Opusing Day

EDITOR'S NOTE: The author wrote this the morning after opening day (April 3). He has written nothing since, because momma always said to finish one blog before you start another. The author has pics of opening day. They are really nice. He was going to post them. That's why the blog is so late. He can't find his usb camera cable. That's a lie. The author just hasn't written because of the shock-induced coma.
So ... here it is; unfinished and buh-tugly.

EDITOR'S NOTE II: The author doesn't actually have an editor.


Did you ever get a $5 gift wrapped in $50 of packaging? Welcome to Opening Day at RFK. Ahhh opening day; The brass band. The unfurling of the giant American flag. The fireworks. And the triple-A team wrapped in major league uniforms. In honor of the religious holiday, the Promotions Commandos arranged for two fighter jets to "Pass Over" RFK. The pomp, however, was quickly followed by the circumstance. Super Turbo Ace John "Dead Arm" Patterson's pitches looked like clay pigeons catapulting in front of Dick Cheney. Even worse, Nook Logan wound up limping off the field looking like someone who just went hunting with Dick Cheney. Then Guz shredded some muscle tissue after swinging at the second pitch of his season. The vice president doesn't enter into Guzman's injury. Guzman just sucks. I once bought a used car and dumped a bunch of money into replacing the transmission and the windshield. I took it out for a ride in the country, and the u-joint dropped out. It was a 1973 Guzmabile. He missed most of 2006 because of surgery on his right shoulder. Then he had laser eye surgery (I was sorely disappointed that he did not use his new laser eyes to melt Dontrelle). So in his first at-bat of 2007, what's he do with his new eyes and bionic arm?


He sees the pitch badly and fails to put his shoulder into the swing - tapping it up the 3rd base line. Oh .. then he limps to 1st, because his u-joint dropped out.

EDITOR'S NOTE: The boys went on to lose the game. They looked like that guy who goes to the prom wearing one of those tuxedo t-shirts, only nobody laughs and he doesn't bring the weed he promised. The author fell into a coma and has typed not a word since "u-joint dropped out". He is starting to come-to now, asking for ice chips and screaming WHY every so often.

MEDIA ANALOGY-STORM WARNING

. . .


The Nationals Post Media Storm Center has issued a Media Analogy-Storm Warning for the entire sports media viewing area. Google Radar has detected conditions in Jupiter Florida that indicate a severe onslaught of poorly framed analogies will soon befall all baseball coverage. Veteran Cardinals manager, Tony LaRussa, was arrested for being drunk while driving a vehicle in the wee morning hours. The following details of this story indicate that every two-bit, frustrated writer who ever took a high school creative writing class will take his best stab at relating this incident to the overall condition of the team Mr. LaRussa manages:

* He was in a diminished mental capacity while in control of a large machine
* He was sitting still at a green light
* He was asleep at the wheel

Take the appropriate cover throughout the day.

Tears on my cowbell ... pain in my hat

The email said that The Washington Nationals Department of Giant Headed Presidential Mascots decided to go in another direction. I tried to go with them in the other direction, but they said that, no, I couldn't come, that that was just a nice way of telling someone to go away. But it doesn't bother me. I was just happy to be there and it was an honor to be asked to audition and all that stuff people say. Now let's never speak of it again or I'll punch you in the throat. No, I am not crying like a little bitch. Shut up.

Anyway, I happen to know for a fact that cold rejection is what the Natties give you when they intend to have you work for them. They call you in, you work 'til you drop and deliver the goods, then they tell you to go away. Then you show up for work like nothing ever happened. That's how that works - unless you're Toma Ohka.





Pedro Astacio showed up in Viero, Florida today. Yes, he was carrying a lot of baggage. But to the average under-informed fan of below-average intelligence , this seems like a shrewd move. A shrewd, last minute, our ace pitcher is John "Ow my arm feels tingly" Patterson, oh my God we are in trouble, move. P'Astacio signed a minor league contract with DC. He will pitch in Columbus, sell hot dogs and beer, be on the rain tarp brigade, and if necessary throw 80 pitches for the major league club every five days. Apparently, Pedro has no agent.

