Rockies @ Astros @ Rockies Series Preview

“Go to Heaven for the climate, Hell for the company.”  – Mark Twain

I have no use for perfection.  You can grill my steak to perfection and pour me a perfect pint, but that’s about as far as I’ll take it.  Perfection is the carrot at the end of a mile-long stick and I’ve already got more sticks than I can carry.

Perfectionists – people who proclaim their most hideous personal defect to be an undying desire to do everything well – bore the hell out of me.  Maybe it’s because perfection was neither expected of me nor bestowed upon me, but I think the fun parts of life happen when shit goes sideways.  My wife and I always joke that she’s Damage Prevention and I’m Damage Control.  Kinda like how she does the laundry and I do the dishes.  Sure, a lot of the time I’m the reason things fall to the Damage Control Department, but at least I’m the one cleaning up the mess.

And when the mess is cleaned up, maybe, hopefully, something as mundane as mailing invitations to your kids’ joint birthday party will at least have a story attached to the memory.  And if not for memories, what are we?

This Astros team is not perfect.

I’ll wait while you come to terms with that sentence. Remember to breathe.  It’ll be ok.

This Astros team is not perfect.  In fact, they’re the most imperfect team in Major League Baseball.  They can’t hit, they can’t pitch.  Perfection is a word only used when Verlander or Felix come into town, and that’s not the context we’re looking for.

And therein lies Reid Ryan’s job #1 – Damage Control.  Prevention took a seven-year nap and Jim “dick in the mouth” Crane has been manning the Control station, to less-than-admirable results.  It’s time to wax the floors and dust the corners and clean up the vomit in the men’s bathroom sink.

And when the mess is cleaned up, maybe, hopefully, we’ll remember the ride to a championship fondly.

Monday, Memorial Day 5/27 @ MMPUS

Astros walk off in the 12^th to a 3-2 win.

Tuesday, 5/28 @ MMPUS 1:10pm

Of the Rose (6-3) vs Lyles (2-1)

Coca-cola Value Days

Wednesday, 5/29 @ Coors Field 7:40pm

Two games in Houston followed by two games in Denver.  FYB.

Bedard (0-2) vs Chatwood (3-0)

Coca-cola Value Packs

Thursday, 5/30 @ Coors Field 7:40pm

Harrell (3-6) vs Nicasio (4-1)

Coca-cola Fannie Packs

Injuries

Astros

Fields – right forearm

Maxwell – left hand

White – would still be eligible for a World Series ring, fucker

Bukkakkies

Cabrera – you already know his injury status

Francis – hypothermia

“Do not put off until tomorrow what can be put off till day-after-tomorrow just as well.” – Mark Twain

Follow the action here!

Dreams are given to you when you’re young enough to dream them
before they can do you any harm.
They don’t start to hurt until you try to hold on to them after seeing how they really are.

“That’s a human ear all right.”

I used to think that dreams were for the young. I had to live longer to figure out that wasn’t true.

“Can I come over?” The divorce was final, pending my signature, but this wasn’t about signing papers, this was about Alicia.

Landfall was almost to the day on what would’ve been our third anniversary. Uneasy about sitting through this one alone, she gave me a call. Still in the daze of the blindside I’d refused to see and delusional enough to believe there was still a chance of reconciliation, I agreed. Sure. Come on over. We’ll ride it out together, because that’s what was meant to be.

20 was too young to get married, way too damn young. Everyone had told me so but I was always different, always moving faster than everybody I knew. Hell, they’d been wrong about everything else – no reason to think they’d suddenly smartened up now.

I thought they were jealous. I didn’t know they were speaking from pain.

Maybe it’s normal to spend a period of time after a divorce fumbling for what used to be there, like a limb that has been sawed off. I guess we were still trying to walk on that leg or scratch the itch on that arm we used to have, going through the motions of some kind of muscle memory until our brains caught up to the reality.

