The Cubs Suck

Sorry for stating the obvious, but my beloved Cubs, for lack of a better word, suck. We are 37-55, good for the second worse record in the MLB. It's hard for me to stomach being worse than chronically bad teams such as the Royals, Nationals, Orioles, and, especially, the Pirates. It's even harder for me to stomach this given our huge payroll and all of the intangibles that should allow the Cubs to be successful. The question, then, is this: why do we suck? Along with that, how do we stop sucking?

Why the Cubs Suck:

1. Worst fielding percentage in the majors.

Defense wins championships. Period. The Cubs' fielding this year has been atrociously bad. The most frustrating part about watching the Cubs is that fielding is a much easier fix (at least in theory) than changing a pitcher's delivery or trying to make someone faster. You can at least be adequate defensively if you have coaches who know what they are doing and you take a lot of reps in practice, which is why this is inexcusable in my opinion.

2. Inability to get creative to get on base and move runners into scoring position

Contrary to popular belief, the Cubs are not that bad of a hitting team. We have the 6th best batting average in the major leagues. The problem is that while the Cubs get a lot of hits, our OBP is below average. Add in the fact that we are second to last in stolen bases and half of our team doesn't know how to bunt and the Cubs simply don't score enough runs.

3. No ace on the staff.

There isn't a single starter on the Cubs roster who strikes fear into an opposing hitter. Garza, Zambrano, and Dempster are all okay starters but are more like 3-4-5 in a rotation and not 1-2-3. The revolving door on the back side of the rotation and the 4-5 starter's combined record that is something like 10-30 is evidence that the Cubs need help at the front of their rotation badly to take some of the pressure off of aging veterans like Z and Dempster.

4. Injuries

The Cubs are not deep to begin with, so the fact that we have had so many injuries has essentially been the kiss of death for this team. Byrd, Soriano, and Barney are key offensive contributors that the Cubs have to have healthy to win, all of whom have missed significant amounts of time with injuries. The Cubs have also had dozens (or so it seems) of pitchers who have gone on the DL with arm problems. Injuries are a part of the game for sure, but it seems like this year the Cubs have been snakebitten more so than in years past.

5. No Ron Santo

Ron Santo was truly the man, and the Cubs sorely miss his presence around Wrigley. His devotion to the Cubs and his constant positive attitude were an inspiration to countless Cubs fans. Without him, both the Cubs and the Cubs faithful seem lost.

How the Cubs Stop Sucking:

1. Fire Jim Hendry

I think Mr. Hendry is a decent guy, but enough is enough. He's been the GM for 10 years and we haven't won a World Series, let alone a pennant. Fire him. I know we've been close, we've had bad luck, blah blah blah. I want results, and his idiotic deals (Ex: Fukudome, Soriano, Zambrano contracts) haven't produced them. A new GM could help us craft a different type of Cubs team - a younger, faster, and defensively oriented team.

2. Sign Pujols or Fielder in the off-season

The Cubs have an bright future of the middle with Castro at SS and Barney at 2B. With Pena becoming a free agent, the Cubs have an obvious need at 1B. I know the Cubs have a history of overpaying veterans who are on the backside of their careers. However, Pujols, and to some extent Fielder, are once in a generation type players whose leadership, swagger, and ability to flat out mash in key situations are traits the Cubs desperately need.

3. Dump Tyler Colvin

I understand the dude was our 1st round pick in 2006. I understand he may just "be having a bad year." He may even be a pretty nice guy. But in over 100 plate appearances, he is batting .105. 1-0-5!!!!!! Unacceptable.

4. Give Tony Campana some Myoplex

I really, really like Tony C in the outfield and I think he has a great future with the Cubs. He is a fast, young, lefty bat that can really make a difference for us a down the road. That being said, give the kid some protein!!! He is listed at 5'8" 165 but I seriously doubt he is even that big, not to mention the fact he looks like he is 12. I really hope he hits the weights this offseason as he needs to keep the outfielders honest.

