SEASONS IN HELL, VOL. II, NO. 2

May 14-16, 2010

Astros (13-21) vs. Giants (18-15)

AT & T Park
24 Willie Mays Plaza
San Francisco, CA 94107

**********

The 2010 Astros ended their latest abysmal stretch (1-12 from April 27 to May 9) by sweeping the Cardinals in St. Louis this week, which is pretty funny.  The BFiBs, who’d been cruising along in first place along with their team until the Sad Sacks hit town, are probably now having a little doubt enter the picture.  Wonderful.  Remember, the Astros ended their season-opening 1-8 skid by going to Chicago and taking 2-of-3 from the FTCubbies in front of the home folks.  If this is going to be as bad a season as I supect, beating up on the FTCubs and Co-ardinals semi-regularly is some consolation.  Probably just God’s way of keeping some over-obsessive fans from jumping off the Loop 610 ship channel bridge.

Anyway, God loves me.  I know this, for one thing, because every once in awhile he gets really pissed off at my antics, and starts throwing his weight around in my direction.  If he didn’t care, he wouldn’t bother, right?  But I’ll get to that.

I know I’ve said it here more than a few times, but the fact the Astros are bad this year does not change my allegiance or how I feel about them.  I’ve said this so much, especially recently, I think maybe the other me has said it here a few times, too.  The other me.  My ghost twin, my spiritual wraith.  The guy who walks around looking like me and sounding like me but isn’t me, exactly.  My doppelgänger, I mean.

I’ve only ever seen my doppelgänger once.  I’ve come across evidence of him many times; people will tell me I did something at a party or in a bar somewhere, and I can’t remember doing it at all, or even being at the party or in the bar they speak of.  Then I’ll remember You Know Who.

My suspicions were confirmed one night when a bunch of us were staying up at our place in Tyler Co., in the Big Thicket.  I decided to walk down and close the front gate for the night, around 9:00 p.m. or so.  The walk to the gate is roughly a quarter mile.  Most of it is through open pasture, but the last 100 yards or so is down a driveway through thick woods that shield our house and outbuildings from vision, and buffer sound from the farm road that runs in front of our place.  A half moon was out, and the night was clear.  I had a flashlight with me, for going through the woods, but my eyes had adjusted and I was walking through the pasture without it.  I kept sensing something was following me or watching me, and I stopped three or four times to watch and listen, but I did not see or hear anything.  I finally decided it was the stopping that was messing things up, so the next time I felt like something was there, I kept walking, but swiveled my head around.

And that’s when I saw myself.  It was me, exactly, walking along beside myself across that pasture, maybe ten feet apart.  There I was.  Wow! Same gait and everything, left hand shoved into the top of the jeans pocket,shoulder-length hair swinging back and forth with each step.  It was uncanny.  I looked myself in the eye, and some sort of silent communication passed between me.  The Germans, who came up with the concept of  it, felt it was extremely bad luck to see one’s doppelgänger, it supposedly foretold much trouble, even death.  But seeing me walking along beside myself that night gave me a strange feeling of comfort.  Of ease.  It was good to know there was another me out there, with another agenda entirely, but with my best interests at heart.  I was thinking about this when I realized the apparition was gone, and so I went on down and closed the gate and then trudged slowly back up to the house.

I should say by way of disclosure I’d been drinking some that day and night, plus one of my acquaintances had just introduced me to the wonderfulness of Seconal.  So there is that.  That stuff didn’t normally make me hallucinate, though, and my vision that night seemed very real.  I laugh out loud at all paranormal jibber-jabber, ancient aliens and shit like that; the existence of my doppelgänger is the one exception.  And my doppelgänger thinks the Astros suck this season, big time.  But he is still an Astros fan, through and through.  He has said as much here, several times.

(excerpted from Me And My Doppelgänger, by F. Bestertester)

We’ve met a lot of great men who weren’t so great
We’ve met modern day saviors who couldn’t even stop the rain
We’ve heard the word of God from a surface-to-air missle
And felt the hand of Allah from a hijacked plane

We’ve seen the fire in the sky in the morning light
We’ve seen the buildings tumble into the maw of the city
And when the dust cleared and there was nothing left
We saw the sun setting down on the horizon so pretty

Me and my doppelgänger, we think alike, you know
Wherever I wander, that’s where he goes
We don’t take no crap, we don’t pay no mind
We just thank sweet Jesus for the sweet sunshine.

