Astros 7, Brewers 0

W: Lyles (5-12)
L: Fiers (9-10)

Last weekend Mrs. Brand and I attended the last two games during the 50th Anniversary Legends Weekend and left the big city with a kitty adopted from the shelter a friend of mine runs. Kitty #2 was supposed to go with us too, but he’d developed a cold and we elected to wait a week for his eyes to clear. Kitty #1 has now been christened Rocket J. Squirrel because he’s turned out to be a Somali kitty and he looks everything like a flying squirrel. He also has the flying part down cold. He’s a great kitty, even slept all the way in the carrier on the 160-odd miles back to the homestead.

Today I was informed early that I would be making the second trip alone. Well, it was an option, but Mrs. Brand had a lot to try and take care of today, so sure, I had no problem with the up-and-back.

I made great time, like really great time, just a bit over two hours (don’t tell). Kitty #2 was waiting there, eyes all cleared up and anxious to be on his way to his new home. I put him in the carrier and walked to the car, just as the rain I’d been leading caught up with us again. Kitty #2 proved to be a Houdini, able to get a paw and then his head past the zippered and strapped top of his carrier, so I had to redo that and grab the seam, bending it into a U around my fingers so that he couldn’t catch the miniscule opening and force it wide to escape into the car.

All the while, he is yowling. At the top of his voice. Every second.

It’s raining hard as I pull onto the highway, negotiating the steering wheel, the wipers, closing the escape hatch on the carrier and hoping I can find a clear spot so I can call Mrs. Brand and let her know we’re on our way. The yowling is constant still, and louder than the thoughts in my head.

He’s also scrabbling constantly, fighting and scratching, trying to shred the mesh on the carrier or the top or the ends, anything to get out of what surely is a kitty coffin. Yowling is doing a good job of keeping Kitty Death away but if he stops, something bad might happen so no way that’s going to be halted.

I thumb the speed dial and put the phone on speaker to let her know we’re coming, but it’s not going nearly as well as last week’s trip. The rain stops and starts, making me take my hand off the wheel to slip it between the spokes of the steering wheel to flip the wipers on, or off, or adjust the intermittence. Over and over. While never releasing the grip on the carrier, even though my arm is going to sleep. Or my wrist. Or a couple of fingers, so I’ll adjust and readjust. This only convinces Kitty #2 that Kitty Death is drawing nearer, so more yowls and scratching are necessary.

This goes on for 160 miles or so. I did get a four minute break once, when he took a nap. Then he woke up and was surprised he was still alive, so he redoubled his efforts to stay that way.

At last we made it home. I lifted the carrier, ran the gauntlet of dogs into the master bath we’d set up as a transition area for him, blocked off from Kitty #1 and the bedroom. I sat the carrier down and unzipped the door.

Kitty #2 sauntered out, purring loudly. He looked around, purred, rubbed up against us and immediately felt very nearly at home. We’ve spent the rest of the day introducing him to his new friend Rocky. They’re playing like buddies, snuggling up against us, purring, drooling the drool of love on our noses.

***

How’re you going to make your way in the world
When you weren’t cut out for working
When your fingers are slender and frail
How’re you going to get around
In this sleazy bedroom town
If you don’t put yourself up for sale

Where will you go with your scarves and your miracles
Who’s gonna know who you are
Drugs and wine and flattering light
You must try it again till you get it right
Maybe you’ll end up with someone different every night

On their way out of this league and into another, the Astros stopped off to drop a steaming turd into Milwaukee’s postseason punchbowl this weekend, capped off by Sunday’s 7-0 chain-whipping of the doomed bratboys. Four home runs, including the first for Lyles, the first this year by an Astro pitcher, and most likely the last an Astro pitcher will ever hit regardless of league buried the offal that Bud Selig did so much to coax into life.

Gleefully avoiding the fifth-inning malaise that has plagued him this year, Lyles fashioned his complete game shutout with guile and poise. He struck out three and only walked one, despite only having command of two pitches today. The fastball and slider was enough to tantalize a fatigued Brewer nine, who never really squared up on anything and certainly didn’t threaten to break through.

Fiers wasn’t so lucky. He surrendered shots in the fourth and fifth to Martinez and Lyles (418 feet!), then two in the sixth to Lowrie and Dominguez before leaving. Corporan added two RBI to cap the scoring on the NL Central’s latest tired whore.

You said you were an actress
Yes, I believe you are
I thought you’d be a star
So I drank up all the money,
Yes, I drank up all the money,
With these phonies in this Hollywood bar,
These friends of mine in this Hollywood bar

Loneliness and frustration
We both came down with an acute case
And when the lights came up at two
I caught a glimpse of you
And your face looked like something
Death brought with him in his suitcase

This journey isn’t one most of us wanted, but it’s one we’re going to take. Maybe it’ll be ok when we all get to the end, but one thing’s for sure – the Astros crapped all over the Brewers’ party this weekend. Fuck you, Bud.

