Archive for True Internet Confession

Games I Wish To Protest

tarp

I think it’s wonderful that the San Francisco Giants have made the first successful protest in the past 28 years of baseball. Too long have we been chained to the pedantic, tiresome facts that pile up over the course of each baseball game. The external world is overrated anyway, what with its unreliable sensory data, its lack of free will, and the suspiciously lifelike behavior of the actors that populate our personal dramas. It’s time to make our own rules.

So as long as sophistry reigns supreme, and we can alter the outcome of games by talking about them very cleverly, I’d like to nominate a few contests of the near and distant past that I officially protest.

June 2, 2010: Cleveland @ Detroit

This seems like a good place to start. Armando Galarraga threw a perfect game. We don’t need The Man’s approval to tell us what’s true and what isn’t.

October 22, 1975: Cincinnati @ Boston (World Series Game 7)

I really couldn’t care less who won a World Series between two championship-rich franchises in a year that predates my birth and the birth of my baseball team of choice. But I do love the image of Fisk waving it fair, because I am a human being capable of feeling emotions, and thus I find it kind of selfish of the Reds to ruin it by winning the next game. Also, it eliminates 25 years of New England self-pity, so bonus!

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Birds Effectively Satirize Baseball Through Existence

In the first inning of the 3,543rd regular season baseball game of the 2014 season, two of the three billion birds on earth settled onto the infield grass at Comerica Park.

“Everybody’s acting like this is normal,” muses the announcer as men in brightly colored clothes and high socks stand watching a man throw a ball at another man, while another man holds a stick and swats at it.

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Cabrera Denies He Still Feels Groin Injury

Groin

(via Rotoworld)

“No, man, I don’t feel it, I don’t touch it, I don’t rub it, I don’t do any of that stuff. Not anymore. I know all that used to be a problem for me, but now I keep my hands completely away from it, I don’t even think about it. I mean, that’s how I injured it, so I know it’s really important to leave it alone, put that whole area out of my head, and not aggravate the problem by going back in there and fooling around. It’s like, yeah, once it got injured, it totally hurt whenever I was doing anything with that, uh, region of my body, but it was the kind of pain that, I don’t know, made me keep going back in, like a good kind of pain, except it wasn’t good because then when I tried to play baseball with it, it was, like, really not good, really hard to swing and everything, even to bend over and pick up a bat, or a ball, or a video of people, uh, naked people, uh, no, like I said, I’m not even thinking about that anymore. So, like, I tried tying my hands behind my back, handcuffing them to my chair, all sorts of stuff. I thought maybe a stress ball would help, one of those little ones, squeeze that, get all of my energy out with that– obviously it wasn’t the same, and, I don’t know, I think in some ways it just made the urge to get back into that area even more powerful, it’s sort of an addiction I guess, but not something the Players Association has any testing for, you know? So, yes, I admit I was feeling the injury a little bit at the beginning, mostly late at night in front of the computer, but I promise, no more. Not since we got that child-safe filter or whatever it was that my wife said we had to get. I mean, I know I can afford to pay someone to figure out a way around it, one of those tech guys, maybe a blogger or something, but I’m being good. I’m not touching anything, poking at anything, not even looking at it, I am not feeling my groin injury anymore. I promise.”


Occupational Hazards of Writing for a Hii-larious Baseball Blog

microphone-on-stage

As a loyal reader of NotGraphs – and again, thank you for that; turns out, the number of boats one can ski behind isn’t six but seven – you might think we NotGraphs writers spend each day bathed in boundless laughter, our scant few problems (i.e., which tux should I wear to the awards dinner?) erased by the giddiness that distinguishes our lives. Well, I am here to tell you that that is pretty much true … although I wouldn’t say the bathed in boundless laughter.

Of course, as with any rewarding profession in this our American experience, there is the occasional hazard. What follows is a list of those hazards. (Note: List of hazards does not include making lists of hazards.)
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Paying for MLB.tv

The problem with being underemployed isn’t that I have to borrow money to pay rent, or only buying store-brand Cheerios (Tasteeos! Heyo!), or the shame of seeing your peers thrive in their lucrative jobs with cars that don’t make loud popping sounds and roommates that bring their children to term. It’s that I can’t afford MLB.tv.

mlbtv

Raising $129.99 (because only Premium can be streamed on my roommate’s HDTV (through my roommate’s Roku)) can’t be that hard. As I sit on my roommate’s sectional using my girlfriend’s laptop, here are some ideas for how I can raise enough money to pay the bills get MLB.tv. These ideas, unlike everything else around me, are my own. For shame:

Sell My Body
Not for sex! Jeez! I’m not a manwhore. I’m not a sex-person. I’m not a coital-event-horizon. And I love my kidneys. They’re mine! NO TOUCHY! (Emperor’s New Groove reference!) But here’s what I will sell: my feces. That’s right! My precious, pungent stool is a prime specimen for transplantation into someone else’s butt to heal their GI woes. Fecal transplants are real. And my prospective recipient/baseball-enabler wouldn’t even need to bother about it being “safe” or “sterile” (it’s poop), they can just come on over and we’ll do it in my kitchen. 

