Cubbies for a day

This past weekend, Ian and I made the trek up to the fine City of Chicago to enjoy a Cubs game and a Jimmy Buffett concert. A few observations:

Every bloody thing in Chicago is named after Mayor Daley or his dad. The Richard M. Daley Building, the Richard J. Daley Center, the Richard M. Daley Public Restroom (A Richard J. Daley Project). You get the idea.

Chicago has public transportation down, man. We took the train from our hotel to Wrigley and back in a snap, all for the low price of two dollars. (I will have to get used to public transportation this coming fall, because I think I’m taking the bus to campus if I can’t find someone to sell me a red parking decal. This is a not-so-subtle hint.)

I felt sort of like a traitor when I clapped for Cubs hits. Oh well, I balanced that out by wearing the right cap:

My cousin Scott is a dirty, funny, old man. He burned a bunch of bootleg and compilation CDs and brought them to Buffett tailgating, where he offered them to old drunk ladies in exchange for a good view of their funbags. I have photos. They are disturbing.

Finally, I think I fill out a coconut bra quite well, don’t you think?

Yes, Indeed, I'm Walkin'

So, when a guy gets a walk in baseball, why does he run to first base? It’s called a walk, people. If I were playing, I would take my own sweet time to get to first base, man.

Look: baseball is a special sport because even fat guys can participate. Earning the right to walk anywhere should be their bread and butter. It’s 90 feet of leisure in an otherwise taxing world.

Another post based on my hatred for the Boston Red Sox

Recently, I got a letter from Major League Baseball telling me about the great deals I can get if I subscribe to XM Satellite Radio to listen to every one of my team’s games. That was all well and fine, but the letter itself was from Larry Lucchino, President & CEO of the Boston Red Sox.

Oh dear, you have upset me.

Well, may as well write another letter to yet another Major League Baseball team, right? This is in the mail as we speak. Let’s see if we get a response (I’m still waiting on further correspondence from the Yankees):

Dear Mr. Lucchino,

Hello. Recently, I received in the mail a letter from your office beckoning me to subscribe to XM Satellite Radio such that I may hear broadcasts of the Sox whenever I please. There is a pretty significant issue with your letter, however, in that it begins with the phrase “Dear Red Sox Fan.”

I would like to make it abundantly clear that I am not, never have been, and never will be one of the legion of soulless and spineless bandwagon jumpers that you so eloquently call “fans.” I have never donned a Sox hat, I will never set foot into Fenway Park, and every day when I wake up I sing the praises of Mookie Wilson to the heavens. Quite simply put, I hate the Red Sox more than anything on this planet.

By calling me, a tried and true Tampa Bay Rays fan, by those terrible, terrible words, you have insulted me to no end. Never would I want to be associated with the ignorant Sawx-loving drones that infest the country. I am neither as drunk nor as belligerent as the typical Red Sox fan, and I take pride in my ability to watch a baseball game without spitting on opposing fans, using profanity within earshot of children, or being generally ignorant about the game.

I realize that you yourself had nothing to do with this mass mailing. However, I would like you to let whoever it is that sent me unsolicited mail peddling broadcasts of your team’s games that they are never to send me correspondence from Yawkey Way ever again. Ever.

Shove it up your ass,

Casey A. Peterson

P.S. Sweet Caroline sucks.

How much I hate the Red Sox

In this post, I will proceed to describe just how much I hate the Red Sox.

I hate the Red Sox so much, I can think of a million things I would rather do than be in their presence for an extended period of time. I would rather:

Get an appendectomy. Chop off my own legs and beat myself over the head with them. Jump off a cliff Wile E. Coyote style, holding a sign that says “At least I’m not watching the Sawx!” Play a game of Russian Roulette with myself. Wear a Speedo everywhere I go. Wear a tuxedo everywhere I go. Bake a cake filled with shards of glass. Read War and Peace. Watch a Ben Stiller movie. Pull off my fingernails with a pair of pliers. Confine myself to a tiny room with Michael Moore after he eats twelve bean burritos. Talk like the guy from the B-52s for the rest of my life. Fly too close to the sun with wax wings. Marry my Golden Retriever. Swallow my own fist. Fall into a volcano. Try to sharpen each of my fingers in an electric pencil sharpener. Try to sharpen my fingers in an manual pencil sharpener. Watch every episode of Sex and the City. Watch every episode of Sex in the City, counting the times I am falsely attracted to Sarah Jessica Parker, only to realize that she is actually a man. Eat 50 pounds of uncooked rice. Violate a hedgehog. Walk barefoot over hot coals. Drink 20 shots of grain alcohol and play a game of tennis with my pastor. Skydive without a parachute. Move to Wyoming. Shave my head and get a tattoo of Michael Jackson’s face on my bare scalp. Get naked and cover myself with bees.

