Who's The Other Guy?

Is it something I said?  I mean you could tell me and I wouldn't get upset.

I was just going over notes left for me by the Studly Pastures research team (cough) and it turns out that readership is down--like way down.  Let's say it's so down that if we were a company that was built on turning a profit that I would have resorted to insider trading a few months ago.  Our stock is bleeding faster than a stuck pig and I've never understood that reference other than I guess you have to bleed the pig before you cook it otherwise you get really bloody bites of pork.

They've even gone as far to say that Latvia hasn't been around in months and I'm especially hurt about that.  We had a great thing going, Latvia, and you're just going to toss me aside like some cheap blog floozy.  It makes me wonder two things: where the Hell are Latvians going to get their American sports banter if not from me and why did they ever stumble upon me in the first place?

Who knows how this wacky internet thingy works.  I type words that only I can see and press a button and suddenly every entity in the universe can see them too.  That's either incredible technology or the Devil's work and I haven't decided which one it is yet or if it's both.

After I crunched the numbers left for me by the research team (cough) I started trying to find some sort of correlation between the lack of readership and the content of the post.  That search proved to be moot because all I concluded was that I was consistent across the board with genius observations and hilarious banter on American sports.  That much was clear.

However a senior ranking adviser from the creative department (cough) discovered an abnormality in what kind of music I listen to when writing a post.  For most of the last year I've been listening to classical music because I love classical music and it makes me relaxed and put at ease.  Well that's exactly the opposite of what the Studly Pastures is about.  We're loud, we're abrasive, and we don't do serene.  No more classical.  It's time for some other classical.  I'm writing tonight to the sweet sounds of the Electric Light Orchestra station on Pandora and it's time for some real thoughts.

First off, if a closer comes into a ninth inning with a two-run lead and loses the game he should be demoted or at the very least docked in pay.  Your job is to close the game, the very nature of it is in your job title for crying out loud!  If I'm the cab driver and you hop in the backseat and tell me where you are going and I say okay and immediately gun the gas pedal and drive into the first light-post I see there's going to be consequences and repercussions!  I understand that the job is a high-stress atmosphere.  There's never thousands of people watching a cab driver's every move on television but I guess my beef is truly with the lack of ownership.  If you give up a walk-off grand slam to lose the game for your team when everything that went wrong was truly your fault the very next thing you should do is answer for it.  I want to hear you come out and say, "Well I sucked complete balls tonight and I'm really sorry that I didn't do my job and even beyond that I found some twisted way to make doing my job seem more heroic than it really is.  I guess I shouldn't have walked out to the mound and immediately crapped my pants and then proceed to chuck that crap into the stands.  I am really sorry about this and can only hope you show mercy."

If that happened I might be a little more forgiving.

Second of all, the NFL Draft is barreling towards us which is always a very exciting time for me here down at the Studly Pastures.  I get really worked up about it and always refer to it as NFL Holy Day and everybody wants to know who is going to go number one overall.  Well last year an offensive tackle went number one overall and that's always boring but before him the last four number ones were all quarterbacks, which is considered the most important position on the team.  In fact you'd you have to go back all the way to 2006 to find when the last defensive end was taken number one overall and that was when the Houston Texans took Mario Williams over Reggie Bush.

I don't know if Johnny Manziel, or Blake Bortles, or Teddy Bridgewater is going to be great in the NFL and maybe they all will be.  But I do know this about the NFL and the Houston Texans: getting pressure on the quarterback is very vital and they already have a specialist in J.J. Watt.  Get another one!  Use the number one draft pick on Jadeveon Clowney.  The history of the Houston Texans number one draft picks is David Carr and Mario Williams.  David Carr is probably in some sort of veterans hospital and Mario Williams is still playing in the league in Buffalo.  Granted, those both sound like Hell on Earth, but at least Williams is still getting a fat paycheck.  Take the freak defensive end, create awesome pass-rushing defense, get anybody later in the draft who can throw the ball to your own team more than the other one.  There's the formula, don't disappoint me Houston.

Thirdly, and I'm so surprised that's a word, is that we've been together a long time, you and I, faceless entities and I worry that we're just not ourselves anymore.  Let's promise each other something right here and now.  I'll try harder and so will you.  It's not that tough.  You could always use a little information and a good laugh and I could always feed my narcissism.  It's win-win for the both of us.  Let me know what you think, my office is always open.

By the way, if you see Latvia, tell her that you saw me talking to Estonia.  That ought a do it.

Float on, graceful swans.

Let's Play Extras

I very rarely write about something before it happens and that's mostly because I'm better at reporting than I am at speculation.

But tonight, kids, the Tampa Bay Rays will play an extra game to determine who gets to punch their ticket to the post-season between them and the Texas Rangers.

And this scares the literal crap out of me--seriously, I just pooped.