Yard Work (W)
I’m a scientist, barely, and I know what work is: W=Fd. I’ll be generating tons of Newton-meters, or joules, in someone’s yard by moving things around. See that rake? I’ll put it over there, by the fern. Boom: joules. I’ll kick a rock until it rolls over. Boom: joules. I’ll move a barcalounger to a sunny spot on the front porch. Boom: joules. I’ll pick up a copy of Cosmo. Boom: joules. I’ll learn a sex tip. Boom: joules.

Make a Kickstarter with Tiered Donation Rewards as Follows:
$1: I send you a GIF of me blowing you a kiss.
$5: I send you a picture of me holding your name on a sign while being chased by an angry Albert Belle.
$25: You can come over and I’ll make you tacos and perform an uncomfortably intimate foot-washing ritual. While you eat tacos.
$50: I send you a pair of PINK-style sweatpants, except they’re blue and orange and say “I’m with Colon” on the butt with an arrow pointing downwards. They only make sense when you’re riding Bartolo Colon like a mechanical bull. Otherwise they’re kinda embarrassing.
$129.99: You get to watch Albert Belle ride Cistulli like a mechanical bull. While I make you tacos.


True Internet Confession: Sometimes I Conduct Fake Sports Interviews with Myself

A question for Mr. Perry

A recent Online Internet Chatroom conversation with @theiri, lantern-jawed MLB editor at CBSSports.com and board-vetted Man of Action, leads me to make the following True Internet Confession: Sometimes, I conduct fake sports interviews with myself.

Consider this is a consequence of my being a sports enthusiast, scion of the computer age and consumer of leisured pursuits. All of this is to say, I have, largely since the point of sentience, partaken in sports or sports simulations of some kind. A corollary to all of this has been my only slightly daunted habit of conducting fake sports interviews with myself. Please allow me to explain in further depth.

When I was a lad, I would, say, complete a Pee Wee football game and then later, in sweet solitude, address the probing questions of the imagined media. “I saw an opening, and I went for it,” is probably something I said out loud yet to no one of the corporeal realm.

Some years later, I probably said, “We emphasize ball movement here, and that’s why I passed up the shot.” I was not at any kind of locker with any kind of towel over my head and was not blinking into any kind of glare from the hot lights.

Still later, I probably said to a non-nest of no microphones, “I’m not sure why coach didn’t play me. You should probably ask him.” He didn’t play me because I was not good and toiled for a low-grade football powerhouse, but to the imaginary press corps, the explanation was something darker, something conspiratorial.

Mostly, though, the fake sports interviews I have conducted with myself have been the residue of computer simulations. What good are these labors if I go about them in mute drudgery and do not grant them wings with which to rise above their contrived essences? Call it pretend, but pretending is an act and an act is real. That’s why I shall always make time for the press that isn’t there.

Take the possibly no longer extant Lance Haffner suite of sports games, for instance. What is it about my patient tutelage of Dave Yarema and convention-toppling schemes that allowed me to guide the 1986 Michigan State football team to a most improbable national championship? Let me tell you a bit about that, credentialed media members crowding about me.

As architect of a Diamond Mind colossus, I was asked about my prevailing organizational philosophies. Out loud, I would say, somewhat condescendingly, “Obviously, that was part of the thinking when we made that trade. Those considerations always inform our baseball decisions.”

In the X-Box era, I returned Nebraska football to the glories of yore, while also being a vociferous social critic of the depredations of the NCAA system. How could I continue to make a sheik’s ransom coaching these young men while speaking out against their exploitation? “I’m not at ease with these contradictions,” I would say, disconsolately, “I want you to know that. But we’ve got a football game to win.”

While shooting basketball at my in-laws, I addressed questions about the elite athlete’s mindset when burying a clutch three, which I had just done. “Muscle memory takes over,” I say to the yard, who earnestly wants to know. “You’re a bit of an automaton at that point, at least if you’re properly prepared and moderated in your instincts. If you’re in that space, that swath of the mind, then the on-ball defender has nothing to do with the outcome. I am the author of every shot I take.” What kind of athlete talks with such piercing eloquence, the scribes wonder in chorus.

I conducted this interview over Thanksgiving. Next month, I turn 42.

What I’m saying is that sometimes I conduct fake sports interviews with myself.