Category Archives: Uncategorized

Back in the day before Sean Forman killed the statistical print annuals with his shiny website, Baseball-Reference.com, the Bill James Handbook was one of the biggest THINGs of the offseason. These days, it is still published because you never know when an EMT attack will make B-Ref inaccessible. James had added some stuff over the years beyond player stat lines, and one of those things is relief pitcher categories. Tough Saves are included in that – these saves being defined as having the tying run on base when the pitcher enters the game.

Let’s take a look at how the American League teams fared in this:

Bal: 0/8
Bos: 2/11
CWS: 4/9
Cle: 4/12
Det: 1/7
Hou: 4/10
KCR: 1/9
LAA: 0/6
Min: 1/7
NYY: 3/13
Oak: 3/12
Sea: 1/5
Tam: 3/9
Tex: 0/5
Tor: 2/10

Tot: 29/114

About 25% of Tough Save Opportunities were successfully converted to Saves, which is why they are called Tough Saves. One thing of note: the Indians Cody Allen was 4/4 in Tough Save Ops, the most in the Majors. Now let’s look at the National League:

ARI: 0/8
ATL: 3/6
CHC: 0/6
CIN: 1/4
COL: 0/12
LAD: 1/2
MIA: 2/9
MIL: 1/9
NYM: 2/6
PHI: 0/8
SDP: 0/2
SFG: 0/4
STL: 5/8
WAS: 0/1

Tot: 15/88

A few of things stand out — St. Louis was absolutely outstanding compared to the rest of baseball, probably an anomaly, but still worthy of a hat tip. The NL only converted 17% of its Tough Save Opportunities (12.5% is St.Louis is out of the mix*), but what really stands out is the significantly fewer Tough Save Ops in the NL. Certain Managers in the NL seemed to loathe switching relievers with the tying run on base. Matt Williams, who once was called upon by John Hart to fill Sir Albert Belle’s shoes and failed, only put Nats’ relievers in one Tough Save Opportunity. Bud Black and Donnie Baseball only steered his Dodger relievers into two Tough Save Ops (Mattingly seemed content to let gas cans like League and Wilson to explode like White Phosphorous grenades in a Vietnam cave network). Meanwhile Walt Weiss didn’t seems to have too many qualms about bring in a reliever with the tying run on base, and that didn’t not work out at all for him in terms of protecting the lead.

So what does this tell us? Well, one year of data doesn’t tell us much, but we do have come historical context. In 2000, there were 371 Tough Save Ops in the Majors, and 119 were successfully converted — a 32% success rate. In 2014, there were only 202 Tough Save Ops with 44 being converted, a 22% success rate. Does this mean that relievers these days are being coddled? Or are managers smarter? I don’t know the answer — I would have to look at a whole bunch of different things. The one thing that has stayed constant is the Bullpen Winning Percentage — about .505 in 2000 and 2014, but might not mean anything.

One more thing of note to close — in 1989, the NL Cy Young winner Mark Davis was 22/24 in Tough Save Ops.

It was a different time back then, my younger friend. On most days in the summer, you couldn’t even see the mountains because of the smog. People wax poetically about Fiscalini Field these days, and rightfully so because it was a great little park back then, even though it lacked almost all the modern amenities of today’s parks. However, it was certainly tied to the neighborhood around it in the early nineties – all of Perris Park was then. Highland Avenue was still vibrant then, all the way from the East Side to the West Side. Restaurants, bars, banks, and stores stretched across town. Now the Perris Park area is absolute nastiness, a place where even the hardiest hobo fears to tread, even if they are packing.

If one was going to a Spirit game back then, it was customary to get your drink on before the game at one of the surrounding bars. A popular bar for a pregame drink was Wackley’s on Del Rosa just off Highland. Many times people never made it to the game from Wackley’s. On the night in question, your Uncle Brian and his pal and my roommate Fred started at Wackley’s. You probably don’t remember Fred, but you might remember the story when that fucker stole my puppy and gave it to his girlfriend — a tale for another day.

You know your Uncle Brian was the sloppiest of drunks, and from Wackley’s, he and the Puppy Thief went to the Imperial Palace, the Chinese place directly across the street from Fiscalini that was notorious for burying people with still drinks, especially Scorpions. I am sure the two staggered from there to the game because that was the way things rolled back then.

Once in the game, they went directly to the Beer Gardens in let field. Fiscalini was a park from yesterday even then, but it was way ahead of its time with it shaded Beer Gardens – a nice little bar right on the field that served copious amounts of draft beer dirt cheap. Thirsty Thursday back then was $1.00 pitchers of Bud or Coors Light. It was a a rite of passage for high school kids to pass out there by the seventh inning stretch – again, a different time.

At some time during the game, your Uncle Brian and the Puppy Thief made it to behind home plate, which was a gambling den. People bet on everything and anything there – balls, strikes, outs, hits, when the manager would spit, you name it. The popular bet was whether or not the ball stayed on the mound after the catcher or ump rolled the ball to the mound after the third out.

A hat was passed around, and everyone threw in a dollar. Every pitch the hat would be passed down the line and the person holding the hat would have to add a dollar if the third out was not made. Once the third out was made, the person holding the hat had the opportunity to bet where the ball would end up – -either on the mound or on the grass. If that person guessed correctly, the pot was his. If not, the hat kept going the next inning.

