Apple of my i (Part 1)

I tried to resist, I really did. I spent 18 months extolling the virtues of my Creative Zen player, defending its extra weight, its limited functionalities, its lack of cool accessories to all and sundry, taking, if you will, the road less travelled. And I have to say that I was doing quite well as a modern-day Canute, until the Creative player decided to drop dead. I would say that I got the blue screen of death, but in fact I got the 'no screen of death': no screen, no signal, no music - 20 GB of music eaten up by my little box of electronic tricks.

Having exhausted my supply of expletives - in two languages - I was then faced with a dilemma. To replace or not to replace? That was the question. Except that if you can reasonably fill up 20+ GB of memory with music, the question doesn't really need to be asked. Music is pretty much up there with breathing on my list of life's essentials, so the question was more: 'copy and paste' or 'find and replace'? Given that 'Creative' had turned out to be shorthand for 'Creative Evaporation Of All My Music Files', my eyes naturally turned elsewhere.

I rarely lust after gadgets, but this was one that had been trying to catch my eye for some time. Married as I had been to my solid, faithful Creative player, I'd pretended not to notice the flirtation, but once the brutal divorce had been pronounced - without a word of warning, just a middle-of-the-night departure with all the furniture - I was free to let myself go, and I did so with some abandon.

Once I had the iPod in my possession, there was the mandatory touchy-feely phase, where you keep pulling it out of its case just to admire its lines and mess around with the click-wheel. Holding it in my hand brought to mind Roger Angell's description of the baseball:

But never mind: any baseball is beautiful. No other small package comes as close to the ideal in design and utility. It is a perfect object for a man's hand. Pick it up and it instantly suggests its purpose; it is meant to be thrown a considerable distance – thrown hard and with precision. Its feel and heft are the beginning of the sport's critical dimensions; if it were a fraction of an inch larger or smaller, a few centigrams heavier or lighter, the game of baseball would be utterly different. Hold a baseball in your hand. As it happens, this one is not brand-new. Here, just to one side of the curved surgical welt of stitches, there is a pale-green grass smudge, darkening on one edge almost to black – the mark of an old infield play, a tough grounder now lost in memory. Feel the ball, turn it over in your hand; hold it across the seam or the other way, with the seam just to the side of your middle finger. Speculation stirs. You want to get outdoors and throw this spare and sensual object to somebody or, at the very least, watch somebody else throw it. The game has begun.

The iPod has a similar feel to it. I don't want to throw it a considerable distance - I reserve that privilege for the now-defunct Creative - but its form and weight are perfect. It's solid and weighty enough to be taken seriously - after all, this thing is going to be carrying around 30 years of musical memories - but not so heavy as to feel unwieldy in a shirt or jacket pocket. And beyond all questions of aesthetics, it's just so damn easy to use and user-friendly. When you start using this thing, you come to realise that someone at Apple actually sat down and thought about the practical aspects of a portable music player. Some of the worthy thought-processes that went through the Apple employee's head were:

• If somebody plugs a set of headphones into the player, this would suggest that they're going to listen to some music, so let's have the iPod power up automatically
• If somebody unplugs a set of headphones, then maybe they've stopped listening to the music for a while, so how about we pause the music until further notice?
• When somebody is navigating through a list of 7000 songs or 600 albums and selects a song to listen to, maybe they'd like to come back to the same point on the list once the song is over (and not back to the beginning of the bloody list - I'm looking at you, Creative's creative staff...)
• Let's allow people to add songs and albums to a playlist with a single click of the wheel, rather than a long-winded menu / sub-menu system (still looking at you, Creative...)

In short, I love the damn thing (and I'm not the only one) and now basically never leave home without it. It's not that the concept of music on the move - either ninety minutes' or fifteen days' worth - is new to me, it's just that Apple seems to do it so well. I'm well aware that I've succumbed to powerful marketing forces here, but frankly, my dear, I don't give a damn. This little machine does exactly what I want it to do and does it very well.

Mr Jobs - I salute you...

End of the road

So, golf tomorrow it is, then.

The Tigers shot themselves in the foot once again, but the Cardinals nonetheless did what they had to do. Hats off to them for winning a championship that one week ago seemed destined to be headed to Detroit.

