Flotsam - We'll tell you what to think

Brains!

2008-06-11T10:09:00.000-05:00

Flotsam may be dead for now, but the possibility for reanimation always exists. Perhaps if Marv ever gets out of rehab or DeJuan returns from his "DeJuan Does Resurrection" Tour, we shall be back to poison your brains with stupid opinions. Now go wonder the world aimlessly like these friendly zombies.

600 THINGS ABOUT GRIFFEY!

2008-06-11T07:40:00.001-05:00

By Bandwagon Burt
Wind Sock

I love Ken Griffey, Jr., and last night he hit home run No. 600!! I know people think it's an arbitrary number, but people also think that Michael Jordan's six championships is also an arbitrary number. GRIFFEY IS THE JORDAN of baseball.

To honor the 600 homers that Griffey has parked, I give you my list of SIX-HUNDRED THINGS that make me think of Ken Griffey, Jr.!

1. home runs
2. the Topps rookie card that I lost when I was in high school
3. Norm Charlton
4. Left-handedness
5. Ken Griffey, Sr. and PLAYING IN THE SAME OUTFIELD with his son.
6. Knee pain
7. Future Hall of Famer Barry Larkin
8. Sid Bream sliding into home plate on Francisco Cabrera's RBI single
9. HOME RUN DERBY, FOLKS
10. Barry Bonds
11. Super Nintendo
12. The Kid
13. In 1988, 277 aspirin and a Providence hospital
14. My bathroom tile, fusing Mariners and Reds colors in a cornucopia of awesome.
15. Willie Mays
16. Wheaties cereal and 2% milk.
17. Additional knee pain
18. The warehouse at Camden Yards
19. Scoring from first on a double
20. gloves dipped in gold
21. The Space Needle (no NOT RYAN ANDERSON, HAHAA).
22. Mike Cameron, Brett Tomko and Antonio Perez
23. Back Home Again in Cincinnati, a variation on some song about another state.
24. the disabled list
25. Father's Day! My kids better get me something electronic this year, or I am going to go POSTAL. The Lord of the Rings DVDs they got me last year were LAME. Just because they're six and eight doesn't mean they can't figure out what daddy wants for Father's Day.
26. Comeback Player of the Year
27. Adam Dunn's hilarious outfield play
28. Bilbo Baggins
29. Reggie Jackson, MR. OCTOBER
30. Pleurisy
31. Ryan Freel and his imaginary friends
32. Jay Buhner's business goatee
33. Randy Johnson's MASTERFUL MULLET
34. A groin strain, suffered on my walk to the supermarket last fall.
35. The television show "Scrubs"
36. The Simpsons. DON'T HAVE A COW, MAN
37. OH MY GOD, I'M ONLY ON NO. 37
38. Will Smith and the Fresh Prince of Bel Air
39. Commissioner Bud Selig
40. The number 30. Also, the number 3.
41. Tomatoes filled with poisons
42. Knee pain
43. Little Big League and Angels in the Outfield
44. SUMMER CATCH WITH FREDDIE PRINZE, JR.
45. Other people named Jr. Like Dale Earnhardt, Roy Jones and ROBERT DOWNEY IRON MAN.
46. The tearing down of the Berlin Wall
47. the National Anthem
48-95. The members of the 1997 Seattle Mariners baseball team, especially Paul Sorrento and Paul Spoljeric. MIKE BLOWERS!
96. A smooth swing from the left side of the plate
97. My kitty, Buttons
98. Freshly cut grass by my irritating neighbor
99. Deadspin
100. HOME RUNS

Wow, that's a lot of stuff already, so I think I'll just multiply all those by six and you have SIX-HUNDRED. I LOVE KEN GRIFFEY, JR.

The Strahan Legacy: EXPOSED?

2008-06-10T08:00:00.001-05:00

By Donald Winchester
Private Eye

The stench of a rat has lingered over Michael Strahan's career for seven years now, and it's up to me -- Donald Winchester, Private Eye -- to reveal the truth about the toothless wonder. See, back in 2001, Strahan was approaching the single-season sack record when fellow retiree Brett Favre laid down -- laid down like France in an international conflict -- and Strahan fell on top of him like a gentle lover. It was this accomplishment that made Strahan a celebrity.

As Strahan retires, it seems everyone remembers that fateful moment, but everyone also wonders whether or not Favre and his merry offensive linemen allowed it to happen. I had an itch to know the truth -- like the itch one might experience after a night in a Mississippi whore house -- and took it upon myself to dig up the details.

For no man's legacy is complete until Donald Winchester, Private Eye, says so. The facts are these:

In the final game of the season, Strahan needed one more sack for 22.5, a mark that would pass Mark Gastineau on the all-time list. Late in the game, Favre's little tumble allowed No. 92 to get the credit, and history was made. History is great and all if you like the Aztecs and Revolutionary War. But this conspiracy was on par with the government's experiments in Roswell, and everyone knew it, especially me.

How suspicious, I think, that the two greats are retiring in the same year. Perhaps Strahan knew Favre would tell his side of the story in a tell-all novella, possibly called "Vicodin, Interceptions and My Night in Bed with Michael Strahan -- Three Things I'm Not Proud Of." I ventured to Kiln, Miss. to find out the truth.

I traced Favre to a swampy townhouse in the rural sticks. It was muddy -- muddier than the set of that new show "Wipeout" -- and smelled like grits and jumbalaya. I could see Favre on the porch, sitting in a rocking chair with his shotgun, waiting for stray cats to scurry by. One unlucky tom whom I shall name Whiskers came to survey the scene, and Favre shot him dead -- deader than a tomato-eating McDonald's patron. I'd have to be delicate with this one, for Brett Favre's aim was stupendous and violent.

I came forward with my hands raised and begged for mercy, that I was here on friendly business. He surveyed me and then asked if I was a member of the media, never letting go of his shotgun. He was mistrustful -- like a child who's been promised three candy bars by daddy if he would just come down off the roof and brush his teeth. I told him I was no pressman. I merely had one question, one question that could change the world.

Did you do it? I asked. Did you let Michael Strahan have his day, without playing the game in good faith? He gave a dramatic pause -- John Wayne at the OK Corral dramatic -- and thought about the question for a bit. He smiled wryly -- that freaky Ben Linus in "Lost" wryly -- and I could see the memories of that day come flooding back like a Biblical flood.

No, he said softly, but then he winked once, twice, wrinkled his brow and gave the "OK" sign with his left hand. Nope, that was totally legitimate, he said.

He had a drawl -- Dolly Parton in Steel Magnolias drawl -- and I couldn't be sure if I heard him correctly. For he had refuted the plain truth, but had done so with a series of mysterious hand gestures. I couldn't be sure his true intent. I was confused. Confused like a peace-spewing hippy at Altamont.