Our time together during this period was a weird, gauzy approximation of the past. We’d spend time with each other, watch TV, eat, laugh, sometimes sleep together and punctuate it all with shots that hit like blanks. We’d make remarks about this or that, sharp remarks designed to cut but really only bleeding off from the full reservoir of pain. It was like the viciousness had the consistency of steam and we were somehow removed from it, living in a dream.

“Hey you wanna go for a ride?”

My memories of the A’s started sometime in the mid-60’s. Crummy teams, constant farm team for the Yankees, but their cards were always cool. That green and gold looked really sharp against the grass, and they had these interesting players too. Jim Nash, 12-1 that one year. Jim Hunter. Dagoberto Campaneris, who had like nine names on the back of his card, one for each of the positions he played one year. Blue Moon Odom. And they had those dangerous white shoes, back when white shoes were Striking A Blow Against The Man, a season before you could buy them in every sporting goods store. When I wore my white cleats and jacked my stirrups as far up as they’d go, I knew I was a full-on Outlaw.

They carried this outlaw image into California and the 70s, when they started to win World Series and flaunt their long hair and mustaches. I dug the A’s, they always seemed cool and flashy and full of summer.

Somewhere in there, after baseball woke up to greet the dawn of Free Agency, reality started to slap Oakland’s team hard. They were never, ever going to be able to compete with the big boys on a cash basis, so they had to try to be smarter. This isn’t a new development – hell, the Mahatma got called a genius for it 40 years before – but slapping a catchy name on it and making it a Movement was as fresh as white shoes used to be. This is where the road Oakland has taken begins to converge with the road the Astros are mapping out.

“You put your disease in me. It helps me. It makes me strong.”

Our lives continued to intertwine in an unnatural way after the breakup. I spent six months trying to fight it, but when every road was a road we’d been on, every place I went was someplace I’d been with her and I started to see her face in shadows I knew I had to leave. I moved back to where I’d come from and started to build new dreams on top of the old ones. In three months, she’d moved back too, in an apartment a mile away. Took a part-time job where we used to work, where I still had friends but now couldn’t go back to. She’d call me to tell me about something of mine she’d come across and how should she get it to me? I think every turn of the knife was an unconscious twitch, but they damn sure hurt as if they’d been intentional.

It took years before I stopped hurting myself and everyone around me. It was several years after that before I was rational about the whole thing and could see beyond a field of blood, lies and hurt. There’s a point where dreams become cruel teases of your own failure, and if you can’t replace them with new dreams the fire is going to burn until there is nothing left.

Friday, May 24, 7:10 PM CDT, Minute Maid Park
Tommy Milone, LHP (4-5, 3.47) vs. Erik Bedard, LHP (0-2, 6.00)

Saturday, May 25, 6:15 PM CDT, Minute Maid Park
A.J. Griffin, RHP (4-3, 3.59) vs. Lucas Harrell, RHP (3-5, 4.63)

Sunday, May 26, 1:10 PM CDT, Minute Maid Park
Bartolo Colon, RHP (4-2, 4.31) vs. Dallas Keuchel, LHP (1-1, 4.93)

We’re well acquainted with the dream of the Astros, the plan to emerge from the nuclear winter and climb back to where they were before. It’s too early to judge anything other than their resolve, which seems strong and committed. Only the fans who pay the closest attention can see the infrequent glints – better infield defense, Dominguez thrilling us with plays the same way we used to marvel at Michael Bourn, the continued development of Jose Altuve. They’re trying to build a future, one dream at a time. Maybe if we all click our heels together at the same time, it’ll happen.

A candy-colored clown they call the sandman
Tiptoes to my room every night
Just to sprinkle stardust and to whisper:
“Go to sleep, everything is alright”

“Suave! Goddamn, you’re one suave fucker!”