And so that's it - end of the game, end of the Series, end of the season. No more unsociable hours and crazy late nights, just a hot stove to keep us warm until spring training.

Damn.

Red Dwarf

Or "How David Bloody Eckstein Ruined My Night."

Can somebody explain what the hell the Detroit pitchers are up to? Is this some kind of bizarre competition they dreamed up whilst cruising to the playoffs? "Hey, guys - reaching the World Series just 3 years after a 119-loss season is not enough to make people remember us. What if our pitchers made throwing errors in four consecutive Series games? How cool would that be?!"

Time to sack up, guys. Win tonight, or you'll be out on the golf course tomorrow.

Totally Lost

Not being a big TV person, I have never seen an episode of Lost, though I do have a vague idea of the concept and the plot, thanks mainly to Balls, Sticks & Stuff. However, I don't need to have seen the thing to find this hilarious:

So let me get this straight: The Othahs have a frickin submarine?

Yeah, I heard the reference to the sub and I was like, what the hell, are the Others on Steinbrenner's payroll or what?

So the Othahs have subs, have aquariums, have fully-equipped surgery facilities, have close-circuit TV's and cameras, but, alas, they are totally impotent and infertile when it comes to making babies.

When you put it that way, it really does seem like the Others are the Yankees of desert island dwellers. A bunch of high dollar resources lavished on aging thugs who really believe they are on a some higher plane of existence yet, in the end, just can't produce.

Othahs Su-uck. Clap. Clap Clap-clap-clap. Othahs Su-uck.

Good, good stuff.

Oh, and speaking of high-dollar resources lavished on aging thugs, look who's back in the news. There's such a sense of déjà vu in that "I don't want to play first base a year for them. I will not do that" that it's almost comical. I'll be watching this one with interest.

Do the math

Reasons Why The Mainstream Media Still Has A Place In Society:

#1 - To state the blindingly obvious.

Exhibit A: Mr John Donovan, front page, SI.com

Now they have to bounce back in Game 4 or go down 3-1.

Shit - been trying to work that one out all day. Thanks, John.

Say it ain't, So

A random thought on So Taguchi's uniform number: 99. It's been annoying me for a while, because I figured that a number that high on a major-league jersey outside of Spring Training had to be some kind of ironic statement.

It turns out it's not ironic, but having read the actual explanation, I now wish it had been:

I was number 6 in Japan, so naturally my first choice was 6. Well, a guy named Stan Musial had that number retired a long time ago in St. Louis. Once I realized that, I thought, 'Well, I could still be connected to my old number 6 simply by turning it upside down.' But Enos Slaughter's number was retired, and it happened to be 9. So it occurred to me that I could use my number 1 from the 2000 Sydney Olympics. They paused and said, 'We're sorry to tell you that Ozzie Smith was number 1, and that's also retired.' I figured the really high numbers must be readily available and said, 'How about two 6s, number 66?' Well, that was Rick Ankiel's number! So I asked about turning 6 upside down twice for 99, and finally I had a uniform number. I think everyone was relieved.

Yup, and so am I - relieved that I got to the end of his explanation without my head exploding.

I know that there's a lot of symbolism in uniform numbers, but this example strikes as so convoluted as to no longer have any symbolic meaning at all. It would have been so much simpler to just take a random number and run with it. And had he done that I wouldn't feel so guilty about disliking a player just because of the number he has on his back.

Shut down and shut out

Was it the late hour playing tricks on my eyes or did Tony La Russa actually show some emotion in the dugout during last night's win?

I've read that Zumaya was upset with his performance, but in the end it didn't make much of a difference. The Tigers couldn't get anything going against Carpenter, and even if you take Zumaya out of the equation, the Cardinals would still have won the game.

So, it's 2-1 Cardinals. We have ourselves a bona fide World Series, and it continues tonight with Bonderman vs. Suppan, which could really go either way. I'm still rooting hard for the Tigers, but, like NGFT, (and with apologies to Sam) I'm also rooting for it to go seven games, because I'm already starting to feel those first pangs of PBD (Post-Baseball Depression).

