Dodgers 7, Astros 0

W: Kuroda (8-14)
L: Lyles (1-7)

Sure, I could talk about the futility. One run scored in the last 38 innings, one run in a three game series for the first time since 1988. I could go on and on about the same old stuff – the pitching isn’t good enough, the hitting is less than mediocre at best, anything situational is purely by accident, the catching is a joke half the time, the outfielders can’t throw – but all that is just repetition. We already know these things and the season still has a quarter of its length to go. I know you can already feel what it’s doing to you, there’s no reason to slide it all the way in because I don’t think you can take it right now. Not yet, anyway. Maybe later.

People started caring about what they eat
And people started smiling at everyone they meet
And people started looking for good instead of bad
Realize what they could lose and what they always had

Lyles may be feeling the effects of a long season on his abilities for the first time in a while. His command continues to be spotty and his command is his best weapon. Despite that, he was better than today’s results, at least until the sixth inning. The Dodgers took advantage of mistakes, but a tired 20-year-old is going to make them.

People started growing, instead of being crushed
And people started slowing down instead of being rushed
And people started looking with very different eyes
And this information now comes as a surprise

Altuve continues to get hits and he’s making the plays at second. If he can adjust to the inevitable changes major league pitchers make to him, he’s going to be the Astros second baseman for a while. He’s got great bat speed and that short swing and stature enables him to cover the plate well.

Good morning here’s the news and all of it is good
Good evening here’s the news and all of it is good
And the weather’s good!

Paredes made two outstanding plays in the field. The first was in the stands on a foul pop that kept a tough inning from becoming a disaster. The second was his spear of a hot smash over the bag on its way to the left field corner, but Paredes’ dive to his right gloved the dart. His throw to first was a one-hopper that didn’t get the runner, but it showed range and hands that we’d heard might not be there, especially range to his right. He’s got an absolute gun for an arm too.

And people started feeling that better’s on the way
And people started feeling some peace and calm today
And people started liking the way that good life feels
And every precious moment becoming what is real

Bogusevic has discovered a power stroke and maybe things are coming together for him. He’s hitting .288. Paredes is hitting .283, Martinez .250 with real power, Altuve .333. They’re all kids, fresh with the excitement that was missing from the team earlier and they’re getting a crash course in major league competition. It’s going to be baby steps from here, little victories within a framework of losses while they skip that development we don’t get to see and instead play it out in front of all of us. Night after night.

It’s easy for me to curse the darkness. Sometimes you have to make sure there is still some light out there as well.

Good morning here’s the news and all of it is good
Good evening here’s the news and all of it is good
And the weather’s good!

Brewers 7, Astros 3

W: Greinke (10-4)
L: Norris (5-8)

The house is quiet, except for the occasional jangling of the tags on the dog collars when they shift in sleep on the couch. Everyone’s gone for the weekend, leaving me here to watch the Astros and fill in the rest of the time in the usual manner, stringing out indecision over whatever other pursuits I’d rather do than some sort of needed chore, so that I can savage my psyche later for not getting those things done.

Times like these, the quiet tail ends of slow weekends, are prime opportunity for reflection. In my case, reflection is a dark, evil road that can lead me to painful examinations of the minutiae of failure and regret. The first step is to put on some music, something that draws the demons out of their lairs with the scent of food. Maybe a disc with a particular song that reminds me of someone? Maybe something less specific but darker? No, why not stand up and call the demons out. I think I’ll select the cool, smooth cylinder of a familiar, pervasive, unsolvable, everpresent and immutable anguish. Something that celebrates and illustrates just enough of the pain so that I can fill in the blank spots with my own and fire up a special hellbrew for the evening.

Echoing words, voices, thoughts
Remembering what you forgot
And I was just hanging out

It starts out playing on those tones we all know too well, the searing imbalance of unrequited feelings. Ah yes, l’amour. L’affect de la coeur. The smooth, slow ramping up with the lyrics that are just specific enough to slice into that first layer, just sharp enough to let the blade slide under and pull the skin up, just a little bit…right there…

So that the next song can slide all the way in and fill the vein, fill the paths all the way to the heart, all the way to the brain. That delicious darkness, that overwhelming burn that is your story, my story, our story and it hurts, hurts to remember it and dredge it up and replay it over and over and over. What is it that makes this pain call me back? What is it that makes it irresistable? Replaying the pain, feeling the confusion and the hurt and the anger all over again, the sickening knot that doubles me over, wrenches me from mouth to crotch in some circular spasm, tendrils of shame and sadness wrapping around me and tightening with every line in every verse.