In the last couple of weeks I’ve climbed into something like a dream myself. I’ve reconnected with some old friends who are trying to drag an old ship back out on the seas, and through luck and happenstance I’m pulling too. It’s been a long time since I worked the road, shows with a band and now I’m in the middle of an escapade with a gang of pirates I truly love. I’ve joked that it’s a little like time travel, slipping into a skin I wore when I was much younger, playing that old game and seeing that only some of the rules have changed. Family and friends have been supportive of me while I take a break from my life for this. I didn’t look at it as recapturing some things I’d lost touch with but in the end there is a sense of redemption and resurrection and rededication about it all. I’m charging some batteries and at the same time making friends of heroes.

I’m finding out that it’s ok to have dreams again. Sometimes they do come true.

Thunder only happens when it’s raining
Players only love you when they’re playing
They say, women, they will come and they will go
When the rain washes you clean, you’ll know
You’ll know

contributed by Mr. Happy

Astros @ Pirates
PNC Park May 17-19

May 17 6:05 p.m. CDT (Jordan Lyles (R) v. Jeanmar Gomez (R))
May 18 6:05 p.m. CDT (Erik Bedard (L) v. A.J. Burnett (R))
May 19 12:35 p.m. CDT (Bud Norris (R) v. Jeff Locke (L))

You’ve got to accentuate the positive
Eliminate the negative
Latch on to the affirmative
Don’t mess with mister in-between

You’ve got to spread joy up to the maximum
Bring gloom down to the minimum
Have faith or pandemonium
Liable to walk up on the scene

I was at my house contemplating going out drinking on a frigid January evening in Baton Rouge. I went out every night in law school, just as I had done in undergrad. Happily hitting the bong, I was drinking a Barq’s root beer. My girlfriend had graduated the previous spring. She was working and living in New Orleans. This was the middle of the week. I envisioned a night of casual female companionship with one of the local nubile co-eds who I’d meet at one of my regular bar hangouts on the QT. This is all about good old-fashioned sport fucking. Girls often went for that lame law school “I’m studying so hard that I need a break” schtick. All of a sudden, the phone rang.

I answered, fully expecting it to be my girlfriend. However, a different yet familiar female voice said my name. “It’s Carla,*” she said. I greeted her and told her that I was in the middle of a bong hit. She howled and said that she’d be right over if she had a way over. I excused myself to clear the bong hit. Returning to the phone, I asked Carla where she was staying. She told me that she was at a friend’s apartment in Baton Rouge. Carla said that she was visiting from New York City. She moved to the Big Apple after graduating from the Ole War Skule. I’d lost touch with Carla after she moved. Out of sight; out of mind. All I knew was that Carla fit my plans for the evening. Liked to get high? Check. Liked to drink? Check. Liked to fuck? Check. Carla and I had a long history of this behavior. At least from what I remembered.

The last time I laid eyes on Carla, she was a Suzie Sorority type who was known for wearing plaid shorts and Izod shirts. She was standard issue Preppy Handbook. Carla and I took each other out periodically. However, we were never an item. Good image. She was like me; she didn’t advertise her drug use. Smart as the dickens. And tough too. But her best attributes were that she loved to party, could smoke and drink you under the table and could fuck all night long. This was a real coup, I thought, as I raced over to the apartment complex to pick Carla up.

We could go to our old bars after getting ripped at my house, just like we used to do. And then we could fuck all night, just like old times. I thought that this could be a really great evening. One of the best, I crowed. And my girlfriend would never know a thing about it either-this was a freebie-manna from Heaven. Wonderful, I thought. I congratulated myself for being so slick, sneaky and awesome by shouting “Houdini” (one of my many nicknames), a name that was put on me for my uncanny knack for skating out of precarious situations unscathed. This streak continued until I was in my early 40’s, when my luck ran out. I began to suffer consequences for my behavior, including breaking out in handcuffs a time or two). Another one of my nicknames was Fuckstick. But I digress…

Arriving at the apartment complex, I began looking for the particular building. A scary figure emerged from the shadows, suitcase in hand. The figure was punked out with multi-color spiked hair. It was too dark to tell the figure’s sex. I was momentarily startled. You didn’t see much punk in Baton Rouge back in 1985. The figure spoke and said my name. “Who are you and what have you done with Carla,” I asked. The voice said, “it is Carla.” Aghast, it was Carla. At that moment, I should have cut my losses, ditched her and headed for the hills. However, my little head was doing all of the thinking at the time. I encouraged us to get into my car and out of the 20 degree temperature night. Baton Rouge was expecting a very hard freeze that evening.