5. Lower beer prices at Wrigley

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0_OxCHyLLkU

Despite our awfulness, if the Cubs can at address at least some of the issues I've brought up, I think the future is bright. Keep the faith Cubs fans, it's gonna happen!!

Fathers and Sons

Baseball is fathers and sons. Football is brothers beating each other up  in the backyard, violent and superficial. Baseball is the generations, looping backward forever with a million apparitions of sticks and balls, cricket and rounders, and the games the Iroquois played in Connecticut before the English came. Baseball is fathers and sons playing catch, lazy and murderous, wild and controlled, the profound archaic song of birth, growth, age, and death. This diamond encloses what we are.

- Donald Hall, Fathers Playing Catch With Sons

When I was little the high point of every day was waiting for my dad to get home, waiting for dinner to end, and going outside to play a three inning game of tennisball in the side yard.  The field had about 30 degrees of fair territory, a ball over the street about 100 feet away was a home run (despite the fact that we had a fence), singles weren't allowed because home to first was only about 40 feet, if a ball hit the trees that provided a canopy over the field it was played as a clean fly ball, and yet it felt just like a big league park.  My dad has had multiple knee surgeries (3? 4?), was probably always pretty tired, and yet would seemingly always come out to play with us, providing the nightly counterpart to the Lakewood Vultures, a star-studded team with perennial .800 hitters Michael and Will Streit.  He would always jump out to an early lead, unless his teammate Stuart prevented him from doing so due to the lack of power that a 3 year old can bring to the table, and yet we would always manage to come back and win in a series of upsets that I'm surprised 30 for 30 didn't jump all over.  Those games forced me to hit line drives up the middle, they forced me to play quickly in the field, they taught me to never give up (even after Dad lined a tennis ball square off of my forehead), they gave me an appreciation for the way that the air feels when (and only when) the sun is at the horizon in the middle of summer, that cool humidity that can only be described by the realization that Mother Nature herself must be getting chills by watching the sunset, and they gave me baseball, my first love.

This past Sunday, Fathers Day, for the first time in probably 12 years, all four of us went out to play again.  It was noon this time, at a local Little League field, with a softball (and singles allowed).  We were out of shape, it was hot, we were lacking in the enthusiasm that can only come out of little boys, and it couldn't have been more perfect.  For that hour, we were sent back to those sweet summer nights.  Any normal family would have tossed the ball around and taken a little batting practice, but before we even put down the bases we had decided on playing 2-on-2, just like the old days.  There was Dad running as hard as he could out of the box, Michael wiping out as he rounded first (caused, of course, by hustle and not a lack of coordination or cleats), Stuart throwing out runners from center at depths that may have been home runs at the Polo Grounds... we kept playing to win, even when the circumstances should have been screaming "THIS DOESN'T COUNT, IT DOESN'T MATTER.  WHY ARE YOU DOING THIS TO YOURSELVES???"

In the past 48 hours, I've realized that it wasn't that field or those games that taught me to hit line drives, that wrapped Nature's cool blanket around my shoulders, that showed me a world that only ballplayers can really understand.  It was Dad.  The same man who taught me to work hard, to take a blue-collar mentality into everything, to play to win, to not make excuses, and to love the people around me, and I can't thank him enough for that.

On Sunday, I made a catch on the run behind our minivan in the parking lot in deep left field that I'd like to describe as Willie Mays-esque, but it was probably closer to routine, but after we got home, Dad told me a story that I don't think I'd ever heard before.  It was short, it was inconsequential except for its relation to the catch in left that I'd made, and it may not seem like much, but to me, it was huge.

Dad smiled and started off, "Ya know, that catch reminded me of one time when Will was really little.  We were playing in the yard and somebody hit a deep fly, Will wasn't wearing a shirt, but the ball was going deep out toward center, and there was Will, running after it.  I didn't think there was any way that he could possibly get it, but he made it out there and caught it.  I can still see him running out there, shirtless, making that play." 