Having said that, despite there being potentially only four games left in the season, part of me feels a sense of relief. After seven months of baseball games in the middle of night, I'm done, physically. I'm having trouble hanging in there for all nine innings, especially during those 8pm ET / 8:35pm Fox time starts. (To be fair, I think the bottle of Burgundy - well, half-bottle - that was consumed with dinner may also have something to do with the specific problems encountered last night).

People sometimes ask how I manage the late nights (the answer is: "I have no life") but it's quite simple: if I don't make the effort to get up and watch those games, I only get to see about 30 games a season, and that, given the opportunities that the Internet affords me, is not enough. As things stand, I think I saw somewhere between 80 and 90 Red Sox games this year, a fact of which I am very proud. Or rather was very proud, until I read Irish Eagle last week and discovered that I there are other inhabitants of the baseball desert out there who are even crazier than me. He's a Mets fan living in Ireland, who reckons he listened to 135 of the Mets' 162 games this season.

There's an explanation behind the figure (he didn't listen to all the games live), but still, ladies and gentlemen, that is some major-league fandom right there. However, although he's still rueing the Mets' NLCS defeat, I'm willing to bet that, just like the rest of us baseball exiles, part of him is going to be glad to get his regular life back come Monday morning.

At which point, of course, we'll all start wondering: "How long is it until pitchers and catchers?"

Over and out

For a while, it looked like Endy Chavez was going to be the hero of the game with his amazing catch in the sixth inning, which turned two Cardinal runs into an inning-ending double play. Had the Mets gone on to win the game, Chavez would never have had to buy a drink in Queens' ever again.

As it turns out, his moment of glory was merely a spectacular footnote to a bitter loss. The Cardinals snatched the lead (and, as it turned out, the game and the NLCS) in the top of the ninth inning on Molina's home run, and Mets fans were left to rue missed opportunities, notably Cardinal-killer Beltran striking out looking with the bases loaded to end the game and the Mets' season.

For the neutral fan, it was a great game. Unfortunately, I wasn't a neutral fan - I was rooting for the Mets all the way, and the longer the game went on, the more nervous I got. However, as pointed out in yesterday's comments, one of the advantages of your team not being directly involved is that you can shrug off the disappointment of the loss and move on to other things.

In my case, the other things will be very simple: looking forward to the World Series and rooting for the Detroit. Go Tigers!

"These guys are killin' me..."

And if your favourite baseball team does happen to actually finish you off, you can now go out in style.

Shades of Tito

I just caught Willie Randolph's postgame press conference on MLB.com. He was asked the question: "Who's pitching Game 7, and why?"

His answer: "Oliver Perez, and because I like him."

Next question?

Bring it on

"The Maine Event", "Maine Course", "Exile on Maine Street"...you can take your pick of the easy puns, but the song remains the same: Mets force a Game 7.

I'll be rooting Mets all the way, because there's just something about the Cardinals that grates on me. It's partly Tony LaRussa and partly those thousands and thousands of Cardinals fans at Busch Stadium all dressed in red - they strike me as a little creepy. Oh, and David Eckstein, who just annoys me. He plays the game right, but a little too right for my liking. You can yell at Manny for lollygagging his way down to first on a hit sometimes, but I get more pissed off watching Eckstein sprint down to first on a walk than I do seeing Manny not run out a hit. It's not rational, but I don't care - it gives me something to rant about when the Cardinals play.

For the casual fan, this has been a pretty good series, and a Game 7 is the icing on the cake. After 170+ games, it all comes down to a one-game playoff to see who gets to go to the prom. It's the kind of game where caution can quickly get thrown to the wind - starters throwing in relief, pitchers stepping up as pinch-hitters / pinch-runners - and, as long as your team is not involved, it can be a lot of fun. All I can hope is that my poor old body makes it through to the final out.

Playground conversation

"Hey - whaddya do you over the weekend?"

(photo: Boston Globe)

"Not much - just struck out Big Papi."

At the tender age of 10, Saturday afternoons don't get much better than that.