There was an uncomfortable silence on the ride to my house. When we arrived, she immediately excused herself for the potty. Loading the bong, I started without her. I needed an immediate restorative from seeing the punk incarnation of Carla. She emerged from the bathroom and asked for some tequila. I brought a bottle of tequila out. Every self-respecting Southern boy keeps a little tequila on hand at all times, particularly for margaritas. But Carla didn’t want a margarita.

She took four shots of tequila in succession. Then I prepped the bong for her. Carla hit it like a champ. This calmed me down a bit given my utter surprise at her punk metamorphosis. I then joined in on the tequila shooting-a true Southern gentleman can’t let a woman drink alone. We smoked several more bowls and then decided to go out. I was driving. I figured that I’d take her to our old favorite campus bar, where we’d spent lots of time back in the old days. On arrival, I quickly ascertained that the good old days were over.

On arrival, she immediately became a bitch machine. Carla complained loudly about everything and everyone in the bar. Everyone in the admittedly preppy bar was staring at her like she was some type of zoo animal. I attempted to mollify her. I had the bar DJ, who was a party friend of mine, play some of our old favorite songs. She even bitched about my song selections. You don’t bitch about This Old Heart of Mine by the Isley Brothers, Be Young, Be Foolish, Be Happy by the Tams and It’s a Shame by the Spinners unless something is wrong with you. Very wrong.

I don’t know what they have to say,
It makes no difference anyway,
Whatever it is, I’m against it.
No matter what it is or who commenced it,
I’m against it.

Your proposition may be good,
But let’s have one thing understood,
Whatever it is, I’m against it.
And even when you’ve changed it or condensed it,
I’m against it.

I had no earthly idea. It was a very tense half-hour or so at the bar. She got really pissed off when my DJ friend didn’t have some obscure punk song that she had to hear that minute. I felt a sense of duty to my DJ friend, bar management and my other friends at the bar. My best pot source was the guy who cleaned up that bar every night. I whisked Carla back toward the apartment from which I picked her up. I was seeking to rid myself immediately of this blister.

It was at this moment that Carla informed me that she thought that she was spending the night with me. I told her that I had to get up early the next morning (and really every other lie just to get rid of her and go back to the bar to try to salvage the evening with some alternate female companionship). Carla came clean. She’d been kicked out of her sorority sister’s apartment and had no other place to stay on that cold as fuck evening. I realized that this wasn’t my night. I figured that we’d get fucked up and fuck at my house and then she’d get on her way the next morning. So I took one for the team and let her stay with me in my bed.

Be young, be foolish but be happy
Be young, be foolish but be happy

Don’t let the rain get you down
It’s a waste of time, a waste of time
Have your fun, live everyday
In the bright sunshine, the bright sunshine

Don’t let love slip away, slip away
Live your life for today, for today
Life is too short to worry
About unimportant things, unimportant things

Reach for the sky, touch your star
And then you find your dream, find your dream
‘Cause dreamin’ alone, it’s a shame indeed
But if you got love that’s all you need

We arrived at my house and proceeded to finish off the tequila. We smoked several more bowls before passing out in each other’s arms. We came to around 2:00 a.m. I figured that it was time to fuck. She had other things on her mind. She wanted to tell me a story. But it started with a question. She asked me if I knew where she had spent the previous Thanksgiving. Of course my answer was that I had no earthly idea (and I didn’t really give a fuck either).