I asked him again. "There are facts, sir. Visual facts. It doesn't look good for you, see. I ask again, did you lay down like a lamb for the slaughter?"

He looked at me with puzzled eyes, and then repeated "Nope, that was perfectly legit." He strained his voice on perfectly, drawing it out in a tone that sounded like sarcasm. But I couldn't be sure. I needed fact, not conjecture. I shook my head and demanded the truth, screaming that the world needed to know before Michael Strahan walked off into the sunset with his legend intact. I was desperate -- Tom Cruise after the split with Nicole Kidman desperate.

One last time, he reiterated that he was innocent, and did so while winking six times and nudging his head in a series of directions. It wasn't enough. I told him I was on to him, and I would tell the world my findings. It was then that he pointed his shotgun at me and told me to get off his land. He was serious -- the bad guy in No Country For Old Men serious -- and I retreated like a girl scout running from a grizzly.

The question remains, and the Strahan legacy shall be tainted until I get the answer I require. But the truth is out there, just waiting for Donald Winchester, Private Eye.

Crown me with carrots

2008-06-09T08:00:00.002-05:00

By Big Brown
Horse

You see me run? I the fast. CARROTS!

I like to thank Eight Belles, this is all for you babe. I'll holla at you when I head to big horsetrack in the sky. Meantime, I get to eat BUCKETLOADS of carrots, cuz I'm the fastest horsey three times. I'm a bad man.

I get three crowns, like the We Three Kings of Orient Are, whole bunch of flowers and lots of mares to share my stable. I'm gonna be getting it on til I die now! Carrots. Do you see them there, thanking me for all my fast. I farted. Little elfman Kent sure likes to do the whuppin, but I don't gotta run no more cuz I already showed how fast I am.

Give ms some carrots! Is that butterscotch? Freaking BUTTERSCOTCH? Nope, just some deck stain. Still yummy. Would taste good on carrots.

Can't wait to go on Outside the Lines or Sunday Conversation with Andrea Kremer to talk about how I'm the fast. Can't wait to see myself on TV. All for you, Eight Belles. You and carrots are my inspiration. I love you, kind of. Would have loved to make sweet speedy babies with you. We could have listened to Usher's new album while gettin' it on.

I should be sportsman of the year now, Sports Illustrated. No more Brett Favre. All me! Give me those carrots, and I won't kick at your face.

Wait, where you taking the carrots? What you doing over there, why you look so sad? I ran the fast, trainer said I would win and ain't nobody can stop me. WHERE YOU GOING WITH THEM CARROTS?! I'M BIG BROWN. WHY AIN'T NOBODY LOOKING AT ME NO MORE?!

Should have died after first race, like Barbaro. Then, everybody loves you. I miss carrots.

The Truth hurts

2008-06-06T15:52:00.004-05:00

By Dakota Brezinski
Seven-year-old

Today at recess, Mrs. Williams told me I had to go inside early and sit at my desk with my head down.

It's all Tanner's fault. If he hadn't fallen to the ground so hard when I pushed him off the top of the monkey bars, he never would have gotten so hurted. He was bleeding a little, but it wasn't that bad. He shouldn't have fallen so hard. Tanner is such a pre-schooler sometimes!

I told him to be like Paul Pierce and keep playing through the pain. I told him to get up on the monkeybars again (so I could try to push him off again!) and get over his owies. Recess doesn't come just anytime, so you have to have lots of fun while you can. After recess comes math, and math is the worstest thing ever. Worser than Mackenzie Burlap's breath.

I didn't want to go inside, so I tried to be like Paul Pierce, too. Daddy says he's the Truth! I don't always like the truth, but I do like Paul Pierce.

I started crying and I pretended to trip over a rock. I screamed and cried and held my knee, which I told Mrs. Williams was broken worser than Tanner's. She tried to get me to stand up, but I pretended that I couldn't stand on my leg. Ooooooohhh, it hurts, I said! Who needs the Truth when you have Paul Pierce?

Finally Mrs. Williams got Mr. Davis the principal to pick me up and carry me inside to the nurse. I kept crying and screaming for mommy, even after they brought me inside. I stayed in the nurse's office all through math class, and then came music class! We are learning Muppets songs in music class, so as soon as the clock said 1:27, I told the nurse I was ready to go and ran to Mrs. Sullivan's room, ready to be the bestest singer I could be.

I saw Mrs. Williams in the hallway. She was mad at me. I think it's because she likes the Lakers.

Joba can't hack it in Canada

2008-06-05T14:05:00.004-05:00

By Shaun Marcum
Some guy

Did you see the news in the other dugout this morning?

I bet you did. Major controversy in Yankeeland -- Johnny Damon doesn't think it's a good idea that Joba Chamberlain has been put into a starting role! The Yankees just haven't been on the same page this year and I, for one, am heartbroken. I know how important the Yankees' success is to the rest of the universe.

I was worried that we wouldn't have anything to say about Joba today. It's been almost two days since he started a game and got shellacked, helping us win the game and drain the Yankees' bullpen at the same time. That was the biggest story in baseball so far this year, so I was really excited to see how it unfolded. Joba is the reason baseball is such a popular sport in America, after all.

Not that I'd know. I'm in Canada most of the time. And let's be honest, nobody gives a shit about Canadian baseball. No, I didn't say Canadian bacon. Yeah, I saw how you stopped paying attention just now.

I know I have a 2.63 ERA and 67 strikeouts in 78 innings this year, with a WHIP well under 1.00. But ho-hum. That pales in comparison to the 50 amazing innings Chamberlain has thrown in his storied career. He's got a ton of strikeouts, a low ERA, and he kind of looks like Babe Ruth. I mean, that's why he's so huge, right? Because he's fat and kind of looks like Babe Ruth? I just figured that was the case, since he hasn't really done anything yet that should make people think he's the greatest Yankee ever.

I kind of look like that younger guy from "Married ... With Children." That's got to stand for something. But I definitely shouldn't be compared to Joba's greatness -- I mean, I'm practically middle-aged at age 26, and we really don't have much going for us in Toronto. Let's take a look at some pitchers we have, and you'll see why nobody's giving us 1/100th of the coverage given to Joba, even though we have the best starting pitching ERA in baseball:

Jesse Litsch, nine months older than Joba, 7-2, 3.45 ERA. Yawn. I totally understand why nobody talks about this guy. What a dumb name: Jesse Litsch. Maybe if his name sounded vaguely like a Star Wars character, things would be different.

Dustin McGowan, 4-4, 3.95 ERA. Also 26 though, so he's practically a grandpa. Wake me up when we start talking about Joba, who was the 75th-rated prospect in baseball by Baseball America in 2007. That means there were only seventy-four players ranked ahead of him when he became such a celebrity. How awesome!

