Thursday, March 10:  Nationals 5 – 6 Astros

The day began with a quick trip to the office which turned into a bit of a mess, but I got out in enough time to collect Miss Limey and head to the airport.  Not too much fuss in Houston, the flight was fine (other than having Jabba the Hut in the next seat) but Orlando is a bait ‘n’ switching motherfucker of an airport.  All seems calm as you disembark and head to the monorail to take you to your bags.  But then you reach the main terminal and find yourself in some kind of travelers purgatory where you are forced to ride endless escalators up and down, dodge all manner of brain-dead tourists (and their kids) and wait an elephant’s lifetime for your baggage.  In the end, though, the rental car was ready, didn’t suck, and carried us to the ballpark via the hotel without incident.  In deference to Miss Limey, I waited at least 15 minutes before calling a Florida driver a “twat”.

It was a cool, clear evening in Osceola County Stadium.  Miss Limey and I sated our need for a ballpark hot dog and beer – which aren’t priced as excruciatingly badly as they are in Houston – and found chuck already ensconced in his fabulous seats; front row, just off the HP Ump’s left hip.  The anthem had already been sung and the Astros took the field.

Tonight’s starter was Wandy Rodriguez, and he immediately set about being spectacularly “meh”.  4 innings, 4 hits allowed, 4 strike outs, one walk and one run given up.  The 4 punchouts might sound interesting, but they really weren’t.  There was little snap to his curve and I suspect that he had many a hitter down 2 strikes because they could not keep the pitches they’d just smoked fair.  The relief corps who followed him – Lyon, Fulchino, Wright, Wolf and Escalana were similarly underwhelming but successful (this is the Gnats, after all, and not even the full squad), except for the Dread Pirate Wright Wesley, who sucked to the tune of 4 earnies on 3 hits and 2 walks.

Wright’s bowel evacuation on the mound gave the Nationals a tie in a game where the Astros’ offense had treated their starter – Gorzelanny – roughly; knocking him out before even three innings were in the books.  His replacement – Mock – fared little better, going 1/3^rd of an inning longer and giving up 1 less run.  But don’t let that fool you; the offense was not firing on all cylinders this evening – benefitting from 3 Gnat errors.  The only thing getting consistently hit on was Miss Limey in her seat next to the on-deck circle (Chris Johnson, I’m talking about you).  Pence is somehow batting over .400 for Spring but went 0-4 with 3 Ks.  I still cannot fathom how he isn’t oh-fer his career.

The Astros’ night was saved by some defensive hilarity in the bottom of the ninth that allowed the unearned winning run to be pushed over despite some effort on the part of the Astros not to score.  This was good news as it was getting decidedly chilly and lip-reading had suggested that the managers were up for some extra innings.  We three took a nightcap at one of Orlando’s famed “there’s-one-on-every-street-corner” establishments, before calling it a day.

Friday, March 11:  Red Sox 9 – 3 Astros

A glorious spring day in Florida was the perfect set-up for a home-road, day-night double-header.  The opener brought a split-squad Red Sox to visit the split-squad Astros in Kissimmee.  CJ was spotted in civilian clothes in the crowd, and didn’t feature this afternoon despite his Dad being here with the Sox.  It has yet to be confirmed if he strained his neck muscles the previous night trying to ogle Miss Limey while simultaneously grounding out to the shortstop.

Myers started for the home team, and it’s hard to decide which is more hideous: his pitching or his facial hair.  When I say “facial”, it would be more accurate to say “cranial”.  His entire head seems blanketed in thick, red fur.  Either he is auditioning for “Castaway 2”, or is using it to shield his embarrassment at his pitching exploits.  3 in the 1^st and 2 in the 2^nd is not a good way to start an outing.  It was a hole out of which the Astros would never climb.  The offense did clock 3 runs off Boston’s Weiland, before Dot Wheeler came in and slammed the door shut.

Of other former Astros, we also saw “Hey! Hey! Het! It’s…” Matt Albers, who was effective, but the offense was really starting to look horrible by that point.  Of course, the hitting looked a lot better than the defense, which was auditioning for “Major League 4:  Can We Go Any Lower Than The Minors?”.  Pop-ups and fly balls were hitting the ground at an alarming rate – specifically and ironically when Urckfitz was on the mound.  Only Willie Lopez appeared to have any idea what he was doing out there.

One point of note:  Jonathan Meyer has an arm for which the terms “cannon” or “laser” do not do justice.  He took low grounder about a step-and-a-half behind the bag at 3^rd, made the transfer, planted and fired a comet across to 1B – nipping the speedy runner by half a step.  The throw never got above head height, never dropped below shoulder height.  Comparisons to Caminiti abounded.

One other point of note:  a stadium-full of Red Sox fans – there to cheer on their own team – is less obnoxious than two random Yankee fans there to see the wrong Matsui.

Friday, March 11:  Astros 7 – 6 Nationals

Speaking of errors, Miss Limey and I conspired to leave the night game tickets at our hotel.  We had to backtrack to get those before hacking across country to get to Viera for the nightcap.  Florida’s freeway system seems to be a bizarre combination of roman-straight roads with interchanges so swirly that Chuck Yaeger would throw up while navigating one.  Add to that the glacial pace of Florida drivers and the randomness of visiting tourists, and it’s a rage-inducing effort to move around the State.  Credit where credit’s due: when it comes to separating Sun Pass holders from cash payers on the toll roads, they have their shit together.

The Nationals’ “Space City” stadium is a quaint little place, despite being noticeably newer than Osceola.  The food is a darn sight better too (the “Strasbourg” BBQ bacon cheeseburger was a particular hit – which meant they’d sold out before I got one).  Other attractions included some pre-game fireworks, that were some distance away but managed to hit us with a compression wave that was quite impressive, and post-game fireworks of the normal “ooooh…aaaaah” variety.  In between, NASA launched that mysterious Delta IV rocket that was in the news, which was incredible to watch – even to the point of being able to see the SRBs detach and fall back to Earth.

The Astros started Pendleton, and he posted the only clean outing by a “starter” of the weekend, albeit only over2 innings.  Dotel Villar pitched two strong innings behind him, with all the drama of tea and cakes at Grandma’s.  The rest of the relievers did ok, until Carrillo came in for the 9^th, but I’ll get to that in a minute.

The offense was facing Livan Hernandez, who is still sporting his winter blubber.  He did punch out 4, but over 3 innings the Astros cracked 7 hits and 3 runs.  “Levo’s” change was doing the damage, but his other stuff was not sharp.  As an aside, this game was the first occurrence of unfortunate seating luck – being right in front of Mr. Home-Team-Knowitall-Loud-Monotone Guy.

Bourgeois and Barmes (pronounced “Bar-mez”) had good days at the top of the order.  Wallace had some very solid hits and – of the “on paper” starters, looks to be the sharpest.  Pence had 2 hits and didn’t look horrendous in the outfield.  CJ went 2-4, undistracted this night as Miss Limey was wrapped up like an Eskimo against the 40-something degree temperatures during the later innings.

The Astros were cruising to victory – and we were ready to get back to the car to turn the heater on – taking a 7-3 lead into the bottom of the 9^th.  Carrillo took the ball, and dispatched the first 2 (I think) hitters with seeming ease.  Then a combination of wild pitching, hit batters, errors in the field and big hits had the Gnats poised with the tying run on 3^rd and the winning run on 1^st.  I can’t remember how he ended the inning, as my hands were covering my eyes.  But it ended 7-6.

Saturday, March 12:  Orioles 6 – 4 Astros

Another glorious afternoon in Kissimmee saw us joined by Ty in up from Tampa.  We convened at a Kissimmee restaurant for a pre-game lunch that was as surprisingly good as it was cheap.  We were also going to be visited by chuck’s stalker this day, but more on that later.  For now, we were happy to be in our seats, beer in hand and J.A. Happ on the mound.  That was, until we saw our third starter in a row have a 3-run pant-filler.

Happ pitched 4 innings, but the damage was done in the 2^nd as he got slapped around by the visitors, with Harris, Fox and Snyder doing all the damage.  At some point in this game, Fox smoked a line drive into the left field box seats that looked life-threatening and had the crowd waving furiously for the medicos.  After a long delay, the game was restored, but we heard later that a lady had been cracked in the eye and her husband had feinted at the sight.  No idea how that ended.

