Reds 5, Astros 3

W: Arredondo (6-2)
L: Cedeno (0-1)

Some of those bums you pass on the street, the beggars trying everyone for cash, they’ve reached the point where it doesn’t matter what happens to them, they can’t be hurt any more. You can yell at them, try to hit them with the truth or with a stick but it isn’t going to register because they’re already on the bottom and there’s nowhere else to go. There’s a string, and they’re playing it out, but there’s really nothing to see and nothing to learn from this. It’s just gravity or inertia or the inevitable, some trickle of the incalculable permutations that take place as a function of the billions of life forces moving in countless orbits through time.

Such are the Astros. Should they actually win, it’s easy to ascribe it to luck, the random chance that comes up in their favor if the dice are rolled enough times. The occasional mediocre performance of a player or two doesn’t mean they’re up to the level of the competition, it’s just the luck of the draw playing itself out. The tally of these conflicts has given us all the proof we could ever need – this team is worse than every other team they will face during a major league season, and it isn’t close at all.

They’re so bad, they should charge half price because you’re only seeing one real MLB team every time the Astros play. It’s not that the fans are having to put up with some tough times during the necessary rebuild, no. It’s that the owners have the fucking gall to try to sell that substandard team to us for the full rate, and to graft some bobblehead manager onto this ship of fools to try to tell us how they can learn to win and will while he’s there.

Bull shit.

Can I say, “Never trust an owner!” any clearer? It all comes down to money. Many years ago, I used to frequent certain establishments where attractive women have perfected the elegant ways to extract money from your wallet, using a velvet glove and enjoyable distractions. Both sides were aware of the deceptions and transactions, and both elected to suspend reality while within those walls, knowing that for a little while All That Shit Out There could be pushed back, if only for a bit. All it cost was money.

This ridiculous Shit Rain of 2012 has none of the elegant deceptions at play. The best tricks they can play are to bleed the last of your historical ties while they are ground away in the hourglass of this last season in the National League, or the even more crass lie about ‘watching the kids grow up.’ Fuck that. Yes, there’s talent in the minors, but what they’re running out day after day for the Big Club isn’t good enough and never will be. They are AAAA ballplayers, plain and simple, and they aren’t going to wake up one day to stun us all with their nascent greatness.

So fuck you Bud Selig, and fuck you Drayton, and fuck you Jim. Fuck all of you, you greedheads who prey on all us little people too stupid to raise our middle fingers and walk away from you and the travesty you run out for us every day.

Fuck you for making me hate myself for loving the sport that is run by evil men who spend every breath chasing money.

—–

Bud Norris pitched a good game Sunday, despite the past blister problem. He mixed his pitches well and relied on a good slider off the fastball, holding the Reds to three hits and a walk through six. The last inning was particularly strong when, after loading the bases with none out, he struck out Jay Bruce on a good slider over the plate and then got a double play grounder from Frazier.

Ambriz pitched an effective seventh, and then in the eighth he walked Stubbs and gave up a single to Phillips. Tony Cheerleader then brought in Xavier Cedeno to be the lefthanded foil to Bruce, but he ripped the first meatball he got off the facing in right to tie the game. Batting practice ensued after that and Norris’ fine outing was lost.

Pittsburgh tomorrow.

Astros 2, Reds 1

Contributed by Reuben

Wilson Valdez is 34 years old, and first played in the majors in 2004. He’s an awful hitter (career .237/.282/.316), so I’m guessing teams must really appreciate his fielding. In fact, glancing at his stats, one thing you notice is he’s been very steady – career .982 FLD% at SS (compared to a league average of .972) and a .993 % at 2B (.984 league average). Mr. Valdez, coming into this game, had only committed 3 errors in 806 big-league innings at 2B.

Well, he made a really bad one tonight, at a really bad time for the Reds. Actually, they’re going to easily make the playoffs, so they probably don’t care all that much. Mostly, it was at a really good time for the Astros, who will gladly take a W any way they can get it.

Lucas Harrell pitched a phenomenal game tonight. Groundball after groundball, and did he get discouraged when the Astros’ deplorable DP combo of SS Tyler Greene and 2B Scott Moore botched a couple DPs, or allowed a soft pop-up to drop in on the outfield grass? Nope, he just kept right on chuckin’ that sinker in there, getting more ground balls, and getting some key strikeouts when he needed them, later.

Unfortunately for him, the Astros were having a typical 2012 2nd-half Astros night at the plate, which meant the only run of support Harrell got was a line-drive opposite-field HR by Justin Maxwell in the 4th. They only managed 4 hits all game, in fact. In the 7th, Harrell, already over 100 pitches and clearly tiring, gave up a leadoff double to Scott Rolen but he gutted his way out of the jam, getting a soft IF line-out, a groundout, and, with a full count on Zach Cozart, a non-check-swing K to strand the runner at 3rd.