Roy Halladay, 7-5, 2.94 ERA. He's fine, I guess. He's thrown three complete games this year and gone 8 or more innings in five out of his 10 starts, but it's not about guys who can throw whole games anymore. It's about guys who appear in one-or-two batter situations and has rules named after him. Nobody's talking about Roy Rules, dude.

AJ Burnett, strikes out just short of a guy an inning, but boring! I've always thought if Burnett would say more outlandish things in the media, people might pay attention to him like they pay attention to Joba and his crazy celebrations.

It'll be a shame when we leave New York and get away from all the coverage of Joba, because I, for one am fascinated, and am honoured to have seen him pitch first hand.

Flotsam's greatest hits

2008-06-03T10:29:00.004-05:00

Avoiding words like "hiatus" and "side projects" and "broken up," some rock bands simply need some time away, and now is one of those times for Flotsam. There are far more pressing matters in the world to explore, like JOBA MANIA and omgjobaisgoingtostart.

Like all bands in downtime, it's never a bad idea to release a Greatest Hits, especially after just one or two CDs. That's capitalism, people.

But fret not, we shall return soon, with even stupider opinions from stupider people. In the meantime, enjoy some of Flotsam's Greatest Hits.

Our greatest post ever: tangibilizing the intangible. Heart, desire and grit ... people will tell you those are things you can't discern with numbers. So terribly wrong.
You want the endtimes? Of course you do. When the Colts met the Patriots in the regular season last year, it was Flotsam's blowout coverage that made the event so special.
There's nothing quite like Thanksgiving at the Marv Blackstone household.
The BCS is a fangled mess of tom-foolery. Professor Ipswich, however, after months of analysis, has cultivated the perfect plan for reform.
Bandwagon Burt makes his cases for the Baseball Hall of Fame. A lot of cases.
Pacman Jones seems to be in the news every day, and at least one legendary icon is ready to move on.
Why do people have to hate so much on future Hall of Famer Kwame Brown?
How does one navigate winter's coldest month, February? Flotsam witchcraft expert Agatha Moonfry gives you a guide.
Young Dakota Brezinski addresses the people.
If only Memphis could make a free throw ... Libby Perkins tells it like it is

Fight the machines

2008-05-28T16:01:00.005-05:00

By Harvey McGuffin
I remember when ...

I remember when fancy technology didn't decide which team was better. Not when brute strength, determination and bucketloads of desire were available.

Everyone in the media is clamoring for instant replay in baseball just because a few pansies couldn't hit the baseballs far enough to be definite home runs. Those bleeders that barely make it over the outfield wall shouldn't count for anything, Luis Rivas. If you're a man, you'd hit it into the third deck like Mark McGwire. If McGwire were alive today, he would not stand for this discussion of new technologies enhancing and changing the way me beloved game is played.

Bud Selig feels television monitors should not take away the "human element" of the game, and I agree. Hell, what is sports but one giant "human element?" If we didn't have players and officials making mistakes, why would we play the games? Free will is something that was given to us by God, after that bitch Eve couldn't resist some tasty fruit. It's Biblical.

The slow takeover of machines has already begun in sports. Instant replay in football and basketball, machines that say whether a ball is in or out in tennis, and sensors that say when a goal is scored in hockey. I've never trusted machines -- science is the opposite of sports. Plus, it slows the damn game down too much. If baseball started using instant replay, there may not be enough time for players and managers to fruitlessly argue calls, pitchers like Steve Trachsel to take 30 seconds between pitches, or Tony LaRussa to work his micromanaging magic.

When I was young, I followed in the McGuffin tradition and became a timekeeper for Olympic track and field trials. I used a trusty stopwatch handed down through generations of McGuffins. It worked most of the time, and I was damn good at my job. Sure, I might have missed a second or two in the 100-meter dash, but nothing that would have affected the outcome. That was all before people wanted machines to tell them how fast they were, instead of people.

I say do away with such "advances" as the shot clock in basketball and all that body armor in baseball. And football for that matter -- I don't need state-of-the-art padding before I go out and hit somebody. Football is a man's game. Let them figure it out. In fact, let's just get the referees off the field in general. I remember when we played football, we didn't have a "false start," we just had a "head start."

We certainly don't need scoreboards, either. I see these stadiums with their fancy digital readouts and complicated colors and numbers. I hate all of it. The score should be kept by hand, preferably on a giant chalkboard in center field.

Preserve the human element before it's too late. I can't talk much longer. The machines might hear me.

Joakim got to be starting somethin

2008-05-27T16:45:00.004-05:00

By Dakota Brezinski
Seven-year-old

I wish my daddy was cool like Joakim Noah's.

When I get in trouble -- like when I pee all over the chalkboard because Mrs. Burrows wouldn't let me go out for recess -- daddy spanks me and tells me to go to my room. There is nothing to do in my room! I get really bored, and cry, then throw myself against the floor so it sounds like I had an accident, and daddy will be sad for me and let me come downstairs and play the Halo game.

Boom boom! Die, aliens!

But Joakim Noah's daddy doesn't really care if his son does naughty things, like smoke the pot. I don't know why smoking the pot is so bad, but mommy tells me to stay out of the kitchen a lot, so she probably doesn't want me to do anything to the pot.

Daddy says Joakim Noah's daddy is a dummyhead, because he's French, and doesn't really understand a lot of stuff. I think Joakim Noah's daddy is Michael Jackson. Or maybe that's his mommy. It's hard to tell.

How come Joakim Noah doesn't have to say he's sorry and be grounded for two days if he does something naughty? It's not fair! Just because his daddy released all those records and danced with zombies doesn't mean he gets to do whatever he wants.

Maybe Michael Jackson isn't Joakim Noah's daddy. I think he looks like one of the Halo aliens, instead. Boom boom!

I may never care about the NFL again

2008-05-26T08:00:00.000-05:00

By David Harrison
Sports Fan

Man, did you hear the news about the NFL collective bargaining agreement? That the NFL owners might stage a lockout in 2011? That would be, quite possibly, the worst thing that's ever happened to my professional sports world.

We've already been at this stage in life, when Major League Baseball had a strike in 1994. My world came crashing down when there was no World Series, and I remembered how angry I felt. I told myself I would never watch another MLB game again. I ended up going back on that promise, but I did boycott Spring Training in 1995 successfully.

But if the NFL decided to lockout, I know I would never watch pro football again. I would be too heartbroken, smashed by this game that I love so much. These people run an entertainment business, and they reap millions of dollars every year, but they're going to shut out the little guy so they can get some wording right on a contract? You'll be sorry NFL, when you have a work stoppage. You'll never get me back.

