharp and throwing sharper, and sat down Toronto’s 5-6-7 batters in order.

Bottom of the ninth, and Saunders leads off with a beautiful double that pinballs into the RF corner.  Shortstop Ryan moves him over to third with a sac bunt neat as a pin.  Kennedy, batting for Wilson, grounds out to short.  Now Ichiro is the winning run, and they walk him on purpose to face Third Baseman Rodriguez, who is 0 for 2 with a walk on the night, and who subbed in mid-game for Figgins.  Rodriguez stands in against Toronto’s Camp, bottom of the ninth, two outs, down by one with two men on.  He works the count to 2-2, then starts fouling pitches, making Camp give him something.  Anything.

This is baseball.  This is why you don’t leave after the seventh inning, even when they’re down 7-0, so you can beat the rush to the parking lot.  This is why you don’t flip the channel to see who’s dancing with which star or who gets voted off the island--that’s all been decided before the season begins.  This is baseball.  This is Camp, shouldered with the responsibility of ending his bullpen’s slide tonight.  This is Rodriguez, shouldered with the responsibility of ending his team’s seven game embarrassment.  Both teams’ hopes rest on the outcome of a single pitch; the world narrows down to a sphere three inches across, and its potential intersection with a well-swung bat, and anything can happen.  Anything.

Finally, Luis reaches down low, out of the strike zone, and sends that ball deep and fat into right center, right where Nobody is standing.  Saunders around to score(!), Ichiro around to score(!), and Rodriguez walks off the field.  Secret Sauce.

Somewhere the sun is shining bright, the band is playing and hearts are light.  Tonight, that somewhere is Seattle; final score: M’s 8, Foreigners 7, and that, says The Moustache, is what we call a “win.”

Mariners Try an Oakland Sweep

OAKLAND--All over Marinerdom the faithful tuned in Sunday afternoon to look and see if maybe, three games into the rotation, their erstwhile boys in grey and teal could snatch not only a victory but a series sweep; and not just any series sweep, but a sweep of the villainous and bilious A's.

The old green-and-yallers were looking especially yaller today in their bright yaller shirts that seemed specifically designed to reflect the sun's rays right into the sunglassioed eyes of our poor outfielders, whose vision is yet accustomed to Seattle's wintry, drizzly, and cloud-swept skies.

The game was even through two, though the Mariners' early mis-steps and missed chances foreshadowed things yet to pass.  In the First, Figgy was surely out when he popped an 0-1 into foul territory beside 1B.  First baseman Barton, under it, had him dead to rights, but the ball hopped out of his glove and flopped to the ground like a freshly landed fish.  Given a second breath of life, Chone promptly struck out.  Moments later, designated cheater Cust broke his bat to send a blooper just over the shortstop's head.  Score it a single, but it still had molecules from Pennington's glove sticking to it.  Then Smoak hits one back to the pitcher and that was the end of it.

In the Ms' Second, Langerhans spanked a 2-2 from pitcher Gonzalez, the Ancient Mariners were up on the board first, and all was well.

In the Oakland half, we were treated to one of those plays that in itself is worth the entire price of admission and then some, like going to the zoo the day the mother rhinocerous has her baby--only it's quicker, and less gooey, and when it's over you want to see it again a hundred times.  Matsui on second with a landmark double (2,500 hundred career hits, MLB + Japan Leagues), tags up under catcher Suzuki's pop up to right.  Wait, right field?  That's where Ichiro roams, as you well know, and he is practically throwing before he's even done catching--running and catching and throwing all at once like some graceful gazelle carrying a bazooka.  I imagine that as Matsui is pumping down the base path, time slows down, cartoon-like, and Ichiro's throw looks over at Hideki as it overtakes him, tips its cap, then speeds on into Figgy's glove just a second before poor hustling Matsui.  Out!

So the momentum of the game seems to belong to the Mariners; but I just can't seem to shake those harbingers from the Funny First...

And sure enough, in the Third, Kouzmanoff scored on a triple by Coco Crisp.  And then in the Fourth, Willingham--aboard on an error by shortstop Ryan--got moved around to third when Suzuki shone the sun in Milton Bradley's eyes on a deep fly, then was scored on a sac by Ellis.  Then again in the Sixth, Willingham with a clean double this time, pushed across again by Ellis, this time with a single; and here we are in the Suddenly Sixth Inning down 3 to 1.

The Smelly Seventh, then, was where these proud Seamen would make their proud stand, and all looked promising when Longhorns led off with a double.  Even more hopeful when Ryan walked after a stubborn at bat, and with no outs it looked like a Sure Thing we would get at least one of those runs back.  Wilson moved them 90 feet closer with a neatly threaded sacrifice bunt.  But then Ichiro slapped one right back to pitcher Gonzalez, who took that as his cue to strike Figgy out (again).  And that was that.

From bad to worse in the Oakland Seventh.  Seattle's starter Fister had been replaced by Lueke in the last inning.  Sixth-Inning-Lueke looked sharp.  Sixth-Inning-Lueke's uniform was neatly buttoned and crisply pressed.  Sixth-Inning-Lueke struck out Pennington on five pitches.
  

But Seventh-Inning-Lueke handed out a double to Crisp, then two walks to Barton and Dejesus, then a single to Matsui.  The Ms' new manager came out to explain to Seventh-Inning-Lueke that while the Eric Wedge Pyramid of Greatness includes "Perspiration," it was now time for a change.  Lueke's line: 2/3 IP, 2 K, 2 BB, 2 H, 3 ER, tough first day in the Bigs, kid.  Next!  How about Pauley?  2/3 IP, 0 K, 1 BB, all inherited runners scored.  Next!