Astros 7, Brewers 6

by NeilT

Bud showed up at the sausage stand on Friday. I’m sure you remember me telling you about Bud. He’s kind of tall and cadaverous, with joints and bones hung together all loose and jutting. He kind of jerks and writhes when he talks, and when he orders he rubs his long bony hands like he’s washing them under a faucet.

Like I told you, I have a sausage stand on Miller Way, right outside the stadium, and this guy Bud’s a good customer. I sell bratwurst, liver sausage, Slovenian, kielbasa, kolbasch, mettwurst, even Serbian. Usually Bud buys my sausage to slip to his friend Houston, but sometimes, especially when the Astros are in town, Bud will watch the game from this little portable tv I keep at the stand.

Last night the game was well started before Bud showed up. Gallardo was pitching for the Brew Crew, and he’s had a pretty good season. Scott Moore walked in the first, but nothing else happened. Some guy named Gonzalez was in for the Astros, who the hell is Gonzalez? Aoki had just flied out to Moore in right.

“I’m so sorry for being late, Master David,” David, that’s me, “But Drayton’s in town, and he wanted to wear his chauffeur suit and drive poor humble me. He’s not a very good driver.”

Gonzales finishes off Weeks and Braun. I don’t even have to ask what Bud wants. When he gets that gleeful look in his eye, and starts rubbing his hands like crazy, and kind of ticking and jerking like his butt’s chapped, I figure it’s time for the big liver sausage, which I give Bud on a paper plate with some grilled onions and mustard. He always brings his own knife and fork, instead of the plastic ones I keep at the stand. He says he figures someone might try to poison him.

I’m playing Uecker on the radio instead of the tv sound track. I get better sound from the radio, plus I like the Uke. Uecker’s saying some nice stuff about the Astros, gracious stuff, about how they’re a class organization and how Crane will do what’s needed to turn the team around. Bud starts slamming his sausage against the cart.

“They’re not a class organization!” He’s screaming and slamming that sausage, up and down, up and down, “they’re not a class organization! I hate them! I hate them!”

“Bud,” say I, “calm down man. You’re making a mess. Let me get you another sausage.” But then it happens. Bottom of the second, Gallardo has walked the catcher, Castro, and Dominguez singles and Castro scores. It’s not all bad though, for some reason Dominguez tries to make second and Segura puts him out. There’s liver sausage everywhere and Bud has the shakes. I clean up the liver and give Bud a nice Serbian. Weird thing is he doesn’t even pick up his knife and fork. I’ve seen this before, with guys who are really upset. He just takes that big Serb in his mouth and sucks it, like a pacifier. I go about my business while Bud sucks his sausage. The Brewers are three up, three down.

Top of the third, Altuve singles and then makes third on a Lowrie single to Ryan “I did not have sex with that woman” Braun. Braun could have had him at third, but he Hollywoods it and there you have it, he’s a star and the rules don’t apply. Bud has about three-quarters of that Serbian down his throat and I’m scared if Altuve scores he’s going to choke, but Maxwell strikes out swinging and then top of the third Carlos Gomez gets the first Brewer hit with a homer to left. Calm as can be, Bud puts his sausage on his plate, takes out his knife and fork, and asks me for some spicy mustard.

“Bud,” say I, “how come you hate the Astros so much?”

“Master David,” Bud kind of whines when he talks, and now his voice has this whiny breathiness that creeps me out, “Master David, I’ve never told this to anyone, but the Astros shot my father.”

I can’t believe it. When you’re in sausage cart sales in Milwaukee, it’s like being a bartender in any other town, and I’ve seen a lot, but this guy is Midwestern loon crazy. “Bud,” say I, “the Astros didn’t shoot your father.”

“They did.”

“They didn’t.”

“They did.”

“Bud, the Astros are a baseball team, they couldn’t have shot your father.” I take away his plate before he starts slamming what’s left of his sausage.

“Ok, ok. Don’t take my sausage. Ok, they didn’t shoot my father.” I put the plate back down. “They shot my mother.” Bud grabs up the sausage plate and holds it tight against his chest so I can’t take it.

Bud finishes his Serbian and then Wallace singles in the top of the 4th. Martinez hits a ground rule double that would have scored Wallace if not for the bounce. Dominguez reaches on a Segura error and I give Bud a Kolbasch that he pops half-in, half-out of his mouth and starts sucking. Gonzalez the pitcher bunt singles and Martinez scores. I’m worried about Bud, and with good reason. He’s twisting and writhing and sucking that Kolbasch as the heart of the order goes three up three down in the bottom of the fourth. Then Wallace and Castro get back-to-back homers. Bud chokes down the Kolbasch in a single sucking spasm.

“Master David, give me a salami.”

“Bud, you know I don’t make salami.”

“I know you’ve got something long and hard in that cart. Give me anything long and hard.”

“Bud you know I don’t carry the hard stuff. Have a nice brat.” I plate Bud a brat.