Sure, I'll have to find other things to do on my Sundays once the NFL returns -- maybe picnics with the wife and kids in the fall and maybe I'll go snowmobiling with my buddies in the winter. I might even go to church. I'll live without that rush of anticipation as I jump out of bed each morning, and I'll be just fine without StatTracker whirring and giving me up-to-the-instant updates on my fantasy team. That stuff is all poisonous to the mind, anyway. Maybe my wife is right.

It will be just like baseball, when all those fans vowed they would never come back. Look at baseball now -- completely dormant because of all those fans they put off more than a decade ago. The game will never recover.

Neither will the NFL. There will be no gathering of 20-somethings to share beers and Doritos on Monday nights. There will be no packed stadiums with crazy lunatics who began drinking at 8 a.m. There will be no merchandise empire or sports bars filled to the brim with crazy drunken fans. There may be no drinking, period. It's just going to be another game, on par with hockey or soccer. I'd venture a guess that maybe one-tenth of American males will know who's leading the division on a given Sunday in November.

Not only that, but they're going to get rid of the salary cap, which will totally ruin football just like baseball. Can you imagine if there was no competitive balance? Where teams like the Patriots and Cowboys succeeded every year, and teams like the Bills and Texans struggled year-in, year-out? That would be devastating to the game.

It's all very disgusting, and I feel my fandom is in jeopardy just by them opting out of the contract and even making this an issue. You're on parole, football. If you perform a lockout, you're going to be locked away forever.

Pick me, OJ

2008-05-23T08:00:00.002-05:00

DeJuan C3PO
Fly Scribe

Name: Charles Xavier "DeJuan" Curtis C3Po
Hometown: The City of Angels, CA

Objective:
Get my hands on a fine position within OJ Mayo's inner circle now that the high-flying wunderdawg has decided to select some new friends. Willing to run errands and such, and unafraid to be called part of a "posse."

Summary of Achievements
Flotsam Media
2006-present: Fly scribe. Undercover brother journalism investigation of 2006 Olympics, the Barry Bonds shit, the Winter baseball meetings, and some hockey. Developed ability to irritate other media types. Generated large palette of adjectives and nouns, so if you need someone to tell that camera guy where he can stick it and you want it to be colorful, I'm your man.

West Coast Wonderland Tour
2004-2006: Supporting act (technical title: "roadie"). Hung out with several hip hop legends on tour across America. Would have held a more hands-on role, were it not for freak pyrotechnics accidents caused by a slight, tiny oversight on my part.

Mooch
2002-2004: Saw the countryside. Mostly lived in assorted basements. Blogged.

Experience
2007-present
Watched a bunch of your games on TV. Developed strong dislike for OJ Mayo haters. Coined term "No Holding the Mayo" in the national blogosphere. Bitches, I'm like a big deal on the web.

2007
Started paying attention to college basketball. Cool shit.

2000-2002
Propensity for being fly developed, worked with large crowds. Brokered endorsement deals here and there. I've already made some calls to Miracle Whip, and they are totally interested in working something out.

1993-1997
Junior varsity basketball, Lake Elsinore High School, San Diego, CA

Education

2000-2004
School of Hard Knocks
Specialization: Sexy

1993-1997
Lake Elsinore High School
San Diego, CA

Selected Publications

"DeJuan Does History or Something," published by Flotsam Media. On-Line. May 10, 2006. http://www.flotsam-media.com/2006/05/dejuan-does-history-or-something.html.

"People I've Impersonated", published by Flotsam Media. On-Line. March 12, 2008. http://www.flotsam-media.com/2008/03/people-ive-impersonated.html.

Go European or go home

2008-05-22T08:00:00.003-05:00

By Isiah Thomas
NBA Mastermind

How very exciting that my hometown Chicago Bulls have been granted the first overall pick in this year's NBA Draft. I was hoping that my current team, the New York Knicks, had done enough in the regular season to merit the top pick, but I was disappointed when lady luck did not smile upon our franchise, which has been hit with some bad luck over the past few years.

I'd like to think if I hadn't traded all my draft picks the past couple years, I would have made some franchise-changing successes. If I presided over the Bulls -- say someone gave me a phone call and asked me to be their head coach -- then I know what I would do this year.

A lot of people are simplifying this draft down to two players -- Derrick Rose and Michael Beasley. Both are nice players, but I think some outside-the-box thinking is always a good idea when you're trying to turn your franchise around. You have to see potential where others have not found out, like in Eddy Curry or Jared Jeffries. You have to stick your neck out there to have success.

So rather than go with the obvious consensus selections, I submit another name to you, Chicago. Danilo Gallinari.

Foreign players aren't often as glamorous as the stateside guys, but there is some very simple logic here. My good friend Joe Dumars had the No. 2 pick not that long ago and had to choose between a European superstar and a college freshman who had just come away from playing in the national title game. He chose Darko Milicic -- and immediately won the NBA Championship that year. That's what it's all about. I salute Joe Dumars for making the call.

I urge Chicago to do the same. You obviously can't use the overall top pick on a guard like Rose, and there are just some non-specific things I don't like about Beasley. But Gallinari has the full package, and I think the Bulls would be wise to take my advice.

Take it from me. I drafted David Lee. Call me, John Paxson.

Whose No-Hitter is Awesomer?

2008-05-21T08:00:00.003-05:00

By Jim Abbott
One-Armed Man

On September 4, 1993, I had one arm.

But that didn’t stop me from no-hitting the Cleveland Indians while wearing the New York Yankees pinstripes. You have to admit, that’s pretty impressive. I had ONE ARM and still worked nine innings without allowing a hit.

Jon Lester has a great story, don’t get me wrong. The dude overcomes cancer to throw a no-hitter for the Red Sox, and good for him. Nice kid, etc. But they have relays and benefits and galas and all kinds of stuff to raise money for cancer. You don’t see anybody raising money for kids with stubby arms. Hell, George Steinbrenner actually said it was an unnecessary distraction in 1993 when I was visiting disabled kids in the hospital!

So no offense to Jon Lester, but my no-hitter was way cooler. Way more interesting. I HAVE ONE ARM! I’d shake hands with you, but I can’t. Doesn’t mean you can hit my curveball.

Somewhere along the way, the world stopped caring about the New York Yankees. It used to be that they got all the coverage, but now it’s all about the Boston Red Sox. So when Lester does his thing, ESPN can’t stop talking about it. How many times have you see Jacoby Ellsbury make the diving catch, or Alberto Callaspo strike out to end the game, and it has barely been 24 hours?

