Breaking format this week, in honor of the All-Star Break and its typical deluge of first-half instant analysis from the Traditional Media, Blogosphere, and Average Joes like me.
To match appropriately to the Instant Analysis nature of such a column, I shall go all Bill Simmons on you and describe the season by matching it to great opening lines / paragraphs from some famous works of literature (“books”, for some of you, or “Barnes and Noble checkout line stuff”, for others.)
It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair.
How better to describe the Astros’ season thus far? We have seen the best of times (May) and the worst of times (June); an age of wisdom (the trade for Valverde, the signings of Brocail and Erstad), and an age of foolishness (now leading off for your Houston Astros, the right fielder, Hunter Pence!). We have endured an epoch of belief (this team can make the playoffs!) and an epoch of incredultity (trade Berkman!).
Bonus points to anyone who thought the author was Richard Justice.
Happy families are all alike; every unhappy family is unhappy in its own way.
To the “reports” that the Astros clubhouse was “toxic”. Let me guess – players don’t like losing, right? Sheer brilliance.
Through the fence, between the curling flower spaces, I could see them hitting.
By “between the curling flower spaces”, I assume Faulkner was referring to second basemen; for only the combined performance of Ian Kinsler, Chase Utley, and Dan Uggla could lead Brian McTaggart to lose his damn mind and declare Kazuo Matsui’s signing a bust less than 1/6 of the way through his contract.
Far out in the uncharted backwaters of the unfashionable end of the Western Spiral arm of the Galaxy lies a small unregarded yellow sun.
To the Los Angeles Angels of Aneheim, California, Situated In the United States of America on the North American Continent of Planet Earth, who have quietly moved to the top of the American League. Vlad Guerrero is remembering how to hit, and Arte Moreno’s payroll is able to support things like The Worst Contract Not Given to a Pitcher, also known as Gary Matthews Jr. By the way, their pitching – especially the bullpen – is pretty damn good, although they get docked points for having a pitcher who changed his name just because another, better, pitcher had the same name.
The drought had lasted now for ten million years, and the reign of the terrible lizards had long since ended. Here on the Equator, in the continent which would one day be known as Africa, the battle for existence had reached a new climatx of ferocity, and the victor was not yet in sight.
OK, so Florida isn’t Africa, but I like the comparison of the Yankees to dinosaurs. The newly christened Rays need this season – they need it to provide legitimacy to baseball in Tampa. And they better not fold down the stretch, or the damage to baseball in Tampa could be real, and lasting.
You will rejoice to hear that no disaster has accompanied the commencement of an enterprise which you have regarded with such evil forebodings.
To MLB’s decision to go to limited instant replay. The MLB offices have instilled a nearly Pavlovian response of hand-wringing and rending of garments in baseball fans to nearly any league announcement, but in this case, I don’t see that they’re screwing it up too badly.
If you really want to hear about it, the first thing you’ll probably want to know is where I was born, and what my lousy childhood was like, and how my parents were occupied and all before they had me, and all that David Copperfield kind of crap, but I don’t feel like going into it, if you want to know the truth.
To Josh Hamilton, who I think at this point couldn’t be blamed if he just screamed “Don’t talk to me alright? Knock it off!!”, but instead continues to speak his story as an object lesson of how just screwing around when you’re bored can lead to behavior that threatenes to ruin not only your life, but those around you. Count me in the camp that’s happy for his success.
Scarlett O’Hara was not beautiful, but men seldom realized it when caught by her charm as the Tarleton twins were.
To the legions of PENCE!!! fans who haven’t yet caught on to the fact that he’s been below-average this year. I drank some of the Kool-Aid, but The Franchise is having a hell of a sophomore slump.
“Who is John Galt?”
To Justin Duchscherer, who is quietly trying to win the Cy Young without anyone knowing how to spell his name.
Hence! home, you idle creatures, get you home!
This season has shown a surprising level of home-road splits. The Red Sox, Rays, Cubs, and White Sox all sit atop their divisons (or nearly, in the Rays’ case) with road records that are well below .500. Is this the latest sign of parity?
In sooth I know not why I am so sad.
To those who have pointed out that this Astros team is right about where any dispassionate observer would have expected them to be. Nobody other than Berkman has substantially exceeded expectations, and the youngsters have failed to break out. Given that, is a slightly below-.500 team not what you could reasonably expect? On the other hand…
Midway in our life’s journey, I went astray from the straight road and woke to find myself alone in a dark wood.
Ladies and gentlemen… your last place Houston Astros.