I may be stretching this, but I feel like that story is kind of a metaphor for what Dad did for me on all those summer nights.  Other kids at this stage in their life are running off, out of center field, backs turned, but because of all those lessons I didn't know I was receiving, I'm just going out to try to catch the ball that my Dad has placed out in front of me, everything he's done for me that I can only hope to meet.  It may look uncatchable, it may be long and it may be far, but I'm going to run out there and I hope I'm going to get it, and then I can turn back to him and laugh and smile in the sun.  And hopefully I'll make him even a tenth as proud of me as I am of him.

MoreBaseball.com

Baseball lovers:

Short post today, as 1. I need to work early tomorrow and 2. this info can pretty much speak for itself.

I'd like to introduce you to MoreBaseball.com.  MoreBaseball is in the building process, but as you have already been able to see if you clicked the link, it's pretty sweet already.  Basically it's a place (like this) where baseball fans, players, coaches, and possibly even umpires can meet up and talk about all the things that only we can appreciate; like the College World Series, awesome bat deals, and Reebok Pumps.  It also has a sweet forum that's just starting up, and because there's absolutely nothing wrong with shameless pitches, I absolutely think you should check this site out.

Playing the right way

A week ago today, on Letters to Pilky, I put my feelings on that punkass whiney little prima donna sonuvabitch why the hell doesn't someone knock him unconscious come on ref T him up just one time to shut his little pretty boy mouth Lebron James.  To sum up 400 words in one phrase: I think Lebron James does things the wrong way.  He's not something that our first generation, blue collar immigrants would be proud to watch.

Someone who they would have been proud of was Ken Griffey Jr.

The prettiest follow-through in baseball

Ken Griffey did everything right.  He was one of the few true five tool players.  He hustled in the outfield, he hit singles, hit doubles, drove in runs, and most importantly, he hit home runs without ever once being connected to the rampant steroid allegations surrounding him.  He didn't wear excessive bling, his names were never in the headlines for anything but being a great ballplayer, and the only seemingly cocky issue about him was that he liked to wear his hat backwards, which stemmed back to the days when he had to wear his dad's hat that way because otherwise the brim would fall over his eyes.

Junior departed from Seattle because he wanted to be closer to his family in Cincinnati.  He willingly played for a worse team because he wanted to be where his parents were, where his kids were, where home was. 

He was a role model in that everything he didn't say said everything about him.  He played to play and was noticed because he deserved to be noticed.  He wasn't a pop culture figure, he was famous for being a baseball player, and a damn good one at that.  Spotlight was never the intention for Junior, it just came as a result of what he did. 

In the summer of 2008 I was in Cincinnati during the last few weeks of Griffey's stint with them.  I can't remember who they played, I don't know if they won, the score, who pitched, or anything else that I would normally remember about a game.  All I remember is that I got to see Ken Griffey play.  Someday, when his slide into home plate in the '95 ALDS comes on TV, I'll be able to say that I saw that kid play.  I saw him laugh in the outfield, I saw that beautiful swing, I saw him pull a single into right field.  There aren't many athletes that have had that affect on me.  Derek Jeter is one, Michael Jordan is one, Brett Favre is one, Cal Ripken is one, but they come few and far between.

But the best part about Ken Griffey Jr, in my opinion, is that he was a team player until the end.  A year and four days ago today he called it quits.  He retired mid-season, realizing that the Mariners could do a lot better than a .184 batting average.  Now, a year later, Jorge Posada is complaining because Joe Girardi put him in the nine hole.