Wicked funny

I'm pretty sure I've said this before about Kristen's writing, but this is laugh-out-loud funny in about fifteen different ways. As usual, I got caught out reading it at work, but it was hilarious enough for me not to give a shit:

[Luis Gonzalez] was reduced to explaining basic baseball principles to McCarver the other night and I am just waiting for the moment when Gonzalez says, "You know what? Screw this shit. I've won a World Series. Someone paid $10,000 for my chewed gum. I don't need this bullshit," and storms out of the booth. THAT would be good television. Perhaps then someone can take the inevitable step of putting McCarver and Lou Piniella in the booth together, giving them microphones that aren't plugged into anything and telling them they're broadcasting the World Series on ESPN59 while they call every white player "Brandon" or "Jeff," and every non-white player "Carlos," except for Albert Pujols whom they call "Luis."

We can but hope...

Voices inside my head

Scene: a darkened apartment on the outskirts of Paris. The clock reads 02:15.

Iain clicks on MLB.com.

(photo: AP)

Summer Guy and Winter Guy (© Fever Pitch) appear. The following conversation ensues:

Summer Guy : Shit - a rainout. After I'd gone and set the alarm-clock and everything.
Winter Guy: Hey - s'OK. Maybe we can go get a good night's sleep instead. Y'know - like we do over the winter. Just like regular folks.
Summer Guy: Hang on a sec. Since I'm up, I'm just gonna check some e-mail.
Winter Guy: No - don't do that!
Summer Guy: Why not?
Winter Guy: You never heard of the '15-minute' rule?
Summer Guy: No - what the hell is it?
Winter Guy: Well, it's like the '5-second' rule, only for sleep. If you get up in the middle of the night to watch the game and it turns out there is no game, you have 15 minutes to go back to bed.
Summer Guy: Bullshit - you just made that up 'cos you don't want me messin' around on the computer.
Winter Guy: I'm tellin' ya - it's a fact. You don't go back to bed now, you're screwed.
Summer Guy: Listen, I gotta bunch of e-mails that need replies, and damn work keeps getting in the way of me writing them during the day, so the middle of the night is the only time I have.
Winter Guy: OK, write your e-mails, but don't say I didn't warn you.

A dark bedroom, later that same night. The clock reads 04:15.

Winter Guy: So how'd the e-mailing go?
Summer Guy: Shut the fuck up.
Winter Guy: Ooooh, who's a stroppy one?! You're not getting enough sleep, my friend.
Summer Guy: Hey, one more word and it'll be the last one you ever speak.
Winter Guy: I don't wanna say I told you so, but, erm, I told you so.
Summer Guy: It's MLB.com's fault. I was wandering around the website and they're like giving away free downloads of games 'n' shit.
Winter Guy: You should know there's no such thing as a free lunch. There's always a price to pay.
Summer Guy: Bloody MLB.com - taking away stuff that I really want, then giving it back to me in the middle of the friggin' night.
Winter Guy: Yeah - sucks, doesn't it?
Summer Guy: You sure you got no place else you need to be right now?
Winter Guy: Nope - I'm good right here. All rested up and ready to keep you company.
Summer Guy: Lucky ol' me.
Winter Guy: Look on the bright side. Another couple of hours and it'll be time to go to work - problem solved!
Summer Guy: OK. That's all the crap I'm gonna take from you.

Scene fades as gunshots are heard in the bedroom...

Big-time birthday

There are undoubtedly many things that could be improved in the game of major league baseball, but when a story about the son of a guy who earns as much in an hour as I earn in a month still manages to make me go "Awwww...", then you know that they're doing something right.

Short-changed

Dear MLB.TV,

I love the service you provide, I really do. Without it, this poor baseball fan would probably have taken up some other sport a long time ago. However, would it have been too much to ask to let us watch a tiny, tiny little bit of the Tigers' celebration after their classic walk-off win tonight?

I can understand you blacking out commercials during every single game since the beginning of the season, even if that means having to sit through your ridiculous, cheap, cheesy-music-accompanied MLB.com 'commercials' a million fuckin' times. (Just a thought in passing - these games are on Fox, and therefore blacked out for U.S. viewers, so I presume the only people seeing what I see are international viewers. If so, I can tell you from experience that no international baseball fan in their right mind is going to buy stuff from the MLB.com shop, where a $20 hat is going to set you back another $35 dollars in handling, shipping and import duties.)