On that fateful night, your Uncle Brian won the pot three times. To celebrate after the game, the two drove to the Sports Page, which was degenerate even by Berdoo standards. Eventually, they were told to go home, which for your Uncle Brian at the time was Acacia Park on the North End. Through the dark night they went on 40th Street in your Uncle Brian’s work truck.

At 40th and Electric Avenue, they ran into a severe logistics problem. Your uncle took the turn way too fast and ended up plowing through a cactus garden and smashed into the living room of the corner house. You are probably scratching your head right now, thinking. “40th and Electric? That is where that flower shop is, but the house on the right isn’t close to the street. There is no way a truck could have hit that!”

Well, the flower shop is gone these days, as are most businesses that were there. However, I assure you those two numbnuts managed to hit that house HARD. How they did it would probably still be debated today if the Puppy Thief hadn’t turned out to be such a fuckwad, but the two somehow pushed the car back to the road and limped home before the cops arrived. When the two investigated the garage the next morning, they found one very broken truck fill with cacti parts.

That night, under the cover of darkness, they managed to get the truck to the H Street Body Shop, which used to make a fortune covering up hit and run accidents – just ask your dad’s friend Ron Barthel. Early the next morning, Brian went to H Street Body and admitted the truck was his. The manager asked him what his business was supposed to do with that truck, and Brian simply said, “Fix It.” The manager replied something that broken can’t be fixed and asked just where the hell did all that cactus come from?

Brain knew if H Street Body could not fix it, he was truly screwed. He went to work with his tail between his legs and essentially traded his new truck with his boss. This all went down just about the time I met your dad, which was also when he met your Uncle Brian. You see, Brian isn’t really your uncle – that is just another bullshit thing your parents tried to pass off – like Santa Claus.

Game Notes from last night:

Two dudes in the parking lot, running an extension cord from their Toyota Tundra to a microwave. What are they doing with he microwave? Melting Styrofoam. Why? Who knows? It is best not to initiate a conversation that type of crazy. I can’t help myself though:

Me: What the hell are you doing?

Them: Melting stuff in our new truck.

Me: Why?

Them: Because it is fun.

Me: Why don’t you just warm up a burrito or something?

Them: We wanted to make sure this would work so we didn’t torch our food.

White Lady in front of me at the ticket gate with a hot pink shirt with the siloullete of an AK 47? The lettering reads, “It’s because I am Black, isn’t it? Stop AR 47 Ammunition Legislation. I wonder whom she voted for in the last Presidential election. Sigh, it is going to be that type of nigh.t Bye By Miss American Pie Indeed, Mr. PA Dude.

It looks like the 66er are expecting a small crowd for this Saturday night game, even though it is a T-shirt giveaway. The Beer Gardens are closed, as is the bacon hot dog stand. FUCKERS. I guess with the impending apocalypse, people are staying at home with their loved ones. Pussies.

It is 3D Night also — they gave glasses away at the gate to stare at the scoreboard. Too bad that HARD RAIN is on the way. The American Fabric is unraveling.

PA Dude feels it also; transitions into “Born in The USA.”

The T-shirts have something to do with the 3D stuff, and they are so, so UGLY. No wonder the crowd has stayed away. Or maybe it was the six errors that led to eleven unearned runs last night.

“Jack and Diane” – wait, maybe this is the 4^th of July mix.

The three main cities that comprise the 66ers’ fan base are San Bernardino, Riverside, and Redlands. Riverside used to have their own team, but the city didn’t let them sell beer, so that team left. Moreno Valley is the next biggest influx, but those fuckers are criminals, and we try to stop them in Ritchie Canyon.

Redlands appears to be in the house tonight – looks like one of their All Star teams is having a Pack The Park Night to raise money. Good thing Little Bads is not here, or he would be heckling the hell out of them.

“Everybody Wants To Rule The World” – no 4^th mix – PA dude is feeling the impending loss of innocence.

Kongo’s “Come With Me Now. “I am with you, PA Dude. In fact, I am purchasing this song on iTunes right now.

The Faithful aren’t here yet. I hope they didn’t get into are bar fight. Temecul Blake and Whiskey Jack aren’t here yet either – they might still be at bar.

“Bullet With Butterfly Wings” – yes, PA Dude feels the oncoming onslaught.

PA Dude just switched to cheesy dance music. THE MAN must be onto him.

I feel raindrops. The End is near, and I did not bring a jacket. I brought a flask though.

I think one of the Dance Squad forgot her bra. Unfortunately, the 3D glasses aren’t much help with this particular investigation, but Bernie just came at us out of the scoreboard on a motorcycle. Eat shit, James Cameron. This is a high budget affair here tonight – too bad no one is here. FAILED PROMOTION.

Moreno Valley Pony League is here. Coach lights up players about the way they have line up for pre-gam intros. You guys are sure to go far with that IRON DISCIPLINE!

3D Tricked Out Trickshots. Baseballs on the big screen going through hoops in 3D. I wish I had dropped some acid.

Hey, you know that Esurance commercial with the dude photocopying himself? I just watched it in 3D. I also just watched a balloon filled with nacho cheese explode – in 3D, then in real life. Man, that was awesome.