**********

PITCHING MATCHUPS

Friday May 14, 2010
Game Time: 9:15 p.m. CDT
Television: FSH
Promotion: None
Matchup:  Houston – Felipé Paulino (0-5, 4.67)  ‘Bad Luck’ Paulino, although he brings some of it on himself.  The Big Dominican seems close at times to breaking through, but perhaps he never will.
San Francisco – Todd Wellmeyer (1-3, 5.97)  Suck-ass former FTCub.  The polar opposite of Lincecum and Cain.  How the hell is he in this rotation?

Saturday May 15, 2010
Game Time: 3:10 p.m. CDT
Television: FOX
Promotion: None
Matchup:  Houston – Roy Oswalt (2-4, 2.63)  Roy has pitched great this season.  He doesn’t have much to show for it, but then, he’s on a shitty team.
San Francisco – Tim Lincecum (4-0, 1.86)  What can one say?  Steven Strasberg, Schmeven Schmassberg. . . Lincecum is the best pitcher in baseball, until someone comes up and proves otherwise.

Sunday May 16, 2010
Game Time: 3:05 p.m. CDT
Television: FSH
Promotion: Giants Rally Scarf — I don’t know, I thought the days of blankets and parkas at Giants games ended when they moved out of Candlestick all those years ago.  But if you live in S.F., and you want to wear a woolen scarf to a baseball game, who am I to say different?
Matchup:  Houston – Brett Myers (2-2, 3.52)  Myers has been a nice surprise to this point, he has given the Astros some innings and has been reliable.
San Francisco – Barry Zito (5-1, 1.90)  Looks like Zito is all the way back from whatever was afflicting him the last three seasons.  He had a bit of a setback in his last start, walking seven Padres in five innings and picking up his first loss of the season.  He’s already beaten the Astros this year, pitching six shutout innings the first week of the season.

**********

Like any Astros fan over 25 years old, I’ve known plenty of ‘off’ years.  The Astros lost some, and then lost a lot.  But it always seemed a benign kind of losing.  The team often seemed just this far from turning some corner, and improving markedly.  Hope, justified or not, will sustain a fan, for a long, long time.

But this year seems different.  This year the losing is often jarring.  Most nights, the team has no hope.  The offense is so abysmal, once they give up two or three runs, a bad feeling begins to set in.  But I think what really scares me is not what will happen this year – the team may not win 60 games – but rather, what comes after that.  It remains to be seen what will transpire the rest of this season, but if there ever was a time to dump veterans and salary and start the rebuilding process in earnest, this is it.  If nothing like that takes place this season, well, when will it?  Ever?

I know the Astros are a really bad team this year.  I think a lot of us suspected they would be before the season even began.  But this bad?  This horrifyingly, scarifyingly bad?  These soul-destroying eight- and nine-game losing streaks, seeming to come as regularly as plagues now?  Are winning two-of-their-last-thirteen streaks what we are in for all this season long?  I shudder to think about it, and it keeps me from sleeping most nights.  And when I do. . .

I had a dream last week that fucked with my mind entirely, and left a deep psychic scar that I suspect will never really heal.  Oh, it’ll scab over eventually, but instead of leaving behind a smooth surface afterward, I’ll instead be left with a large, ugly cicatrix on the heart of my soul.  Until the end of time.  For – fucking – ever.