Anyway, I can sort of see the logic behind the 'no commercials' policy, but I'd like to point out that you cut off the Fox broadcast tonight whilst the players were still on the field celebrating their win, with not a commercial break in sight. These games are on in the middle of the night here, so having stuck it out until 2 o'clock in the morning, I'd really like to see the game through to its natural end, which, despite what some anal-retentive MLB.com exec might think, is not necessarily at the end of the ninth inning.

In the future, please refrain from pulling the rug out from under our feet like this.
Thanks for listening.
Iain

Memory lane

The Tigers took a commanding 3-0 in the ALCS last night, thanks to another gem from Kenny Rogers. And although the Red Sox haven't played a game for nearly two weeks, this is news that should warm the collective heart of Red Sox Nation, because it means that the Fox broadcast team will have plenty of opportunities to remind viewers that only one team in the history of baseball has ever come back from an 0-3 deficit to win the ALCS.

::Deep sigh::

Playoffs. Baseball. Whatever.

There are days when the game takes a back seat, when the rivalry doesn't matter, when the pinstripes are nothing more than a random decoration on a baseball uniform. Today is one of those days.

If you want to indulge is some Yankee-bashing, Surviving Grady is usually a good place to go, but today Denton has just the right words:

Perhaps the rivalry and the things we read in the news everyday have hardened us, making us forget that under the pinstripes he was a husband and a dad. Truly, my thoughts and prayers go out to Cory Lidle's family and friends.

The Baseball Desert echoes those thoughts and prayers.

Dumber 'n a bag o' hammers

So, on the one hand, we have Tommy Lasorda exhorting us to forget about our teams who are not in the playoffs and be fans of baseball, and, on the other, two playoff games (the only two baseball games of the day) scheduled at exactly the same time.

I kid you not - you'd couldn't make this stuff up even if you tried. Way to win over the fans, guys...

::slow handclap::

Zen And The Art Of Playoff Pitching

Fans may be going crazy in Oakland and Detroit right now, but one of tonight's starters is keeping his cool:

Tonight, I’m just going to chill out at my house. Watch a movie, surf the Internet, play some guitar. Just relax. Same old stuff for me. It’s just another start. Everything around me seems a little more intense or amplified, but my preparation out there on the mound is just about 60 feet and six inches, me and a catcher and a hitter, and if we win, we win. If we lose, we lose. Time will play itself out.

'Nuke' LaLoosh would be proud.

Same old same old

Since there's not much happening in Red Sox Nation right now, I thought I would trawl around the Herald and Globe websites to see what's cooking. The Globe currently has a "Twenty questions for the Sox" feature, which I thought might be interesting to have a look at.

None of the questions I came across were particularly revolutionary (Keep Trot? Keep Timlin? Keep Gonzo?), but somewhere around the middle of the questionnaire I started to notice the tone. I presume that Shaugnessy is too high up on the Globe ladder to have been press-ganged into service on this feature, but you can almost hear his voice - or maybe it's some generic Globe-bashes-the-Sox voice - in this particular question:

Hansen on deck?
Craig Hansen was mostly a mixed bag in 2006, with an ERA soaring toward 7.00. But there were moments, albeit few, when Hansen appeared to be the pitcher the Red Sox would like to rely on in 2007. Will the team's top draft pick in 2005 be ready to shine in 2007?

Your turn
Will Craig Hansen be ready to step into the spotlight in 2007?
1) Hansen should do great things in 2007. Remember, he's only 22.
2) Like the rest of the overrated youngsters, the team should have gotten something for him while they could at the trading deadline.

Either Hansen is going to be great or he should have been traded like the rest of the overrated youngsters? WTF? First of all, I only have two choices, and of those two choices one is a totally unfounded personal opinion. "Overrated"? By whom? "The rest of the [...] youngsters"? Which ones?

This could have been an interesting exercise - a way to gauge the temperature of the average Boston Red Sox fan, and I for one would have been interested in seeing the results, but, as ever, the Globe manages to turn it into a pointless exercise of Theo- / front-office-bashing.

I have two wonderful young daughters at home who love to talk. And when I say talk, I mean talk - if talking were an Olympic sport, these two could talk for England (or for France, given their dual nationality). But in light of that, there's one piece of advice I try to share with them on a regular basis: If you have nothing to say, don't say anything.

Globe writers - if you're reading this, the same goes for you: STFD & STFU.