Dennis Hocking’ little kid is being interviewed. I don’t think there are too many forks in that family tree. His advice for his dad: “Don’t get thrown out of the game, Dad.”

Now the Geico lizard is doing his thing in 3D. There is a sexual element that does not exist in 2D. Is it a tail or a giant cock?

Security is bringing an old lady a rain jacket. How sweet, especially because she will piss in by the third inning.

The cleanup hitter, Gabriel Guerrero, is the Beer Batter. “Gabby” chants have already started, and we aren’t even to the National Anthem yet.

Fiddy is here. I haven’t seen him yet this year. Everyone thought he went to Great Outfield Burm in the Sky. Fiddy is a carney with a heart of gold, and a rolling Christmas display. He is called Fiddy because a very long time ago, he had a jersey made that said “Fiddy: Oldest Rookie in he Cal League. He used to bring cleats to the game – now he brings displays of American flags and and LEDS wrapped around poles. His newest jersey is “Fiddy Five”, but he has been wearing that for years. Unlike most of the Freaks here, he is good people, and a wealth of ORAL TRADITION, plus he can heckle with the best of them.

The Hags are drinking dark beer tonight. Updates to follow, but my bet is they are casting spells again.

Stephen King’s doppelganger is here again tonight.

3D rollercoaster on the big screen. Crowd goes wild.

Microwave Boys just walked by. They are on shrooms, acid, or something else good. Suddenly, their parking lot behavior makes so much sense. I should have been nicer to them.

66er pitcher nails Maverick in the shoulder. PA Dude play Monty Pyhton, “Tis but a Flesh Wound.” TENSION. Benches almost clear.

Is there anything sexier than a college girl eating cotton candy? Yes, Whiskey Jack coming back from the restroom with four beers. You know what that means—the Beer Batter done struck out.

The skies are unleashing. Rats are drowning.

Hot mom walks by with teenage daughter. Daughter’s shirt says, “Game on, Bitches.” Game on, indeed.

High Desert Tweaker (Female) I having a meltdown. Po-Po gently escort her way. She slaps one of the cops. She be going to JAIL.

Khaki Pants goes all dickhead in concessionline because another line opened because of Last Cal Crush. I only know this because my flesh is weak, and we abandoned the Beer Boycott.

Hey Grouch, you are holding up the line with your petty bitching. KP doesn’t like that, but the line backs me up. KP retreats.

“Old age doesn’t make someone an asshole; assholes just get old,” yells Fiddy as KP leaves.

[Fiddy Narrative to follow].

Here comes the flood. Most of the crowd is leaving. The ones who stay, well they are my people. Fiddy wants a picture for his scrapbook.

Sappington is for the save. You know, once this kid’s career is finished, I am going to hire him for something – perhaps my driver, perhaps just to stand in my lawn holding a lantern (no blackface).

66ers win! Hope is still alive.

Whiskey Jack, Fiddy, amd I just sit for a while under an umbrella, watching the grounds crew struggle to put out the tarp.

“It don’t get much better than this” Fiddy says. Fiddy is so right. If Khaki Pants were still around though, I would fuck him up.

Unwritten Rule in Berdoo for players: Never, ever disrespect the game on the field in our park because we will FUCK YOU UP. You are in A ball, not in The Show. You are not good to think you are bigger than the game, and if you do it here, you will forever remember our names. This goes back to Fiscalin Field, long before San Manuel Stadium. Berdoo might be a shithole, but it is SERIOUS baseball town. The Little League Western Regionals are in this town. Come in here disrespecting the game, and you will get a lesson.

In the top of the sixth inning, Brandon Jacobs of the Rawhide jumped in the home plate ump’s face about a called Strike Three that was right down the cock. Nothing Night had been turning RAUCOUS up until then, but Jacobs’ crybaby antics took things to a new level. As Jacobs sulked to the dugout, about 2500 fans jumped his shit. Jacobs was obviously taken aback, but then gestured to the crowd.

Bad move, Brandon. Bad, bad move.

There are two ABSOLUTE TRUTHS in the city of San Bernardino:

1. Give a hobo a Subway Sandwich, and he will try to sell it for meth.

2: Gesture to a 66ers crowd, and you will lose a piece of your soul.

Jacobs was immediately crushed by ire from the crowd. This is A ball, dammit, and no one here has paid their dues long enough to show up an ump. Jacobs responded by smashing his battling helmet into two pieces on the bench, drawing more catcalls. However, since it was Nothing Night, and there was no scoreboard, no one in the stands knew his name. Thanks to the 4G Network, the entire crowd soon Brandon Jacobs was the asshat behaving poorly.

Perhaps the violent reaction of the crowd scared the 66ers ‘relief pitcher. Or perhaps he just sucks. Five runs later, Berdoo was down 5-2 The crowd really didn’t care; their teeth were still firmly locked on Jacobs’ ass.

It has been a shit ass season for the 66ers, but in the next half inning, the 66er fans in attendance fell in love. The 66ers dropped a six spot on the Rawhide with perfect execution of the game coupled with a Wade Hinkle tater.