And all at once it’s not important
What fell in place just falls apart again, I guess
Not having, I can only hope
It’s only time and you know I’ll wait

I know that I love this pain. I seek it out in so many ways, some finely tuned and some blunt approximations. Now that the mad rush is raging, it’s a matter of sustaining it. I may feel sick, I am certainly aware of the pool of sludge I’m bathing in, but knowing that gives me the fuel to hate myself that much more, to feed this weakness and shame and be energized in some strange negative way by it. I don’t take pride in being broken inside but now it feels like some kind of exotic animal that needs to be taken out for a few paces around the block and if someone notices the shiny edges of the darkness then so much the better. Look at me as I disappear…

Sometimes there’s enough fuel to last for days. I have my favorite means of feeding it, to be sure, but it’s rare that I can afford to devote days dancing on the knife-edge of this particular madness. And madness it is, make no mistake about it; I can’t begin to count the number of times the cool blade has cleaved so close to devastating my life and those around me.

The best part, the really good part is when it burns itself out. I can recognize it, see that the fire is banking and I know that it will be over soon, like that roller coaster ride that loops the track twice so you know what’s next. After the inadequacy and helplessness fades into smoke there is a quiet peace that is more welcome than joy, cleansing and cooling me. The sun does come up in the morning and the overgrowth that was threatening to slip outside has been burned back a bit.

Somehow, this beast hasn’t consumed me; it answers my call and it heeds my leash. The question is, will I someday turn it loose? I hope not. I know what it can do.

In your dreams you’ve seen it all
Through a window so far off
Remember watching while your
Lightning blue eyes reflected sunrise

Through the dawn I’d seen it, too
I caught a glimpse I thought was you
And I was overwhelmed
Lightning blue eyes against the daylight

——————–

Hey, 40 games under .500! So what. Big deal. It’s not a measuring stick, no more than anything else. We all know this team is bad, so bad that they sold off what others would buy just to get some teasing hope for the future. 40 games under, 50, 35, it doesn’t mean anything in the Grand Scheme.

The parts that do have meaning are that August is a cruel and difficult month in baseball, especially if you’re on a team that is playing to see if some of the guys from the minors can earn spots with the big club going forward. The grind of the season gets magnified in August, so when Norris can’t get his pitches over or when Happ’s baby steps forward put him back on his ass, those things become the bright snapping flags waving in the continual stiff breeze of losing.

The Brewers, sweeping their first series at Minute Maid, scored six of their seven runs with two outs. Again, they seemed almost nonchalant in their scoring, confident that they would win and so did just enough to kick the Astros around without having to stretch. Milwaukee is a good team and the clear differences between them and the Astros couldn’t be more pronounced. Folks, if you were wondering what it would look like to see the differences between a good minor league team and what it takes to win in the majors, look no further because you’re seeing it night after night in Houston.

Greinke didn’t dominate with good stuff, he was staked to a good lead and was able to throw what he wanted to when he wanted because he knew the Astros wouldn’t threaten. Indeed, the usual miscues on the basepaths and failures with runners on proved him right and kept the home nine from even appearing to be in the game.

The youth movement continues. Altuve got two hits, drove in one and scored by running through a Dave Clark stop sign. Bogusevic got a pinch hit and scored a run; Downs broke his schneid and Lee drove in two. Martinez looked capable in left, and Shuck has a good eye at the plate.

Them’s the turds to be polished on this evening, before they jet off to face an Arizona team that is fighting the Giants for first place in the NL West.

In the night your love’s a beacon
That’s the light l’ve been seeking.

I’m pleading, baby take away the pain.

Brewers 5, Astros 4

W: Rodriguez (4-2)
L: Rodriguez (2-1)

And so it has come to this. Staggering around, rolling steel balls between their fingers, the Astros brain trust has become Captain Queeg. Paralyzed by the need for decision and unable to prepare and carry out a plan, they lash out blindly because inaction would be mistaken for cowardice and weakness. Unfortunately, action for the sake of action rarely produces the results hoped for.

The brightest spot in today’s game was the first home run by Jason Bourgeois, a 3-run spot that gave the Astros a lead they held for half an inning. Myers’ line on the day, against a good hitting club, looks ok at first – six innings, four runs, six strikeouts, no walks – but Milwaukee never played with a sense of urgency. Rather, the Brewers knew when they took the field that they were going to win, it was only a matter of getting through the nine innings to finish the job.

In the end, it was Fielder driving in The Peen to no one’s surprise, just like the script said it would be. Another day at the office when the Astros come to town, another fly swatted off the arm.

