Time to clock-in

April, 2007 was a month-long rally waiting to happen. According to the record of 9 and 17, it didn't. On paper, May doesn't look a whole lot more promising. This is where I'm supposed to get all positive and Rudy, but that ain't gonna happen either.




In May, the Nats take on:
Padres
Cubbies
Brewers
Marlins
Braves
then the O's
Reds
Cards
Dodgers.


Cakewalk, right? In your beak. Everybody's better, but there are glints of light. Chicago should win all three games, but they won't. Soriano is sleep walking. Lou is suffering from over-expectations, and the team is coming off a 2 game streak against The Pirates. Meanwhile, nobody is expecting much from DC -except DC.


Photo by K. Provost

Bergman is on the mound today at Wrigley. Bergman will pitch poorly, because he's been too good lately. The defense will play well, because the have a shiny new Langerhans to impress and be impressed by. The big question is the bats. If the batting wakes up, the game goes to the DC.

As go the bats, so go the Nats.

May will define The Washinton Nationals 2007 Season. DC will either turn it on or mothball the season in May. Guzman will come back. Logan will come back. God, I wish I were in Chicago this afternoon.

Ryans in the Outfield

~


We just got screwed.

If you listen carefully, you can hear Wayne Krivsky laughing. He's still stinging from last year's Nats/Reds trade. This time though, Bowden's trading with Billy Bean, which is like making-out with a pickpocket.

The Natties traded outfielder Chris Snelling to the A's for Fresh-Off-The-Plane-From-Atlanta Ryan Langerhans.




Bowden wasn't terribly clear on why. "In our ballpark and with our young pitching staff, it's good to have good defense in the outfield. We want to be able to catch the ball. Ryan can play all outfield positions, and he is a plus in all three positions. We thought that was important, especially in our ballpark."

What a load. We've all come to expect better lying from Bowden. This is not his best work. He could just as easily have been talking about Snelling.

Statistically, this trade doesn't make much sense. DC traded a good fielder with less-than-impressive hitting and running numbers for a good fielder with less-than-impressive hitting and running numbers. Langerhans has slightly more experience, so today, at this very moment, the scale is tipping to Bowden getting the better side of this dead-even deal.

But wait ... isn't that Billy Bean at the table? What's he up to?

photo by Marice Cohn

Did the A's acquire Langerhans from Atlanta just to pick up Snelling? Why? DC most likely was much more interested in Langerhans than Oakland was in Snelling. So what else was promised to Billy Bean? I feel so dirty.

When the Nationals hired Pat Corrales, Stan Kasten got his old bench coach back, along with nine years of Atlanta Braves dugout intel. Corrales probably watched Langerhans get scouted and come up through ATL's excellent farm system. That's somewhat comforting. Maybe there's a big back story. I'll go even further out on this limb and point out that Andruw Jones' $75-million dollar contract is up at the end of '07, and this may be a piece of the puzzle to reel him in. When the Natties were in Atlanta, AJ went on and on about his love for Stan Kasten. I don't have the exact quote, and I'm far too lazy to google it, but I believe AJ said Kasten was like a second father to him. Who knows? Maybe Langerhans is like a kid brother. He feels better looking to his left and seeing Langerhans. Who knows? Who knows? After cutting the Nats payroll in half in 2007, there may well be enough cash in the coffers to woo AJ. If you can't idly speculate without enough data, how are you supposed to pass the workday?

There are a couple of things that are certainties; First, Langerhans is no worse and no less an unknown that Snelling was. Secondly, I need to get a Ryan Langerhans jersey and cover it with grommets. Grommets are also known as eyelets. It'll be my islets of Langerhans jersey. RING RING!! SportsCenter calling!

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?