Look, there is all sorts of feel good bullshit in baseball narrative, but for one night, the 66ers were not about to let their fans down for one half inning. And the fans responded. Jacobs was forgotten for the moment as genuine affection showered down on the players. During the exciting rally, both fans and players were feeding off the vibrant energy of the NOW. The Rawhide players, used to playing in tiny stadium (2500 capacity) filled with cowbells, were visibly stunned by what was transpiring. Spoiler Alert: They never recovered.

After the inning ended with the 66ers back in the lead, the fans’ attention returned to Brandon Jacobs, who was up third in the inning. By this time, aided by the smart phones, certain fans had the goods on Jacobs. They knew that he had once been a rising prospect in Low A with the Red Sox organization, then began flaming out in AA, so was traded to the White Sox for Matt Thornton. They knew he was going the wrong way on the prospect ladder, and was struggling in his return to A ball, hitting under .230 while fanning three times more than he walks. Most fans didn’t know this; however, they just knew he shown up an umpire.

Often, the fans unloading on the opposition can be ugly – bad hecklers with alcohol involved equals bad results. But tonight, BEHOLD THE HURRICANE. As soon as Jacobs put on his batting helmet, the falsettos started:

Brandon, we are watching you. You have been a naughty boy.

Brandon, we see you. You have to face us.

Brandon, God called. He wants your soul back.

By time Jacobs stepped into the on deck circle after the leadoff batter was retired, the crowd was LOUD. Gone were the falsettos, replaced with deep shouts. Even the Righteous Stoics were being vocal – apparently, a smashed batting helmet allows those guys to feel alive. Or perhaps we really had reached the Pastoral Age, and they were in Nirvana.

After the second batter was retired, the “Brandon” chant started, not softly but loudly. Sure, this derisive chant has grown stale in Major League stadiums, usually an emotionless exercise started by someone who lacks creativity. In the minors, however, the lack of creativity is dwarfed by passion. For a player to receive a name chant, he must have really pissed off the fans in attendance,  plus it is probably the first time in the player’s life that he has been targeted like this, a far cry from the handjobs received prom queen in high school.

When Jacobs whiffed on the first pitch, parts of the crowd were on their feet as the “Brandon” chant resumed. When Jacobs swung for the fence on the second pitch and connected with nothing, the crowd knew it was going to win this battle, and the intensity of the chant increased, along with some well timed solo shots about Jacob’s career status. The third pitch was a borderline pitch on the outside corner, which the umpire called a ball. For a moment, all fury switched to the umpire, but the fans quickly refocused on Jacobs, who weakly fouled off the fourth pitch.

The next pitch almost sailed over the catcher’s glove, and it appeared that perhaps the pressure was switching to the pitcher, Michael Smith. “Throw him the heater, Rickey!” someone yelled, which just never gets old. Smith did just that, blowing by Jacobs for strike three to end the inning. Someone in 66er management, probably GM Joe, made the perfect executive decision and declared that Jacobs had been the Double Secret Beer Batter. The rush to the beer lines was on, and every 66er employee was helped pour beer in the concession lines.

Good times. Good times.

The 66er players continued to please the fans in the bottom of the eighth, adding another four runs, including a three run blast by Wade Hinkle. By this time, the celebration was going full bore. There was still some unfinished business in the top of the ninth; however. Would Brandon Jacobs make it to the plate again? Thanks to a hit and a HBP, Jacobs came to the plate with two outs and two on, and it all started again. Jacobs flew out to right to end the game, and the crowd roared, feeling JUSTICE had been dispensed. Whether Jacobs learned a lesson or not is up to him, but now the fans had more important things to worry about, like high fiving each other and free tacos.

Here is my new baby — an effort to get kids to a ballgame.

So I believe I am decompressed enough to tell this story from today. If not, I will be sedated enough by a healthy combination of of beer and hard liquor by time I get to the really hairy parts to finish it.

I attended a funeral today—- some old dude I barely knew on Mrs. Bads maternal side of the family left this mortal world this week, which pretty much fucked up my Saturday. I was supposed to go to the Stanford/USC game with Li’l Bobby today, those plans were NIXED. My wife’s mother was one of twelve kids of immigrant parents, and many of her siblings didn’t turn out to be law abiding citizens. In fact, many of them think the Mexican gang bangers in Training Day were complete pussies for not capping Ethan Hawke in the bathtub. The dude that died wasn’t like that, but he hung with these people because they were FAMILY. I didn’t even remember who this dude was until we showed up at the funeral because my wife only sees these people when somebody gets hitched or croaks. I would have sat through the entire service without knowing who he was if not for a picture that was in the photo slide show of the church. I was sitting there trying to follow football action on my lousy phone when a picture of a much younger me drinking Budweiser and SHOTS! with the recently deceased at his house appeared on the screen—- that party was about twenty years ago.

I must say it was a hell of a bash—I was the only white person there, and initially, I wasn’t really welcome. They started warming up to me after I returned from a beer run with a keg of Bud, started pouring shots of tequila, and challenging their manhood to drink with me. By the end of the night, they wanted the CRAZY WHITE BOY to do crimes with them. That was the last I saw of a lot of them because those guys were sent to prison by THE MAN. But I digress; this is a story about TODAY. I must say I was a bit moved that a picture of me made this guy’s life highlight reel (and I did look damn good in the picture).

