Coach Taylor, No!

Dammit, Buddy Garrity should have never sold his bar for that Frito-Lay factory, then gone to his friend to bail him out of a fiscal crisis. Now Coach Eric Taylor has got to whore himself out to this conglomerate to hawk junk food. There's no way this won't come back to bite him in the ass later, especially when the Pennsylvania high school coaches association catches wind up of this. I smell a forfeit of a game that his Vikings depserately needed to win to qualify for the playoffs, and little baby Gracie getting hooked on the chips that get sent to his house, especially with his wife so busy at her new job as dean of admissions. He'll rue the day he did this! Especially when his local obsessive high school radio DJ starts pounding him about this for day after day.

(And if I've just lost all of you with that, it's because you didn't watch "Friday Night Lights", and wonderful satire has been lost. Alas. Hope you put the money to good use, Kyle Chandler. Clear eyes, full wallet?)

Ten MLB Saturday Takeaways

I sat down for the Fox MLB of the Week double header this week. Here's what I've learned...

10) Giants Fan doesn't care if his team wins or loses, because he gets to float in water in nice weather, which is something that the broadcast audience needs to be reminded of on a routine basis

9) The state of Yankees-Red Sox is now at the point where Joe Buck tells you how many minutes the inning has taken, because you haven't wasted nearly enough of your life in these games

8) The Giants feel that Cody Ross and Aubrey Huff are sure to forget who they are and hit, any day now

7) Ken Rosenthal's wacky necktie fetish shows that Craig Sager's influence exists, and will be a problem

6) The addition of Carlos Beltran to the Giants is just what a defending World Series champion needed, since Carlos has been such a big winner over the last few years as a Met

5) Since the Giants lost today without getting their heads kicked in, no Phillie hitter had to be thrown at

4) If I just avoid getting a cell phone, I won't be part of any idiotic dance troop flash mobs

3) We all care very deeply about how much facial hair the Giants' relievers have

2) Eric Karros and Kenny Albert each talked about Cole Hamels "taking a deuce", which he more or less did on the Giant hitters

1) When a beer vendor spills onto the field in Boston, that's pretty much a generation-defining event

I Tilt Myself

Normally I love hosting my poker game. Last night, not so much. But hey, bad times for me usually result in amusement for you, so let's vent...

The Man Space can get a bit toasty with 20+ meat bags in it -- it's basically a 350 square foot rectangle with a low ceiling and no ventilation -- so I've tried a number of steps to make it more habitable. Two ceiling fans run more or less nonstop despite the height, I put some curtains near the stairwell to cut down on the cold air loss, and I have a portable unit that goes out one of the small basement windows. Since the windows are small, you can't just put an ordinary unit in the window; you need something with a smaller vent tube, and customize the window installation. One of my regulars wanted to bring his dad to this week's game and had a portable unit he wasn't using, so all right. Let's give it a shot, with the guy and our mutual contractor doing the honors.

They installed the unit on Wednesday night, and I couldn't be around for much of the work, as my West Coast start up required me on a late conference call. When I got back to the area, the unit was in the wall, but I was told not to use it just yet. The fuses for my breaker were said to be up to the job, but not my surge protector. So I didn't test it before the event.

Now, something everyone should know about poker players, or at least the guys at my game: herding cats might be easier. Getting them all to come on time, having the people who say they are coming not change their plans at the last minute, or having others parachute in... it's more or less a constant. In the usual day of an event, anywhere from 10 to 20% of the field is going to email, text or call to change things up, and I'm going to wind up changing the room to match it up. We run a yearly points total to aid repeat business and add intrigue, so it complicates set up. We also frequently wind up on the 2-3 table cusp, and the tables fit 8, 8 and 10 players respectively, so I try to keep things even. It requires some doing.

Finally, I also usually run errands the night before, or the day of, the game. There's soda to buy and load into the fridge, a new water cooler that required a spare 5-gallon jug, soft pretzels, etc. I also wind up moving a lot of furniture, as my sectional sofa moves to the other side of the basement to make room. There's a lot to do, but it's something I enjoy, and as I've said, I like putting on a good game.

