Wednesday, March 08, 2006

Live From The Clinic

A Yankee fan made this comment to me yesterday, so you'll understand that the metaphor involves hard drugs. But he told me: "you know, I can't get into spring training baseball. Don't get me wrong, I love's my crack cocaine. But spring training is like methadone. I mean, it's okay...but it's not crack."

Now the hardest powder I've ever ingested are those lik-a-stix that you had as a kid, and the only thing I ever smoked was a Frosted Mini-Wheat (don't ask), so I was going to have to take his word for it. But I kept the comment in mind as I flipped on the television today for a little Dominican Republic vs. Venezuela world baseball. It's not quite regular season baseball, yet a little stronger than pure methadone. It's like methadone cut with angel dust...I guess.

The first thing I noticed was Big Papi's face, which I thought was involved in some sort of accident, or maybe a high stick from Jeremy Roenick. But apparently, it's a design. Not a tattoo, more like one of those temporary deals you get in the cracker jack boxes. Which begs the question: how strong is the methadone David Ortiz must be taking to put that on his face?

I guess it's just Papi being Manny.

All right all right, Papi merely acts as a bridge for me. And this is how you know it's March. The pride of Venezuela and the skeleton in the closet of the Mets rotation, Victor Zambrano struck out Ortiz on a pitch three feet inside and two feet in the dirt. Yeah, the pitch had stuff...but in July, Ortiz lets it go by for ball four.

A few pitches later, Zambrano throws one that goes a foot over Moises Alou's head and to the backstop. Unlike Papi, our own Victor Zambrano is in mid-season form. Later on, I get a load of new Met Jorge Julio throwing a beach ball to Adrian Beltre that at this moment is orbiting Mars. And then it occurs to me: If this is spring training, and spring training is methadone...I need detox.


Between Pedro's toe, Delgado's tendonitis, Zambrano continuing to play the elephant in the punch bowl, and Julio doing his Armando Benitez impression, I'm at the front door of the Meth clinic with more shakes than Dairy Queen. And all I want to do now is shoot up with something that will take away the pain of wild pitches and gopher balls.

Or maybe a simple dose of Winstrol will do it.

Speaking of drugs (silly blogger, segways are for kids)...

Sure, we all pretty much knew that Barry Bonds was juicin'. Although the evidence is largely circumstantial, where there's smoke there's fire...and there's enough smoke here to make Cheech and Chong jealous. But as it becomes increasingly clear that we've all been duped with these home run records, it leaves a sinking feeling. Think about it. You grew up revering the home run record of Roger Maris. It seemed untouchable didn't it? Then you think you've witnessed something special not once, but twice! And the first time you saw the single season home run record broken, it merely brought the sport all the way back from the oblivion it plunged itself into when a players strike killed the 1994 season...which should have been the first time Maris' record was broken by Matt Williams. But now, you find out it was all a farce. It wasn't real.

It's kind of like you go to an all-boys school for four years...and then you graduate, and the first thing you do is scout for women. And you walk up on someone with the finest female form you've seen in your life...and you walk behind her for a few blocks before you get up the nerve to say hello to her. And right before you the very moment you are reaching to tap her shoulder, she turns around...

and it's a guy.

And that's the home run era in a nutshell. Lipstick on a pig.

The worst part is that baseball let this happen. It's their lack of rules, their undersized ballparks, their propensity to look the other way, their refusal to kill the golden goose which was genetically engineered to lay big golden eggs that busted many home run records...including one and and eventually maybe two of the most hallowed home run records that exist.

Get me to the clinic...immediately.

But get me out in time to see Bonds pass Hank a Jorge Julio fastball.


Spelling Police said...

That word is "segue."

Jaap said...

well, Metstra, the drug metaphors are probably appropriate but really, there are some corners of dissent in the area who are beginning to believe that this WBC stuff is more like an inflatable woman compared to the MLB as the annoying Julia Roberts hooker. The WBC, pure fun, no whining. MLB, rocked by scandal, overpaid, well, you get the picture. (And full disclaimers on this one - I may have done enough drugs to become my own metaphor but certainly never once dated an inflatable least not on terms as serious as Bonds' dating relationship with Kimberly Bell, that is. I never told my inflatable doll about my steroid abuse...)

Metstradamus said...

Spelling police,

"Segway" was not questioned by the almighty spellcheck provided by Blogger.

Oddly enough, the word "Blogger" was.

Go figure.

Anonymous said...


Metstradamus said...

"These conventions usually have segway parking."

-Neil Goldman "Family Guy"

Jeffrey said...

I was reading the post, and wondering where Julio would come up. Lucky for me (or unlucky, judging by his fastball), you didn't leave him out. Another great post Metstra.