After that, the Astros got some very nice bullpen work from Hector Ambriz, Xavier Cedeno, and Wilton Lopez (5 combined K in 2 IP, 0 H, 1 BB). To the un-jaded eye, it might’ve actually seemed like they had a decent pitching staff.

The game featured surprise cameos from a couple of forgotten Stros, both fresh off the September 1st bus from OKC: Jordan Schafer pinch-ran in the 8th, and Matt Downs blasted a double off the LF wall in the 9th to start the rally; actually, he nearly WAS the rally as the ball came a couple feet from being a game-ending home run.

After that, a Dominguez intentional BB (probably a first for him) and a Barnes HBP set the stage for Jose Altuve’s dramatic walk-off, uh, reach-on-error, an easy grounder that somehow went right between the legs of the aforementioned Mr. Valdez without so much as ricocheting off his glove. Just right on through.

I should mention, to further the reader’s appreciation of the profound irony of the situation, that Valdez was only in the game because Brandon Phillips, the Reds’ multi-Gold-Glove-winning 2nd baseman, had been ejected in the 8th inning. Phillips got tossed by the home plate ump for getting all testy about being called out on what he thought was a checked-swing. He might’ve said a bad word or two, hard to tell. In any case, exit Phillips, enter Valdez, representing the nut that these blind Astro squirrels happened to stumble upon tonight amidst the soupy darkness of this horrible, horrible season. Thank God.

Astros 3
Reds a whole lot more

By NeilT

I did what I could for the game recap Friday, I grabbed up the tickets-go-begging at work and went.  Me:  I need 2 tickets for Friday.  Ticket Lady:  I’ll send you 4. 

We were running late tonight, and our neighbors wanted us to go to Kata Robata, but no, I was actually excited about eating at El Real 7 on the Club Level.  I went off to try to find decent beer while Kris stood in line behind the family that couldn’t order. We came in with the SSB being sung, and got to our seats in the 2nd.

Kris:  Service is terrible, this is inedible.  Me:  My shrimp tacos are good.  Kris:  the avocado is brown.  The lettuce is brown.  There’s a lump of sour cream.

She dumped most of it in the trash and ate half of one of two flautas.  My shrimp tacos were pretty good.

Kris:  “How long has this pitcher been in the major leagues?”  Too long?  Two starts?  “a couple of years as a reliever.”  Kris:  “Did he lose games?”  It’s Abad.  Abad: my favorite pitcher ever.  Yes he lost games, and he still does, but why, when the boos start, bother to boo? 

Bases loaded, fly ball out to center, end of the 3d.  Reds have scored two runs.

Best ad:  Smell Gas, Leave Fast.  Then Call CenterPoint Energy.  I vow not to fart until at least the 8th.

Kris:  “is that guy the the computer and the headphones some sort of official?”  No, just a nerd.  If he didn’t have the Cincinnati jersey I’d guess he was on the GameZone with the rest of us.  There are, relatively, lots of Cincinnati jerseys.  At the bottom of the 3d Greene’s out and I missed it.  Wallace Ks.

Kris:  “Of the guys on the screen, who’s the oldest Astro?”  I think by that she means who’s been an Astro longest, not age.  “Probably Abad.”   Jesus.

Castro triples.  Kris:  “The crowd went wild.  Make sure you include that.”  Ok, done.  The part of the crowd of about 12,000 that wasn’t wearing Reds stuff got pretty excited.

Paredes walks.  Kris:  “Did you see this one, Calle de Toledo Ohio?”  She’s reading our daughter’s blog on her IPad.  Paredes takes care of that pesky runner on third by getting caught stealing. 

Kris:  “When did we last go to Toledo?”  She’s still reading our daughter’s blog.  It has some fascinating stuff about Cathedral organs on the Iberian peninsula.  Rolen out, Navarro 6-3, Leake F8, nice inning.

The Goya baseball shuffle, the music of which I like.  F Martinez homers, 2-1 game.  Kris looks up from her IPad:  “awright.”  Dominguez homers.  Kris: ” Another one.”  Tie.  Pretty exciting game.  Barnes 6-3, Abad K, Altuve 1-3.

During the exercise moment I think at first that an unidentified Astro is Oswalt.  Those were the days.  I go off to get beer.  I get back and it’s 3-2 Reds.  I’m thinking that there’s really not much I dislike about this group of Reds, then Ludwick hits a 3-run Homer.  I hate the Reds.

Abad gone, Storey in, gets 2 outs.  Kris is now playing Words with Friends.

The “Academy Joes vs. Joes” contestant is in the secion next to us.  He names 13 countries.  Pretty good effort.  An unidentified Astro names some countries too.  They need to put name tags on these guys. 

Astros three up, three down.  Kris and I can never be on the kiss cam because she wears her hair too short.  It would offend the Chik-Fil-A cows.