There are more, trust me. The point here is the same, folks: the Boston Red Sox and their fans are the most irritating folks in the history of mankind. I cannot stand them.

Don't put me near a word processor when I'm mad

I am livid.

Recently, the Rays and Yankees have had sort of a feud because one of our guys came in hard to home plate in an attempt to make the catcher drop the ball (a completely normal and very exciting play in baseball, I might add). Well, long story short, the catcher broke his wrist and now Yankee nation (and only Yankee nation) has been whining about it for a week. You can see the story here.

Today, the Yankees retaliated by hitting our top prospect with a pitch and then sending a man to slide into second with his foot aimed directly at Aki’s balls. This did not sit well with Jonny Gomes, who is known to be absolutely insane, and a brawl started. The Rays won the game. Story here.

Well, I am angry. So angry, in fact, that I’m sending the Yankees a letter regarding my anger. We shall see if I get a response (I wouldn’t count on it):

Dear New York Yankees,

I’m writing today to address an issue that has recently come about between your Major League Franchise and my hometown team, the Tampa Bay Rays.

Recently, there has been much hubbub regarding a recent play at the plate involving Elliot Johnson and your now-injured catcher Francisco Cervelli. It escalated into a difference of opinion, with your beloved Joe Girardi saying that you should not play so hard in spring training and the rest of the world disagreeing with him. I guess it’s just a difference of opinion: one man says spring training is to get players in tune for the real season (because, you know, Francisco Cervelli is obviously an odds-on favorite to be the catcher for the New York Yankees on opening day), and another man says that spring training is a grounds upon which players can prove their worth to the organization and hope for a spot on the big-league club (I might point out that with Rocco Baldelli’s newfound illness, Mr. Johnson’s chances of joining the club have increased heftily).

If, as Mr. Girardi suggests, the proper spring training etiquette is to play spring training games with one’s starters in the beginning five innings of a game and just roll over and play some ill-conceived version of cricket for the remainder of the game, I move that the New York Yankees should reduce their ticket prices by 4/9. It’s only fair.

But then, I would rather violate a porcupine than subject myself to a stadium full of Yankees fans.

However, this is not the point I wish to write about today.

No, you can consider this letter a formal complaint about the actions of the spring training contest between these two teams that took place today, March 12, 2008. I will specifically list my grievances as follows:

1. The obvious attempt of Mr. Shelley Duncan (who, might I add, has an adorable name) to severely injure or otherwise hurt Mr. Akinori Iwamura while sliding into second base was classless and completely unnecessary. Outfielder Jonny Gomes retaliated, thus inciting a “brawl” on the field. (I use this term lightly because, frankly, baseball fights are outrageously relaxed. I say we should give them all knives or something and see who the stronger team is. I’ll give you a hint: it’s probably you guys – steroids, you know.)

2. It is crystal clear that this was a premeditated affront to Mr. Iwamura’s testicles. Fearing a brawl or possible suspension, Mr. Girardi did not have New York’s star players in the lineup. No Rodriguez, no Jeter, no Damon. What a pleasant coincidence that they didn’t make the trip to St. Petersburg!

3. Interestingly enough, pitcher Andy Pettite was scratched shortly before the game. And wouldn’t you know it – Evan Longoria was hit by a Heath Phillips pitch in the first inning. Curious, wouldn’t you say?

There you have it. As a personal note, my least favorite baseball team for a good while has been the Red Sox. Thanks to Mr. Duncan and Mr. Girardi, the Bronx Bombers have now taken that place in my heart. So, congratulations! I know how fond your organization is of being number one.

I hope you actually got to this point in my letter. I respectfully request that I be mailed with correspondence noting that someone has actually read this letter. An apology on behalf of your organization would be nice, as well. I don’t expect either, though; a classless organization such as yours should not be held to such rigorous standards of decency.

Heck, you can have Hank call me if you want. My phone is always on.

Thank you for your time, and please remember that while I severely dislike your team (and by association your fans, your players, your employees, and your city), they are welcome to Tropicana Field at any time. I love watching the Yankees lose.

Respectfully,
Casey A. Peterson

It's going to suck when we have to play the Mariners

You know, I’ve voluntarily subjected myself to quite a bit of disappointment in my life. I’ve been a Rays fan. However, this is their season.