Who is Alberto Callaspo anyway? These are the Royals. When I threw my no-hitter, I dominated guys like Kenny Lofton, Carlos Baerga, Albert Belle, Manny Ramirez, Jim Thome and Sandy Alomar, Jr. And Felix Fermin.

I HAVE ONE ARM!

By Dwight Gooden
Doc Feel Good

On May 14, 1996, I wasn’t exactly in my heyday. I did most of my damage before I turned 21 years old, in fact, accumulating something like 1,000 strikeouts before I could legally (tee-hee) drink. Look at my numbers in 1985, when I had 24 wins, 268 strikeouts and a 1.53 ERA. Hello, those numbers are insane! It was shortly after that when I also went insane. Thanks to cocaine.

Eric Clapton said it best when ne noted that cocaine, she don’t lie, and she sure as hell didn’t want me to keep playing baseball. I was spending time with my favorite lady when I missed the Mets’ World Series victory parade in 1986. Relationships are hard, man, and sometimes you gotta make sacrifices. I’d say I sacrificed a lot to be with coca cola.

I almost got my ass released in April of 1996 because I was pitching so badly in one of my comeback attempts, but then I no-hit the Seattle Mariners at Yankee Stadium. I sure as hell hadn’t thrown a no-hitter when I was young and awesome, but here I was – an old man who just wanted a hit, and yet threw nine innings without a single one. That’s legendary stuff, folks. Way better than Jon Lester’s story.

Since Lester pitches for the Red Sox, ESPN is behaving like he just saved the world or something. I know he had cancer and all, but they’ve got incredible medicine for that sort of thing. For me, the medicine WAS the issue. It’s hard to overcome your problems that way.

I wish ESPN paid more attention to other teams in baseball – like the Yankees.

By Nolan Ryan
Owns Robin Ventura

I threw seven.

Dakota's finals preview

2008-05-20T08:00:00.002-05:00

By Dakota Brezinski
Seven-year-old

Charles Barky is not going to gamble anymore! But Charles Barky loves to gamble. What if he goes sad because he can't gamble, and then he stops keeping it fresh? Mommy says I shouldn't eat the fruits in our fridge that aren't fresh. I don't listen to mommy very much.

I love Charles Barky, and I will also give up something I like to do to show how much I love him! Peeing. I will pee again when Charles Barky gambles again.

Even if Charles Barky is sad, this is my favoritest time of the NBA season, because there are only four teams left. Gregg Popovich and his silly face will take on Kobe Bryant, who mommy doesn't like because he never shares. And in the other games, it's a bunch of little leprechauns (I love leprechauns) against the Pistons! The Pistons are there every year. Daddy says it's easy to win every year when you're the 16-year-old repeating second grade. He thinks the Eastern Conference is in second grade. I wish they really were, because it would be cool if Anderson Varejao came to my math class. Crazy hair!

Tim Duncan is boring. He doesn't make me go whoop like Chris Paul. Boooooo, Tim Duncan. Stop being so boring.

So I am cheering for Kobe Bryant and the leprechauns. But I will show you who will win:

Guards: You know that guy Rondo? I bet he's related to Waldo Geraldo Faldo from Family Matters. Did I do that? Urkel makes milk come through my nose. The Pistons have Chauncey Billups, and he hurted himself. You can't be sore against Rondo! Or Ray Allen or that guy named The Truth. Advantage: Celtics. In the other series, Kobe Bryant is a guard. Advantage: Lakers.

Centers: Tim Duncan is boring and smells like poo. The Lakers have POW POW POW Gas-all, and everyone wants Gas right now because it's so expensive. Advantage: Lakers! In the other games, silly Rasheed and his bald head is pretty good, but Kevin Garnett drinks Gatorade! I like grape the best. Advantage: Celtics

Forwards: Kobe Bryant could be a forward if he wanted. Advantage: Lakers. In the other games, the Celtics have Leon Powe! POWE POWE POWE. He's like Pow Gas-all, but not as good because he has a silent letter. I hate those. Advantage: Celtics.

So the winners will be Kobe Bryant, and the Celtics. I have drunken lots of Gatorade, and I don't know how much longer I can be on Charles Barky's side. Gamble soon, Charles Barky!

I'm (expletive) sorry

2008-05-19T18:36:00.002-05:00

By Harvey McGuffin
I remember when ...

Men normally don't admit their wrong. That's the way it's been done for 100 years, and no pansy umpire is going to change evolution.

But I had a strange sensation when I watched Bob Davidson use a series of F-Bombs to explain how he completely (bleeping) blew a call on Sunday Night Baseball, where he disallowed a home run. He did that because he was a moron, and does not know what a foul pole looks like.

Of course, the Mets still won by nine runs and the two that they missed out on because of Bob Davidson didn't really matter. It's only newsworthy because it's the annual media sploogefest known as New York vs. New York. My days of sploogefest have long since passed me by. I'm lucky just to urinate pain-free these days.

This odd apology has given me new perspective. After all, I'm going to die someday, and my kids aren't going to get anything close to the sum of money they expect. I do love stringing them along, however, as they politely come visit me every Sunday and pretend like they're all interested. Fuckers.

With the last laugh already written on a legal document, I might as well use this opportunity to apologize for all those times through the years I've been wrong. Allow me to use Bob Davidson as my beacon of contrition.

1920: I'm sorry, Harry Frazee, that I told you to sell that one fat guy to the Yankees so you could finance your Broadway show. I still maintain you can't pass up a chance at Broadway, but I concede that the fat guy was probably the wrong guy to trade. I (expletive) blew that one.

1969: I'm sorry, my beloved Colts, for getting that punk Joe Namath drunk during the week of the big game. I thought we were in good shape when he opened his big yap and started talking about guarantees. Nobody (expletive) feels worse about that than me.

1983: I'm sorry, Portland. You probably shouldn't have paid me all that money to be a consultant prior to the NBA Draft. I knew that kid from North Carolina was good, but if you had seen Sam Bowie play, you would have gotten that tingling feeling like I did. I think it was Bowie who caused all that. Anyway, I'm a (expletive) stick and totally (expletive) that up.

1989: I'm sorry, baseball. It was a very dark period in my life, and I happened to be using a whole lot of fantastic anabolic steroids so at least my body was bitching, even if my mind was not. I should have never invited Jose Canseco to my grandson's bat mitzvah. (Expletive)! I (expletive).

1997: I'm sorry, Evander Holyfield. I needed the money and paid your trainer to sprinkle some seasoned salt on your ear, hoping it would drive Mike Tyson into a furious rage of awesomeness. I wasn't exactly sure what it would do, but I can promise you that wasn't the intended effect. If I wasn't such a (expletive) (expletive), the world would be a better (expletive) place.