The Astros were stymied until the 8^th.  Lee was (again) DHing and looking bad at the plate.  Swinging at balls and taking strikes.  Bourn doesn’t seem to be interested in running out grounders, and it’s hard to see where runs are going to come from this year.  However, the home 9 jumped on some inopportune defense by the Orioles, and suddenly made the game 5-4  after 8.  But, once the Orioles tagged on an insurance run off Carpenter in the 9^th, the Astros’ goose was cooked.  6-4 is how it ended.

After the game, we all agreed that Miss Limey’s idea of getting some crawfish was a very, very good one.  How do you find crawfish in central Florida?  There’s an app for that.  As it turned out, the Google search pointed us to King Cajun, in the Vietnamese section of downtown Orlando.  The crawfish was good, spoiled only by the appearance of chuck’s stalker who invited herself, lectured us on any topic that was raised, explained how the sudden increase in phosphate levels in her pool are some portent of the coming socialist apocalypse (and not at all to do with the over-zealous spring feeding of her lawn by her yard service), ate, drank and didn’t pay.  She’s a piece of work.  After some sad (and one happy) goodbyes, Miss Limey and I found a couple of cool spots in downtown Orlando to hang out for a few hours.  It’s actually a quite decent and notably less trashy part of the State.

Sunday, March 13:  Astros 1 – 7 Braves

It is impossible to explain how ugly this was.  The box score doesn’t do it justice, mostly because the ugliness wasn’t limited to the play on the field.  The Disney-ESPN-Wide World of Fat Ass-This is supposed to be Spring Training for Fuck’s Sake-Stadium in Orlando Kissimmee is actually a pretty decent facility.  A bit of shade would help, but we had great seats right behind home plate, two rows behind the scouts, one row in front of Mr. Home-Team-Knowitall-Loud-Monotone Guy and directly under the stunt pilot who spent an hour writing and re-writing “Jesus Loves You” in the sky.

It is the Braves, however, so the ignorance and trash factors are ramped way, way up.  Along with the prices (more expensive and shittier than Aramark is no way to run a food concession, son).  The fans even booed the Astros as they were announced.  Classy!  Slacker Jones got a big cheer and everyone looked confused when the word “manager” wasn’t followed by the words “Bobby” and “Cox”.  The over-the-top Disneyfication of this place is beyond words.

Bud Norris started for the Astros, gave up 5 runs in 3 innings, including two dingers – one of which was to Chipper.  Oh joy.  Norris wasn’t helped by a Lee boot on a routine grounder to LF, but all his runs were earned so it’s not like he was the victim here.  The balance of the pitching was decent, but the Braves had the Astros’ hitters in a vice – the only highlights being a pointless Nash solo swat in the 9^th, and the Braves’ infield conspiring to let a towering pop-up hit the ground somewhere between home plate and the mound.

With a flight to catch and an overpowering need to flee this scene, Miss Limey and I bailed on the game – and poor chuck who’d rather have been at the other game in Lakeland – in the middle of the 8^th.  There was no telling how high the dumbfuckery would’ve been piled trying to exit the stadium and the Disney complex had we waited until the final out.  We had time – as it turns out – because Continental is rapidly being absorbed into the giant steaming load of horse shit that is United Airlines.  However, the salad bar at the airport’s Ruby Tuesday concession was a welcome relief from ballpark food.

In Summary

These guys are shitty.

The mundane detail of the trip is that we’re attending two road games: the Gnats in Space City and the Blue Jays in Tampa, where our duo will become a threesome with Ty. Eh? Oh. Anyway, that’s Thursday and Friday. To be followed by 2 games at the OCS: a split-squad game with Washington being the visitors (while the rooks ride the bus to Jakeback Mountain) and then the Hated ATL come in to finish me off. Whatever.

Watching the drills will be very educational for me, I hope, never having been formally trained in the art of baseball. I’m also looking forward to seeing Brad Mills at the helm. Two years of Cooper has put me in a position of having to ration f-bombs, lest I run out of my quota before I die. I am certainly not alone in exhibiting a man-crush on Mills, but even this early into his tenure, he seems to be the antithesis of the outgoing skipper, and that is a whole boatload of good.

But…

Looking at the projected lineup, this team is going to have to win on pitching and defense, and it is questionable in both areas. Even if the meat of the order is productive, it’s still only 2½ sluggers surrounded by Punch, Judy and a few of their ilk. Even then, while defense up the middle will be one of the best in the majors, and 3B has been shored up, the corner outfield spots will continue to be a rich vein of comedy.

Then we look at the pitching. It’s Nicole Richie thin. That doesn’t meant that it can’t get the job done, but it’s a brave man who expects it to get the job done. Oswalt, Rodriguez and Myers will have to do the bulk of the heavy lifting, while someone from the pool of Norris, Moehler and Paulino is going to have to step up. That’s not a major stretch, but the rotation can’t afford any slip ups. Oswalt needs to come back from last year’s struggles, Wandy needs to progress, not regress, and Myers needs to be on his game.

Then, if that all works out, the bullpen has to slam the door. The hitters are not going to mount too many late inning rallies. There’s too little fire power and, let’s face it, not good enough hitting to suggest that they will get knocks in bunches to push runners around the diamond. If the starting pitching works and the offense can eke out a lead, then the bully has to be merciless.

Unfortunately, this bully will have to cobble together its holds and saves; lacking, as it does, a dominant closer. Mills is going to have to manage his bollocks off in the late innings to get the right pitchers on the mound at the right time, and the right defensive replacements on the field in the right places. And I don’t mean the Cooperfucks (there goes another one) that we were used to seeing. You know. When the lead-off guy would get on in the 5th or 6th, prompting a 45 minute half-frame in which the same number of runs score, or don’t score, as would’ve without the changes, but now the defensive alignment looks like it’s been drawn by Picasso, and Stretch is all alone in the bullpen.

Please don’t misunderstand me; I am buzzed about this season. But I have tempered my joy at the change of skipper with a rationality born out of the reality of what he has to work with. Four games in mid-March really isn’t going to be anything on which to base one’s opinion, but maybe this trip to Florida will change my mind. Just maybe.

Firstly, let me apologise for the long hiatus. I’d like to say that I’d been hiking the Old Appalachian Trail but, in truth, the lack of productivity has been the result of personal strife, work pressures, a dearth of creative talent and plain ol’ laziness. As some of you know, I have recently turned a very large corner on the personal front, so now I have reduced my excuses by 25%. Work pressures remain, but that doesn’t make me unique. As for talent, I’ll let you decide (and many may not have even made it this far). Laziness is probably the only one over which I have any control. I’d fix it if I could be arsed, but I can’t.

So, to the Astros. What a mess. Perhaps I should qualify that statement before I go any further. If this were Pittsburgh or Washington, maybe the fans would be crazy for a team with a couple of all stars and a 1 game under record nearing the break. But this is Houston, where we have seen – in the very recent past – teams that play together, pull together and find ways to get “it” done. I loved watching those teams.

Not this team, though. They are distracted, disjointed, disconnected and disaffected.

As many of you may suspect by now, I will shortly be launching into an expletive-laden tirade about Cecil Cooper. I know that I am not alone in my frustration and anger of near nucular proportions at this clusterfuck (Ding! First Coop related expletive) of his creation, but the players are (allegedly) grown-ups, (allegedly) professionals and (actually) highly paid, so not fulfilling their end of the contract, both written and implied, is unforgivable. And the fans are just about at their end of their rope.

A case in point. On the opening night of the home series against the Nationals, which was last night for those reading this on the day of publication, the Astros had 1.0333 games against the worst team on the Senior Circuit, which could be worth two wins that, if achieved, would see the Astros level their season at .500 and leapfrog the Dickities and the FTCs into 3rd in the NL Central. This, to be followed by three more games against notably inferior opposition prior to the ASB. All that was required was to survive a 1 on, 1 out situation in the resumption of the suspended game.

Myself and my mate braved full on rush hour traffic to make sure we’d get to MMPUS by 6:05 to see the whole enchilada. Our biggest fear was that we’d suffer a one pitch, WOHR type arse reaming, and then have an hour to wait for the regularly scheduled game to start. Little did we know that the Astros had something far more ignominious in mind.