Usually.

Last night, not so much.

I knew I was in trouble for, well, days before the event. It's been a rough month financially, so the added contractor expense wasn't a happy moment, and you rarely play well when you are tight on dough. It's been a very busy week for the start up (witness the Wed PM call), so the errands fell to the Shooter Wife. It was a very busy day for the start up, so the room prep didn't happen until late. And the second AC unit didn't get turned on until late, either... and when it did? I discovered the tube was about a foot too short to position the unit in any useful direction. Irritating. And so is the bigger than usual flurry of player add/drops, as we go from 25 to 20 in the span of an hour. Fine. Gah. Whatever. We've still got enough for three tables, we're starting on time, everyone's happy. Let's roll. What do I care that the second AC unit shuts off when someone uses the coffee maker? It'll all work out. Room's OK, though not exactly cool. We'll be fine.

The first hour goes well for me. I chip up early despite not catching much, and the crazy aggro player at my table doesn't show up on time, which also helps. The rebuys are popping off like popcorn to make for a big pot, and the final hand before the hour goes my way and makes me the chip leader, though not a dominating one. Crazy aggro guy is short stacked, I don't feel overwhelmed by my table, I'm finally going to cash in my tournament this year. (It's been a very bad year for me in my tournament.)

At which point... we all start to notice how wet it's getting near the second AC unit. Visible dripping. Joy. I need some cups and maybe a bucket, let's turn this thing off and I've been dealt Ace-6 out of position, um, uh, crap, fold I guess, my freaking room! Dammit, I more or less live down here now with the work from home job, and that's not good. I mean, I own a dehumidifier and all, but still... Wow, all-in on my big blind, and I've got an Ace and your stacks isn't big, so I guess I call...

I make it to the final table somehow with a decent stack, thanks to flopping a full house against that all-in move. We're paying out five tonight and I really do need the cash, so I should just stay patient and hmmm... 9-10 suited when the table is going all-in crazy. I've folded something like 9 out of 10 hands or more most of the night, so maybe a limp will look like I'm trapping with a big pair if I come in early, so let's give that a shot. The flop is a rainbow that gives me an open-ended straight, and the table is aggro enough that there's no way I'm going to see the turn or river with checks... so let's bet into it and go 2X pot. It works for everyone but the previously mentioned late maniac on my right, who shoves for 80% of my stack. Dammit.

(Here's a little side pot of misery: the room has a new player who won't give me his last name for the player of the year contest, and is slow with his antes to the point where I feel like I have to monitor his play for the rest of the night. Oh, and he's also doing the whole fake ignorant thing on the size of bets to call, rebuys twice in the first five minutes before putting together a monster stack, and has managed to ingratiate himself to, seemingly, everyone in the room but me. But maybe that's just because my floor is turning into a swamp from an unexpected expense that's causing electrical issues. Yeah, I'm just a festival of good decisions right now.)

The only smart move here is to fold. I need to cash. This maniac has owned me for six months. He's such a maniac that I'm not even sure I've got the worst hand right now, really. Even if I'm wrong, 8 outs with two cards left isn't the worst odds I've ever played into. Drip. Drip. Drip. Dammit, I need to win one of these freaking things, not just cash for my buy in, especially given my financial situation. GAHHHHH. Drip. Drip. Drip.

Call. Like a complete on tilt moron. Call.

And of course he's got J-10, the same draw that I have, but also top pair, and just about the worst thing for him to have. So there goes most of it, and the last is gone two hands later when no one raises my big blind, I hit bottom pair and bet into a stack with more. Well, so much for those three hours. I play the cash game for ten minutes with my heart not in it, since my floor needs attention, and the room gets my overall pissy vibe and starts bailing out early.