Her answer drained me of my facial color. Her answer was one word: “Bellevue.” In case you don’t know, Bellevue is an old and well-known New York hospital that specializes in psychiatric services. She proceeded to tell me that she’d been involuntarily admitted to Bellevue for three weeks. I asked her why she’d been committed. Carla said that it was for throwing a shoe at a Big Apple barroom door. Right. At this point, I go from thinking about nookie to thinking about surviving the night with an extra nut in my bed. (Little did I know that I, too, would spend several weeks in three different mental institutions later in life. C’est la vie.)

My sex drive immediately evaporated. My admittedly small male member shrunk to a size unseen. I suggested that we get some sleep. So I rolled over and tried to go to sleep. I slept off-and-on for the next few hours. However, I kept one eye on Carla for fear that she’d take a meat cleaver to me while I slept. The door bell rung at about 6:15 a.m. I figured that it was for one of my housemates. I ignored it.

Soon, however, one of my roommates came to fetch me to tell me that I had a surprise at the door. I stumbled to the door and opened it. My life passed in front of my eyes. I knew that it was over. It was my very volatile girlfriend from New Orleans. She had taken the day off from work and decided to “surprise me” with a midweek visit out of the blue without calling me first. As Gomer Pyle would say “surprise surprise.”

How was I going to explain that a punk rocker who I didn’t fuck was sleeping in my bed? I decided immediately that the jig was up and started to come clean with the truth. For once I was telling her the truth! Only this time she didn’t believe me! I offered in vain to pack her a bowl (she was a pot fiend) and pop a bottle of champagne (her favorite) to celebrate her visit. However, she stormed out of the house. She went back to New Orleans and broke up with me that day. At this point, I didn’t give a fuck about the fact that it literally was 13 degrees outside. This scourge had ruined a perfectly good evening and cock-blocked me with my sex-crazed girlfriend that morning who had driven 80 miles in the early morning to come see me. When Carla woke up, I told her that she had to find someplace else to stay. That morning.

Carla was laughing uncontrollably at me for what had just happened. I wasn’t in a laughing mood. I was out of tequila and dangerously close to being out of pot. So I popped a Barq’s and told her to get the fuck out. I fustigated her. I told her in no uncertain terms how much of an ass she had made of herself at the bar. I explained that I went to that bar every day and knew everyone there. I told her that I didn’t know how I was going to explain her the next day at the bar. Everyone at the bar knew my girlfriend. Carla still didn’t get it. Bitchiness + no nookie + cock-block = getthefuckout. With all of your punkitude.

Carla made a couple of phone calls and found another sucker friend to stay with. I gave her a ride there and washed my hands of her and women in general. Luckily for me, my trusty and reliable ganga dealer (the guy who cleaned the bar) resupplied me that morning. I drank the bottle of champagne that I had earmarked for my girlfriend and got high as fuck. I ditched all law school classes that day on general principle—besides, it was supposed to snow.

My theory in school was if you couldn’t play baseball in the rain, then I couldn’t go to class in the rain or snow. I skipped so many classes due to rain that some of my friends started calling me The Commissioner. I was at Popeyes when it opened for lunch that day for my usual (three spicy breasts, large Cajun rice, three biscuits and a large Barq’s), vowing to join the He Man Women Haters Club.

Postscript: I didn’t hear from or about Carla for many years, long after I’d graduated and been married (twice). A friend told me that she’d moved back to New Orleans. One night, I got good and liquored up at an LSU football game. On my way back to New Orleans from Baton Rouge (drinking and driving was my favorite sport other than baseball back then—thank God that’s long since over-I was one very lucky bastard that I never killed anyone), I decided to try to meet up with Carla in a fit of “let’s go back to the good ole college days” drunken mania. Terrible idea I know. Luckily for me, she wasn’t around that night. Thank God. She returned my call at my law firm the next day. I never called her back. That one would have been tough to explain to my (then) wife. Especially since my (then) sister-in-law was my secretary.