I knew this was not a normal Catholic funeral when I saw men wearing Raiders’ jerseys in the church. I know the new Pope is supposed to be liberal, but I don’t think he would approve of Howie Long jerseys at a Mass. I have never really been able to put my head around the Jersey Culture, but wearing your best jersey isn’t even California Casual attire. However, there in front of me was “Long”, “McFadden”, “Pryor”, “Kaufmann”, “Stabler”, and “Allen”. The one that blew my mind was the “Gannon” jersey though—Jesus Janikowski Christ—- the dude threw five pics in one Super Bowl game, three run back for touchdowns—I don’t care if he won an MVP with the Raiders; that is some bad ju-ju. In all, I counted NINETEEN Raiders’ jerseys, including the guy who lost his eye in a street fight.

After the sacrament of Holy Eucharist, the priest turned the mike over to family members to say their last respects. For the next seventy-eight minutes, I listened to all sorts of tales of despair and woe, and how the deceased helped turned these destitute lives around. Sure, they were strong testaments to the deceased’s life, but I wasn’t getting any updates on the Georgia/Auburn game, so I started to get antsy. McFadden, prison tats and all, got up and told Raider stories, and finished by letting the congregation know that the deceased was buried in his Raiders’ jersey. Look, I know football fans are tribal and have different rites and rituals, but that is MESSED UP RELIGION. When I die, I will finally be free of lousy Cleveland sports teams, and I sure as hell don’t want to take the chance of them following me to the afterlife because one of my family members draped a Browns’ jersey over my corpse. The service finally ended, and we were off to the grave site service where seventy-one Raiders’ balloons (one for each year of his life) were released into the sky.

Have I ever told the Lounge how much I despise the Raiders? If Bill Laimbeer were in a gunfight with any Raider, I’d root for Laimbeer. These feelings would come into play later in the afternoon at the reception, which just happened to be at San Manuel Casino because that was the deceased’s dude’s favorite place.

I am going to pause now for a SHOT! and some further reflection.

So the San Manuel Indians are not just in the casino business — they are into the RECEPTION BUSINESS and have built a giant ass reception hall right next to their giant ass sports bar. My day took a sudden turn for the worse when we arrived and was told there would be no alcohol served at the reception. Being the GREAT IMPROVISER that I am, I made a hasty beeline to the sports bar to wash down the bitter Raider aftertaste left over from the service. Already at the bar was the Raider Contingent, drinking Jack SHOTS! and Heineken as chasers. Gannon was there, and my curiosity caused me to make a TACTICAL ERROR. I purchased a Hot Mexican Hooker (The Sam Manuel Sports Bar is nothing but class) and a Pabst Blue Ribbon and made my way towards them, knowing full well that my literary allegory would not be appreciated by this crowd.

It should be noted at this juncture that I didn’t recall knowing any of these guys.

Me: Hail The Raiders! (slams shot, downs half the PBR to keep that nasty shit down)

Kaufmman: Who the fuck are you?

Me: Family of [the deceased] (SILENCE) Obviously by marriage. He will be greatly missed.

Long#1: You don’t look like a Raiders’ fan.

Me: I’m not! I hate them, Dude. I am a Browns’ fan. Red Right 88. But (get ready for a BIG LIE) I respect Raider fans. You guys are hardcore. (Bottles clink; toast)

Allen: What the fuck stinks?

Me (pointing at the reside in the shot glass): Tuna juice and tequila. Tastes like shit, but it’s great for the morning dooker. At my age, you have to worry about things like that.

Long#2: You put tuna juice in tequila?

Me: They won’t serve pussy juice. (pointing to Gannon) What’s up with you wearing that jersey?

Gannon: Huh?

Me: Rich Fucking Gannon. Super Bowl Goat. Why not Plunkett or Stabler? I understand everyone else (pointing to Allen). Marcus Allen — he wasn’t no Jim FUCKING Brown, but he was great. (pointing to McFadden) Lot’s of potential. The hope of the future. So far he ain’t even Eric Metcalf, but there is still TIME. (pointing to Stabler) The Snake! (pointing to Kaufmman( Frist name Napoleon. That is bad ass! But Gannon? Why wear the pain?

Gannon: I’ve had this since I was a kid. Plus, we eat pain.

Me: That is got to hurt! Hardcore! I still have a Brian Sipe jersey, Dude, so I think I know where you are coming from. Red Right 88. He gave you guys a Super Bowl, and I still have his jersey. I’m too fat to wear it anymore though.

McFadden (vein in forehead starting to noticeably pulse) Are you trying to fuck with us?

Me: A little. (another big lie coming) But you guys seem cool. I hope you beat Houston this week, like 57-54. I’ve got Keenum in one of my money leagues, and I really need the points. I really don’t understand the Gannon thing though. That would be like me wearing a Kosar Jersey.

Gannon: Kosar was a puss!

Me: No shit, dude. He lost 3 AFC Championship games. If he doesn’t throw in interception in the Red Zone in the first half, there is no DRIVE. If I had his jersey, I wouldn’t even wipe my ass with it because I’d be afraid I would get crotch rot on my taint.

Gannon: What the fuck is your taint?

Me: The skin between your nutsack and your asshole. Taint much, but you’d be in a world of shit without it.