Here atop the vernal equinox, the fearful angst that we're going to win no more the 63 games is in a fierce and brutal tug-o-war with the irrational, undeniable optimism that comes every April. Maybe the pitching committee will pull something together! Maybe Guzman will turn double plays AND get some hits! Maybe the outfield isn't really just another committee! And maybe the Department of Giant Headed Presidential Mascots will realize at the last possible moment that - like the pitching staff - they too could use an older guy, with a shaky hand, a lot of heart, and the will to win a race.

Singing Vikki Carr's song

RING RING!!













Hello?!? Mr. Bowden?!?!?! Oh. Hi Mom ...

Running for president

As my heart pounds and my lungs feel like they have been coated in ice then dropped into a tub of acid and razor blades, I realize that this may well be the day that I drop dead. I envision the local news teams that are on site for a cute story. They would film my death scene - including the part where the paramedics try unsuccessfully to jam the stretcher into the meat wagon. Roll the silent film piano music as my giant head slams repeatedly into what now seem to be tiny doors on the back of the ambulance. These images give me the solace to accept my fate.

But today is not for Death. Today is for Victory.



I don't know if it was computer error, a magnificent lapse in judgment, or the 17 phone calls and 13 emails I sent to the Washington Nationals Promotions Department, but I was given an invitation to try out to be one of the Racing Presidents. After weeks of waiting and not training, the day finally arrived, but trouble was afoot! It seemed as though the Baseball Gods had realized their mistake as they threw every Pitch of Fate they had to keep me from getting to RFK for the big Have-a-Go. But I somehow managed to foul them all off. A freakish March snowstorm had whipped up, and coupled with the sub-freezing temperatures and doomsday radio traffic reports, commuters were in a white knuckled, 5 mph, slow motion frenzy. Even though I left for the stadium ridiculously early, I arrived 15 minutes late for tryouts. "Lot 5 ... Lot 5 ... WHERE THE HELL IS LOT 5?!?!?! Oh there it is ... with the gate down and no attendant. WHERE THE HELL IS THE ATTENDANT?!?!" I finally found the guard.

"What can I do for you?" she asked, right hand resting on her weapon.

"INEEDTOGETINTHER - (ahem) - Good morning. I have an appointment with a member of the promotions department of the Washington Nationals. Would you be so kind as to open the gate?"

"Regarding?"

"Excuse me?"

"What is your appointment regarding, sir?"

When I said I was trying out to be a giant presidential mascot, I waved goodbye to any possibility that she and I were going to be friends. Suddenly, CarrotTop was far above me on the Clout in Entertainment ladder.














After getting the same exact look of disgust and pity from the security guard at the door and a guy who's job appeared to be keeping a room full of foam NUMBER 1! fingers warm, I found my way down to the sub-basement. Glancing around as I speed-walked, it became clear that this place could use a good bulldozing.











My destination is the Home Team Family Room. Sounds nice, huh? Ever been to traffic court? It's like the waiting area, only 75 degrees colder. No matter. I made it. I had literally arrived. I was about to don one of the four President's costumes and run on the same bit of warning track Austin Kearns runs on when he's stealing homers. My nipples were pop rivets.

Details first; sign the waiver, you fat old bastard. And fill out a job app. Technically, I am applying for a job. Name, references ... desired salary? I write "whatever GW Bush makes is fine."

I have prearranged to hook up with a forum buddy of mine. I scan the room full of 20-somethings and spy a fellow Gentleman of Good Seasoning. I ask him conspiratorially, "Are you Nats1derful?" We shake hands and then it's time. Age before beauty, Nats1 goes first into the George Washington outfit. Magnificent. With the giant head on, he is easily over 10 feet tall. I ask if he's ok in there. He's better than ok. His muffled "great" betrays a feeling beyond enthusiasm. I help him get through the lowly 6'8" doorway and out to the ballpark. By now the snow is falling like last week's Dow Jones. But who cares?

We join a throng of humanity that is the physical equivalent of any chat room - 98% eager guys and a couple of tentative members of the Fairer Sex. All here to watch this batch of hopefuls. I am enthusiastically cheering all of them. Sure, we were all competing for the same gig, but it seemed like we all knew that we were also involved in a Very Special Day.

Nats1derful lives up to his name. He dances, he struts, and he runs a great race. This guy is a force. After leading him back to the friendly confines of the Home Team Family Room, we trade off. Now it's my turn to be George Washington, Father of our Country, and Giant-Headed Colossus. The transformation takes about ten minutes, now that we both know where all the straps and buttons go.