2003: I'm sorry, Chicago Cubs. I had a bad case of the runs when I was watching Game 6 of the NLCS at Wrigley Field, and I told this nerdy punk kid that he could sit in my seat down the left field foul line. I was in the can for 25 minutes. When I went in, the Cubs were on their way to the World Series. When I came out, everything smelled like shit. (Series of expletives). Also, (expletive).

Who needs Goliath?

2008-05-15T23:32:00.000-05:00

DeJuan C3PO
Fly Scribe

Bitches, I was on the edge of my damn seat Wednesday night watching the elimination episode of American Idol. Dog, I love me some Syesha Mercado, but I would be damn pissy if my boys the Davids -- David Archuleta and David Cook -- did not make the big finale next week. They couldn't be more different dudes -- the Disney-loving 17-year-old shrimp cocktail (non-alcoholic of course -- boy won't be hitting the sauce for another four years) and the seasoned bartending rock dude. It's the clash of the damn titans! We're all gonna die!

So who is America's favorite David? There are so many other Davids who deserve consideration for that shit.

1. David Beckham. Y'all, he plays some game that nobody gives two shits about, but can you imagine how many times he has heard that shitty Spice Girls song "Spice Up Your Life?" That's hardcore, bitches. Can't believe he hasn't killed a man yet.

2. David Ortiz. Big Papi! According to my massive research, that's French for "Large Patriarch."

3. Dave Winfield. Remember the good old days of baseball, when all the best dudes were skinny? Man, what did they eat for breakfast before protein milkshakes got invented?

4. David Padgett. Well what do you want from me? I scanned all the Greatest Damn Athlete lists I could find, and there just aren't that many athletic famous Daves out there. For some reason, I just got hungry for barbecue.

5. David. Dog, put on some damn clothes! Yo, any dudes out there interested in feeling better about themeselves? This David is considered a work of art, and he ain't exactly Santonio Holmes.

Honorable mention: David Chappelle (funny as shit!), David Letterman (not funny as shit), Davy Crockett (furry damn hat), David Wright (good at baseball, probably should be up there instead of Padgett), Dave Roberts (fast and old).

A tribute to Annika Sorenstam

2008-05-14T08:26:00.003-05:00

By David Harrison
Sports Fan

Like most sports fans, I was stunned yesterday when Annika Sorenstam announced her retirement from professional golf. At just 37, many say that she still had a few good years left in her.

There's no doubt she's had a tremendous impact on the world of sports. I'll never forget that one time she made a putt in that tournament back in 2001, or maybe 1999. I'm pretty sure it helped her win a tournament, or finish in the top 10.

And no doubt you've heard about those times she won a major tournament, beating out other similarly talented golfers for the title of whatever it was that she won.

I still remember the day, back in late 90s, when I was flipping around the channels on a weekend afternoon and I saw Sorenstam smiling and hoisting some sort of trophy above her head. I bet that victory made her feel really, really good about herself.

And who could forget her incredible, come-from-behind victory against Lisa or Dawn in a particularly important summer tournament? I clearly recall seeing that highlight on Sportscenter the next day.

Of course, I applaud Sorenstam for leaving on her own terms. It sounds like she still wins some tournaments, so I imagine she still can hit the ball. Of course, it is always better to go out while still playing well, rather than wait until your skills have declined precipitously. Smart move, Annika. You always were probably pretty smart.

So today, let's all toast Annika Sorenstam. Toast her for her incredible drive to repeatedly enter golf tournaments, show up, and often perform well. Toast her for her easy demeanor, since I don't recall any egregious off-the-course problems. Toast her for his signature shot, the one that she could do really well pretty consistently and helped her over the course of her career. Toast that swing, which I'm guessing was probably pretty nice, since I remember her winning some tournaments.

It's hard to win golf tournaments if you suck. And since Sorenstam won some tournaments, she definitely didn't suck.

Congratulations on a job well-done, Annika. Enjoy your retirement.

Shop Until You're On Top

2008-05-13T14:22:00.004-05:00

By Lynn DeBerg
Housewife

Good value is everywhere, if you know where to look.

I can tell you if you get something for full price at Kohl's, you've probably done something wrong. If you haven't at least considered eBay before buying something at an antique depot, you're doing your purse a great disservice. If you don't hit at least 17 garage sales per summer season, then not only are you a bad shopper, but also an uneighborly bitch.

Shopping is an essential component of any good life, and I applaud the way the Florida Marlins are able to get good deals for virtually no money at all. They're spending 21 million on their team -- far less than the Yankees are paying Alex Rodriguez to sit on the disabled list -- and they've produced one of the best records in baseball thus far.

They are America's discount darlings, and a great template by which a good shopper can base her decision making. After all, expensive goods (Barry Zito, Andruw Jones, Eric Gagne) seldom bring happiness, especially when they are unceremoniously ripped to shreds by the family pet.

Sidebar. There is a new bassett hound -- available for free -- at the local humane society. Now that's a bargain. She responds to the name "Rosalita" and "get away."

However, when a person makes a bargain purchase, they can't help but feel proudly attached to their goods. I have made the mistake of going fancy, buying an expensive blouse only to discover a massive flaw in the stitching on the back. This is akin to what happens everytime someone buys Mike Hampton. But I didn't really like the sweather anyway. On the other hand, the gorgeous pants suit I found at Sally McNee's garage sale is one of my favorite items, and it was only 10 dollars. We'll call it the Rule 5 Garage Sale, and we'll call the pants suit Dan Uggla.

Obviously, sometimes it's about being ahead of the curve. Nobody thought those mosquito alarms (with the torturous sound that can only be heard by young people) were ever going to amount to anything, so I bought one online for 20 dollars. Now, I'm encouraging all the women on the block to get one, but they have to pay through the nose. I knew those things would eventually catch on, allowing women like me everywhere to get a midday nap while forcing the children to stay outside, rain or shine. This is like buying Hanley Ramirez. He's useful to no end -- maybe invaluable -- but if you get him before he becomes expensive, you're really doing yourself a favor.

Shoppers also never take a day off. Sure, the Florida Marlins may only have 5,000 or so people at each game, but that's because the smart fans are out pounding the pavement, looking for that next deal. No good shopper is satisfied with what they already have in their sanctuary at home. It's a hunter-gathering society.

While you're out scoffing at the malls of America and instead finding your deals at smaller, better places (or Wal-Mart), think of the Florida Marlins.

Joba Chamberlain creates new words

2008-05-13T10:16:00.004-05:00

ESPN has apparently invented a new word to describe middle reliever Joba Chamberlain, the darling of the network.

The word is "expessive." It appears that ESPN has combined the demeanor of the reliever (expressive) with their own coverage of him (excessive).

I applaud ESPN's continuing innovation.

King of nothing!