McFadden (vein now pulsating): Only chicks have taints, Dickfuck. Men have gooches.

Me: Wow. I didn’t know that. Don’t I feel foolish.

Things might have rapidly deteriorated from there because I was ill equipped to argue the nuances taints and gooches with Radiers’ fans, but Little Bads and Kat showed up.

LB: Mom says you need to get back NOW! Grandpa isn’t feeling well. (guffaws from Raiders’ fans)

McFadden: Grandpa just saved your ass.

Me: Yeah, [FIL’s name] does that a lot.

McFadden: Wait, you’re [FIL’s name] son-in-law?

Me: Yeah.

McFadden: I remember you! You brought a keg to [the deceased]’s Halloween party that year! (bear hugs me) Go make sure [FIL] is okay, and get your ass back in here.

Had I just gone back and kept my head down, the stuff that unfolded later probably wouldn’t have gone down. However, I grew THIRSTY so I went back.

Before I go any further, I will have you know I have pondered the question why I decided to screw with Raiders’ fan at a funeral reception. I mean, these guys obviously were in mourning, and here I was, some smart ass dill weed needling them. Just what type of dick am I? The answer, as far as  can determine with self reflection, can be found in the parable about the scorpion and the frog. It all boils down to NATURAL BEHAVIOR, plus I was still intrigued by the Gannon jersey thing.

Our story continues with me really regretting having that gross SHOT! after eating some carne asada tacos. Perhaps it was the tacos that caused the displeasure, but my FIL ate them, and he was fine. In fact they greatly improved his condition to the point that I could return to the sports bar. I can say though, with almost absolute certainty, that had I not returned to the sports bar, the night would not have ended at Applebee’s with me talking to the Po-Po.

Fucking Applebee’s, man — the last refuge for derelicts trying to pretend they are normal — something right out of a HST acid trip. No one in there right mind goes there unless they are separated from their family and have been forced to leave other establishments because things went south. By time I was at Applebee’s, Mrs. Bads had left me in the hands of the Beloved Nephew, who couldn’t drink because of oral surgery (an excuse he has been milking for MONTHS, and as a result, is facing STIFF FINES in the League). I will argue that nothing really bad happened in the sports bar — just good natured, really foul mouthed trash talking between passionate football fans. However, it seems that is frowned upon in that establishment, and like the E-trade Baby, we were put on a time out. Instead of a crib, we were banished to another drinking establishment, and since Applebee’s can sniff trouble, there was one just down the block.

Only about half the Raiders’ entourage made it to Applebee’s because the sense to go home. Let it be known that a group of Raiders’ fans had more sense than me today. Not since I spat a hotdog on an ASU student after a Browns/Cardinals’ game have I questioned how my fanhood is unhealthy, but that is a story for another time. However, McFadden and Gannon made it to Applebee’s, and their pride had been WOUNDED by our dismissal from the sports bar. In retrospect, giving them FIREBALL! to assuage that wounded pride was not my smartest idea, but now we are back to the scorpion and the frog. Had I known the trouble to follow, perhaps I would have left. I mean, I knew trouble was coming; I just thought I could handle it, plus I was determined to get to the bottom of the Gannon thing.

Me: I still don’t get it. Rich Gannon, dude. I don’t think I can respect you anymore as long as you are wearing that. Turn it inside out, man. People are going to think I am drinking next to a guy who buys his clothes at Goodwill.

Gannon (looking all sad with puppy dog eyes (rottweiler puppy, but still): C’mon, man. I like this jersey. It reminds me of watching games with [the deceased].

Me: Well, I can respect that (glasses clink), but the general public just isn’t ready for that. I’m looking out for you, man.

Beloved Nephew: Yeah, man, that is li–

All of us (in unison): Fuck you, Chiefs’ fan!

Me (to Gannon): Tell me, did you get that jersey before or after the Super Bowl?

Gannon: BEFORE!

Me: Well, have you ever thought about buying a new one?

Gannon: I did this summer!

Me: Which one?

Gannon (head down in shame): Flynn.

McFadden: You moron!

Kauffman (slurring dangerously, raising his glass): To Christensen! (glasses clink)

Long#1: That is like the 34th time you’ve done that. I loved Todd, man, but stop.

Kauffman: long string of expletives, knocks over glass, spills beer, glass bounces on floor, but doesn’t break.

Bartender: He’s done. No more.

Raiders’ fans (in unison) WTF!!!!!

Bartender: He’s done. Period.

Me: Why didn’t that glass break?

Bartender: What?

Me: Seriously, what type of glasses are your serving this beer in? It bounced like a bottle of Canadian whiskey. A real glass would break.

Bartender: We have special floors.

Me: Bullshit! Your glasses are bunk! I got some really cool pint glasses this week — never mind, your glasses are horseshit!

Bartender” No, really, its the floor.

Me (tactical error #2 — or 213, who was counting at this point?) So if we were to throw the glass against the wall it would break?

Bartender: It would shatter. (Pryor, who I thought was the mellow one — another gross miscalculation, hurls his empty glass at the wall, and… drum roll…. it shatters!)

Me: Special floors, huh? What will they think of next? SHOTS!

Kaufmann: To Christensen!