The mixed messages of the weekend centered around the question of accountability. Surprising trades were made that took the best the team had to offer in a sacrifice to the future. Conveniently, the true outcomes of these moves will only be a little clearer in a couple of years and if they’re successful, will share many fathers.

The other side of this question came with the demotion of Wallace and CJ, and the promotion of Bogusevic and Paredes, both of whom are clearly not ready for The Big Time. Bearing a sizable chunk of responsibility for this year’s futility has worn heavily on our two demoted Stars Of The Future.

“We knew we were making moves and getting younger guys out here, but I guess they didn’t have that in store for me and Wally and the organization is going in a different direction,” CJ said. “I guess they don’t really want us to be too much a part of that right now.”

Wallace was only slightly more upbeat. “It’s definitely surprising. We’ll go down there and take care of business.”

It would appear that this is a temporary development, an eye-opener for CJ and Wallace that will last until Lee gets moved and Paredes makes us all long for CJ’s brand of stone handed ball. As with all things Astro though, only time will tell…and he ain’t sayin’ shit right now.

Cubs 5, Astros 4 (10)

W:Grabow (2-0)
L: Carpenter (0-1)

Waiting for the mercy of Jim Crane

“Relax, I’m not gonna kill you.

Did you serve? In the war?

Three years. France, mostly. It’s almost impossible to describe the horror. It’s a living, waking nightmare.

There was a soldier, a German. Him and his men tried to attack our position in the Argonne Forest. It was night time, our boy was trying to climb through some barbed wire.

I shot him. Twice. Once in the stomach, once in the neck. Slumped over the barbed wire, no matter what he did to get free, it just got worse for him.

I left him there like that, listening to him for days. Moaning. Crying. “Mutti…mutti.” That’s german for mama, mama. That’s what he kept saying.

The curious thing is that despite the situation, which was utterly hopeless, he didn’t want to die. I offered to kill him several times. He just…kept fighting. Like some miracle would befall him, get him out of this predicament.

To hold on so desperately to life. Some people feel, certainly that soldier in that situation, that being alive is much, much worse.

I’m gonna go now.

I don’t want to ever see you again.”

Another game with plenty of opportunities. Lyles took the hill and struggled early, relinquishing the lead of Barmes’ solo homer in a fog of mistake pitches and poor fielding. The only reason this one was so close so late was due to the crappiness of the opponent, not to the scrappiness of the traveling nine.

Kabong’s go-ahead two-run shibby in the eighth was only a cruel joke, a tweak of yet another knife wound as Lopez gave it right back in the bottom of the frame. In the top of the ninth a faltering Marmol loaded the bases with one out. Pence, hell-bent on minimizing his trade value, struck out swinging on three pitches, the first two well out of the strike zone to complete a 1 for 13 in the series. Lee popped out to continue the commonplace result in bases loaded situations for the Astros this year.

After that, it wasn’t a matter of ‘if’ but more one of ‘how.’ Those hoping for a spectacular display weren’t disappointed when Thunder Pants lost a routine fly in the sun, turning it into a standup leadoff triple. Carpenter’s task became Herculean but, in a metaphor for this team, he just didn’t have enough for the job and a single by Baker brought home the game winning run.

————————–

Twisting on the barbed wire, shot through with the weak personnel, the poor management, the lack of help and the constant waves of loss coursing through them. Loss after loss, from every conceivable angle, flowing through the veins of this team and then out, spilled onto the green carpets of our dreams, taking this season into the ground with it.

Safely berthed in the bottom now, having been swept by the worst and most ignoble, humiliated in front of everyone. Naked now, but soon to be with even less as the trading deadline brings close the only hope for the future, to have some sort of influx of talent and redemption through the marriage of serendipity and growth.

Acceptance is the final stage. Grace is the gift to pass on as well as receive. Spread your hope and care thin as pressed luck, spread it against the wind until it dissolves to return in the days to come. New leaders, new joys, new dreams will be built on the ashes of these seasons.

Ooh woe is me I feel so badly for you
Ooh woe is me I feel so sadly for you
In time bound to lose your mind
Live on borrowed time
Take the wind right out of your sail…

Marlins 5, Astros 4

W: Volstad (5-8)
L: Rodriguez (6-6)

Staggering through the desert of the 2011 season, your Houston Astros really do seem to be on their own version of baseball’s Death March. It’s the mark of a truly bad team that even when the law of averages comes into play and some part of the team works well, there are other pieces just as important that come up woefully short. Teasing us with these fragments of competency seems to be the hallmark of this season.