Out on the field, I jump and dance and rip off James Brown's footwork, Ric Flair's hand motions, and Bill Clinton's deadly combination point/thumbs-up/point again move.
The giant head feels good. It weighs about 45 pounds, but I'm living large inside it. I let out a laugh that would have made a bank teller push the secret alarm button. I'm panting like an Alaskan Husky in August, but I keep workin' it.

"AW RIGHT YOU MAGGOTS. LINE UP FOR YOUR RACE."

That's not what Tom Hanks from That Thing You Do said exactly, but that's what my brain heard as his voice boomed over the Def Leopard kick drum sound of my heart.

The assignment was to run past the DC United goal, and to the end of the last bench. Gentlemen, take your marks. This was it; quite possibly my only chance to ever participate in the President's race. Eye of the Tiger.
GO!


Instead of taking off like a shot, I felt my gi-normous body lurch forward. Terrible. I was barely moving. I was not only going to get dusted by Teddy, Abe, and Thomas, I was going to shame my whole family. Desperately, I poured-on the juice. It wasn't until I reached the second bench that I realized I was either second or first to finish. Since there is almost zero peripheral visibility, there is no way of knowing if you are neck-and-neck. So ... let's just go ahead and say I won. Might as well, because with a day like this, how could I lose?

Off Season Coach Potato

Good omens all around. Manny Acta pulled new coaches from the Astros, Braves, and all in all, his past experiences. This shows he's smart enough to surround himself with people with more experience than him. It also shows that the front office is going to let Manny make decisions (St. Claire aside).

















New Bench Coach, Pat Corrales

























New First Base Coach, Jerry Morales



















New Third Base Coach, Tim Tolman



















New Bullpen Coach, Rick Aponte (Curse you, Google Images!)



















Back from the minors, Hitting Coach, Mitchell Page
















Titanic survivor, Randy St. Claire

2007

A Nats sales rep tells me season ticket renewals for the 2007 season will happen soon. "Look for your renewal around the end of this month," he said. It will be interesting to see if Soriano's departure has a Michael Jordon affect on season ticket renewals and ticket sales overall next year.



Even if the seats are largely empty, the club will likely show increased revenues. TV viewership has nowhere to go but up, and it most likely will with Comcast and other outlets now committed to airing the games. While that alone will mostly benefit the beloved owner of the O's, the Nats' 10% take in revenue is nothing to scoff at.




For two full seasons now, sportswriters have been speculating about the nature of this new animal; the Washington Nationals Fan. The 2005 season gave a few good indications of what the new fan looked like, but it wasn't terribly accurate. That inaugural season, the stands were filled with people excited to have something to be excited about. Looking at the 2005 season Nats fan was like looking at a Glamour Shot. Last season, things were a little different. It looked less like a ribbon cutting ceremony and more like a baseball stadium. Squatting your way into the more pricey seats became a bit easier. And while still rare, the 2006 Nats Fan learned how to boo their own team. But even as the team made a steady trudge to the basement of the NL East, the stands were mostly filled with people happy to be there.




2007 will be different.

At the final game of 2006, a lone sign in the crowd got no TV time and was largely ignored. But it was there. Mets fans watched to make certain that their team would indeed enter the post season, even though the only thing that would keep them out would be a meteorite slamming into their dugout. Fans on the left field side busied themselves by imploring Soriano to stay in Washington.




Everybody was saying thank you and goodbye to Frank Robinson. But the lone sign was there, a bellwether to the 2007 season and the look of real Nationals fan. The sign read: LAST DAY FOR EXCUSES.

The 2007 season, for which I eagerly await notice of ticket sales, will be the year Nats Fans get to claim some credibility. Some war wounds. A unique personality. Aside from Brian Schneider and Nick Johnson, the team will be a DC team - not a leftover Expos team playing in another city. Very young players will take the field. Some will show signs of great potential. Others - many others, probably - will stink up the joint. Through it all, I hope that we remain hopeful. The hope has been palpable over the past two years. Maybe it was borne of the impossible first half of 2005. Maybe DC is a town so filled with cynicism that we need a place to be purely hopeful. I really don't know. I'm too close to it to know, I think. Any picture is made up of tiny bits of information. To give you, dear imaginary reader, the most detailed picture of the 2007 Nationals Fan, I make this naive, premature, and overreaching vow; I will blog every day of the 2007 season. You decide what we look like.