Needless to say, we weren’t served any SHOTS! Had we been smart, we would have left immediately — it wasn’t as if fucking Applebbe’s had let us run a tab. They took one look at the Raiders’ fans and said, CASH UPFRONT!* Instead, we tried to overtip our way out of this mess, but that only works in movies and in Scottsdale, Arizona. If I were I lifelong criminal, I would have been cognizant to the fact that since we were near a really big fucking casino with a recent history of its patrons getting robbed on their way home, there would be a large POLICE PRESENCE nearby. However, I am just a simple school teacher that hasn’t been convicted** of any crimes since my college roommate watched Cool Hand Luke and came home with two parking meters one night in 1988 (another story for another time), I didn’t think Johhny Law would get there as quick as they did. I tell you what though, the residents of San Bernardino County are getting bang for their buck with their sheriff department because those guys arrived en masse.

PRONTO! That is how fast those deputies were there. We might have been able to get out of there with just Pryor taking the fall — in retrospect, that felon was SHIFTY, but McFadden and Gannon, still stinging from the sports bar ejection, went apeshit when they saw the billy clubs, and just like that, I had three compatriots in the back of squad cars and was facing some hard stares from the deputies.

Me: Let’s be reasonable here.

Deputy#1: That went out the door when your buddy threw the glass.

Me: I will pay for the glass. We’ve had hard day. We were at the funeral of someone dear.

Deputy#2: Those guys weren’t at a funeral. They are wearing Raider’s jerseys! Who wears that to a funeral!

Me: My thoughts exactly. I was initially harsh with judgment also. Who wears Raiders’ jerseys to a funeral, especially a Gannon jersey?

Deputy #1: Gannon was an MVP, man! What is wrong with Gannon?

Me (sensing hope): Are you a Raiders’ fan?

Deputy#1: No! I am Niners’ fan, but Gannon was good, man. (hope DASHED)

Deputy#2. Gannon is not important here. You people through a glass at the TV!

Me: Oh, C’mon, the TV isn’t even near the wall. Let me just take them to their hotel.

Deputy#1: You are in no condition to drive, Sir.

Beloved Nephew: I am. I haven’t drank all day. I had oral surgery this week, and the doctor said the antibiotics wouldn’t work if I drank.

Me (in my head) You are getting so fined for that. (Aloud) It’s true. Think of the paperwork you are going to have to fill out. Is it worth it over a glass?

And back and forth it went, the sheriffs unyielding at first, but then starting to soften, especially after the bartender went on break. The Beloved Nephew passed a field sobriety test. Our story about the funeral reception at San Manuel checked out. The Raiders’ fans did indeed have rooms for the night. Just when I thought we had a chance, Kauffman started puking all over himself in the parking lot. I started imagining what the phone call from jail to my wife would be like. I wondered if I’d be released in time to watch the Battle of Ohio tomorrow. I hoped my fantasy rosters were set correctly. I was a beaten man. Then, in my moment of despair, the Beloved Nephew stepped to the plate and hit a GAME CHANGER.

Beloved Nephew: Do you want that smell in your car? Let me take them back to the hotel. We all go on with our lives. It’s been a long day, and you guys can go catch the real bad guys.

The deal went down pretty fast after that. The Applebee’s manger was cool with us paying damages — – $123.00 seemed like a lot for one glass, but one can’t put a price on FREEDOM. The deputies had already run background checks on us, and to my immense surprise, no one in the group had outstanding warrants, not even Pryor. The Raiders fans had to promise they were in their hotel for the night. We had to go straight home. The only hitch was we couldn’t fit everyone in the Beloved Nephew’s Audi, so I had to stay with the Po-Po and the GROUP LEFT BEHIND until after the return trip. Soon, the Beloved Nephew and I were on our way to Redlands, and upon our arrival, we lit one hell of a bonfire and fired up the jacuzzi to soak our taints. Or are they gooches?

Mrs. Bads: I was getting worried. Did it go alright?

Us (in unison): Fucking Raiders fans!

* They didn’t really say that; I am employing DRAMATIC EFFECT, but we all know they thought it.

** key word, convicted. Arrested doesn’t count if you beat the rap.

I have a few game summaries that I never posted her from the 66er playoff run last year. This was the first game against the San Jose Giants:

Bigger crowd tonight at San Manuel Stadium because this is the start of taking home all the marbles.  A lot of these people have been hit by low limbs in the Ugly Forest.

The crowd is tense because there is no Thirsty Thursday tonight, which is enough to piss off the Pope. However, the Strikeout Batter is happening.

PA with wonderful news — Thirsty Thursday is back on! The crowd goes wild, and the mad dash for the concessions begins. And the beer gardens, gone for the playoffs, are re-opened! Brilliant strategy by the owners!

Dueling Banjo Cam plays the “Deliverance” song. Dudes are playing the Air Banjo to get on the big screen.

The Faithful have bathed – must be going line dancing at the Branding Iron after the game, which would explain their cowboy hats.

SOUND THE HORN! 66ers take a 1-0 lead in the first. Will it stand?66er have their number two hitter bunt in the third inning with no outs to move the runner because no one wants to see a big inning on a school night. And the middle of the order fails to deliver, once again illustrating that when you play for one run, often you get none. 1-0 after three. Will it stand?

Jay Johnstone is at the game signing autographs because championships series bring out the stars.