But by that time, the score was 7 to 1 Bad Guys, and the Mariners faithful scoring at home had already started another load of laundry and were now stewing over their friends' "Go Rangers" Facebook statuses.  They didn't miss much: the last six batters in the game sat down in order, and that score is your Final.

Dodgers and Giants Meet Opening Day

LOS ANGELES--You couldn't ask for a better Opening Day set up. Two of baseball's oldest and most storied teams? Done. Playing in sunny California? Check. Could you make the weather nice? For you, anything. How about two young pitchers at the top of their game, maybe Tim "The Hair" Lincecum versus Clayton "Boy Wonderbeard" Kershaw? Done and done. Defending World Series Champions against their oldest and lip-snarliest rivals? Check. Could you even cast Everyone's Hero Don Mattingly on his first day as a Big League Manager against the wizened Bruce Bochy? Already taken care of.

Really, the only thing missing tonight was, well, the game.

Oh, don't get me wrong: balls were batted, balls were caught, balls were thrown--not necessarily in that order. When there was fine pitching, there was no hitting; when there was decent hitting, there was bad base running. And let's just face it, there was ham-handed defense almost everywhere.

At the plate, the Artful Dodgers mounted several paltry, nearly pathetic offensives against the Giants' fielders, who were all too willing to bop, bobble, and drop the ball for effect. In the Big First Inning, two bloopy singles by Ethier and Kemp left runners at the corners, but all came to naught when Loney grounded to second. Next inning Uribe dared to dream that his single could grow up someday to be a double, but it was instead cut down in the flower of its youth when he slid--too enthusiastically, perhaps?--past the bag and Tejada happened to notice. Wait, says Uribe, Didn't you use to play on the other side of the bay? You're out, says Miguel, And here's the ball on your shoulder to prove it. (Hmm, says Uribe.)

In the Thirsty Third, Gwynn did what Uribe couldn't, and stood on second, thanks in part to Burrell's cement glove out there in left. But he, too, lingered and died a lonely death stranded out there on 2B.  

Meanwhile, Kershaw effectively shut down the World Winners at their turns to bat. They only made two hits in the first five innings, at the price of nine of their number cut down by strikes on the night. Kershaw's line, worth repeating: 7 IP, 9 K, 1 BB, 4 H, 0 R. What's more, he wore it well, confidently, so you almost forgot to notice when he got in a jam because he got right back out of it again.

Finally, in the Silly Sixth, the Giants handed the Dodgers two errors to rub together and see if they could make a run. Kemp, aboard with a walk, got moved around more by Tejada's bad DP try than by Loney's bunt, and found himself on third. Near third, to be exact, dilly-dallying, which is where third baseman Big Sandoval and the Giants' rookie catcher had a (wait for it) moment between pitches, thought they could catch Kemp looking at airplanes. Too bad Posey's throw escaped his thirdster, and while they were out chasing it down Kemp literally walked backwards across the plate to put one on the board for the home team. The run was unearned and looked that way, and even with a walk by Carroll, and even with Uribe hit on the elbow by an up-and-in fastball from The Hair, the Bums still couldn't drag another one across the dish.

Their second score, in the 8th, was somewhat fairer of cheek--the first time is always the hardest, I suppose. Kemp walked again, but this time he stole himself over to second right under the new Giants' pitcher Casilla's high leg kick. Then Loney hit a real pretty double, he measured the exact distance to the right field wall and put it neat into the corner, a beatiful tall double into the LA sunset. Okay, there's some baseball.

That made 2 for the good guys. Top of the ninth, last chance for the visitors. Burrell hit a sharp homer to left (for the kids!), but that was all they could muster, and the old Trolley Dodgers won it 2-1 this first go round.

Stand Up When You Sing

This is intended for all my friends, goodhearted as they may be, who just don't care for baseball. So I would ask all of them to please, take a moment to stop punching your own mother, extinguish your American flags, and put down your copies of the Little Red Book, before you read on. Frankly, I find myself trying to convince these friends to like baseball, which is like trying to convince someone to like steak, or convincing the pope that Martin Luther had a few good ideas.

Of course when I undertake to convince my Maoist friends of baseball's charms, I end up struggling to define what exactly it is that I love about baseball so much, and why it is that I love it. And of course, the more I try to put together a legal brief in support of the game, the more I realize that it's like trying to prove the existence of a sunset. But there are reasons I love baseball, reasons hard to spell out into black and white, but I'll give it a go:

Baseball is like taking a walk through your old neighborhood: sometimes, if you're lucky, there will be something--a window pane, the light through the trees, the smell of mowed lawns and hot asphalt, something--that will remind you of when you were a kid. Sometimes all you'll see is how much everything's changed.  


Baseball is like playing a good game of chess with your dad. You sit through everything, all the pawn moves, watching him spinning his wedding ring while he thinks, listening to the tock-tock of the old clock, slowly advancing your pieces. All for that one move when his eyes flick up to yours and he smiles, genuinely, and says, "Shit, I didn't see that." And you offer to let him take his last move back and he doesn't. Then he still beats you.

Baseball is me, six years old, sitting on the living room floor; even at that age I understand that Fenway Park is the bright burning heart of a neighborhood, the hearth for an entire city. Baseball is a six-year-old seeing but not fully understanding the contrast between Bill Buckner's downcast shame and the Mets celebrating in a writhing mass on the field.

Baseball is like watching a rocket launch. You can wait all day for that but, boy, you better not miss it.

Sometimes baseball is like going to a casino: the lights are bright, everyone is sweaty, and all they're after is your money. But sometimes, baseball is like going to church, the same church you went to your whole life and your parents too. Maybe you don't quite understand everything that is going on in front of you; maybe you can't, maybe you never will and should stop trying. But if you pay attention and believe for just a little while, it can send your heart soaring. Plus you should stand up when you sing.