The Astros-Pirates series will be a throwback to the recent good old days when the two teams were division rivals. The pitchers will have to bat too, just like the old days. Unfortunately, like my experience with Carla, things are no longer what they seem to be. This is interleague baseball now. Whooptifuck. A quarter of the way into the maiden Junior Circuit voyage, I still don’t like it one bit. FYB

Friday’s opener pits young Jordan Lyles against rookie righthander Jeanmar Gomez. The current Astros haven’t seen much of Jeanmar Gomez, who is 0-1 7.94 against the Astros. However, those who have include the Piranha (1-3) and J.D. Martinez (1-2 with a long ball). Each has hit him decently well. Castro the Astro is 0-2 against Gomez.

On the other hand, the current Pirates are knocking Jordan Lyles around the diamond to the tune of a collective .345 with five home runs in 84 AB’s. Lyles is 0-4 7.77 against Pittsburgh. Every Pirate who has faced the young righthander has at least one hit against Lyles except for Starling Marte (0-3) and Travis Snider (0-3). Garrett Jones owns Lyles (6-12 with a double and two long balls). So does Andrew McCutcheon (8-13 with three two baggers). The only Piroot who doesn’t see Lyles particularly well is the strikeout prone Pedro Alvarez (1-7 with four punchouts).

Saturday’s game has crafty portsider Erik Bedard going up against Bucco’s ace A.J. Burnett. The grizzled, tatted up Burnett has a history against the Astros. Burnett is 4-5 4.54 against the Astros. However, it hasn’t been good for the current Good Guys, who are hitting a collective .198 against Burnett in 86 at-bats. The only noteworthy Astro hitter against Burnett is Trevor Crowe, who owns Burnett (5-7). Carlos Corporan and Castro the Astro are each 2-3 against Burnett. Carlos Pena definitely does not own Burnett. Pena is 6-37 with two home runs and 14 punchouts against Burnett. J.D. Martinez is hitless in ten trips against Burnett. The Piranha (1-6) doesn’t see Burnett well either.

Bedard has never faced the Piroots. Only two Piroot hitters have any AB’s against Erik Bedard. Brandon Inge (6-13) and John McDonald (4-13) both have had success against him. This isn’t really that surprising.

Sunday’s matinee features Astros’ ace Bud Norris against portsider Jeff Locke. The Pirates have seen a lot of Bud Norris, who is 4-5 3.48 against the Pirates. The current Pirates have hit a collective .280 with 150 AB’s against him. Neil Walker (9-21 with a home run) and Michael McKendry (5-12) have had the most success against Norris. Other notable hitters against Norris include Garrett Jones (7-26 with a tater), Andrew McCutcheon (7-30) and Pedro Alvarez (2-14 with a homer and ten strikeouts). The Piranha (3-6) hits almost everyone, including Locke, who is 0-2 7.20 against the Astros. The only other current Astros to have any success off of Locke are Brandon Barnes (1-4) and Matt Dominguez (2-7). Our best threat to Locke, one Brett Wallace, who is 3-5 against Locke, including a tater, toils for OkC.

Injury Report

Pirates

Jeff Karstens/15 day DL/right shoulder inflammation
Russell Martin/sore neck/day-to-day
James McDonald/15 day DL/right shoulder discomfort
Chase d’Arnaud/60 day DL/Partially torn left thumb ligament

Astros

Josh Fields/15 day DL/right forearm strain (on rehab assignment now)
Justin Maxwell/15 day DL/fractured left hand (likely won’t be back until early June)
Alex White/60 day DL/Tommy John surgery (we won’t see him back until next season)

Promotions-It’s an A.J. Burnett weekend!
5/17-Free Shirt Friday sponsored by Root Sports
5/18-A.J. Burnett camo jersey bobblehead giveaway to the first 25,000 fans!
5/19-Kid’s Day-A.J. Burnett replica camo jersey for all kids 14 & under

*Name changed to protect the guilty

Come check out the action in the Game Zone.