2008-05-09T09:17:00.001-05:00

By Bandwagon Burt
Wind Sock

Nike (SWOOSH!) says I am a WITNESS, but if I was called to testify, the prosecution would be very disappointed, cuz I ain't seen NOTHING from LeBron James!

I've got my right hand on the Bible and I solemnly swear that Mr. French-For-The-Bron has not made a single shot since this round of the playoffs began! OBJECTION! No, better yet, REJECTION -- as in the Cleveland playoff chances! Have you EVER SEEN LEBRON SO BAD? He's pleading NO CONTEST.

Someone tell the people to stop smoking at the Boston Garden! It's so hazy!

SMACK THAT GAVEL, JUDGE, and declare your verdict: LeBron is past his prime! That's right, it's over. The guy is just too old now, I mean LOOK AT HIM, HE'S FORTY and has all that chest hair and it's somebody else's time now. THIS IS MY TESTIMONY. I SWEAR TO TELL THE TRUTH AND NOTHING BUT THE TRUTH.

I tell you what I am a WITNESS for -- CHRISTOPHER PAUL! He's amazing! When does he get a multi-gajillion dollar Nike contract and a bunch of crazy shoes? He's the GREATEST POINT GUARD EVER, according to some former player on ESPN, and he's got the Spurs on the ropes in the West. And who cares about the Eastern Conference anyway? As they say in court, the East is IMMATERIAL EVIDENCE -- cannot be admitted into court! It's all about the WILD WILD WESTERN.

King James can't be king of the court (HAHA, DOUBLE MEANING) if Paul is in session. He would be MVP if not for Kobe-Won-Kinobe (STAR WARS REFERENCE! -- Kobe has the FORCE!), and LeBron is just some guy on some irrelevant team. I PLEAD THE FIFTH! I MOVE FOR RECESS. v

A-Rod sucks at public relations

2008-05-08T09:35:00.002-05:00

Marv Blackstone
Editor-in-chief

God damn it, A-Rod.

I've spent the last several years defending you against critics, telling them that they had you pegged all wrong. I said they couldn't possibly know you. They don't know how you tick.
But still, you kept doing things to embarrass yourself. And I kept defending you.

But damn it, man. Passing out during the birth of your kid? What the hell? That's the last straw. You're dead to me.

See, I'm not sure you're aware of this, but there is a thing called public relations. It helps control how you are viewed in the public eye. Your image.

When you slap at Bronson Arroyo's glove, or talk about how you and Derek Jeter don't sleep over anymore, or get caught hanging around with burly strippers, or pass out during fucking childbirth, it hurts your image.

LeBron James understands this. His handlers carefully control his image and his likeness. He's a brand right now. When people think of LeBron James, they think of a cool badass who dominates the game. When they think of you, they picture a pretty boy passed out on a tile floor while his wife gives birth.

You and LeBron both play your sports at incredibly high levels. So why the difference in public perception?

Because you suck balls at public relations.

Back in the 1980s, during a brief respite from journalism, I worked in the PR world. I had just been fired from the San Jose Mercury News for stealing the break-room fridge, and was looking for a new gig. Thanks to an old connection, I landed at Nike.

At the time, Nike was known as a running shoe company. That was their niche. But I barged in and told Nike that no one gave a shit about Steve Prefontaine and running. They nearly threw me out, but then I told them -- sign Michael Jordan. Sign that rookie from North Carolina and let's build a shoe for him.

They listened.

So we created the Air Jordan line. In fact, I designed the first shoe. I decided that Spike Lee was the perfect complement for Jordan's first television commercials. I said we should pony up the cash to get these ads on prime-time TV.

The ads were a huge hit. Kids loved them, and begged for the shoes. I remember a meeting I had with him, where I told him he needed to keep his image squeaky clean. And if he did, parents would embrace him as a role model for their kids.

He listened, and the Jordan brand took off. The man knew how to market himself. He was savvy. People adored him. Eventually, the man became the second recognizable face in America, behind Jesus Christ.

All because of me, really.

But that's beside the point. The point is that you, A-Rod, need to get some PR help. I'm available, should you need my services. I can also negotiate deals for you, cook great Lebanese food, and make balloon animals that look like genitalia. Contact me for an all-inclusive package.

Remember "Be Like Mike?" That was my idea. And really, who would actually want to be like A-Rod at this point?

Stop looking like a douchebag, you douchebag. Get an image.

Call Marv today!

Bury Barry. Bitches.

2008-05-07T06:00:00.001-05:00

DeJuan C3PO
Fly Scribe

Are you a hippy? If so, you're probably damn annoying.

Let me give you some advice, hippy. Stay out of San Francisco.

Bitches, none of those tooty-fruities in the Golden Gate City want any more hippies in their village, cuz Barry Zito has ruined the fun for everyone. Dawg, it is cute and adorable that you're a zen master and wakeboarder and guitarist and shit when you're also throwing the craziest curveball in baseball. But when you're grooving 84 mile-per-hour slowpitch softballs, nobody wants to hear about your inner damn Buddha.

The Giants should probably stop dealing with Barrys altogether, my bitches. They're going to let Dr. Z make his next start after sending his regularly-tattooed ass to the bullpen, even though he didn't stay long. None of this would really matter except for those 7 years and 126 million dollars hanging out on an official piece of paper locked somewhere in some secret vault, probably in some Hindu temple or voodoo cabin.

I wonder if Brian Sabean and Matt Millen hang out once a year for a shitty GM's luncheon. They can invite that guy who runs the Memphis Grizzlies, too, whoever that is. Dog, if I was that bad at my job, and still employed, I would have luncheons every damn day, and I would charge all goods on the company card. I'd still be doing that now, if my purchase of that pink disco ball hadn't raised a red flag on last month's credit card statement. Marv's gonna flip when he sees I bought an alligator before my privileges got revoked.

Bitches, Barry Zito is terrible. He's 0-6, has like a 7.53 ERA and his WHIP is like 1.93. Shit, give me a baseball and I'll keep two dudes off the basepaths per inning. Actually, that's probably a damn lie, but Barry Zito! Get your juju or jobu or whatever together. Jobu loves the curveball, I know that for sure.

Giants ain't even that bad! I mean, don't get me wrong, they're going to lose hella lot of games, but they're better than the two damn teams who tied for the Wild Card last year, and they're only a few Should Have Pitched Some Other Guy Instead of Barry Zito starts away from .500 and shit.

Let that be a lesson, that you can't trust hippies. Always on your damn lawn.

Up here in horsie heaven

2008-05-06T11:47:00.002-05:00

By Barbaro
Martyr

Dear fans,

I write to you once again on the anniversary of my big win in the Kentucky Derby. Can you believe two years have passed since then? Lots of exciting things have happened in my life since then, and I have been enjoying my time in Horse Heaven.