Beautiful barehanded play by the 66ers second baseman on a slow bouncer to end the fourth inning.

The Strikeout Batter promotion has changed for the worse — it used to be the entire stadium received dollar beer. Now because of Corporate America, and MADD one section gets Red Robin coupons. What type of horseshit is this? Senator Barbara “Babs” Boxer will be getting a letter in the morning.  Meanwhile, Sec 109 is getting some Red Robin.

Moo and Brew is not an eloquent name for a fine steakhouse.

Still 1-0 after the sixth. Will it stand? Quick game – not even 8:30 yet. If this game gets to the bullpen though, it could last well into the morning.

And suddenly, the smell of a rotting corpse rolls across the stadium. Dead hobo or a bad omen?

The song after the seventh inning stretch has switched from Journey ‘ “Don’t Stop Believing” to Bon Jovi’s “Living on a Prayer,” then the organist comes in with “Kasmir” as the inning starts. What, no Hannah Montana?

And just like that, Miley Cyrus is the opposition batter music.  And just like that, there is a baserunner.

There are about 50 San Jose fans here. Don’t you people got not no jobs?

After the top of the eighth, still 1-0. Will it hold?

The guy who bunted in the third? 2-2 since then. Runners on second and third, no outs. One out. Bases loaded. Wild pitch. Sound The Horn! Again! 3-0. And again. 4-0. Will it hold?

It holds!

I have a few game summaries that I never posted her from the 66er playoff run last year This was an early game against the Lancaster JetHawks:

It is the Military Aerospace Industry (JetHawks) versus the Automobile Cruisers (66ers) tonight.

Two dollar tickets for tonite’s game—$8.50 beers though.  A Belgian waffle with full toppings in only six bucks. I am a bit alarmed with this development – don’t piss off the baseball gods in the playoffs!

Wind is blowing out at San Manuel Stadium – could be a high scoring affair.

The home crowd is a boisterous for the first inning. I have a feeling that THE FAITHFUL were pounding adult beverages elsewhere before the game.  THE FAITHFUL look like unkempt Duck Dynasty dudes. You can sell a group of people season tickets, but you can’t make them bathe.

The Jethawks’ pitcher just lobbed the third out into the stands. Nice form. The pressure of an elimination game is INTENSE.

No score after the first inning because groundballs don’t fly out of the park in the wind.

And the wind turns a long fly into a ground rule double.  The Baseball gods heard about the $8.50 beers.

San Manuel Stadium has an organist and a DJ because that is the way they roll. The organist just played “Hey Jude” after at JetHawk strikeout.

It is time for the Subway Cold Cut Combat! Kids race to make a giant fake sandwich on the third baseline. What will they think of next?

Godzilla on the big screen is leading the crowd to clap to “Boom Town Races”. Squash some cars, Big Fella!

Hey, Chris Epps! You are the number seven hitter in A ball. You aren’t allowed to cry to the ump about calls.

Abel Baker is not much of a baseball name. Good thing he won’t be making The Show.

No score after two innings because solid contact is not being made.

No fair making the guy with the highest contact rate the Beer Batter of the Game. The baseball gods are growing angrier.

66er catcher throws behind runner on first to nail his ass for the third out of the inning.

Kat and Little Bads make the big screen for the “YMCA”. God, I am worried about my kids.

No score after three innings because of the absence of clutch hits.

If your last name was Heineman, why would you named your kid Tyler unless you want him to get beat up?

Pop foul ball just hit some old lady in the leg. The baseball gods are demanding a sacrifice!

No score after four innings because these fuckers can’t hit.

No score after five innings because it is a pitchers’ duel!

Five Guy Junior PA Announcer coming up. This kid doesn’t have mange. In fact, he is going to grow up to be a LADY KILLER.

SOUND THE HORN! Sixers up 1-0 because Zach Borenstein has the will to win. “Welcome to the Jungle” is blasting. THE FAITHFUL can taste a championship.

So the 66ers’ bat boy tonight is the son of one of Mrs. Bads high school friend. It is a small world, but as Steven Wright once said, I wouldn’t want to paint it.

HBP. THE FAITHFUL want blood.

66ers leave the bases loaded. 1-0. This could very well bite them on the ass. And just like that, the JetHawks put a runner on first.

Epps is up again. I wonder if he is related to the Pittsburg Steelers’ coach, Mike Epps. Probably not the son of the dude from House wouldn’t strike out with a runner on base.

Seventh inning stretch. And that infernal Journey song that Tony Soprano brought back to life. The rock n’ roll gods served their justice in an Italian hotel room, but the song still plays.

I think one of THE FAITHFUL just threw up in a popcorn bag because the tension of an elimination game runs high. Or maybe it was the Yukon Jack.

Leadoff double to start he 8th.  THE FAITHFUL are quiet, except for the wretching dude.

And just like that tie game.

Now we are doing The Carlton going into the bottom of the inning.

Going into the 9th as Michael Snyder strikes out and says a very bad word. Little Bads is impressed.

Epps with another K. Definitely not Mike Epps’ kid.

Delino Deshields Jr. is up to bat. I smell neptotism.

And into the tenth inning we go. Oh, no! Trainwreck! It will be a long bus ride to Lancaster.