Top of the 6th, really nice catch by Wallace, 3 Reds up, 3 Reds down.  We’re told that Wes will win $25,000 if an Astro hits a grand slam.  Wes looks pretty dubious.  C’mon Wes, it’s a blue moon.  They’re playing the Greek music, and it’s almost time for the Greek festival, and Barnes grounds out.  Inning over, Wes is no richer.

There are two remarkably giggly women behind us.  Kris:  “What’s so incredibly funny?” It’s nice to be in tune with one another.

Naomi wins the Zoo Roo Trivia. Peacocks can fly.

The girls leave.  Kris guesses that they go to the bathroom together.  Helsey scores on a playable ball.  Storey out, Wright in, double play to end the bottom of the 7th.

Kris:  “Should I go to the bathroom during the song, or wait until the inning starts?”

Boguesevic pops out, which is remarkable.  Altuve 1-3.  The girls are back.   I start looking at a remarkably large woman in a strangely purple Astros jersey and don’t know how Green gets out, but he does.

Miguel Cairo looks really, really old.  He drives in a run.  We’re done here.  There’s a Brooks & Dunn tribute to go with the Friday night fireworks, but it’s just not enough.

Giants 6, Astros 4

by Sphinx Drummond

It should be an honor to recap a game by the great San Francisco Giants. Willie Mays. Man, was there ever a better all around player? With all due respect to Stan the Man and Hammering Hank, the Say Hey Kid is the greatest living player, and one could easily make the argument of greatest of all time. I remember as a boy how impressed I was when reading in an old Astros game program from the mid 60s and finding that my favorite player, Jimmy Wynn, chose to wear number 24 because his favorite player was Willie Mays. But then, Barry Bonds makes that recap honor go away.

I’m tired of recapping games in which the Astros lose. Also it has become clear to me that MLB, starting at the top with Bud Selig and going all the way down to the bottom of the totem pole with Astros owner Jim Crane, that MLB doesn’t give a shit about tradition or propriety. Tradition is not found in the fabric of a throwback jersey. Tradition was compromised when they started fucking with the fabric of the game. They started chipping away long ago beginning with the DH. Inter-league play? Why not? Fuck the Astros and make them take the Brewers’ old place in the AL? No one will care, no one goes to their games anymore anyway.

The announced attendance was just 13,207, the smallest crowd in the history of Houston’s 12-year-old ballpark. The previous record low came a night before as fewer fans come out to see the worst team in the majors. A new record low is expected tomorrow. Memo to Mr. Crane: setting records in futility is winning at failing.

I wonder if they burn incense and hang beads from the doorways in the Giants’ clubhouse? I mean since the drug culture sort of permeates the whole franchise. No sooner than they lose one drug addled poser they gain another. Guillermo Mota, after serving a 100-game suspension for his second positive drug test, made his first appearance since May 5, in the sixth inning. Mota tested positive for Clenbuterol, which he says was in children’s cough syrup.

Since Bud Selig and company feel they can make up new rules as they go along, what the fuck, as a fan, I can make a few rules of my own. Even if they don’t mean anything to anyone but me. From now on I get to take away one inning of each game. Strike it out as if it never existed. The first inning, last night, gone. Beaker‘s homerun didn‘t count and the loud cheers weren’t heard. The Astros won 4 to 2. Otherwise it was your typical Astros ballgame.

Craig Biggio addressed the team before Wednesday’s game at the request of DeFrancesco. DeFrancesco said he wants to teach the young team how the Astros were during their years of success when Biggio played.

DeFrancesco commented after the game. “They’re playing hard and giving us a chance. There’s a lot of good things happening, and we’re playing some good teams that are trying to get to the playoffs.”

Hey, what more could you ask?

Mets 2, Astros 1

WP: Parnell
LP: Lopez

Come over to the window, my little darling,
I’d like to try to read your palm.
I used to think I was some kind of Gypsy boy
Before I let you take me home.

Now so long, Marianne, it’s time that we began
To laugh and cry and cry and laugh about it all again.

On April 17, 1962, Houston met the Mets in the Polo Grounds for the first game between the two expansion teams. Norm Larkin and Don Buddin led the way with home runs for Bobby Shantz, eventual winning pitcher Jim Golden and reliever Bobby Tiefenauer as the Colt 45s beat the Mets 5-1 in front of 3,191 paying fans. Houston took 13 of 16 games in the series that year.

***

When I was a kid we lived in a middle-class neighborhood, populated by the families of those born late in the Depression or early in World War II. Working class folks with enough of the New Economy of the 1960s to have maybe three bedrooms, or two and a Living Room, plus a nice yard with a chain link fence. Some people even had those wooden privacy fences, but not everybody had that kind of money, especially if you expected to be able to go to Six Flags every summer, maybe even stay in a motel.