The newest development has been the arrival of a lovely lady in my life. I haven’t known Eight Belles for long, but already I feel a very strong connection. She’s a little younger, of course, but her energy and beauty has brought me great joy. We’re already talking about a life together, perhaps with runs through the endless Horse Heaven pastures, sipping from the gold-rimmed troughs that are filled with mint julep, and maybe even starting a family.

(I kind of missed out on all the fun breeding that was supposed to happen after winning the derby, and now I finally have my chance. Since, you know, there’s no gravity here, it’s kind of cooler than on Earth, anyway).

Otherwise, things are pretty much the same in Horse Heaven. I’ve been supping diligently on my personal salt lick, which remains the size of a 1971 Buick Skylark despite my many fervent lickings. I like to have friendly races with other past Derby winners, gliding effortlessly through the scientifically-perfected field turf. It looks like real grass (and TASTES like real grass), but it’s actually synthetic! Can you believe that?

I never have to sleep, so that gives me ample time to catch up on my favorite football team, the Indianapolis Colts, and play a little fantasy football. Since we are granted omniscience here in Horse Heaven – and since you damn well better believe he’s on my fantasy team AND my real team – I can tell you whole heartedly that Marvin Harrison is innocent.

Also, I pee liberally.

I have been reading the Earth-bound newspapers since last Saturday’s race, and I see PETA is already calling for heads to roll. Eight Belles and I share a laugh about that a lot. I’m pretty sure they’re the only organization in the world that actually gets noticed every time they say something, just because what they have to say is so hilariously off base. The only way to make the crazy guy on the street corner stop begging for change is to ignore him. I wonder why America hasn’t done the same thing with PETA.

Seriously, if PETA hadn’t gotten everyone to think that animals had equal rights, maybe my long, agonizing drawn-out death would have been a little shorter. But that’s all water under the bridge. I’m in Horse Heaven now, and it rocks. Just the other day, I was talking to Secretariat about how crazy PETA was, and we both agreed that we could totally go for a gyro with pita bread.

Eight Belles says hi to everyone back home, and wants you to know that she wishes she could have won the race and made a statement for girl power everywhere. Keep your letters coming, little children!

Love,
Barbaro

Like, I guess she liked the Yankees

2008-05-06T06:00:00.001-05:00

By Brenda McDonald
High School Socialite

There's like, so many better ways to make a person sorry. Running over them with your car is so 1980s, back in like, the stone age when that pony-tailed man Steven Seagal was popular.

First of all, let me just say that I am deeply saddened that this woman was allowed to roam the streets without some kind of makeover. Like, you know those really old commercials that are like, "friends don't let friends drive drunk." Well, there's also like, "friends don't let friends look like dead witches and talk about the Yankees a lot." Like, that's so unflattering on a woman. And it hurts me that her friends didn't just stand up and say, "oh my God, Ivonne, you are hideous and bad in conversation. Let's go to the spa and do something about it!"

Ew. If I knew how to delete pictures, I so totally would, because that is like a scar to humanity. That hair! Totally unkempt. Hello, Herbal Essences! I wonder if the state of New Hampshire has an Adopt-an-Ugly-Inmate program ... I can totally be of service here. It makes me kind of want to do something good and righteous. If it wasn't prom week, I would SO look into it.

Stop staring at me, bitch!

Secondly, if you really want someone to know like, how much you love your team, there are way better ways to deal with it. You can totally talk about them behind their back, get access to their facebook page and change their interests to "whoring casually," throw eggs at their cars, or pretend that you like them, when really you don't and you just want to stomp on their heart. Oh my god, I just had an epiphany -- can we go back to the facebook thing for a minute? If you can totally steal their password, you can also make their interests say "cheering for the Yankees!" or whatever team they really hate.

Driving over people has like, so many drawbacks. Paint could get smudged, it could like, affect the transition or whatever that's called, or it could cause a flat tire. Hello, I am SO not interested in changing a flat tire. In this dress? My car is way too new and shiny for homicide.

Anyway, I forgot the moral of the story, but school is almost over! Omg, I'm going to have so much fun this summer! Like, I should probably start applying to colleges and stuff.

From the vault: Harvey and Julio

2008-05-05T14:35:00.002-05:00

By Harvey McGuffin
I remember when ...

Editor's Note: With the official announcement of Julio Franco's retirement, Flotsam's Harvey McGuffin was too verklempt to offer new insights about his favorite baseball player of all time. Since McGuffin can't be sure if it's 2008 or 1998 anyway, we reflect on a past post adoring the late, great Julio Franco.

An event happened yesterday that took me back to a better time, a better place, a better state of mind.

Gone was the talk of steroids, potential asterisks on home run records, any images of Astros pitcher Ezekial Astacio and quibbles over revenue sharing. Instead, in my head, was a simple tune.

Doo Doo DooDoo Doo, Doo Doo DooDoo Doo, Doo Doo DooDoo Doo, Doo DooDooDooDooDooDooDooDoo.

That's the sound of RBI baseball on Nintendo, you punks.

Julio Franco, older than I am and still hitting baseballs out of ballparks, became the oldest man to ever homer in a game when his 47-year-old eternally-young-because-of-voodoo corpse went yard for the New York Mets. He should be collecting social security and taking Sunday drives with his wife down to the flea market, preventing me from speeding up beyond 25 miles per hour on a 35 mph one-lane backroad. But instead, he is showing whippersnappers who weren't even born when he started playing how it's done.

But here he is, a Tuck Everlasting relic from the days of yore, when everyone was small, white, stocky and caught the ball by raising their hands to the sky and praying for the best. It was a time when every struck ball -- fair or foul -- sounded like the highest key of a xylophone. Fans cheered for you no matter which team you played for. And there weren't so many goddamned teams at all! Just eight of them, all good ones.

I remember the way it felt to see Vince Coleman fly up the first base line, unstoppable unless the ball was hit directly to the second baseman. I remember the way Jack Clark was guaranteed to hit a homer with runners on base, or the way nobody could touch a Bobby Grelts fastball. I loved the way players cried and acted momentarily stunned as they committed an error or the way every outfielder scampered with his little legs, showing teamwork with his other fielders as they moved in concert toward the direction of the musical baseball.

This was the golden era. Julio Franco, bless his soul, is a staple of that era and when he dies, probably within the year, he's going to leave a gaping hole in the hearts of throwback baseball fans everywhere, like myself. We salute you Julio, for hearkening back to that time, and for not dying yet.

Now if you'll excuse me, I'm about to prove Mrs. McGuffin wrong when she says the AL All-Stars cannot be beaten by the 1988 Boston Red Sox.