You've stayed with me so far on this, so I'm hoping that you'll be willing to stick out this strange analogy I'm about to make:

In my Environment & Civilizations course my freshman year, we learned about a cold-weather nomadic tribe (I think in Alaska?  Northern Canada?  Definitely not Russia) that had to constantly be on the move to follow it's food supply.  Because of this, old people were a huge hindrance.  At the same time, they were obviously valued and were the source of all of the young people in the tribe, so nobody was going to call them out on this.  The elders, when they could no longer keep up the required pace, would leave at night, no goodbye, no see ya later, no nothin, and would simply walk away until they died.  It was the most noble thing to do.

In today's me-first, reality show athlete world, seeing Ken Griffey do a similar thing when he simply didn't show up at the ballpark on a Wednesday afternoon last June was very cool to me.  He knew that he had accomplished amazing things with his career, but he also knew that his time was up.  He didn't fight it, he didn't pull a trump card, he just stood up and walked away from the table and hasn't looked back.

Setting things straight

A few days ago, Dan wrote a post which covered a wide variety of topics.  While I value the magnitude of being twenty years old, summer comas, man crushes, and Kenny Chesney, I'd like to make it very clear that the world would be a much better place without Nickleback.

Nickleback

Now I'm not saying that I don't understand the allure of Nickleback.  I was drawn in for a brief period of time somewhere between April and June of 2007.  I'm not proud of this period of my life, but I'm willing to admit that it occurred.  This allure must have been what Dan was referring to when he said that while he was "indifferent" to Nickleback, he did respect them.  This is bad.

Just admitting that Nickleback has an allure does not mean that it's acceptable to fall prey to them.  Circe had an allure, but spending a year on her island definitely wasn't a good move by Odysseus.  Like Circe though, Nickleback is pretty hard to resist at first, cause their songs mean something, man.  They're talking to ME!  I'm a rebellious teen, man, and finally somebody understands me.

 No.

I have found that my enjoyment of a band's music in the long-term is pretty much 100% directly correlated to the amount of fun I think I would have if I hung out with them.  Let's take a quick survey of the bands in my iTunes most played list.

Ben Folds - Absolutely would be fun to hang out with

New Radicals - It would definitely be fun to hang out with these dudes.  Especially the man on the left

Billy Joel - Yes!

Steely Dan - Obviously (Bonus points for being named after a vibrator)

O.A.R. - Questionable levels of metrosexuality, but you know that they get ladies.  So yes.

Counting Crows - Deep talks bro.  (Bonus points for being friends with the Best QB in the world)

Nickleback - Over/under on time I could spend in the same room as these guys before jumping out a window: 74.5 seconds

According to a dead link to Rolling Stone found on wikipedia (can a source get any more credible?), Nickleback was named because bassist Mike Kroeger, brother of lead singer Chad (douchey blonde Jesus), used to give nickles as change to his customers when he worked as a barista at Starbucks.  I imagine the conversation going something like this.

Chad: I want to REACH OUT to these kids man, cause I know what they're going through man.  I think my life is way fuckin' harder than it is too man, and I want these kids to know that if they want to blow that shit out of proportion and feel sorry for themselves, they can do it man.  [slightly off key minor power chord blasts through the garage]
Mike: Yeah man.  But we can't have a band unless we have a name. 
Chad: I know man, but we need to get our message out there RIGHT AWAY.  [a single tear rolls down his cheek]
Mike: Wait.
[Chad cocks his head, mouth slightly agape, eyes widen]
Mike: Today, I was working at Starbucks, which is where all artists go man.
Chad: We're totally artists man.  Such artists.
Mike: That's what I'm telling everyone man.  But today, I was working, and this guy ordered a $1.95 cup of coffee.
Chad: Whoa.
Mike: And he gave me TWO dollars instead of $1.95.
Chad: Whoa.
Mike: I think most people would have kept it, but because I'm a caring man, which is sometimes hard to see through my dark exterior, making me hard to understand and appreciate, I gave him a nickle back.  That's what we should name our band, cause we're caring, dark, mysterious, and artists.