Everyone, of course, that isn't the previously mentioned side pot of misery. He's counting chips after everyone has left to make sure he gets every possible dime of what's coming to him (this, after clearing $175 in the tournament, and taking a miss on my tip jar since he's brought his own), thanking me for the fourth time for the courtesy of having him (the first three times were enough, really), and asking me when the next game is. Oh, and he's spilled a beer and congratulated himself by telling me about it, and how honest he is for saying so.

Um, dude? This is my home. My swampy, swampy home that needs hours of cleaning and work, with no desire for company, especially yours. He finally gets the hint and leaves, and now it's time to get the place back to habitable. So let's grab the dehumidifier and the towels and the vacuum cleaner and... hey, the tip jar is at its lowest level ever. Can't say that's a surprise, really.

Yeah, that second AC unit? It's time for that to go. Like, post haste. So using the power of hate and gym muscles, I get the thing to the garage -- and yes, it's absolutely engorged with water, adding to the weight and my general rage. Which leaves just the hose in the window, which comes out with a simple screw driver. And a whole in the window, with a custom and perfectly placed piece of wood that ain't going nowhere. Ruining the efforts of the dehumidifier. The wood has got to go. Somehow. At 4am.

Let's find a saw! Sure, that's a win at this hour. But we don't have a hand saw, we've got an electric one. In the box, brand new and after 45 minutes of looking at the instructions and trying to get it to work... that's exactly where it goes back. GAHHHH. Well, at least there's one Darwin Award moment dealt with. (I wound up using the tool of every tool-challenged moron; duct tape. Worked for the day.)

So... many hours later, the room got back to status quo. Twenty days from now, it will happen all again. And if the room's too hot... the room will be too hot. And I hope it puts them on tilt, because it's not going to for me.

Philly Fan And Insufferability

So in the last whirlwind week, with the Eagles and Phillies crushing the world in terms of impact moves, there's been talk in Blogfrica over how the Eagles have turned into the Yankees. This, after a few months of crying about how the Phillies' rotation made them the new Yankees. Or something. And it's led to the idea that Philly Fan is becoming insufferable. A few points along this line...

1) Becoming insufferable?

Look, we may not be any worse than most cold-weather cities where people care too much about their teams, but we've been insufferable for a very long time. From the borderline racism of the fan backlash in the Donovan McNabb Era to the brawls with Mets fan, continued employment of Howard Eskin and existence of WIP sports radio, we are an all-weather, all-year insufferable lot. The baseball fans are well on their way to becoming expectant about playoffs and championships, and the football fans are the authors of the worst sports radio boneheadedness. Basketball fans kvetch for games at the Palestra, and hockey fans are all insufferable, giving the money involved and the fact that they are paying to watch soccer on ice. We've always been insufferable; the only question is whether the nature of that insufferability is changing. (And if it is? Good. We should all experience new problems in this world.)

2) We don't have the media support to become truly insufferable.

I don't know how many Giants "wrote" books after their SB win over the Patriots, but we're betting it's not a little. The same goes for the Red Sox, Patriots and Celtics, of course. When the Eagles of the '90s left the game, they didn't get cushy jobs on Fox, the way the '90s Cowboys did. And so on, and so on.

The simple fact of the matter is that there are fan bases like Boston, New York and Los Angeles where championships just mean more, because there's a local media that ties into the national one, and there's money to be made for ratcheting up the self-love. When a championship happens in Philadelphia or New Orleans or Florida or Indianapolis, it passes under the waves in hours, and becomes only a local story. (And if a Texas team wins, that's just a whole 'nother world of insufferable, since Texans like to tell you how you are worse than them even when there teams are horrible. It's something in the water, I think.)

Now, does this mean that Philly Fan isn't about to be hated and hated hard? Of course; that's the nature of winning for everyone but the people who hand out Participant trophies and feel good about it. Every NFL fan that sees Nnamdi Asommugha do his thing in green this year is going to remember how every team had a shot at him, but he took less money to be here. And the same story goes for others, as well.