In my dream, God sent an angel down to find me.  The poor bastard who got the assignment had to look for awhile.   My wife had no idea where I was, she rarely does; and I wasn’t anywhere the angel – let’s call him Nate – surmised I might be.  Nate looked everywhere and finally, around midnight, he found me commiserating in a little bar off of Concord in the north end, called Quan’s.  Just a slip of a bar, but dark and well-patronized; it is surrounded by an large, empty lot, on one of the busier streets in that part of town.  The owner of Quan’s is a guy I used to run around with some, back in the old days.  He works for the city now, and he got a good deal on the building his bar is in, and the land; to be honest, I think he had some insider information on it being foreclosed on or whatever you call it when the city puts a lien on your property because you owe them money for mowing your lot because you wouldn’t mow it yourself and the grass and weeds eventually got so high someone with some pull decided it was an eyesore or worse and sent out a city crew to take care of the job and then sent you the bill.  Only you didn’t pay it because you didn’t take it seriously or you couldn’t afford it or you were so into this Vietnamese chick you met at Cinco’s a few weeks ago that you’ve been letting all your business slip.  So now the city is eyeballing your property, and you decide, fuck it, it’s just a dumpy little building on a weedy lot in one of the less desirable parts of town, it was a pain in the ass to keep up anyway, ever since the wife’s uncle died and left it to you.  They can fucking have it.  Then you drive by a month or two later and see the lot looking all neat and trimmed, and the building you used to store your extra shit in all spruced up and repainted, with new burglar bars all around.  “Monday Night Football, Free pool and set ups all week” the marquee sign out front says.  “Goddamn.  They turned my storage shed into a fucking bar.”

My buddy had just slid another bourbon across to me when this angel, Nate, put his hand, or wing, whatever, on my shoulder.  It startled me.  “What the f—“, I half spun around, forming a fist with my right hand, which had been resting in the pocket of the light jacket I was wearing.  I grabbed my keys, which were in the pocket, too, and had several of the longer ones sticking out of the slots between my fingers.  A cop showed me that once.  We were coming out of a bar on a dark street in Salt Lake City, when three seedy looking fuckers started walking toward us.  My friend, who was in plain clothes and unarmed (we were at a convention), told me to grab my keys and arrange them in my fist.  He said a punch from something like that can really fuck a person up, at least buying you enough time to get away relatively unscathed.  I never forgot it.

So, anyway, I spun on this Nate character, ready to deck him with my house keys and then hightail it the fuck out of there (by some socio-economic criteria, I was vastly outnumbered in that bar.)  But, something stopped me.  It was my keys, getting caught in the fabric of my pocket.  That was just enough time for the angel to pin my arm with his other, um, wing, precluding me from punching the heavenly messenger right between the eyes.

“What?”  “What the fuck do you want?” I shouted.   He just smiled, and then cleaved me to him; and the next thing I knew, we were flying over the city, at night, maybe 75 feet up, and this guy Nate was busy pointing out places where I’d committed one atrocity or another over the years.

You know, when you live somewhere long enough, you start losing your geographic perspective of the place.  Certain locations or parts of town begin to lose geographic meaning, as they take on more symbolic overtones.  It was weird to realize, flying around that night with Nate, that this whole vast life I imagined I’d lived over the last thirty years or so, the wide swath I always fancied I’d cut, all of it mostly took place in a roughly 10 to 12 square block area, in a gritty refinery town in southeastern-most Texas.

As the messenger from God was methodically reading off to me the litany of sins, major and minor, I’d committed over the years, I’m afraid my extreme general disinterest in that subject betrayed itself, and I yawned.  This really pissed Nate off.  He threw down the tablet or PDA or whatever it was he was reading from and said, “Look.  Is this a big fucking joke to you?  Do you think you can just do whatever the fuck you want for years and years and suffer no consequences?”  I quietly pointed out to him that this was pretty much what I had been doing over the last many years, so why wouldn’t I think that?

He was still pretty agitated.  “Well, we’re gonna fix your little red wagon, fucker!  We’re gonna make your favorite team SUCK!”  Nate went on to inform me that, except for a blanket condemnation of the Cubs and their nitwit fans leveled many years ago, mostly on general principles, God did not normally make it a habit to curse sports teams.  But I had been so wanton and gleeful in committing my transgressions over the years, and so blithe in mostly dodging the consequences, that special measures were being taken.  The Astros are totally fucked for 2010, Nate said, and nothing Drayton or Pam or Ed Wade or any other mortal did can change that.  “This is the Word of the Lord,” Nate said.  He looked at me, as if waiting for a response, but I just shrugged my shoulders and flipped the hair back out of my eyes.  All I could think about was the Astros are fucking terrible, down by law, by a decree straight from heaven.

And apparently, it is all my fault.

I want to sincerely apologize to everyone here and not here for this.  Really, had I known the consequences I might’ve done some things differently.  Maybe.  I asked the angel about the years beyond this one.  “It depends,” he said sagely.  “On what?  On whether I clean up my act?”  “Oh, that, sure; but also on whether the kids down in Corpus Christi and Lexington and Lancaster develop quickly enough.”  I thought about that for a moment, and then I looked back up.  He was gone.