Staked to an early 2-0 and 3-1 lead, Wandy the Enigma lost his way and couldn’t get the strikes he needed, handing out free bases and hard hits until the Fishmen had a lead they wouldn’t relinquish. The pressing, frazzled Astros appear to be incapable of any approach at the plate other than “Swing hard!” and the result is popups, strikeouts, pitcher’s counts and out after out.

The latest meme is that the starters are walking too many leadoff batters, taking an expected ERA from 3.5 to 7+ with that act. The truth is that this team doesn’t have a single achilles heel to overcome – the losing comes from a systematic failure to be good enough to win. If the starters are walking leadoff batters this week, next week it’ll be that the relievers are giving up 0-2 home runs. The week after that it’ll be that the hitters aren’t getting on base, or maybe they’re trying to pull sliders into the Crawford Boxes instead of going with the pitch. One day it’s the umpires squeezing the zone and making the pitchers come over the plate too much, the next day it’s bumbling in the field. It’s all of these things and more, all mixed together, all season long into some kind of Carousel of Suck and we can’t get off the damn ride.

Shuffling toward the break, this team seems to have ‘gone French’ and is waving the white flag. An extended team meeting may have helped clear the air but unless they come back next Friday with a new attitude I’m afraid Mills may become the sacrificial lamb, taking the heat for the collection of dry turds that take the field these days.

Enjoy your All-Star break. Perhaps you can come back to support the spirit that once was the Astros, until the ghost is made flesh again for all of us to celebrate.

Boston 2, Houston 1

W: J. Beckett (7-3)
L: M. Melancon (5-2)

“Hi. You’re not from around here.”

“Nawh. I’m from up Nawth.”

She smoothed her too-tight skirt while pushing her hair back, her chipped polish catching the light. “Boston?”

“Yeh, Bahsten. Evah been deah?”

“Um, yeah. It’s been a while though.”

He positioned himself so that she’d notice his arms. He was proud of his arms. He knew that girls liked looking at them so he took extra time at the gym to make sure they were big. Nobody cares about legs, it’s all about the muscles you can see, that’s what counts with the chicks.

“Nice arms.”

“Yeh. I work owt. Gettin’ wicked lahge,” he crowed, flexing a bicep. She wasn’t too bad to look at, certainly better than those North Shore pigs with tits. Looked like she might have been pretty a few back but was on the down side of it now. Any port in a storm, any date if it’s late, right? And it was getting a little late on this swing, he’d be back home soon enough to Maira if she wasn’t stuck on that fuckin’ Guido from New York. Every time he came around, loud, money, always making noise and bringing her stuff, it just made his blood boil. Noo Yawk this, Noo Yawk that.

Fuck that. He was gonna hit this. Hit it hard, hit it often and she’d be begging for more when he was through and on his way back home. Fuckin’ cowgirls, they don’t know shit.

“You wan’ anothah beeah?” he asked, motioning his order to the bartender. She was already feeling his arms and this one was in the bag. Hell, if she was good maybe he’d let her cook breakfast for him in between getting his rocks off again. She’d do it. She’d be glad to do it.

Ten walks. No walks for the home team, but fourteen strikeouts. Six hits, two by the guy who scored the only run. Bases loaded situations again and again and again, until the last one finally broke through for the winning run after an intentional walk. The wonder is that that lineup didn’t gouge the staff deeper and more often. Maybe they had a few last night and figured it wouldn’t take much to complete the sweep.

1-8 homestand. One and fucking eight.

The really bad part, the part that tastes like fresh shit in your mouth, is that the Houston Astros, the team owned by a Texan, didn’t just lay down for the Red Sox but in fact spread their legs, took the loads, got up and cooked dinner and put their favorite music on the radio for them. All that was left of what once was dignity was the money left on the nightstand after they went out the door. The Astros whored their way to a payday while giving up the only thing they had left.

Lobster rolls. “Let’s go, Red Sox!” Sweet Caroline ON THE FUCKING SOUND SYSTEM.

Lay down. You fucking laid down, you cocksucker. You can’t get the hell out of town soon enough.

There is no pride. There is no dignity. There is nothing but the last few dollars to be squeezed before you hide behind your money, you sorry bastard. You have taken the faith and hope and dreams of lifelong fans and ground them into shit before our very eyes. This was a despicable, craven act and I hope there is something, some failing, some breach of something that shakes you to your very core to make you pay for this to your last breath.

Fuck you. Get the hell out of town. Now.