There's also this: both of our teams play in taxpayer-funded pleasure domes, which is another very good reason to hate on everyone involved. They also play in something like the 5th or 6th largest media market in the country. There's no reason to cut players and money, no fire sales at the trade deadline, no sense of wondering what the future will hold, or if the franchise will even still be in town. We are a plus market; we should be hated. It's a hell of a lot better than being pitied.

And finally... the nice thing about every fan base that *isn't* Boston is that we're OK with being hated. There's no sense of needing to tell you all how it is to be us; no need to retell moments like the Matt Stairs home run or the day of waiting to finish Game Five against the Rays, no wailing and gnashing of teeth about What Might Have Been in various NFC championship games or the Spygate Super Bowl. Like every fan base except Boston, we nurture these slights in private, and know that no one wants to hear about our troubles. It's called, well, being an adult, or even at it's most sexist, being a man. Massholes, you might want to look into it sometime. Please.

Goodbye, Matt Stairs

Matthew Wade Stairs retired today at the age of 43, after 19 seasons in the bigs, with 13 teams, and zero defensive positions. Built like a fire hydrant and a pure sabermetric wet dream of Three True Outcomes (Strikeout, Walk or Homer), Matt made just under $19 million in his life for the simple virtues of taking walks and hitting home runs, with absolutely no chance at the Hall of Fame. And yet there's odd little touchstones; you don't get to be the oldest player in the league for years and years without being all kinds of useful, and loved. And he's got one more moment than many other people have, which we'll get into later.

How long was Stairs in the bigs? He was drafted by the Expos, and broke in north of the border, where he was born, just another jewel of the best farm system in baseball during my lifetime. His best season was at age 31 in Oakland, where he had a .258 / 38 / 102 year in one of the worst hitters parks in the world; it speaks volumes to his life that as soon as he was with an organization that valued him properly, they sold him off before they had the pitching to go on a playoff run. He was only a full-time player for ten of those years, and not since 2006. Most of his time as a regular was spent on terrible teams, in front of meager crowds, far away from the playoff glare. He leaves with a solid .832 career OPS, and looked for all the world to be one of those classic underrated guys that teams never actually win with, because all of their positives are in a few narrow places. The kind of guys who are never really remembered.

And then, of course, Providence, God, Fate or Yahweh intervened for him, and he did this. Sorry the video isn't better, btu that's MLB for you.



That home run didn't win the NLCS for the Phillies against the Dodgers, and it didn't end Jnathan Broxton's career. That home run didn't win the series against the Rays, or make Cole Hamels unhittable, or Brad Lidge perfect.

It only seemed that way.

Because honestly, when a human basset hound like Stairs has his Elvis moment of perfection, the sense of White Hot Destiny can not be denied. Like Boston Fan with his interminable stories of the Dave Roberts Steal (more on that in another post tonight), we all knew the team was going to win after Stairs ended Broxton, merely the best closer in baseball that year, in a park he never lost in.

Many people wondered why Stairs didn't retire after that, but going out on top is not the way of a grinder like Stairs; you don't pick your exit and leave like a suicide, you fight for each breath and paycheck. He scraped through 2009 on Charlie Manuel's bench, hitting under .200, but having a small heroic moment against Broxton again in the 2009 series, drawing a walk in the middle of a rally. In 2010 he dropped weight and had a surprisingly useful year in the Petco silo, but 2011 was little joy or production in DC, where all beloved athletes go to die. When they released him, that was it.

Matt Stairs didn't retire; Matt Stairs *was* retired. Like any other working stiff.

There's a reason why guys like Stairs are beloved by the real fans, and why his moon shot against Broxton brings tears to the eyes. It's because every ordinary guy that ever watched a game while dreaming of playing themselves can imagine himself in that Stairs uniform. It's because he never put himself above the game, had drama about his employment, took himself too seriously or seemed to complain about living the dream life of an MLB player, even at the end of the bench. He was not who we dreamed ourselves to be, but how we imagined ourselves, when we considered what that might actually look like.

19 seasons. 13 teams. 43 years. One perfect moment. And one career where every drop of juice and utility was squeezed out.

Sometimes grinders can be perfect, too.