A double play was the simple solution to the game situation as it resumed. Hawkins took his place back on the mound, and promptly induced a sharp grounder up the middle. It was the desired ground ball, it simply missed the infield. 1st and 2nd now, but the pitcher’s friend was still “en vogue”, so Hawkins needn’t change his game plan one iota. Hawkins made his pitch again, and induced another grounder. This time it was a medium paced two-hopper to Keppinger at 2nd. Flip fire and we go to the top of the 12th, which was advantage Astros given that the Nationals’ bullpen is dogshit.

I don’t know who was at fault, maybe both of the protagonists, but the pivot took…fore…ev…ver! Things were slightly complicated by the fact that the runners were moving on the pitch, but an attempt by the other team to avoid the inning ending twin killing should not have been a shock to anyone. Regardless, Keppinger failed to get himself into position to make the first relay, instead allowing the ball to come to him while flat footed and turned fully towards home plate. As a result, his throw to Tejada at the bag was an underwhelming shovel pass.

The slow incoming throw stranded Tejada on the bag, as he had to break his momentum. This meant that the ball and runner arrived near simultaneously. The runner from 2nd was already around 3rd and steaming home, so Miggy’s only option was to leap and unleash his throw, which sailed into the Astros’ dugout. Game over.

What happened next was bizarre. The Nationals celebrated like the FTCs in April. Meanwhile, the Astros trotted off the field, nonchalantly waving to the furious spectators as if they’d just been taking catching practice. WTF?! Do these guys have any sensitivity? If you thought, as did I, that this was bad PR, just wait you wait.

I’ll fast forward past the first 3½ innings of the regular game that followed. There’s no need at this point to talk about Cooper’s customary gorvelled lineup, the terrible fielding, the inconsistent hitting or the curious decision to remove Ortiz after just 3 innings. I’ll drop you right into the bottom of the 4th.

Blum lead off and absolutely crushed one just to the right of the Crawfish Boxes, into the cut-out. Dunn never had a chance and it was clear from crack of the bat that he was going to struggle to run it down, let alone make the catch. Blum was on for a sure double. So sure, in fact, that he guaranteed it by dawdling his way around first before breaking it down halfway to 2nd. Then Dunn shit the bed and the ball was loose in the outfield. Blum fired up the jets and was able to round 2nd before being stopped because the ball was by then in the hands of the cutoff man. Utter bollocks. Blum’s lack of hustle was obvious to all in attendance.

Two outs followed, with Blum still rooted at 2nd. One was a slow but high chopper to 3rd, and the other a shallow fly to CF. I doubt Blum could’ve come home from third on either of those had he been there. Then Bourn stepped up, and bounced one up the middle but in range of the shortstop. With two out, Blum should’ve been hauling all kinds of arse…but he wasn’t. He loped his way over to 3rd, expecting the routine put-out. But Bourn was running and Guzman at short panicked. He misplayed the ball. Bourn was safe and Blum, who should’ve been cruising home was, once again, standing with his thumb up his butt on the wrong base. Tejada grounded out meekly to end the inning…and then came the boos.

Not a smattering of boos. A hearty, widespread, protracted and loud chorus of boos that lasted as long as it took the Astros to clear the field. And then the shit really started to fly.

According to my boss, who was at the field box level, two rows back behind the Astros’ dugout, some of the attending yayhoos took serious umbrage. They harangued Blum from their perch just above the dugout, hurling insults and expletives in equal measure. Blum and a few of the other Astros decided to get into it with the “fans”, and the ante got upped. One of the players made a throat slashing gesture at one of the fans.

It took the stadium staff a while to sort this out. Eventually they culled the retards from the bystanders and ejected them. Such behaviour is unacceptable in any public venue – my boss was there with his kids of 8 and 6 – so these morons got what they deserved. But…the gist of their tirade was that they pay a lot of money for their tickets (and drinks and hot dogs), and the least the players can do is put in a smidgeon of effort. On that point, I totally agree.

I like Blum, but he played like shit that inning and then compounded that by engaging the loudmouths instead of alerting the staff and sitting the fuck down. There is more to this, though, because this is a symptom of the malaise afflicting the Astros in 2009. Everyone’s got their heads up their own arses, and doesn’t seem to give a shit about anyone else.

So here’s where the Cooper bashing begins. I think it’s mostly his fucking fault. He has fucking fractured this fucking club with all his fucking nonsensical management and fucking nonsensical public pronouncements, many of which involve him fucking throwing his own fucking players under a fucking bus.

Unless and until the Astros’ brass get rid of Cooper and install a manager who can actually manage this club, both on and off the field, they will continue to slide along, underperforming with the other dregs of the NL Central. The players are not to be excused for their decent into Lords of the Flies, but this doesn’t happen if they’re being managed by someone with a firm grip on the reins and a firm grip on reality.

Cooper has neither. Time for the organization to make a change…

Pitching…Pitching…isn’t there another part to that? Oh yeah, defense. WTF? The Astros have staffed themselves with an infield, outfield and bench that can either hit a ball, or catch a ball, but not both. So when you put a “hands team” out there you lose a squeaker and when you put the “stick team” out there you lose a laugher. By “laugher”, I mean a Shakespearean tragedy where the Fates are all PMSing simultaneously and the poor sod on the mound hesitated when they asked him if they looked fat.

Currently, and obviously, Biggio is the everyday starter at 2B and will be until he gets #3,000. This is a fact of life, as is his statuesque defense and noodle arm. But consider the options: Burke is a solid glove man (at this position) but is currently lighting up AAA pitching to the tune of .170, and he is in no way, shape or form a leadoff hitter (he may also have an small desert in his vagina). Loretta can hit and defend, and maybe even lead off, but then who bridges the enormous gap between hitting and fielding exhibited by the other candidates for 3B?

Speaking of which, Lamb is showing why he cannot be a regular starter at 3rd, or anywhere else for that matter. His glove was always known to be suspect, but when there are no runs being scored to overcome defensive fuck ups, his frailties become hugely magnified. And when he plays everyday, his bat looks very ordinary. Iceberg is a complete disaster, and probably needs different surroundings if he’s ever going to get any kind of stroke back.

Lee is being the professional hitter that he is being paid to be. But he cannot run, either on the bases or in the outfield, and he doesn’t snag anything that’s not hit straight to him unless it has more hang time than Judge Roy Bean. Berkman is a defensive slot machine and is not hitting. The latter will change but we’ll just have to suck it up and enjoy the comedy defensive stylings of a man who was once undone in the outfield by a plastic grocery bag.

Continuing our random trek through the Astros, I will say little about PENCE!! as this is way to early to see what he is going to be. In RF we have another split like the one at 3rd. Scott isn’t hitting like we all hoped he would and his defense is ok if you ignore the humped back throws (aren’t you supposed to have an arm to play RF). Lane is probably the most talented outfielder on the roster, it’s just a shame, and increasingly fucking irritating, that he cannot hit a baseball for love nor money.

I have deliberately avoided Everett and Ausmus to this point, because I do not believe that their lack of offense is an issue. What Everett saves with his speed and range, and what Brad extracts from the pitching staff (I don’t think his part in Wandy’s turnaround can be underestimated) is more valuable than any increase in BA from those positions.

So what does all this mean? To me, this means that the Astros are one mightily fucked up club at the moment. Instead of being able to capitalize on the surprisingly excellent pitching, they are hamstrung by being unable to put out a line up that can win a game with either bat or glove. I believe wholesale changes are required, but doing that during a season is never easy. Maybe a blockbuster trade involving a dozen players and maybe more than one team would do it, but how you move Lane, Ensberg and Burke off the team and get back serviceable players without having to cough up a couple of pitchers (good ones), I do not know. What I do know is that those three have to go.

But more than that, more than just to poor make up of the roster, is the horrible, horrible approach to hitting. I don’t know what Sean Berry is up to as the current occupant of the ejector seat that is the Astros’ hitting coach, but this team has had a fucking awful approach at the plate for years. Now, however, there’s a whole new epidemic infecting the hitters: watching strikes. It used to just be Iceberg, but now, day in and day out, up and down the line up, Astros are admiring fastballs down the pipe like they were Weird Uncle Limey in a Miami bar, sipping a cocktail and watching the chicks rollerblade by. I’ve never played this game for real, but I’ve played bat and ball games before, but when you get something that comes right into your wheelhouse you better swing at it because that’s your job.

