By ‘strosrays
Birdland Über Alles
Cardinals (63-64) at Astros (58-73)
Minute Maid Park, 501 Crawford St., Houston, TX 77002
a/k/a “The Juice Box”
*********
Tuesday, August 28 (7:05 p.m. CDT) – FSN
Wednesday, August 29 (7:05 p.m. CDT) – FSN
Thursday, August 30 (1:05 p.m. CDT) – FSN
********
”Don’t crush that dwarf, hand me the pliers.” – Noe
Well, save for the appropriate and somewhat moving ceremony on Sunday to retire the number of franchise hero Jeff Bagwell, this homestand has been something of a king-hell bummer, has it not? It is hard to remember now, but the Astros came into it after that rarest of things in Astros history, a successful West Coast swing; and they still had not entirely insane hopes of somehow throwing everything together right at the end to pass up the stumbling Cubbies, the bumbling Brewers, and the staggering 3rdinals and take the Central Division crown this season, after all.
Of course, losing 6 of 8 to the Naxpos and Pirates in the last week-plus killed that crazy idea dead. And now here come Tony LaRussa and his fighting Co-ardinals, on a bit of a roll themselves, having gone 8-4 since mid-month. And a little roll here at the end is about all it will take in the Third World-like NL Central this season. It is easy to say now, but I have been convinced for about a month, since whenever the Hothouse Brewers began to seriously wilt, that the Redbirds would take this thing, in the end. I am no less convinced of it now. The Cubs appear to be blowing their chance, as we suspected they would; and the Brewers (7-16 so far in August) have been godawful. Meanwhile, the Tank Commander’s patched together team is hitting its stride. There is slightly more than a month left, of course, and with the top three teams in the division seperated by two games at this writing, literally anything can still happen. But my knowledge of recent history and my grudging respect for LaRussa the manager, irritating quirks and all, has me thinking the Co-ards are gearing up for a postseason run; and the Astros laying down for them this series is an integral part of their plans.
Meantime, the Astros are occupied by reverently burying their recent past, and appear to be mailing it in, otherwise. I am a bit sad to see that past go, but of course it must. The problem is, I am not convinced anyone, in the Astros’ organization or out of it, has any clear idea of what comes next. The future’s so bright, I gotta wear Q-beams.
*********
Projected Matchups from Astros.com
Tuesday
Braden Looper (10-10, 4.90) v. Woody Williams (8-12, 4.84)
Braden Looper, in his first season as a starter after a long career as a short man/closer out of the bullpen (another wacky Tony LaRussa idea), got off to a fast start, making LaRussa look like Professor Phineas J. Whoopee for a time. Then, predictably perhaps, Looper (whose middle name is LaVerne, BTW) hit a wall mid-season, and responded with a series of bad to terrible starts. He seems to have righted himself lately, though (1-1, 2.50 in his last three starts), so he may justify LaRussa’s faith in him, after all. “Tony L. Tank Commander, you’re the greatest.”. . . ?mmmH ?ydooW ,that toG “.modoS fo steerts eht otno ylleb ruoy fo tuo gnipeew stug ruoy ,ecnahc eht dah uoy nehw evol rof deid evah dluohs uoY .yas thgim yhtraCcM camroC ,dab ooT .sregnarts gnoma dna enola dna dlo – mih ekil eid ot tnaw t’nod ew tub ,serised ruo mid dna noisiv ruo timil taht traeh eht fo stcefed tog lla ev’ew ,nialP eht fo seitiC ni rovivrus eht ekiL” :sretcarahc ygolirT redroB sih dna yhtraCcM camroC gnissucsid ,dias ecno llaH leahciM retirw eht gnihtemos fo em sdnimeR .naem I tahw wonk uoy fi ,’nirednaw eb ot sleeh toob ruoy rof emit eb yam tI ?taht ekil pu dne ot tnaw yllaer uoY .ydooW ,tuo no ereh morf teg ot gniog s’ti sa doog sa tuoba si ARE 5 a htiw gnihtemos ro 13-7 pu gnidne neht dna nwod-dna-pu citarre siht tuB .semit ta llew dehctip neve sah dna edirp sih fo tib a degavlas sah smailliW ydooW ,nosaes siht trats cifirroh a retfA .smailliW ydooW tuoba si siht ,that lla dnim reven tub . . .htiw pu dedne eh namow eht htiw pu dne ot ,pu nevig dah eh lla tahw mih ot derrucco reve ti fi rednow ot desu I .htiw pu dedne dah eh tahw saw ehs ,edis dliw eht no yarof sih retfa ,yawyna ,tuB .rebmemer t’nac I ,evol ni erew ,ot gniog erew ro ,deirram tog dah yeht dias kcaJ . . .
