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

Why I Love Baseball

Cubs fans (I hope),

Thanks you for reading my inaugural blog entry for In From the Bullpen. You are probably wondering two things: who is this kid and why is he writing his first blog post instead of a final essay that is worth over a third of his grade?

To answer the first question, like Dan and Will I am a fellow sophomore at Notre Dame. From what I've gathered, my baseball career was pretty similar to theirs. From about age 10 I was a pure pitcher - I literally could not play any other position because I was not mobile and could not hit at all. This was acceptable so long as I threw hard, which I did until about 8th grade. I basically stopped growing freshman year, but I continued throwing nothing but heat and the occasional change-up. By sophomore year my neck was getting pretty sore from watching all the bombs I gave up, so I realized that I probably should learn to pitch and not just try to throw the ball past people. I became a true garbage pitcher, mixing in an average fastball between entirely too many slow curveballs for the rest of my high school career.

Now that I've told you a little about my life in baseball, why have I decided to blog today? As a good friend of mine Michael "Squints" Palledorous once said, "I've got a lot of things of my mind." Between finals, dealing with the fact college is almost half over, the Cubs sucking, and troubles with the sex that plays softball, I've had a lot on my plate recently. To be honest, it has really made me miss baseball.

Looking back, there is seriously no better feeling the world than standing on that mound and starring the guy in the batter's box in the eyes while thinking to yourself "heres my best, I dare you to hit it." It's a feeling that truly defies explanation. You would think that pitching is full of pressure, but for me there is nothing I feel more comfortable doing. The mound was a place where I could go and know that all of my problems, whatever I was dealing with in my life, would stay on the other side of the chalk. Sometimes what I did on that mound went well and other times it didn't. But even when I pitched terribly, I always wanted another opportunity to get back on the bump. It honestly sucks that other than a few times on the dorm team, I will never have that opportunity again. But life goes on. I'll find new things to do, probably golf some more. At times like this, though, I miss being on the mound and having nothing to think about but getting the guy out. Turns out the real world isn't always that simple.

Speaking of which, I should probably get working on that essay of mine. Thanks for reading my first post and good luck to everyone on finals

The Anthem

I was planning on studying for a test that counts for 30% of my grade that's taking place in approximately 13 hours, but because we all have priorities, I figured that this was a little bit more important...

I've lived in this wonderful country for over twenty years, and during that time, I've realized that we have three main beliefs.

1.  Being bigger and more powerful than everybody else (see: military, pickup trucks, football, the state of Texas)
2.  Consuming more than everybody else (see: food, oil, beer)
3.  Being more proud of ourselves than anybody else is of their poor excuses for countries.

Brief anecdote:

We had a friend from Australia come visit us four years ago.  Unfortunately it was in the middle of winter so she couldn't see the greatest game in the world, but she did get to attend a high school basketball game.  She was shocked that we played the National Anthem before the game started.  I got this news from my mother so I didn't hear the exact conversation, but I have to assume that it went something like this:

Friend: "Why do you play the National Anthem before a sporting event?"
Mom: "'Cause we're proud of this beautiful land.  Sea to shining sea, purple mountains majesty, with liberty and justice for all.  Murka.  Fuck yea.  God bless us every one."

She then began to sing the soprano line over the top of the Cary Grove High School Band, much to the delight of our friend and everyone around her.

I, for one, love the National Anthem, God Bless America, Toby Keith, baseball, apple pie, and Budweiser, and I'm glad that all of these things are so prominent in American culture.  But mostly, I'm glad that they all appear together (Except apple pie.  I don't think you can get apple pie at the ballpark.  This needs to be changed.  ASAP.  Like right now.  Quit reading.  Work on this.  Yes, you.).  Is there anything cooler than standing up in the bleachers with 30,000 (9,000 if you're in Cleveland, 0 if you're in Toronto) other Americans before a baseball game listening to someone belt out the Star Spangled Banner?

Trick question.

Yes there is.

Flashback to the glory days:

 The coolest thing in the entire world was getting your name called out before the game, running onto the field, toeing the foul line (but good God if you stepped on it you were screwed), and listening to the National Anthem under the lights.  That was quite possibly the greatest part of Little League.  (Except for getting a dollar for the concession stand after the game).

"Batting sixth (-ixth, -ixth) and pitching (-ing, -ing, -ing), number tah-wenty (-ty, -ty), Daaaaaaaan Finaaaaan!!!!!"

Scattered applause from the 28 parents and siblings in the stands rains down on the young ginger as he scrambles out of the dugout.  He waddles into the light, stares at the flag behind center field, whips off his cap and puts it over his heart.  There's an awkward 40 second pause as the dads in the announcers booth struggle to work the tape recorder that finally plays out a grainy version of the Star Spangled Banner.  Parents stand restlessly in the bleachers, hoping that their child isn't the one screaming of a pegging-related injury in a game of running bases behind left field.  Still, the 4'11" flame-haired flamethrower stands at attention, never more proud to be wearing a baseball uniform.  He's playing for himself, his teammates, his father, and his country, a young lad who is simply happy to be able to play the greatest game in the world in the greatest nation in the world.

He then proceeded to give up 14 runs in 1 2/3 innings.  Fortunately his tears were quickly gone when he found out about the copious supply of David seeds and Big League Chew in the dugout.

The National Anthem meant something to us youngins.  It put us on the same level as our heroes (see: Herbert Perry, Carlos Baerga, Danny Almonte), because dammit, they had to sit through it too.  And just like taking infield and struggling to get your cup to fit without pinching your nuts, it should have been annoying and repetitive, but it truly never got old.