OK, so perhaps the first time through the order there may be need for some patience. This doesn’t excuse the interminably high number of called strike threes we’re seeing, but it does excuse taking strike one. First time through the order. When you have someone throwing a first-pitch fastball to almost everyone, and you’ve seen him already that evening, and you get a first pitch fastball, you should be beaten with sticks if you’re not ready to hit it. Keep doing it on strikes two and three, and you should be strung up by your skin until you’ve screamed all the evil out of you.

The Astros are in the lower third of the NL in average, runs and hits, and not much better in slugging. And there’s some real shit in the National League. Soon, the Astros will have some flexibility with the Biggio situation, but there’s no good solution available unless they fix the desperate and immediate concerns at 3B. If Lance wakes up and joins Lee in the land of the living, if PENCE!! keeps going and if they can get someone for the hot corner that will allow Loretta to play 2B after #3,000, this club can do some damage. Until then, keep watching and keep Sam Cooke in your head:

There’ve been times that I’ve thought I couldn’t last for long
But now I think I’m able to carry on
It’s been a long time coming
But I know a change is gonna come

Ultimately, Iain Dowie’s side were unsuccessful, being dumped out of the Premiership because they were unable to hold the lead for the last 10 minutes of the last game, which happened to be against a heated rival. Sound familiar? My lifelong support of “the Palace” has lead me to experience numerous cockpunches of this nature, so perhaps you can understand my inability to shrug off the ball-stomping by Pooholes as quickly as some of you. You only follow the Astros; I follow two of them.

But no longer are the Astros hapless wannabees. They are the Killer Bees, and they are National League Champions.

The media has made much of the miracle comeback from 15 games under .500, and then almost universally pronounced the team DOA in STL after Game #5. It was inconceivable to them that all we’d seen was a death spasm from the 3rds, which is exactly what it turned out to be. They failed to show up for Game #6, and went gently into that good night.

Co-Fuck Yourself, St. Louis

I think we can also officially install the Jakes as the Astros’ #1 rival. The historic nemeses of the Dodgers were taken away by the division of the old NL West; the Mets and the Phillies really don’t cross our paths much any more; and the Braves have been laid to rest. We play the Jakes a fuck of a lot and we have beaten each other in back-to-back LCSs. We will lock up again in the regular season next year (eighteen fucking times) and it’s ridiculous to think that another clash in the LCS couldn’t happen.

But all this doesn’t mean I have respect for the Jakes. I hate them. I’m glad they were beaten. I’m glad that Shitstein; Comonds and Pooholes looked like crap in the 8th against Qualls. I’m glad that La Russa brainfucked his way through his pen and his bench while Gar looked on calmly as his players got the job done. I’m glad that Tavarez missed the batter’s box with a pitch; that Molina can’t be bothered to chase such pitches to the backstop; that Mulder crumbled under pressure; that Anaheim Jimmy has a hole in his glove; that Sanders is a train wreck in the outfield and can’t hit a half-decent fastball; that Albert Whojols’ Game #5 homer is now the sole highlight of the 3rds’ 2005 season, and that I won’t have to see his cocksucking sneer at the plate for another 5 months at least.

I’m glad the Astros shut down Busch Stadium, and that the BFiBs’ last memory of the place is an Astro-dogpile on their mound. I’m very glad because the 3rds stole from me the chance to celebrate this win properly: screaming my lungs out in MMPUS in Game #5. They stole that game, then failed to show up for the next one. Fuck you!

Glad All Over

I’m glad because the Rockitte has done what it set out to do. I’m glad because Drayton McLane has done what he set out to do. I’m glad because Roy Oswalt pitched the games he was born to pitch. I’m glad because Lance Berkman is one goofy bastard. I’m glad because Adam Everett is a much better all-round shortstop that Eckstein. I’m glad because Qualls had trouble last year and erased those memories this year. I’m glad because Brad Lidge is no shrinking violet and he will show this in the coming week. I’m glad because the country got to see the Astros, in all their flawed glory. I’m glad because the national media has locked on to MMPUS as being one of the most hostile places to visit in the playoffs.

I’m glad because two, unassuming, professional, classy, legendary gentlemen finally get to where they’ve deserved to go for over a decade.

Designated Bagwell

If anyone thinks there’s any debate about the identity of the Astros’ DH this weekend (and next if it gets that far), then they’re mad. Just to prove how mad you would be, I give you Exhibit A – John Granato.

You see, I thought that I would check out Houston radio this morning to hear what was going on. Lots of Astros talk, I presumed, and I was mostly right. “The Animal” had the national ESPN radio feed (I think), and the chief blabbermouth was espousing how he otherwise wouldn’t bother to tune into the World Series if it wasn’t for the Rockitte, Bidge and Bags. His colleague was trying to point out that the identity of the players in the game is one reason why you watch, but he was having none of it. Apparently, he’d rather watch Tim Redding in a Yankmee uni than Roy Oswalt in an Astros’ one.

So I tried the flagship on 740. I didn’t recognise the voice of the player being interviewed, but they were talking about the terrible start to the season, the game at the weekend and the red unis. Then they mentioned the Colts. WTF? This is Texans talk?

[As an aside, Texans practice was shut down today due to an Anthrax scare. The players spotted an white powdery substance at Reliant Stadium during a practice session, and the club immediately called in the FBI. The Feds’ scientists were able to identify the white powder as the opponent’s goal line – something the Texans had rarely come across.]

The last resort was 610 and the self-proclaimed “Morons in the Morning”. They were talking about Bagwell DHing, and Granato was explaining how he has no record of getting “it” done. Of course, in order to justify his theory he first has to ignore 2004. With that post-season easily swept under the carpet, he looks back to 2001. Baggy’s record? “No RBIs”, says Genius John. 3 for 7 (.428 BA) says Lance. No ribs, says John. 5 walks says Lance (a .667 OBP for those playing at home). No ribs, counters John, his debating skills now fully on display.

It’s a shame that Academy and Oshmans were so busy today, because otherwise I would have bought a baseball bat, gone down to the 610 studios, and used it to break every bone in Granato’s body, from the toes up, while explaining to him that RBIs require teammates to be on base for you and the 5 walks were all in situations were there were runners to drive home. I know this because I watched that series and don’t have the brains of a goldfish.

It was back to the iPod.

There’s Only One Thing to Do…

Radio and TV, in general, sucks. Sports broadcasting especially so. Houston radio is gibbering pile of fuckwittery. ESPN has written off the Astros – Jayson Stark being the lone contrary voice it seems. Jeanie Zalasko’s contribution to the knowledge base is that all this proves is that games in May and June don’t matter. Bob Brenly can’t count how many lefties there are in the Astros’ pen. Thom Brennaman (sp?) can’t tell the Astros apart and Steve Lyons is the spokesperson for the Himbo nation.

Win the whole fucking thing! Please, for all of us who have to suffer through all of this shit just to be able to watch the Astros play baseball. Win it for Noe’s dad. Win it for Jim R. Win it even for HD who may be demented but is a fan. Win it so that Astros’ fans can talk about this for years to come and so that everyone else can shut the fuck up.

Win it for Biggio and Bagwell. They’ve earned it.

The current incarnation of the Houston Astros is systematically and comprehensively exorcising the club’s demons. The 2004 Wild Card chase and NLDS win showed the club not to be perennial chokers. Biggio and Bagwell hit in that post season (amazing what happens when you get to face someone not called Smoltz, Glavine or Maddux). They played the 3rds to a standstill, but ultimately fell just a little short of the World Series. Re-made on the fly for 2005, they repeated and perhaps exceeded the dramatic Wild Card chase of the year before. Now they have repeated as NLDS winners, doing it in 1 game less (sort of), but more importantly from a historical perspective, doing it by erasing the extra-inning loss of 1986. That game is no longer the longest post-season game ever and arguably no longer the greatest game ever played. Those monikers now belong to Game #4 of the 2005 NLDS and the story ends with an un-fucking-believable win for the Astros.

But enough of looking back. We are in uncharted territory here people. The 2005 Astros have the best starting rotation in the playoffs, and perhaps the best bully (I am too unfamiliar with the AL clubs to make that claim unreservedly). Assuming that MLB doesn’t fuck us over by flipping the schedule, the Astros are poised to put their best feet forward in the NLCS, and the 3rds will have to be at their peak to deal with it. There is no doubt that they will give their all and then some, but what do they have to give?