Wednesday
Kip Wells (6-14, 5.41) v. Roy Oswalt (13-6, 3.33)
Native Houstonian and former Baylor University standout Kip Wells drew the long straw for the Co-ardinals here, and got moved up in the rotation to start this one. Wells has had a tough year, having his ass handed to him in the majority of his starts, and now the Tank Commander has apparently adopted the seemingly perverse strategy of starting Wells against the opponent’s best pitcher. Last two times out, the big Baylor righty drew Carlos Zambrano and John Smoltz. . . Roy Oswalt takes the mound for the home team Wednesday on his 30th birthday, which is kind of hard to believe (that he is 30, I mean.) He missed his last start, with a strained oblique. I still don’t know what an oblique is, but I have been using it incorrectly in sentences ever since I first heard of it. Until the injury, Oswalt had been on a bit of a roll, having gone 3-0, 1.46 in his four previous starts. A normal pitcher might be a little off the game after a missed start, but we all know Roy O. isn’t normal. I expect to see him out there Wednesday evening, pitching obliquely.
Thursday
Joel Pineiro (4-2, 4.50) v. Matt Albers (3-6, 5.71)
Joel Pineiro is a former phenom out of the Seattle farm system who, after a promising start his first couple of seasons in 2002 and 2003 with the Mariners (14-11, 3.24 and 16-11, 3.78) in the end never really cut it in the AL. His last three seasons in particular were a nightmare. In other words, just the sort of pitcher LaRussa and Dave Duncan could resurrect, if you believe that conceit. It remains to be seen if Piniero will be reborn in St. Loooie. So far this season it has been a mixed bag. After pitching most of the season out of the bullpen, Piniero was put into the rotation in August and has gone 3-1, 3.86 in five starts. He was hit pretty hard his last two starts though, against the Cubs and the ATL, and has shown a fondness for giving up the dong (NTTAWWT), which in MMPUS particularly is not a good sign for him. . . Future long reliever Matt Albers gets the start for the Astros in this one, almost purely by necessity. Most of Albers’ starts in ‘07 have been of the Dotel-like 100-pitch, 5 1/3 inning variety; but he pitched quite well last time out, holding the punchless Pirates to six hits and one run over seven innings. For his trouble, he earned a no decision.
**********
Etcetera
On Wednesday night, the team will give the first 10,000 fans a Milo Blue Star cap , as part of the celebration of Milo Hamilton’s 80th birthday. A blue star, of course, is what Milo supposedly marks on his scorecard whenever an Astro makes an outstanding defensive play.
There are a lot of different ways to go with this, but I will not. A “blue star” play is one of those terms that will pass into the lexicon, whether one thinks it should or not. Sort of like “closure.” Or “disrespect” (in verb form). Or “Holy Toledo.”
**********
Injury Report
St. Louis – Adam Kennedy (torn medial meniscus, right knee) and Mike Maroth (left elbow tendinitis) are out until it’s a cold day in hell. Mark Mulder (bad karma) is out until said hell freezes over.
Houston – Hector Gimenez (labrum), Brandon Backe (Tommy John surgery), and Adam Everett (forelock), are out until pigs fly. Chris Sampson (strained right ulnar elbow nerve thingie) and Stephen Randolph (a little somethin’ somethin’) are out until the cows come home.
**********
”Fester Bestertester is alive and well and living in Peru.” – Noe
Dog Days
This time of year is known, in baseball and just generally, as the Dog Days. It is one of those terms I have heard for most of my life, but have never thought about all that much. I don’t even really know exactly what it means; but the phrase by itself is evocative. Oppressive heat and humidity. A weary heaviness in the legs. A breakdown in stamina. . . the things that came so easily in the bright, fresh spring are laborious now, hard to do anymore at all.
Just as I have been unsure of the exact definition of Dog Days, I only recently found out the origin of the phrase. I suppose I assumed it had been invented by Ring Lardner or Grantland Rice or one of those guys, back in the early part of the last century, when sportswriting was clever and creative and original and sometimes hyperbolic, if not always entirely grounded in fact. Unlike now, when it is mostly barely literate self-interested polemics and ranting, still not much grounded in fact. Anyway, I was oddly pleased to find out that the phrase in question was actually come up with by the ancient Romans, who called it caniculares dies (days of the dogs) after Sirius, the Dog Star. According to TZ Reference Of Record Wikipedia, the Romans thought the Dog Days were an evil time, when “the seas boiled, wine turned sour, dogs grew mad, and all creatures became languid, causing to man burning fevers, hysterics, and phrensies.” And, we might add, a time when “batting averages plummeted, ERAs soared, and the fervent hopes of spring finally died a sere, arid death.”