Schadenfreude

I don't want to look like I'm gloating here, so I'll leave it to a bona fide Tiges fan to reflect on last night's victory:

YANKEES WHUT WHUT?? BEST LINEUP IN THE HISTORY OF EVER, I’M SORRY, YOU’LL HAVE TO SPEAK UP BECAUSE I CAN’T HEAR YOUR BATS!!

If you prefer something a little less boisterous, you could always try the New York Post:

No further comment is needed, methinks.

The heater

I didn't catch any of the games last night, but this caught my eye. There are many aspects of baseball at the Major League level which leave me speechless, but 100+ mph fastballs would have to be somewhere near the top of the list of my seven wonders of the baseball world.

I've played a little baseball and had enough trouble trying to hit pitches at 50-60 mph - I can't even begin to conceive of trying to hit a fastball coming in at over 100 mph. One time at practice, we cranked up the pitching machine to its maximum velocity (around 80-85 mph, I think). Even knowing what was coming - and where - I couldn't even get close. Occasionally I'd anticipate the pitch, get way out in front and chop a ten-hopper to third base. But I cannot imagine what it must be like to stand in the batter's box against a Zumaya.

At home I have a copy of MLB's Hitters On Hitting, and one of the scientists interviewed explains that hitting a major league fastball is right at the limits of what the human brain can achieve. Given the speed and the distance, the brain has something like 0.4 seconds to see the ball, react and send the necessary signals to the body to try to swing at the ball. Even on those simple terms, it's easy to see why a 35% success rate as a hitter puts you amongst the game's elite. But there are two additional factors which make that kind of success mind-bloggling: movement and fear.

Stand in against a pitching machine and it's tough, but at least you can count on those 85 mph fastablls coming in straight and true. Stand in against Zumaya, and he's throwing 100+, with wicked late movement. Check out the strikeout of A-Rod from last night - the pitch comes in at cartoon speed, and then moves away from its trajectory in the last ten feet of its trip to the plate. You look at that and almost feel sorry for the hitter (I said almost - we're talking about A-Rod, people...). There is almost nothing you can do to get a piece of that, except swing and pray.

However, that's just the 'controllable' movement, the batter standing in there knowing that the ball is going to drop, slide and swerve ridiculously. What is really scary is the knowledge that the guy up on that mound is not a machine, by any stretch of the imagination. However good his control is, his pitches don't always hit the same spot. More importantly, the ball might slip as it leaves his hand, or he might be distracted by a bit of paper blowing across behind home plate or he might simply overthrow the ball, and instead of it dipping and diving through the strike zone, it might end up dipping and diving towards your head. The physical aspect of hitting is obvious to any casual observer, but it's easy to forget, when you watch 6,000 at-bats a year, how terrifying standing at the plate must be. People often go on about hitters wearing body armour to protect themselves, but I'm telling you - you could send me up there covered in that stuff and I'd still be scared shitless. I wouldn't be worried about getting a hit - I'd just be happy not to end up a blubbering wreck on the floor.

Where am I going with this? Well, I guess I'm finding out how to use the Sox-free postseason to rediscover the fundamentals of the game and to remind myself that, even though I may tear my hair out when watching games, I need to ease up on the old: "Just hit the friggin' ball, will ya?" This game is not as easy as it looks. But when it's played well - from the mound or at the plate - it is a thing of beauty.

Twins hurt big

For once, the Great Pitching Matchup™ lived up to expectations. Santana was good, but Zito was better: 8 innings, 92 pitches, 4 hits, 1 earned run. Offensively, Frank Thomas did what he does best - big hits muscled down the left-field line - and that was the difference in the ballgame.

It was a good game to watch: crisp, clean (except for the fly ball Milton Bradley lost against that stupid stadium roof) and a mere 2 hours and 19 minutes long - long enough to enjoy a couple of beers, but not so long as to have the ESPN announcers wanting me to stick sharp objects in my eye.

-------

Elsewhere, the Cards did what they do best - win efficiently - and rumour has it there was some game in New York, but my browser unfortunately wouldn't let me access the result. Damn shame, that.

-------

More no-strings-attached baseball tonight, once again at a reasonable hour. Somebody up there likes me...