Friday nights were our big nights out. We’d pile into the white ’56 Bel Air or later, the super-futuristic ’66 Buick Riviera dad got for my mom and we’d drive around downtown, seeing the sights. We’d cruise down Burnet, Lamar, then down Congress, gaping at the storefront windows, the lights, the Capitol. Sometimes we’d pass by the Vulcan Gas Company and my father would tell us that was where the hippies hung out.

Eventually we’d end up at the McDonald’s in Capitol Plaza, where dinner for four was less than five bucks. Sometimes we’d eat inside, but if it was Christmastime we’d get back in the car and creep slowly by the giant Montgomery Ward picture window, with its Santa Claus display of full-size sleigh and seemingly hundreds of toys spread across the vast panorama of dreams.

Well you know that I love to live with you,
But you make me forget so very much.
I forget to pray for the angels
And then the angels forget to pray for us.

Harrell was locked into a pitcher’s duel with Jeremy Hefner today, or at least a duel of impotent offenses. Harrell gave up a solo shot to the second deck in right to Ike Davis in the fourth on Jewish Heritage Appreciation Day. It seemed to be HaShem’s will that the run be the only one scored until the top of the ninth, when intervention in the form of Jose Altuve appeared.

***

It was a nice time, when dreams and trust were fierce and strong and full, and there were many bright days of discovery. I was taught to read by the girl who lived across the street, learning on comic books that stoked the flame into a blaze. My oldest friends were made in that neighborhood, some of whom I still have in my life.

That house and that neighborhood hold my earliest memories. I remember watching Yogi Berra play on the TV in the living room, watching the game with my dad. I remember watching JFK’s funeral, wondering about the word ‘caisson’ and thinking of how beautiful the parade of horses was.

Towards the end of our time there, a new family moved in next door, representative of a turn in the neighborhood’s fortunes. Too many kids, too little money, ragged clothes and not much in the way of parents was the next wave. The oldest boy was about a year younger than I was but we all still played together, more a concession to proximity than any other common ground because we were completely different. Their mother’s shrill cawing, accusing them of some petty misdeameanor as she flew out of the house, belt in hand until she reached the object of her anger so she could start flailing rings in my ears even now, 40+ years later.

We met when we were almost young
Deep in the green lilac park.
You held on to me like I was a crucifix,
As we went kneeling through the dark.

Snapping an infield single to a diving Tejada, Altuve stole second on a busted hit-and-run when Shoppach’s throw went about 85 feet and to the shortstop side of the bag. Gonzalez made up for the miss by smacking a dying flare to left that caromed off of Duda’s glove to score Altuve and tie the game.

Wallace hit a rocket to Davis for the second out. Francisco singled to left and Marwin raced home, but a great throw by Duda and a superb block of the plate by Shoppach ended the Astro threat.

Your letters they all say that you’re beside me now.
Then why do I feel alone?
I’m standing on a ledge and your fine spider web
Is fastening my ankle to a stone.

Inevitably, we kids scuffled too. I was older and bigger, so altercations were brief but I didn’t press my advantages other than to end whatever the conflict was. There were several though, since we were so different, and I’m sure the other pressures in his life were pretty strong since I know he got the belt just about every day from one parent or the other.

One day, we were in his front yard playing football and he got upset at something, I don’t remember what. Yelling turned to shoving, and then he came at me and I put him down on the ground, pinned his arms with my knees and committed the gravest rite of embarrassment known to an eight-year-old: I let the thin line of spittle drain down from my lips, slowly, until it drizzled all over his squirming, screaming face. I had won, but this time it was scorched earth.

I got off of his sobbing, humbled body and headed back to my house. An electric sting wracked my side as I walked, then another and another, across my sides, my legs, my head. That feral little bastard had picked up the water hose, and he was using it on me like a bullwhip.

For now I need your hidden love.
I’m cold as a new razor blade.
You left when I told you I was curious,
I never said that I was brave.

In the bottom of the ninth, Wright lined out to lead off Lopez’ second inning of duty. Davis took two pitches outside the zone, then deposited a sinker just past Francisco’s glove in right and over the wall for the game-winning sucker punch. The last laugh belongs to the Mets.

For a righteous man may fall seven times and rise again, but the wicked shall fall by.

The Mets were born in 1962, just like the Astros, born into the National League of steals and bunts and taking the extra base. Doormats for years, the Astros tasted success sooner. The Mets took the role of water until they came out of nowhere in 1969 to wear away the stone of a World Series championship. As relatives and rivals for fifty years, the Astros’ regular season league record against New York ends at 308-258-1. This closes out a strange rivalry, like one between neighbors who share similarities in the face of numerous differences.

Oh, you are really such a pretty one.
I see you’ve gone and changed your name again.
And just when I climbed this whole mountainside,
To wash my eyelids in the rain.