April 25, 2007
Astros 3, Pirates 4
W: John Wasdin | L: Brian Moehler
Pigpen watch: 2,951 (3-5)
Interminably long GameZone thread goes here
Second guessing, anger venting and rationalization goes here
Other coverage:
AP story
Astros.com wrap featuring The Footer
In a Nutshell:
It was kind of like this. Very long, with curious decision making, poor execution at pivotal times, and you get whacked in the head and pass out at the end.
The Astros dropped a tough one tonight, losing after pushing this one out to 16 innings in a thinly veiled attempt to get Brian Moehler some work. Houston out-hit the Pirates 16 to 10, but left 18 on base to Pittsburgh’s 8, a futility mark that ultimately sealed the deal. The bullpen gets a hearty golf clap for throwing 9.2 shut out frames, a feat hopefully not lost in the general morass of suck that the bats brought to the game tonight.
It looked decent in the beginning, really.
The proceedings got off to a nice start in the 1st, with a nice Mr. Peepers at bat yielding a 3-2 walk with one down. Maybelline followed with a sharp opposite field single down the right field line, moving Burke to third. Flapjack smacked a solid sac fly out to left center to notch the game’s first tally, before Ensberg lined out on a laser to Bautista at third, ending the inning. (Get used to reading that, but without the laser part, as Pidge would finish 0-7 with 10 men left on base. Wait did I just type 10? That can’t be right. Let me check that again… oh holy shit, yes, that was actually 10 lobsters for Iceberg.) Balls were getting slapped around like an S&M convention, and Duke looked very hittable, so there was some cause for optimism early.
Fat Albers (hey, hey, heeeey) looked good in the 1st, going through the top of the lineup in order. Everett made the first of many solid plays on the night, roaming behind second to end the inning. Between frames, we get a nice shot of the 100 or so people who bothered to show up for this one. With all that room to work with, the Pirate Parrot was free to roam the stands, sexually harassing and otherwise terrorizing the few brave attendees. There are at least two young ladies in Pittsburgh who are going to wake up screaming tonight, if they can fall asleep at all.
Albers walked Le Roach in the bottom of the 2nd, breaking up the perfect game. When Paulino comes to the plate, JD breaks down in uncharacteristically halting, stuttering terms the ways in which the Pirates catcher is – and is not – like Jeff Bagwell. The final conclusion? He might be able to learn how to hit home runs at some point, and he is not going to be in the Hall of Fame. As if on cue, Paulino registered a rather horrible looking ponché on an outside slider that could probably make children cry. Think of a little old lady flailing a shovel at a snake, only she comes up two feet short because her body is arguing with her hands by trying to run away from the damn devil serpent. It was quite a bit like that.
A fresh look at a repeating pattern at a repeating pattern
In the top of the 3rd, there were the makings of a pretty loud racket from the offense, starting with Albers’ first hit in the bigs, a looper to center that put him on 1st. Pigpen then rapped a certain double play ball to Bautista, who gave it the old olé defense and allowed it to pass unhindered into the outfield. This was a hit apparently, because I guess the whole country is in some kind of hurry to get him to 3,000. Burke and Berkman then flew out before Lee cracked a hard single to right. Mansolino held Albers at third using an intricate set of semaphore flags, flares and an air horn, while putting himself in position to make the tackle if the pitcher decided to test his boundaries. This brought Ensberg up with the bases juiced and 2 outs, who ended the suspense by grounding out to end the inning.
In the bottom of the 4th, a dribbler between the mound and first broke up the no-no before Bautista doubled to make it second and third with nobody out. The Pirates got on the board with a Jason Bay groundout to the right side, which is about as vanilla as the Canadian who hit it. A sac fly brought in the 2nd run when Ausmus couldn’t cleanly glove the short hop from Burke, giving Pittsburgh the 2-1 lead, with all of the game’s runs coming on outs to that point.
Wild swings of bats and emotions
The Good Guys tried to get the lead back in the top of the next frame, with Biggio poking a one out liner into shallow left. Eldred came hard and tried to make the diving play, but wound up flopping around like a dying trout and completely missing the ball, which then rolled out to the wall. Pigpen wound up at third, with the momentum arrow titling noticeably towards the Good Guys. But Biggio then got hung out going on contact on a Burke comebacker, leaving the Astros with a runner at first and 2 down. Peepers followed up by getting thrown out stealing with Berkman in the batter’s box, ending the inning and removing whatever air remained in the sails.
In the bottom of the 5th, JD discussed how Eldred was built for beer league softball, and marveled at his BP shots, practically willing the next pitch into the bleachers in left center. Bad form, JD. That one’s on you, my friend. 3-1 in favor of the asswipes.
With two outs in the top of the 7th, Ausmus legged out a dribbler to third, forcing a pinch hitter and ending Albers’ evening with some gas still in the tank. The new guy worked 6 strong innings, giving up 3 earned for the textbook “quality start”. In the bottom of the seventh, JD – who has learned nothing, apparently – compliments Eldred’s legs and notes that he can probably hit one into the press box at the top of the stadium, because he’s so damn strong and handsome. Lidge then struck Eldred out on a dirty slider, leaving JD to sulk and doodle little hearts on his scorecard. Big, strong hearts that could hit the ball a country mile.
Oh shit, not this guy again
The top of the 9th eventually rolled around, and in came Salomon Freaking Torres to put all of us out of our misery by notching his 20th save against Houston so far this season. It looked at first as though Lane was willing to oblige, as he swung about a foot underneath a noggin-high fastball. Luck started to smile on the Good Guys though, as he reached on a slow bouncer back up the middle. Everett followed with a grounder to the remaining Wilson Sister’s right, which she whipped to Castillo for the force at second. Castillo got inexplicably greedy and tried for the DP in spite of falling over, being plowed into by Lane, and Everett clearly reaching anyway. He winged it into the dugout, putting AE at second.