All pants-crapping aside, it's moments like these that are perfect microcosms for why sports are great and incredibly brutal at the same time.  Even if you aren't a baseball fan--or even a sports fan--imagine the one thing that you've worked towards for the better part of the year coming down to one, JUST ONE, pivotal moment and if you blow it then that's it.  Better luck next year, kids.

If you screw up and lose it there's this overwhelming feel of everything you've just done has been for naught.  Then comes the scrutinizing over "If I just did this one thing differently then maybe we wouldn't have even been here in the first place."  It's absolutely agonizing.

But if you win...there's no greater feeling.  It's the exact opposite with everything you've worked towards coming into fruition.  You buy in.  It was all worth it.

And as far as baseball goes I live vicariously through the Tampa Bay Rays and I know for a fact that others do the same.

I played baseball for a summer once, many moons ago, and there were two resounding moments that continually haunt me and they both happened at first base.  For one, I hated the third baseman.  He had a terrible arm and could never get the ball across the infield to me without skipping it along the ground and that for me was a nightmare because I couldn't play the hop to save my life.  All I managed to do was get my glove down in time to form a little ramp for the ball to travel up my arm and pop me in the face.  This was obviously the third baseman's fault.

Secondly, I can remember the pitcher walking off the mound towards first base while I had the ball waiting for me to throw it back to him only he kept getting closer and closer to me and for some reason I panicked thinking that if I threw him the ball like I normally do I would accidentally zing it right at his face.  You know, because being thirteen and 80 pounds soaking wet, I had a canon for an arm that even a juiced up Roger Clemens was jealous of.  Instead of just taking a little something off and just throwing it overhand per usual I decided to lob it underhand and very pathetically utter this "unnngggh" sound as I did it too.  As soon as I did it I thought some guy would come over and take my glove and hat and say, "It's over, son."  And he had every right.

So I decided that it was best to leave it to the professionals and since 1998 my professionals have been the Tampa Bay (Devil) Rays.  I mean, Hell I can best relate to them: we both don't have very much money and we tell people we're from Tampa when really it's more like St. Petersburg.

The reality of it all?  The Rays have to beat the Texas Rangers tonight, in Texas, for the right to face the Cleveland Indians, in Cleveland, for the right to play the Boston Red Sox, in Boston.  A long shot?  Of course it is.  It's hard to play that many 'must win games' and expect to come out on top but, hey, I'm a student of the NCAA basketball tournament and the NFL playoffs.  All of those are 'must win games' too and somebody comes out on top.  Why not the Rays?

I might be crazy--in fact I probably am--but being born in New York and being asked why I'm not a Yankees fan is an easy answer for me.  It's because the Rays are the good guys.

Look, I'm not asking you to be a Rays fan, or a baseball fan, or even a sports fan.  I'm simply asking you to recognize what you really want in life and understand that some people want that from sports.  I have watched and reported on sports for a long time and it's the most human thing I've ever seen.  People stake their lives, their good name, and their entire future on a game.  Why?  Well they do it for you.  And for me.  And for themselves.  It's a strange, strange thing but it's incredibly beautiful and heart breaking.  Isn't that human enough for you?

So tonight I'll watch my Rays take on the Rangers with eager eyes while I simultaneously switch over to the Dolphins-Saints Monday Night Football game and maybe I'll have a really good night and maybe I'll have a really bad night.  That's the whole point.  All I know is that I'm excited about something that I have absolutely no control over and I hope you have something like that in your life.

Rocket Man

Roger Clemens, former MLB pitcher, was indicted on federal charges for lying to a grand jury about his steroid use throughout his career.

Clemens has vehemently denied ever using steroids despite testimony from the guy that gave him steroids, and Andy Pettitte, another MLB pitcher that took steroids and admitted to it and is Roger Clemens best friend.

The Rocket made a fatal flaw in his web of lies. He was able to convince himself that he never took steroids. So, when his web began to fall apart around him, he should have taken the same route as Pettitte, or Alex Rodriguez, or Brian Cushing, or Manny Ramirez, and that is to LIE about why you took steroids in the first place.

Say it was because some lousy trainer told you it was herbal supplements, or you were taking fertility drugs to have sympathy symptoms with your wife, or you accidentally fell on the needle.

This is the proper progression of lying. When caught in your first lie, you make up a new one that is even more preposterous than that!

Instead, Rocket is in deeper shit than he was before, because now he faces possible jail time for LYING to a federal court. They don't take too kindly to that.

Look, we all know why he was lying. He was trying to save himself that Hall of Fame spot.

Yet again, he was so deep in his own muck that he didn't recognize what was happening to Mark McGwire. Big Mac didn't even LIE! He didn't say anything! Still, no Hall of Fame for the guy that "brought back baseball". (Speaking of which, have you seen Sammy Sosa lately? Jesus Christ!)

What's next for Roger? Well, he's gotta go to prison. He has to, because I'm sick of this.

He needs to go to prison for his reality check. He's just like the rest of us. We do something wrong, we lie about it, we get caught, and then we suffer the CONSEQUENCES.

Clemens is a man who needs to suffer some consequences.