Things calm down during the fifth. The Brewers do nothing, but neither do the Stros. Then in the bottom of the sixth Braun does his own plating and drives in Ishikawa and Weeks. Armbriz comes in for Gonzales and puts out the fire. It’s a two-run game and the Brewers are back in it. Bud calms down and starts working on his Brat with his knife and fork. In the 7th Henderson, who has some stuff as nasty as Bud’s, comes in for Gallardo. Three up, three down for Henderson. Segura singles and steals second, but then Lucroy grounds out to Armbriz. Castro homers in the bottom of the 8th—that makes three Astros homers for the game, but Boguesevic grounds out to end the inning. Braun scores in the bottom of the 8th off a Ramirez triple to right and Wilton Lopez comes in for Cruz who replaced Wright who replaced Armbriz.

Bud orders a Mettwurst and then almost chokes it when Altuve homers—that’s four—in the top of the 9th. The Brewers score two runs in the bottom of the 9th and Bud is doing this spastic kind of dance, waving his sausage because it’s a one run game, but there’s a game-ending double play, Lowrie to Altuve to Wallace, and the game’s over.

“I hate them,” says Bud.

It’s been a long, hard season, but we’ve choked it down and mostly remained fans. Thanks to all of you here for making this season bearable.

They’ve been better than they might have been, and for awhile were worse than I ever would have imagined. By next week I’ll be missing Astros baseball. By next spring I’ll be imagining .500.

Astros beat Cards 2-0 to avoid a sweep in final NL homestand.

by Sphinx Drummond

Like the man said, rode hard and put away wet
Throw away the bad news, and put it to rest
If learning is living, and the truth is a state of mind
You’ll find it’s better at the end of the line.

Well it’s over, last home game of the year, last game for Milo. If you listened to the Astros’ radio broadcast you might have known there was a game going on. What one heard on the radio was 90% about Milo and 10% about the baseball game. But what the hey, Milo had a long and somewhat distinguished career. Us old timers will always hold Gene Elston in the highest regard but Milo deserves credit and recognition for what he has done over the past 27 years or so. Though, I think most of his renown has come as a result proximity and longevity, he always showed up, was enthusiastic, and obviously loved the game he sometimes paid attention to. He says he’ll still be around, here and there, wants to see the young guys develop (we all do, Milo).

Finally, for the first time since May, Bud Norris is a winning pitcher. It’s been a long time coming. He pitched a good game giving up only two hits while striking out seven over seven and a third innings. It’s got to be a great relief for Bud to finally get a win. And in a semi-significant game for the team, for what it’s worth. Wilton Lopez pitched the final inning and two thirds for his 8th save.

Yes it’s true, the Astros won for the first time in the last eleven meetings with the Cardinals. Jose Altuve got the scoring started with a solo homerun in the fourth inning which would prove to be enough but the Astros added another run in the inning just in case.

It was an emotional night, I’m a sentimental old fart and I get a bit teary eyed thinking about the past and all the great memories I have, they’re all of the Astros as a National League team. Next time they play a home game, they will be in the AL and they will have a DH. All we have of the home-team NL Astros is just a memory. I will always harbor a resentment towards MLB for turning it’s collective back on the fans of the Houston Astros, the powers that be showed no regard for the wants and desires of their fan base.

It was an emotional day for Milo, I heard he broke down several times recounting his past. He still has a very large ego, as he was signing off, he mentioned that Vin can rest easy knowing that his longevity record is safe. As if they were some kind of contemporaries.

Can you deny, there’s nothing greater
Nothing more than the traveling hands of time?
Saint Genevieve can hold back the water
But saints don’t bother with a tear stained eye.

Cardinals 4, Astros 1

Contributed by Reuben

The Houston National League club’s life is slowly reaching its end, and the team’s play is beginning to feel like the horrible irregular breathing of a mortally wounded creature. After playing surprisingly competitive baseball for the first 2-3 weeks of September, the Astros have lost 3 in a row to bring that ugly total to 105 for the year. They have looked particularly overmatched against the Cardinals, as they have barely put up a fight in being manhandled, er, beaten 5 times in the past week (10 straight overall) by their playoff-bound one-time rivals.

The Astros have had a number of guys KO’d recently by injuries (Martinez. Gonzalez, Gonzalez, Abad, Greene) or just plain getting abused by the opposition (Paredes, Bogey, et al). Tonight even Lucas Harrell seemed battered and frazzled, although he did manage to wriggle out of trouble well enough to escape with 2 runs allowed in 5 innings. Unfortunately, the Astros could not manage so much as 1 run, and he got stuck with the loss, dropping to 10-11, which is a shame considering how much of an unexpected bright spot he’s been this year. Kid’s probably just hit a wall.

Good things that happened:

-Altuve went 2-for-4
-Brandon Laird had 2 hits, and is hitting .346 somehow
-Scott Moore stayed hot, singling in his only AB
-Altuve and Downs made nice plays in the field to help get Harrell out of trouble
-Wallace turned nicely on an inside pitch, unfortunately the 1B made a diving catch of the liner and doubled the runner off to end a mini-rally.
-we didn’t have to see Jordan Schafer or Bogusevic “bat”.

My only remaining, flimsy hope for the 2012 edition of this team is that they can somehow win 3 more games to avoid the ignominious 110-loss mark, although, one could say, I am not holding my breath.