When an American paratrooper unit was trapped in Bastogne during the Battle of the Bulge, the Germans (those dastardly fascist) offered terms of surrender for the G.I. troops. Surrender terms were taken to the C.O. who promptly sent word back to the German messenger. A one word response:“Nuts”

This baffled the Germans but certainly strengthed the resolve of the alied forces. Because they were able to hold as long as they did, General Patton along with some change in weather and good airstrike capabilities, turned the tide of the counter offensive by the Nazi regime and basically ended the war. Nice story and hope springs eternal at times when one is rooting for a side in any conflict, be it war or even sports. Yes, often times sports idioms cross over into war cries in order to inspire the combatants and of course their fans. Truth be told though, when I think of “Nuts” in the context of the Houston Astros playing baseball, I get a very different vibe than charging up a hill to take out the enemy. If anything, I think “blind squirrel, please have a good day today”.

Anaheim Angels vs Houston Astros
Where: Minute Maid Park
When: Tuesday, May 7th through Thursday, May 9th (thank you day off!)
Series synopsis: Buttered bread strapped to the back of a cat that is falling off a table (Angels road record versus the Astros home record to be exact)

Tuesday, May 7, 2013
CJ Wilson (3-0, 4.04 ERA) versus Jordan Lyles (3.60 ERA)

CJ Wilson is a left hander. What does that mean to the Houston Astros? Well, by proxy probably less strikeouts because Rick Ankiel has to sit. Hey, you write these previews and try and find silver linings… ahem… sorry. Wilson is perhaps the best pitcher on a woeful Angels staff right now, so best to get it out the way early and maybe have a chance to take a series. At home. Maybe. Starting for the Houston Astros is… HEY! when did Jordan Lyles get back to the big club? Here’s your gift for making it back Jordan: Albert Pujols and Josh Hamilton hitting at the MMPUS. No, that gift does not come with a crying towel. Did I mention Rick Ankiel is sitting this one out? What’s that? Chris Carter will probably play? *sigh*

Wednesday, May 8, 2013
Joe Blanton (0-5, 5.97 ERA) vs. Bud Norris (3.89 ERA)

If ERA stood for points and point was the way a team rose in the standings, then the Houston Astros would be well ahead of the Angels. In points. Which of course does not exist in baseball, never had, never will… so yes, it is hard to find silver linings. Sad to say, but this may be one of those classic 4 hour, double digit American League games. But if it runs that long, folks in LA will be able to tune in and watch the game in prime time. So there is that (really hard to find silver linings.. nuts!)

Thursday, May 9, 2013
Jason Vargas (1-3, 3.72 ERA) vs Lucas Harrell (3-3, 5.03 ERA)

Lukey, what happened man? I mean I was ready and willing to admit you were not a journeyman pitcher and I was wrong yet again about a pitcher/player. Then you go out and basically tell the whole world “I am NOT an Ace… stop calling me that!” On the flip side, Vargas for the Angels goes out and throws a complete game versus the Orioles. I mean, this was supposed to be a matchup that favored the Astros. You know, up and coming Ace-like pitcher versus struggling young arm that may be just a journeyman when all is said and done. Seriously, what happened?

Summary

Jared Weaver is still hurt. Thank goodness, one possible no-hitter a week is plenty. For the Astros, well… does it really matter? What is interesting to watch unfold for Anaheim though is the talk swirling around both Pujols and Hamilton. It’s getting to be very speculative about tired old ballplayers who can’t perform like they used to. What is funny to me is when you have a team that has a Mike Trout and other young players, why would you lean so heavily on Pujols and Hamilton. Oh yean, it’s that money thing, as in they earn so much, so this comes with the territory. Okay, I get it… “nuts!”

Read all about the games in the Game Zone if you dare. Even if you don’t dare. Even if you don’t care or dare. Or even if you are fair (weathered), don’t care, or dare. Or… oh forget it.