On the surface, the expected three-game sweep of the hapless Padres was clinically executed. But scratch the surface, and things start to look a little iffy. Mulder got hit by a come-backer, and would not have been available to pitch again that series. He remains day-to-day for the NLCS. Meanwhile, the 3rds’ bullpen – that you know will get a lot of work with La Genius pulling the strings – sports a playoff ERA of just under 9. Nine! Against the Pads! They pitched 8.1 innings giving up 8 runs on 16 hits. And the usually reliable Reyes is gone – out for the rest of the year. Isringhausen has been torched. The 3rds survived by getting enough of a head start that the bully could hang on.

The 3rds are not the same team that needed all 7 games to take the Astros last year. Their starting pitching is the same at best, the bull pen is worse and the offense is worse (but only by a little) without Rolen. But the Astros are not the same team they were either. The offense is clearly inferior, but the rotation is greatly improved and front-loaded while the bull pen is better too.

In 2004, the Astros sent Munro and Backe to the mound to start two games each, and only 3 games were started by Clemens or Oswalt. The way things shape up right now, the 2005 contest will see Clemens, Oswalt and Pettitte starting 6 of the 7 games.

Can this team slay one more demon before the season’s over?

Perhaps. But that same game can give you the 2005 “Ashes” series between England and Australia, in which they play five, 5-day games (“tests”) and the series hangs precariously in the balance at the start of the last 2-hour session of play of the fifth and final day of the fifth and final test.

For seven weeks, England’s band of not-yet-ready-for-the-big-time upstarts took on an Australia team that has dominated World cricket for nearly two decades. Two countries on opposite sides of the World waited breathlessly to see who would be able to say “Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!” whilst making “wanker” signs at the other, for the next two years. Moreover, England last won a series from Australia in 1987 and last held “The Ashes” in 1989; that’s not Cub-futile, but it’s pretty painful in a head-to-head match-up occurring every two years.

Game #1

The series opened at Lord’s cricket ground in West London. Australia won the coin toss and decided to bat first – a significant advantage in cricket for reasons that will become clear as the series’ story evolves. Australia’s dominance of the World began when they decided to abandon old school “boring” cricket, and try to score at a rate of 4 runs an over (an over is a sequence of 6 pitches). This will bring up a total of 400 runs in one day’s play – not an unusual total prior to this sea change, but certainly not an expectation. But with this mind set, the Australian batsmen strode purposefully onto the pitch at Lord’s and were promptly “all out” for a meager 190.

“All out” means that the fielding side has recorded the necessary 10 wickets (outs) to “retire” the batting side and end their inning. England’s Steve Harmison had done most of the damage, recording 5 wickets himself. The England camp was ecstatic as the mighty Australian line up had been dismissed so cheaply. Expectations were high. Then England’s first innings ended for a total of 155 runs, 35 behind Australia. Bugger! Then things started to go wrong for England.

Australia smashed 384 runs in their second innings and then bowled out England again, this time for only 180. The first test went to Australia, the margin of victory being 239 runs – which sounds like a lot because it is. Perhaps the cricketing world was not quite ready to be turned on its head.

Game #2

A week later the teams go at it again at Edgbaston, near Birmingham. This time England won the toss and elected to bat, and this time their batting stood up and smacked 407 by the time the leg-spin of Australia’s Shane Warne bamboozled the light-hitting Harmison and knocked over his stumps. England’s batting stars were Trescothick with 90, “Freddie” Flintoff with 68 and Kevin Pieterson with 71. There will be more from Pieterson later…

Australia’s reply was 308, meaning that they were 99 runs behind before the start of the second innings. England’s Flintoff and Giles got 3 wickets each as they tormented the Australians with medium-paced swing and slow off-spin respectively. A solid total in their second innings would put England in the driver’s seat and Australia on the rack, so it should come as no surprise that England capitulated for a measly 182. This left Australia a very reachable 282 runs for the win, and a 2-0 stranglehold on the 5-game series.

But “Freddie” (actually Andrew) Flintoff had other ideas. The shaven-headed all-rounder (everyone bats but “all-rounders” pitch too and are good at both) was in no mood to let Australia walk away with another win, and attacked them like a man possessed. His haul of 4 wickets, to add to his 3 in Australia’s first inning and his tally of 141 runs off his own bat made him easily Man of the Match. Such things were to be contemplated later, however, because while this was happening Australia were sneaking up on 282. When Harmison fooled Australia’s last man into snicking one into the waiting hands of Geraint Jones, they were sitting on 279. England won the test by 589 to 587. NBA eat your heart out! England win by 2 runs. Series tied at 1-1.

Game #3

The series that was beginning to look like a classic moved on to Old Trafford in Manchester. Once again, England won the toss and decided to bat. Exuding confidence, they belted 444 runs in the first inning, with Captain Michael Vaughan’s 166 easily being the highlight. Australia’s reply was again a muted total, 302, with England’s Simon Jones, an emerging star, taking 6 of the 10 wickets. England were in command, but there was a black cloud on their horizon.

Literally a black cloud. This was Manchester; it was August; so shit weather inevitably caused a lot of time to be lost to rain and poor light (floodlights are verboten in test matches). If you added up all the weather-related stoppages, they’d lost a whole day. A day which England could well use to roll up the Australian batsmen and record a comfortable victory. Instead Australia had the opportunity to see out the remaining time and snatch a draw from the jaws of defeat. Nervously, the pundits began to talk of a declaration…

Cricket includes what I believe to be a unique rule that allows a batting team to stop batting when they so choose. This is called “declaring”, and occurs typically when one team believes that they have already amassed enough runs to win, but want to make sure they leave themselves enough time to get all 10 of their opponent’s wickets. If they fail to get all 10 outs, the match is a draw. The declaring team forfeits any remaining outs, so there’s no going back if you screw up.

England’s Captain Vaughan was left with a very tricky decision. His team started its second inning already ahead by 142, but so much play had been lost to the weather that he did not have the luxury of running up the score and still leave enough time to get Australia all out. He would have to walk the tightrope, and declare on a score that might be overhauled by Australia if things went pear-shaped. A declaration under these circumstances is a very aggressive move, and a very scary one when faced with the mighty Australia.

With the second inning score at 280, Australia took England’s 6th wicket (4 remaining) and Vaughan called his boys in. There was an hour or so left of day 4, plus all of day 5 to have a go at the Australians, who would need to go like the clappers to put on the 423 runs required for them to win. All of England held its breath, hoping that Vaughan had guessed right and a draw was the minimum result to be expected.

Make no mistake, Vaughan’s declaration was the equivalent of wagging his dick in the face of a hungry Doberman. Australia were pissed off, and they meant to take up this challenge to their collective manhood. Take it up, screw it into a ball and jam it right back down England’s throats.

Australia’s Captain Ricky Ponting set the tone. He tore into England’s bowlers and blistered a spectacular 156 runs before the duo of Harmison (bowling) and Jones (again with the catch) accounted for his wicket. Australia were running up the score and pushing closer and closer to 423. But without much help from his countrymen, the fall of Ponting signaled the end of Australia’s charge for the win, stalled as they now were in the 370’s and with only one wicket remaining. Their goal now was to simply survive the day, and secure the draw. There were 4 overs (24 pitches) left to be bowled in the match, and Australia’s nos 10 and 11 batsmen at the crease (their two worst). Flintoff went after them, but was unable to add to his tally of 4 wickets as Australia saw out the day.

Anyone who thinks a draw is automatically boring is simply wrong. It may be a non-result, but 5 days of nip and tuck, move and counter, tension and heroics like those seen there at Old Trafford are as far from boring as one can get. For confirmation, just ask any of the full house at Old Trafford for the final day’s play, or any of the 10,000 ticketless strays locked outside, or any of the 15,000 stuck in Manchester city center when authorities shut down the bus service to the ground because the place was overrun.

Game #4

With the series tied at 1-1 and only 2 to play, Game #4 became pivotal. The winner would be dorme, but a series draw was no good to England who need to win the series outright to claim back The Ashes from Australia (like the Ryder Cup, the holder needs only a tie to retain the trophy). A win for Australia, therefore, would ensure that the 3-inch tall urn – full of no one knows what, that has been the symbol of England vs. Australia cricket for 123 years, would return down under.