No shoes, no shirt, no problems

I'm not going to say that I'm glad the Red Sox aren't in the playoffs, but there is something to be said for being able to sit down with a couple of beers and watch Barry Zito and Johan Santana duel it out in Game 1 of the ALDS. No pressure, no worries, just the promise of some good baseball. The game is at a very European-fan-friendly 1pm ET, and if that's not enough good news for the day, I can follow that up at 4pm ET with Chris Carpenter vs. Jake Peavy.

I haven't yet decided on a team to root for in the playoffs. Come October, I'm pretty much fed up with the sight of teams from the American League, so when looking for a team to root for, I tend to gravitate towards the NL. This year the Red Sox (West) connections make San Diego and Los Angeles the leading candidates, but who knows? Maybe I'll surprise myself and fall for the Mets or the Tigers. And that's the great thing about being in this situation - you can root for who the hell you want, and nobody's going to point a finger. After six months of being a partisan, you can just sit back and enjoy the game of baseball.

7pm CET. Bring it on.

Cleaning up and cleaning house

MLB.com has a brief piece on 'bag day' at Fenway Park. It doesn't quite have the allure of Truck Day, but it is a significant day in the baseball calendar. As ever, it was Tito who had the best and most poignant quote of the day:

Lefty Craig Breslow played solitaire at the players' table as he waited for a jump for a dead car battery. Francona emerged from his office, saw the pitcher and said, "Brez, there's no game."

Concise, to the point and, unfortunately, true.

Closing credits

OK, so I'm a sucker - I saw that the game had started around 11:30pm CET and decided "What the hell - s'only work tomorrow morning, nothing of any real importance." And so I stuck with the game, a no-hitter from Devern Hansack (five innings, but a no-hitter nonetheless).

I was trying to come up with some coherent thoughts on the end of the season, but on reading Jere's great post, I realised I didn't need to - he nails it:

Leaving the park tonight, led by the light of the Citgo sign, I thought of the entity that is Red Sox baseball, and how it's not about winning or losing. Never was. We've got our own little culture and our special traditions. It's really true about how these things tie the generations together. We make new friends through them, and we find old ones, too. We find things in common with strangers. No matter how often you go to Fenway, it's Thanksgiving dinner every time, with our Sox at the head of the table. Sometimes they keep us up laughing deep into the night. Other times they're asleep after one piece of pie. But it's always a special day. As I thought of this, I realized what the greatest thing about 2004 was. That team winning it all allows me to say this--that it's not about the winning--without having to hear, "that's just something losers say." I was happy to see them win, but I was also happy tonight, giving one last cheer to a group who didn't bring home the trophy.

For me, it's not a generational thing, it's a geographical thing. I'm 4,000 miles from Fenway, but over the past three or four years being a Red Sox fan has allowed me to connect with people all over the world. This season, some of those virtual acquaintances became real, physical ones, when I was finally able to set foot in Fenway and affirm my membership of the club they call Red Sox Nation. At the risk of re-quoting myself to death, this line from November 2004 sums it up best:

However, should the Red Sox not win the World Series or make the playoffs next year, should they finish dead last (and here's a rash Baseball Desert prediction for you: they won't...) I'll still be there, wearing my cap with pride, but it will no longer be simply a fine fashion accessory - it will be something more, something that says I finally belong.

Fade away

I switched on the computer at 8:05pm, looking forward to bidding farewell to this year's Red Sox team and wrapping things up for the winter, but all I've seen so far is a two-hour rain delay. Given that this game is of no real meaning to either ballclub or to the AL East as a whole, I don't know how much effort will be put into getting it played. It's a 2:05pm ET game, so the powers-that-be have some leeway, but whatever happens, I won't be there to see it - it's already 10:15pm and Monday morning is unfortunately looming large.

I'm pissed at missing the last game of a season in which, despite living 6 time zones away from Fenway Park, I've probably seen more than half the games the Sox have played, but at the same time part of me is able to appreciate the symbolism of the last embers of a dying season fizzling out in the late September rain.

Tomorrow morning the calendar will say 'October 2nd', but as you can see from the graphic below, it might as well read: 'Start Of Winter (RSN)'.


Anyone know how long it is until Pitchers & Catchers?