Nickleback has had reasonable success over the past ten years, even managing to land the top hit of the year in 2002 with "How You Remind Me."  Amazingly, this song has two choruses, and one "verse" that poetically states "It's not like you didn't know that / I said I love you and I swear I still do / And it must have been so bad / Cause living with me must have damn near killed you," before going back into repetition of the first half of the song.


DEEP.


POWERFUL.


MYSTERIOUS.


Upon reading the draft for our loveable lefty's post, I immediately asked myself, "Young William, Dan isn't a douche.  How did he get caught up in the douchiest band ever?"


I pondered this for a while, but luckily Sports Pickle came in to save the day.

Once again, being a fan of the White Sox leaves the fly ball of appreciation I have for Dan Finan to be caught at the warning track.  After extensive research, I've learned from what I assume is a viable source, that the White Sox are officially the Douchiest Team in Professional Sports (brought to you by tribal tattoos and v-neck tees).  Perennially outspoken and perennially underperforming, the White Sox are the equivalent of Darrin Jackson in the booth.  Wait, they already covered that.  The White Sox are the equivalent of somebody who thinks all the girls sweat him.  Yes.  That's it.


While cheering for the White Sox isn't all that terrible on its own, like all douchey things it creates a slippery slope that leads to other douchey things, such as thinking that Nickleback produces quality music.  So next time that you see a six-foot, left-handed ginger roaming free, please turn him around towards the path of righteousness.  We can't let this rebelliousness spread.

I Love You, Man

Don't call it a comeback...I've been here for about a month now. What with finals and all, In From the Bullpen was unfortunately put on the backburners of Dan Finan's mind for about a fortnight, and for that I am sincerely sorry. But by golly, I vow to make it up to you. As I sit here tonight with a whole mess of a summer ahead of me, and with Chicago baseball abysmal at best, I naturally have a lot of other things on my mind besides all things bat and ball. Some pretty random ideas can creep into your mind when you're studying price and quantity variances at 3:45 AM for "Wild Bill" Schmuhl's Managerial Accounting final later that day, and you lucky duckies are about to get a little looksie into the deepest chasms of my thoughts. (The second half of that sentence might be the creepiest and ickiest collection of words a 20-year-old man can write. But on that topic, how cool is it that I am a "20-year-old man"? Sometimes I like to picture the news broadcast that would follow my committing a serious felony. "Authorities are searching today for a 20-year-old suburban man, still at large, in connection to Wednesday morning's string of grand theft auto charges." Do you not picture this big badass of a man sporting all black, a dirty beard, and a bad attitude? Awesome!)

Let me preface this edition of In From the Bullpen by warning my readers that this is largely a dude-focused post. This is for all of you guys out there who will, for the next twelve weeks, be rolling out of bed at 11:49 AM, stumbling downstairs to the La-Z-Boy, and watching 2 consecutive episodes of SportsCenter in only your boxers. At some point you will stumble back to the kitchen to grab a roll of Girl Scout Cookies, a Mountain Dew, and a couple of Hot Pockets. While you proceed to watch Around the Horn, PTI, and a random but awesome documentary about Hitler on the History Channel, just promise me that you'll make sure to brush the Cheetos dust off your belly and turn yourself over once every couple of hours--nothing can ruin a summer like bed sores.

Before I get going on our main topic, I would like to address an important issue that, for whatever reason, I have been observing more and more often lately. Even though I am admittedly one to butt in and offer my opinion on a whole plethora of topics, I have deliberately kept my mouth shut when I hear folks discussing this specific issue. To be quite frank, however, things have gone too far; the blatant bigotry and hatred have pushed me to the point where, at the advice of several of my fellow Alumni Hall Dawgs, I feel obligated to stand up and say something. The fact is, Nickelback is pretty damn awesome and does not warrant any of the disrespect the haters continue to sling their way. Now, Nickelback's violent sound, brash approach, and racy themes may not be your cup of tea, but damn it, you will respect them. Though I myself am rather indifferent to Nickelback's music and have only a handful of their songs in my iTunes, I know enough to bow in the presence of greatness when I come across it. In fact, I have observed a trend over the years that can be summarized by the following postulate: For every President the people of the United States of America elect, Nickelback will crank out an average of five or six hits. Honestly, how many bands can say that? While you sit in your dorm room toiling in your petty studies, Nickelback is out doing whatever they want and having a ball while they're at it. For the love of God, you will let Chad and the gang be as they continue their quest to convert the non-believers of this world.