Trent Bridge in Nottinghamshire was the venue. England again won the toss and decided to bat. The team was improving with each game, and this time slogged Australia for 477 runs. Freddie Flintoff’s 102 was the highlight, but contributions came from up and down the batting order as Australia’s bowling was made to look ordinary in the extreme.

Then England’s Simon Jones took over again. He demolished the Australian batsmen and took 6 of their wickets. They were in disarray, with 6 of the 11 batters failing to get into double figures. Their total of 218 was embarrassing compared to England’s, but the 259-run first inning deficit brought with it a deeper shame. The follow on.

The follow on is a cock-punch as delivered by Mike Tyson. The rule requires that the team batting second has to get within 200 runs of the first team’s total, or they can be forced to bat again. It brings up the spectre of the “innings defeat”, in which one team loses to an opponent who bats only once. The follow on is humiliating, and it hadn’t happened to Australia in over 17 years.

England enforced the follow on.

Perhaps Australia’s batsmen were stung by the follow on, perhaps the England bowlers were tired from their first inning toils and no rest before re-taking the field or perhaps it was a little of both. Australia mounted a fight back, overhauled the 259-run deficit and pushed on to a lead themselves. Everyone of the batsmen contributed as they finished up with decent tally 387 runs, but a lead of only 128 runs to defend.

England were on the brink of a comprehensive victory over Australia. After the thrashing at Lord’s, the skin-of-the-teeth win at Edgbaston and the one that got away at Old Trafford, this England team was on cloud nine and ready to show who’s boss.

But old soldiers die hard. Shane Warne’s tantalising leg-spin had the England batsmen with happy feet and Brett Lee’s vicious pace had them ducking for sheer self-preservation. Wickets were falling at a consistent rate and the runs were just not being added. The clock was not the issue this time, but there was a real possibility that Australia could achieve something that has happened only 3 times in international test cricket – victory after being forced to follow on.

Ultimately, the 128-run lead proved indefensible. Despite losing 6 wickets in the process, England limped to 129 – the required runs – and recorded what was truthfully a lop-sided win although at times it may not have seemed like it. England lead the series 2-1.

Game #5

The Oval in South London, where, in 1882, a touring side from Australia beat England on home soil for the first time ever. The Times published a mock obituary:

In Affectionate Remembrance

Of

ENGLISH CRICKET WHICH DIED AT THE OVAL

On

29th August, 1882,

Deeply lamented by a large circle of sorrowing friends and acquaintances

R. I. P.

N.B. – The body will be cremated and the ashes taken to Australia.

The Ashes of English Cricket have passed back and forth between these two great rivals ever since. For the last 16 years, they have resided down under. But now… now England have the tiny, port glass-sized trophy within their grasp. A simple draw in this fifth and final test will bring the Ashes home to England’s green and pleasant land.

Vaughan’s fortunes with the coin continued as he again won the toss and elected to bat. The Oval is long-renowned for its benign batting surface and wide open spaces. The game plan was for the England batsmen to fill their boots; run up the score and run out the clock. Every minute they spend batting was a minute taken from Australia. Ominously, Shane Warne had a plan of a different colour.

International cricket’s highest wicket-taker of all time isn’t Curtley Ambrose, blessed though he was with wicked pace and deadly bounce. Nor Dennis Lillee or Jeff Thompson bowling with both speed and precision. Nor Wasim Akram or Malcolm Marshall gifted as they were with immaculate control and movement. Nope, it’s a guy with a four-step run up and delivery that rarely tops 60mph. It’s Shane Warne of Australia.

Years earlier, he’d announced himself to the cricketing world upon his debut against England. We’d all been exposed to the hype of this punk-cricketer with his spikey blond hair, earring and roguish good looks. But tales of his feats were surely exaggerated. Surely.

Warne’s first ever pitch to an Englishmen – then team Captain Mike Gatting – was so far behind the man that he simply returned to upright from his stance and watched the ball go harmlessly behind his legs. An embarrassingly bad pitch for anyone, let alone a hot young phenom if that is what Warne truly was. Perhaps he wasn’t what he was cracked up to be. Then the ball bounced.

Such was the spin imparted on the ball by Warne as it left his fingers that it turned back on itself, shot forward and knocked over Gatting’s stumps. The poor man was out, victimized like so many others after him by the pitch that bears his name – The Gatting Ball.

Now, over a decade and more than 500 test wickets later. Warne’s captain gave him the ball and with it the task of holding down this England batting line up that was eager to have a go on The Oval’s batting track. He tossed 37.3 overs (that’s 225 pitches for those of you who love to count such things) and sliced the head off the English beast. The head, the arms, legs and one other appendage. He took the wickets of the first 6 Englishmen to pick up a bat, but not without cost in runs.

England’s Andy Strauss (who ironically had become career-wicket no. 501 for Warne earlier in the series…think about it) stroked his way to 129 for himself, while his team accumulated 373 runs. Flintoff chipped in with another helpful 70+, but 450 is the target at The Oval, and England were well short of that. Game on.

For the first time in the series, Australia’s opening batsmen got in and stayed in. They raced away to 185 before Harmison clean-bowled Langer right down the pipe to record the first wicket. But Australia were in the mood to put on a monster score – one that would give them a fabulous shot at taking the win and saving the Ashes. They continued on at a breathless pace and were at 264 runs before their second wicket fell (Flintoff inducing Ponting to pop one up into the air and into Strauss’ waiting hands). But then Flintoff struck again and again and again. Four wickets in all for the hero of Edgbaston as Australia collapsed to a total of 367. Inconceivably falling short of England’s paltry (by Oval standards) score.

For the umpteenth time in this series, the pendulum had swung. But now rested at dead center. These two heavyweights were about to start again, basically at zero for the series, with one inning each to decide it all. And with everything poised on the edge of the sharpest of knives, it started to rain.

Just like at Old Trafford, the players would be on and off the field for bad weather for the next two days. Similarly, about a day’s play in total was lost. But unlike Old Trafford, where Australia had been saved by the rain, this time it was backing them into a corner. It was victory or bust for them, so they had to take what time they were given, knock England over and come back to overhaul what they needed to be a small English lead.

Warne again was asked to do his worst. Another grinding performance netted him another 6 English scalps. The English batsmen were again jittery and it seemed that no one was going to grasp the nettle and put together a high-scoring and, more importantly, clock-burning inning. But way back in Game #2, debutante Kevin Pieterson knocked a helpful 71 and I said that he would be heard from again. Well this was his last chance to reward the faith in his potential exhibited by England’s management.

With his Pepe le Pew-striped hair concealed under his batting helmet, Pieterson came out to bat after Australia’s McGrath had just taken care of England’s Vaughan and Bell in successive pitches (Bell going for zero for the second time in the match). England had just 67 runs and had lost their top 3 batsmen. Weeks of hard work was swirling the bowl and McGrath was on fire, looking for the hat-trick. McGrath raced in and launched a vicious bouncer at Pieterson. Kevin in sheer panic dropped his hands and slung his head back – the ball catching his shoulder and looping harmlessly into the hands of Ponting. A dot was placed in the scorebook (signifying no activity from that pitch) and English lungs relaxed just a fraction.

Only to be filled again a few balls later as Pieterson fished at a ball he should’ve let go and clipped it into and out of the outstretched glove of Australia’s wicket keeper (catcher). This was nervy stuff, and it was the English nerves that were frayed while the Australians’ were emboldened. But Pieterson remained, and some heroics had been promised.

With England battered, bloodied and completely on the defensive, a thought flashed into Pieterson’s head. That thought was “Fuck This Shit!” Bam! Sock! KaPow! Pieterson threw caution to the wind and went after the Aussie bowlers. Suddenly, Pointing’s field setting that had been aggressive in the extreme was turned around as he moved everyone out to protect the boundaries as Pieterson clubbed the ball all over the park. Seven times he rendered the field moot as he smashed the ball over their heads and out of the park for a “six”. McGrath got him in the end, but not before Pieterson had dragged England from 67 to 308, with 158 of those runs coming off his own bat.