If the Rays make the playoffs this year, Ian will personally take me on his back to every game that they play, home or away. Let this be proof of our binding verbal agreement.

Well worth the 41 cents

A couple of weeks ago, I sent Bud Selig a letter. It was done in magic marker and I used a fake name to make me sound more like a seven year old and basically asked if it were possible for me, despite my age to become a Major League Umpire. I promised him that I would never make a correct call at first base when officiating Devil Rays games and that I would completely rape the idea of strike zone consistency. I also drew him two pictures, one of a Rays baserunner’s foot on the bag and the first baseman nowhere near the base with me (dressed as an umpire) calling him out and another picture of an eyeball, heart, and Bud’s face (I <3 Bud Selig).

I was surprised when he wrote me back on official MLB letterhead and everything:

Dear Alex:

Thank you for your letter.

While I know you were a little sarcastic in your comments about umpires, I happen to think the umpires do an excellent job. Incidentally, we have an electronic system called Questec which rates umpires on every pitch in every game and they do remarkably well. Base decisions, for the most part, have been excellent. Umpires missing a call once in awhile have been part of our game for years, but I think the umpires overall have done a good job. I think you have to be a little more understanding about that. However, I liked the rest of your letter and all the pictures you drew. I was really impressed.

Thanks for taking the time to write to me.

Sincerely,

Allan H. Selig,
Commissioner of Baseball

Best part: he signed in INK.

I think I’ll keep corresponding with my favorite wrinkly old pen pal in hopes of more gems like this.

What's in a name?

If you’re a sports fan like I am, over the course of a season you develop an affection for the players on your favorite team so much that you give them nicknames to prove to everyone that you are, indeed, a die-hard fan. I’ve developed so many nicknames this season that I halfway expect these shortened identities to show up on the back of everyone’s jerseys. This hasn’t happened yet, but as I sit here and hope to God that the Rays can pull out a victory over the Indians, I would like to share with the world what everyone should be called. These nicknames are combinations of Joe Maddon’s overly-friendly monikers, the (sometimes depreciating) names that have evolved over at the forums of raysbb.com, and the nicknames developed over the course of the season by me and my friends. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you nicknames for everyone on the current Rays’ 25 man roster:

Akinori “Aki” Iwamura
Al “El Asasino” Reyes
Andy “Sonny” Sonnenstine
B.J. “Bossman” Upton
Brendan “B-Har” Harris
Brian “Stokesy” Stokes
Carl “C.C.” Crawford
Carlos “C-Pain” Pena
Dan “The Man” Wheeler
Delmon “Delmonster” Young
Dioner “Navi” Navarro
Edwin “EJax” Jackson
Gary “G-Lover” Glover
Grant “Ball Four” Balfour
Greg “Norty” Norton
James “Shieldsy” Shields
Jason “Hammy” Hammel
Joel “Manchild” Guzman
Josh “J.P.” Paul
Josh “J Dub” Wilson
Jon “Switz” Switzer
Jonny “Gomer” Gomes
Juan “The Juice” Salas
Scott “Dohmannator” Dohmann
Scott “Kaz” Kazmir

756

This is a day late, but I figured it would be necessary to post for all of antiquity. If it ever comes out that Barry Bonds is, indeed, a cheater, liar, and all-around douchenozzle, let it be known that I never supported him, because I know that about a bajillion sportswriters in America are going to flip flop. Heck, the fact that Barry Bonds broke Hank Aaron’s home run record has gotten me rooting for Alex Rodriguez to beat it in a few years – and he’s a Yankee!

And yes, Mother sent me this today. I don’t know who made it, but it is clever nonetheless. I give you Barry’s rookie card:

Not meant to be funny, this is my gripe of the day

The Devil Rays, in an attempt to expand their regional fan base, relocated their series this week with the Rangers of Texas to Disney’s Wide World of Sports in Orlando. This distresses me, partly because I likely would have been in attendance to at least one of these games had they taken place at the Trop in St. Pete. But this isn’t really what annoys me about this series.

The front office says they want to increase their fan base across the state by bringing in the Rays, in sort of a traveling circus type atmosphere, to everywhere they need some television viewers, merchandise buyers, and bad bullpen lovers. This is all well and good, since I’d love to see more and more people live and die with this team like I do, but I think a rational move before actually temporarily relocating the team would be o give fans across the state access to TV broadcasts of every game.

In Gainesville, for example, I get to see about a third of all the games. Luckily for me, I’ve come home to eat my parents’ food for the summer, but had I stayed in Gainesville, I would be up the creek without a paddle. Or a bullpen.