Now that I have that out of my system, it's time to discuss one of the major phenomenons that every guy, regardless of race, creed, color, or socioeconomic status, experiences quite often in his life: the man crush. (Note I left out sexual orientation, because then we're talking about a straight-up crush, and as a God-fearing, red meat-eating, straight male, I feel I'm not the right person to delve into that topic.) Why do I bring up the man crush here? Well, besides the fact that I've had more than my fair share of drama with the sex that plays softball this past semester and am sick of their shenanigans, it's summer. And because my summer pretty much consists of baseball, country music, Dudasik parties, big fat Chipotle burritos, and blasting Def Leppard with my windows down and a mean look on my face while an old couple named Harold and Betty sit next to me in their Buick at a red light, no other season can so beautifully evoke the feelings of bromance. The man crush can indeed leave a man questioning his own manhood as he finds himself Google Image-ing and talking about his man crush on the reg. But never fear. Such homage is not only allowed; it is encouraged.

While women fumble around with Gossip Girl, US Weekly, and Kate Middleton (was that Sarah Burton wedding dress not breathtaking?!), we dudes choose not to partake in such fleeting tomfoolery. No sir. Instead, we are extraordinarily particular when selecting a man crush. There is no "short-term" in this ballgame, ladies and gentlemen (in case ladies actually stuck around long enough to read this far). It has to be perfect--you want to live vicariously through this individual for years to come. As for me, I currently have two man crushes:


Kenny Chesney
Chesney is boss. The only things he cares about are Corona, beaches, and high school football. I really can't say much more.


Gordon Beckham
Gordon Beckham may be the hottest thing to hit the Big Leagues since Rocker's two-seam fastball and flaring temper came to New York in '99. I know what you're thinking. That .220 average Gordo is sporting right now isn't too sexy. The boy's coming around though, and besides, he's hitting 1.000 in the being-damn-good-looking category. Gordon's baseball prowess and general sexiness prove that you can indeed have your cake and eat it, too.

Speaking of cake, I leave you with yet another classic scene from American cinema; Bruce Bogtrotter could say a thing or two about simultaneously having and eating cake (Subtitles included in case our audience has crept south of the border). Enjoy.

Golden Comb Awards

Lacrosse players constantly talk about how sick their “flow” is. While I’ll resist the temptation to make fun of lacrosse for the fact that no one outside of the East Coast has ever seen a lacrosse game/match/event/whatever it’s called and the fact that Alex Rodriguez makes twice as much per plate appearance as the average pro lacrosse player makes in a season, I cannot resist the temptation to show how misguided their “sick flow” claim is. In reality, lacrosse “flow” is nothing special and like almost every other aspect of their game, is inferior to baseball. As evidence, I present to you the 2011 “Golden Combs”, the best hair MLB bullpens have to offer:

American League

Winner:

Chris Perez, RHP, Cleveland Indians

Runners-Up:

Phil Coke, LHP, Detroit Tigers

Ryan Perry, RHP, Detroit Tigers

Brayan Villarreal, RHP, Detroit Tigers

Scott Downs, LHP, Los Angeles Angels

National League

Winner:

Jeff Samardzija, RHP, Chicago Cubs

Runners-Up:

James Russell, LHP, Chicago Cubs

Daniel McCutchen, RHP, Pittsburgh Pirates

Joe Beimel, LHP, Pittsburgh Pirates

Ryota Igarashi, RHP, New York Mets