More importantly for the series, England had now amassed too many runs for Australia to chase within the time remaining and they had yet to end the English inning. The tenth wicket fell with England at 335 for a lead of 341 and only two hours of play remaining. The packed house at The Oval (well most of them anyway) could now relax and savour the moment. For the first time in nearly two decades, England had beaten Australia. For two years at least, until they reconvene down under in 2007, the wankers had become the wankees. England had just played arguably its best Ashes series in living memory.

And the National pastime is once again the National pastime.

The Astros bolted out of the blocks, taking 5 of the first 6 games. Of course, this was an opening homestand that included 4 games vs. the Reds. Then they went out on the road where the wheels fell off, and they finished April with a 9-13 record. Then things went bad. In May, the Astros fell to a season-low 15-30 record, finishing the month only slightly improved at 19-32.

Jeff Bagwell went on the DL because of his bum shoulder and had to delay surgery due to his Doctor being on vacation (or something). Later, he was quietly proclaimed as being “done” for the year. The Ezequiel Astacio Experiment was ended. Ditto Brandon Duckworth. Berkman was hitting like Jason Lane. Jason Lane was hitting like Chris Burke. Chris Burke was hitting like Luke Scott. Luke Scott was sent back to the minors for hitting like a girl.

It was the end of May, and it was a dark time. But the pitching – oh, the pitching.

In stark contrast to the flaccid offense, the pitching had been mostly fantastic. Ignoring the 5th starter (the identity of whom is usually only worthy of interest during Spring Training), the rotation had been amazing. Their gaudy numbers aside, they deserved medals for being able to stay focused while enduring short, unproductive inning after short, unproductive inning of Astros hitting. They stayed on-point, and the hitting finally came around.

June. MLB had given the Astros a weak schedule for the month. It should’ve been weaker than it was, but who would’ve thought the Clowned-up Orioles were going to be this good? Anyway, Lane and Burke remained the better options for the corner outfield positions; and that wasn’t good. But Berkman (now at 1B) started to hit like Berkman. Biggio continued to hit like Biggio (and be a defensive upgrade at 2B – which says more about Kent than Craigito). Ensberg started to hit like A-Rod (WTF?). And the line-up became moderately productive with the bonus of some genuine power threats in the meat of the order.

Suddenly the marvelous pitching began to have meaning. The mound staff were able to make the offense’s still patchy, but now somewhat average, productivity stand up. A 16-9 run on the back of series with Toronto, Kansas and 2 vs. Colorado halved the games-under-.500 number. It also suggested that they might even contend for the Wild Card because, despite their shitty start, the NL was so over-stocked with crap that they weren’t that far behind!

By July, the resurrection was complete. A 9-2 drive to the break, including taking 6 of 7 from the top teams in the NL West (well, the Dodgers were 2nd before they came to Houston, IIRC), achieved a number of things:

• Put the club back over .500 for the first time since late-April;
• Eased them into 2nd place in the Central, ahead of the laughable Cubbies but still well adrift of the R.U.N.N.O.F.T 3rds;
• Jumped them over a pack of circa-.500 teams so that only the Marlins stand between the Astros and the Wild Card leading Braves – “only” 5 games up; and
• Propelled a number of Astros towards All-Stardom.

While Clemens’ and Lidge’s selections to the All-Star team were widely anticipated, it would’ve been difficult to expect any other Astros to go if the team was still sucking wind at the foot of the Comedy Central. The climb back to respectability opened some opportunities because the mediots were talking about the Astros again. Oswalt made it in via the back door (NTTAWWT), which is only fair considering he is 2nd in the NL for wins and ERA (behind Clemens for the latter).

Ensberg was the league’s most productive third-sacker, but the fans voted in a hobbled Rolen and La Russa saw fit to pass on poor Morgan. In a way, I think this was good for him as he garnered more positive pub. for being snubbed than he would’ve had if he’d been quietly picked behind Errormiss Ramirez. Mo got to go in the end, of course, once Rolen withdrew.

Comparisons to last year’s stampede into the playoffs are well made, and I think the team is winning at a greater clip than the 2004 incarnation. This, IMHO, is thanks to Berkman and Ensberg. Not to say that the pitching was irrelevant, but it was these two who turned the offense around and gave the pitching staff something to defend. Two sluggers, back-to-back in the line-up, gave the offense a whole nother look, making those who came before and after more productive.

In Willy Taveras, Biggio and Ensberg, the Astros have three players with 49 or more runs scored. Only two other NL teams boast that: Cincy and the D-Backs. But when you consider that the Astros remain dead last in team batting average – for both leagues – it’s a remarkable feat.

And things can still get better. Lane and Burke are everyday players and hit in the 5th and 6th slots typically. Lane has some ok power numbers (someone other than Ensberg had to have been batting Ensberg in) but he sucks in most other aspects of hitting. Burke, double-digit hitting streak notwithstanding, sucks in all aspects of hitting. It is hard to imagine that The Count cannot make a trade before the deadline for an outfielder who can hit better than Burke. In fact, every single major league outfielder* has a better average than Burke…except Sammy Sosa (bwahahahahahahaha). Wanna know who’s 4th-worst in the majors? Jason Lane. Oh, you didn’t want to know? Sorry.

Purpura cannot allow the outfield to continue to be more full of soft noodles than Hideki Irabu. Almost any outfielder will do. Even a first baseman would do (moving Berkman back to LF). I’d take Hee-Seop Choi at this point! (Yes, even he has a better average than Burke). Now a meaty slugger like the oft-mentioned Dunn would be great. But the Astros are on the verge of something here, and unlike last season, it won’t take a blockbuster acquisition to spur them on to greater things.

Here’s to hoping that the next couple of weeks are interesting.

* As identified by Yahoo! Sports; who still show Biggio and Pooholes as outfielders.

The Astros, on a triumphant march back to St. Louis, stumbled, righted themselves and then had a kneecap smashed in by Edmonds. Game #6 is where the NLCS was lost, seemingly no sooner than it had been won in Houston. The controversial decision to start Munro was negated when the Astros rallied to tie the game in the 9th. The 3rds were shell-shocked and they must’ve been having visions of themselves having visions of deja vu …all over again… as the Astros put the go ahead runner in scoring position. A base hit…a ground-ball…a ground-ball with eyes… But it was not to be. The Astros fail to deliver the killer blow and the game rolled on for a few more innings until fate and a depleted pen conspired to set up the horrendous mismatch of a now very fallible Miceli vs. a dyed-in-the-wool Astro-Killah in Edmonds. Paybacks are hell, and the fuck-you-back walk-off homer was as hurtful as it was inevitable.

Game #7 put the ball in the Rocket’s HoF hands, but I truly believe the 3rds were resurrected by Edmonds blast. They’d left Houston beaten, crushed, mashed, shredded and humiliated. They stirred against Munro in Game #6, but really should have demolished him. They left the door open for an Astro revival, and when it occurred, they were dead. The Astros just had to call it, but an ill-timed strikeout let them off the hook and they never looked back. Fuck, fuckity, fuck, fuck, fuck. Game #7 started brightly, but ended up a water torture as the Astros slowly sank below the waves.

But if anyone needs any proof as to the damage inflicted on the Tank Commanders minions, look no further than the anti-climactic World Series. The Sox committed 8 errors in the first two games, and won both. If the 3rds weren’t going to show up, at least they could’ve sent the Astros in their place!

Of course, had the Astros pushed Bagwell (IIRC) home in the 9th inning of Game #6, the Astros would’ve taken the ticket to the Series instead of waited to be given it. I truly believe this. I also believe that Fox would’ve shat themselves over the Game #1 match-up that took Bagwell back to his roots and, more famously, put Clemens back on the very mound where he’d built his reputation. With the Yanks gone, I believe an Astros-Red Sox was the better tie for the neutral and casual fan, which means it was the better tie for Fox. I also believe that the Astros would jumped on the addled New English and made much more of a Series of it. They certainly couldn’t have done worse.