I don’t believe I have ever heard a definitive description of exactly when the Dog Days begin and end. Actually, the Romans’ understanding of the time frame, defined by when Sirius rose at sunrise to when it didn’t anymore – or roughly from the end of July to the beginning of September – is remarkably close to the usage in modern Major League Baseball. Loosely defined, the baseball Dog Days last from a few weeks after the hoopla of the All Star break, until the first week or so of September, when the teams still in contention begin the last deadly serious run for the division pennants, while the also-rans once again begin to formulate plans for next season.
I actually like the Dog Days, all in all. They are a languid time, for one thing, and I am a big fan of languor. And they are also kind of mildly melancholy. And I have felt the most natural state for a normal human being to be in is a sort of mild melancholy. In my experience, people who are continually happy are also somewhat idiotic, though they are not as bad as the perpetually morose or, even worse, the cynical; those emotional cowards who exist only to look askance at their existence, and to serve as a model for the rest of us of what not to become. But a careful mixture of the joy of living along with a healthy dash of the pain of it, and with a pinch of world-weariness thrown in, a sense of so much gained and yet so much lost, aaah, that is the essence of life, my friend. And that fleeting sense of the perfect understanding of being is neatly encapsulated in the hot, dusty, languorous Dog Days, when the disappointment of a long, probably fruitless season finally cascades in upon the daily joy of watching (and playing) the grand old game.
**********
We are looking at the final few weeks of Craig Biggio’s career, and that makes me kind of sad. I am anticipating not knowing what I’ve got until it is gone here; I think looking out on the field and not seeing Biggio next year or in the years after will be jarring, and then a bit depressing. Then I’ll get over it, and after that the mention of Biggio’s name or the thought of him will instead evoke nostalgia. But then, nostalgia is a rather bittersweet emotion, is it not? That funny feeling inside, happy memories leavened by a sense of time slipping away. . . I am already going through this exact process with regard to Jeff Bagwell. The mention of him evokes the feelings of sad happiness, or happy sadness, the mild melancholy that always seems to slip in when one’s guard is down and pretense has been set aside.
Anyway. . . Goodbye, Craig Biggio, in case I don’t get the chance to say it after this. I was sometimes exasperated by you, and I am afraid I sometimes took your everyday greatness for granted, but that was mostly due to my own shortcomings. I appreciate everything you ever did for Houston and the Astros and their fans, and I will miss you when you are gone. Je m’ennuierai de vous quand vous êtes allé.
**********
I feel sad, but I feel happy
As I’m coming back to home
There’s a bridge across the river
That I have to cross alone
Like a skipping, rolling stone
I don’t know how much time I have left, either at OWA or at all. I hope plenty, but there are no guarantees. Either way, I am entering my own Dog Days now. The early excitement and exhilaration is mostly gone, and an assessment of the sometimes grim reality is at hand, along with a sense of resignation that not everything is going to go exactly as planned, after all. I still have that mad rush to the end somewhere in front of me, though, and I am looking forward to that.
Meantime there is time to just exult in the simple act of living, in the gift of being able to live and breathe in this perfect time. As I always have done. One thing I have always liked about myself (if one is allowed to do such a thing) is that I have never strayed too far from the basic understanding of how fucking fun it is just to wake up in the morning and realize that for one more day, at least, I get to get up and go out into the world and run and play. And an early close brush with extinction only reinforced in me the idea that none of it should ever be taken for granted, although I have done that anyway from time to time. But not too much. I have always tried to live life the right way, the same way Biggio and Bagwell played the game.
And those guys, Bidge and Bags, and so many others are so completely mixed into the fabric of what will be my memories, that I cannot entirely separate them now from the rest of the rich pageant of people who have marched through my time and across my path. And for that I am grateful. I have seen them, all of them, through my own odd and perhaps eccentric prism, and they have all been beautiful to me, in their way.
Like Neil Young’s doomed Inca runner, I feel sad, but I feel happy. The Dog Days are on me now. I presently am – I hope – somewhere between second and third. But I still know the best thing I have ahead of me is when I round the penultimate base (cutting it perfectly, like Bagwell always did) and then make that last mad dash for home.
Like a skipping, rolling stone.
**********
As my old drinking buddy Jean-Paul Sartre might say, (I don’t give a fuck who) wins the series, 2-1.
”Is that a real poncho? Or is that a Sears poncho?” — Noe
You may discuss today’s game in real time in the GameZone.