Luke Scott, Professional Ninja came on to pinch hit for Ausmus, singling to right center to plate Everett and pull within a run. Loretta then batted for the pitcher, sending a ball into the hole for Wilson to glove and put in the back pocket. Biggio followed with a single up the middle to score the Ninja and knot this beast at 3 up, where it would stay for the next 10 hours or so. Salomon Freaking Torres was pulled in favor of some hot lefty on lefty action, with OP and Berkman coming up. On exiting the field, Torres was booed by all 50 people remaining in attendance, which was a manageable enough number for him to tell each of them personally to go fuck themselves. Lefty Pirate (is there any other kind?) Grabow got his men to end the frame without giving away the lead.
Wheeler came on in the bottom of the 9th, apparently because Rick White pulled his beard while warming up, and will be heading to the DL. Quintero came in to catch, leaving the bench completely devoid of position players. The ‘Stros played an exciting brand of defense in the frame, with Berkman going into the first row to retrieve a hot dog and an ice cold Dr. Pepper… and wouldn’t you know it, there was a foul popup in there, too. Flapjack one-upped his partner in pancakes, laying out for a diving snare of a Paulino liner for a seismically registering 3rd out. The grounds crew is going to be hard-pressed to roll out that crater in time for tomorrow’s 8am first pitch.
There was a little traffic with two outs in the top of the 10th, but things really got cooking an inning later, with Q leading off with a single. Chris Sampson came in to pinch bunt for Dot, moving Quintero to second and setting up Twinkie for an intentional pass. All 30 people booed. El Stick Horse followed with a walk of the unintentional variety, juicing the bases with 2 down for Iceberg. After drilling one down the 3B line that was juuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuust foul, Morgan lined out to left to kill yet another rally. Unlucky or unclutch? Ehh. I don’t care, you pick.
The return of a long-lost friend
Borkowski came in for the 11th, and was nails for 2.1 innings before turning things over to Miller with a couple of lefties due up and a runner on first in the bottom of the 13th. Trever fans one, walks one before… wait… OHMYGOD! THAT’S BRIAN MOEHLER’S MUSIC!!!!
Moehler, who was recently freed after being held hostage in a well for several weeks by a lotion-obsessed pre-op trannie*, continued the fine bullpen work by getting out of the inning intact, and starting warming up for what looked to be a very long night.
In the top of the 14th, Chacon (who has now been pitching for what seems like 10 innings) is rudely greeted by a Flapjack shot off of the wall in left. In turning on those mysterious jets, The Caballo lumbered towards second and totally fell apart while trying to slide past a leaping Wilson about 12 feet from the bag, steamrolling to a rest somewhere in the vicinity of the infield, marginally within reach of second. Safe, and he looked magnificent doing it. Play resumed following a short recess for Rex Jones’ Mustache to bring Lee some emergency cupcake rations while it examined his girthy, voluptuous hips for damage. Runner in scoring position with nobody out, let’s play ball, folks. Iceberg ground out to the wrong side of the infield, Lane fly ball, Everett pop up, inning over. Shit hell shit. There are 10 spectators left at this point, as evidenced by an Everett foul ball into the seats halfway down the 3B line, which took damn near a full minute for some enterprising fan to track down and fish out of the empty seats.
It goes on like this for some time
In the bottom of the 15th, we’re treated to a montage of Bay scoring the winning run in the 18th against the ‘Stros last season, which was a nice touch, I thought. Hey, good work in the truck, fellas. Why don’t you just run up and whack Moehler in the kneecaps with a lead pipe if you’re so hell bent on going home? Sweet Christ, where was the video of all the other late-game losses? You could have been running that crap every half inning from the 10th on, just to be extra sure.
The Pirates finally put a bullet in this poor son of a bitch in the bottom of the 16th, in thoroughly screwy fashion. Duffy tallied a one out single to left, and followed with a stolen base, flying in the face of the fact that he’d been gunned down the last two times he’d tried this. Q bounced the throw to Loretta at second, who couldn’t manage to knock the thing down before it headed into center, putting Duffy at third. Things looked grim, but with the infield in for Wilson, Everett made a quick move to his right to snare the grounder, and Duffy was meat at the plate. After a half-hearted attempt to get himself in a pickle, Duffy is tagged out without Wilson leaving the bag at first.
And eventually, the sweet release of finality
Two down, and disaster appears to have been averted. But a Bautista single through the middle moved Wilson to third, and Garner opted to give Bay the free pass in favor of pitching to Le Roach with force outs everywhere. On ball 3 of the IBB, Q whipped a beautiful deke throw down to third, where Wilson almost got himself picked off in spectacularly stupid fashion. I mean thisclose. Le Roach then stepped in and grounded one meekly to short, where Everett was not, having shifted around behind second for the lefty. Wilson woke up long enough to wander home; ballgame. The 2 remaining fans were visibly disappointed at not having gotten into the game, but them’s the brakes. Ask the Astros about disappointing – they’re on the verge of being swept twice by the Pirates. THE PIRATES. Let’s stop this ridiculous bullshit tomorrow morning – fuel The Horsie up with a tall stack, give Fat Elvis his snacks and sundries back, and go tear the fucking covers off some goddamn baseballs. Wandy v. Armas 2 in the brunch finale: be there with your slumpbuster in tow, gang.
*possibly apocryphal