Once the NLCS ended, plus the five minutes it took the Sox to sweep the 3rds in the Series, all eyes turned to Beltran. His torrid run through the playoffs is stuff of legend. A legend that will forever be erased in the minds of Astros’ fans everywhere but the cuntish buttfucking he gave us all. And just in case there was any shred of doubt left that this twat is just a money-grubbing, self-absorbed whore, take a look at the following list of add-ons to his $119mm contract with the Mets (may they rot in hell together):

• A bonus for making the All-Star Team (because otherwise why bother trying?);
• A bonus for being the leading All-Star vote-getter;
• Bonuses for finishing the season atop any number of statistical categories;
• An escalating scale of cash for being MVP;
• A suite on the road (because who wants to sleep in the same room as your hooker?);
• A 15-seater luxury box at Shea for every home game (what an amazing smell you’ve discovered); and
• Use of a private jet to fly family and friends from PR to NY for home games.

It strikes me that anyone making $17mm a year should be motivated enough to try his best, and so would not need these (relatively) paltry cash awards for doing what he’s supposed to do. Make the All-Star Team? He’s one in the top ten money earners in this sport and perhaps a few others – he better be on the fucking All-Star team! Also, he can afford to buy seats and airline tickets for whoever he wants to bring along to see him play. As for the private suite on the road? That’s a big “Fuck You!” to his teammates…except maybe Piazza. Beltran has shown his true colours this off-season, and they are various shades of green.

We should’ve all seen it coming – his choice of Boras as agent foreshadowed everything that came to pass. He flung himself naked and moist at the Yankees, but they weren’t interested enough to get a stiffy let alone pop a Viagra. He played the Astros and ultimately settled for his third choice team, who play on a dung heap by an airport in a police no-go zone. He’s been twittering like a little girl with N’Synch tickets ever since, and has been making as much sense about the process of negotiation as he was truthful before during and after. Lying piece of shit. I hope you and your team stink for the next seven years at least.

While all this was going on, Jeff Kent and Wade Miller drifted off to alternative destinations. Kent was too rich for the Astros and Miller was too risky. On both counts I think that the Astros did the right thing. I would love to have had Kent back, but his demands would’ve strapped the Astros to sign Beltran (ha!) and were just too high anyway. They stumbled on the guarantee of a second year instead of the conditional one offered by the Astros; a no trade clause and plain old money. He returned to his home State of SoCal, and will hate hitting in that giant ballpark. Meanwhile, if the Dodgers think they can play him at 3rd, they better work on the pitcher cutting the throw to 1st in Spring Training, because I trust Bagwell to make a better throw across the diamond than Ol’ Bluebonnet.

Miller was about money and health too. He just has less of either than Kent. The current CBA hamstrung the Astros so that they either had to overpay and hope to get at least some way through the season before Wade hit the DL, or cut him loose and try to get him back as a free agent. As it turns out, Miller couldn’t wait to run for the hills, being snapped up by the Red Sox the minute he was available. I suspect that, having lost Pedro to the Mets earlier in the off-season, they had a gaping hole on their DL for a starting pitcher. Wade will replace Pedro on Boston’s treatment table for far less money than the Mets are paying Pedro to occupy their treatment table, so that’s nice for them.

Finally, returning to the World Series for a moment, I am glad that the Sox won. They reversed the curse, or whatever colourful phrase you prefer to use to describe the fact that they finally managed to stop tripping over their dicks and win something. Do you want to know what’s special about the Sox now? Nothing. They aren’t the Yanks whipping boys. They aren’t cursed. They are just another baseball team. Like Baltimore, or Seattle or Oakland or Houston. One who will rise up out of the mire every once in a while but otherwise drift along in the algae with the rest of us. They are no of no special interest whatsoever. Thank you, Boston. And goodbye.

Hunsicker has said repeatedly that there was never any question of breaking up this team in July and August. Baseball is a game of failure, and yet the dick-tripping going on in May, June, July and early August had large sections of Astro-fandom and the media abandoning ship. Yours truly most definitely included. Of course, when fans agree with mediots (coming to Fox this Fall), it could not be clearer that we were all completely wrong. The highest kudos to Astros management, without whom I may be able to speak today.

I’m sure all of you reading this upon its posting will know what’s going on right now. However, for the record, and for those who may read this in the future wondering (a) who gave this tool the bandwidth for this drivel? and (b) WTF is he talking about? I will say this:

(a) Hudson, Noe, Arky, Andy, and Waldo; and

(b) The improbable yet almost expected sweep of the mighty 3rds in Houston this week.

The 105-game winning rock just got hit by a wave of orange whoopass. And the rock moved.

Two Days at Fort Minute Maid

Game #4: Section 107, Row 31, Seat 12.

The towels, the noise, the excitement, the anticipation, the three runs dropped on Oswalt in the top of the 1st. Huh? This isn’t the script! Apparently, Roy didn’t get his copy, and he scuffled through 6 innings eventually yielding 5 runs. Pooholes doing the damage with a walk, single and homer against the Astros ace, accumulating three runs scored and three RBI.

Of course, Beltran tore up his copy of the script, the same way that he has torn up every inch of every ballpark he’s played in during this amazing run. But before we get there, a tip o’ the cap to Dan Wheeler. Did he ever imagine that he would be mowing down baseball’s best line-up with 43,000 fans screaming his name? If that happened to me, I think I’d soil the front and back of my shorts simultaneously.

Then Beltran did his thing. A shoe-top pitch dispatched into the Astros pen. So unfeasible was this shot that victimized pitcher Tavarez suffered an immediate and complete collapse of brain function, and turned into Kevin Brown. The comeback was complete, now all that remained was to see it home.

Lidge put the lights out for the last two innings, repeating his feat of the day before, and the roof was torn off the building. The noise was outrageous. I could not speak afterwards, but that was fine because I could not hear anything anyway. This was the most incredible sporting event I’d ever attended. Probably the most incredible event I’d ever attended full stop!

Being excluded from the World Series lottery, I expected never to see anything like this again.

The Shot Still Ringing in My Ears

Game #5: Section 208, Row 10, Seat 18

Ahhhh, the sanctity, calm and short lines of the Club Level. Yahoosawhatnow? Where’d all these people come from? Yep, even the Corporate Lackeys are on the bandwagon. The place is full to the gunwales with Astro-garb bedecked maniacs. Shame today’s game won’t be as good as yesterday (for the record, I was expecting this to be the Astros’ turn to go nutso with the bats).

Riiiiiiight.

Backe was a sight to behold (that don’t make me gay, right?). Pooholes, who came into Fort Minute Maid like a lion, went out like a lamb. A couple of weak grounders, a weak pop up and a hilarious at-bat in the 9th when Lidge made him look like a Little Leaguer facing Danny Alamonte. What Lidge did in these three games is beyond words.

This was a total team effort, though, and it is nigh-on impossible to identify all of the fantastic contributions from the entire roster. But here’s just a few: Ensberg’s snag of Sanders’ shot down the line in the 3rd; Beltran’s ITPHR-saving layout catch of a Renteria liner to end the 6th, the most unbelievable play you’ll ever see – until the next inning when he ran backwards up Tal’s Hill to rob Sanders again; Backe’s 8 near-perfect, shut-out innings; Lidge’s 9th; and, of course, Jeff Kent’s rocket shot off Isringhausen.

Drayton: “What have you done to be a champion today, Jeff?”
Kent: “Dropped a mutherfuckin’ soupbone on Izzy!”
Drayton: “Good for you! Got any of those left?”
Kent: “Fuckin’ A!”

Watching Kent step into the batter’s box, with two on in front of him and a couple of days of meekness behind him, I swear I saw him cock his bat like his cartoon caricature. The one mistake that teams keep making with the Astros is pissing ’em off. Intentionally walking someone with a two-strike count in front of Kent is not a good idea. First pitch…BLAMMO!

Incredibly, the ear-splitting noise that was caused by everyone screaming as loudly as they possibly could, instantly doubled in volume. Right off the bat, and I mean the very moment Jeff made contact, the whole place knew it was gone. It took maybe a second for the ball to travel from bat to limestone wall, but the ride seemed like an eternity. It was just an explosion of unbridled joy and utter disbelief.

Road Kill

St. Louise can take some solace in the fact that they are returning home. But they’re returning home emotionally and physically scarred from their visit to Houston. I hope they have enough Neosporin to treat all the grazes on those dragging arses.

Like, I dare say, all of you, I am ecstatic with what this team has achieved this year. But that doesn’t mean that I’d be satisfied with a seven-game loss in this series. I’m over the whole disbelief thing. It’s time to end it.

Right fucking now!