I was left standing in the dark asphalt parking lot in front of Quan’s, the traffic meanwhile whizzing by on Concord Road.  I thought about going home then, calling it a night, maybe changing some things.  On the other hand, I had it on good authority, actually the best authority, that this season is fucked anyway, no matter what.   So I am pretty much operating with impunity now, as I see it.  I cannot make things any worse.  So, I turned and headed back into the dark bar.  The cigarette smoke and the bourbon smell was mingling together, and they rushed up to meet me as I walked back in, right as my buddy was telling me to sit back down, and have a few more.

So I did.

**********

INJURIES

Houston
•Alberto Arias (RHP) – Out for the season after right rotator cuff surgery

•Tim Byrdak (LHP) – Placed on the 15-day DL on May 3 with a strained hamstring

San Francisco
•Mark DeRosa (INF) – Day to day with numbness in his left hand

•Bengie Molina (C) – Day to day with a tight hamstring

•Edgar Renteria (SS) – Placed on the 15-day DL on May 7 with a strained right groin.  I used to make fun of strained groins, but now I have one.  Not so funny.

•Freddy Sanchez (2B) – Day to day with a strained right shoulder

**********

My cousin Fred is pretty fucking big.

He is not overly tall, 6′ 0″ or 6′ 1″, tops.  And while he weighs over 200 lbs., the weight is stretched over a large-boned frame, so he doesn’t look fat at all.  He is just one of those people who exude bigness.  When you are around him, you think of this big person you have with you.

Fred is just plain big, in some ways.  His feet are size 16, and he has most of his footwear custom-made, which he says is expensive.  According to his first wife, a clinical psychologist who is crazy as hell, there is something to the foot size/dick size corollary; although I don’t remember anyone asking her about it at the time.  Fred shipped her off to the loony bin years ago, and good riddance.

Fred and I grew up in different towns, but we saw each other fairly often, and we were pretty close, as kids.  Not as close as brothers – we didn’t spend enough time together for that – but I would imagine we were closer than most first cousins, and we still are.  Fred is one of those people who, whenever his name comes up, this warm feeling comes over me.  He is about my age, he is a good guy, he thinks like me, and we have had lots of fun together over the years.

One time we were staying down at the beach for several days, in a rented cabin.  Me, several of my school friends, one of my brothers, and Fred.  It was probably Spring Break, I know we were 18 or so.  One night we were having this big party at our cabin, mostly friends of ours who were staying at the beach, too.  Along the way, Fred OD’d on beer, and passed out on the floor in the middle of the cabin.  No problem, people just stepped over him, or around him, and the party carried on.  At one point three or four guys were standing there drinking beer, looking over Fred, and dispassionately discussing his present state.  “I wonder if he’ll come to before the end of the party?”  “How many beers do you think he had?”  “I hope he wakes up before he pisses himself, that would be kind of nasty.”  Then one of the guys, wholly unintentionally, dropped an almost full can of Natural Light, right on Fred’s head.  It made a sound I heard clearly, over the music and conversation, all the way across the room.  But Fred hardly stirred.  A halo of beer and foam formed around his head on the rug, and someone said he would probably wake up and wonder if he’d gone to heaven.  Up to then, I’d pretty much always called him Fredward, or sometimes Freddy if I was in a rush.  But from that night on, my cousin was universally known as Fred the Hammerhead, or just Hammerhead.  He seemed to like the nickname all right.  Not that it mattered, we would’ve called him that regardless.

Fred was with us the night of the phosphorous ocean.  That was an early spring night around that same time when a bunch of us were drinking at night down on the beach on Bolivar Peninsula, and a rare incursion of phosphorous caused the whitecaps of the breaking waves to glow greenish-white in the moonlight, shooting right to left across the horizon each time a wave broke.  If you dragged your foot across the sand, the track where you’d dragged it would glow.  At the time, none of us had ever seen that before, plus we’d been drinking for hours.  The night, especially in retrospect, took on an almost surreal quality.  I sometimes wondered if it had really happened at all.  People who were there still talk about it wistfully.  Most of us ran around like idiots, screaming and playing in the glowing water and sand.  Meanwhile, Fredward went to his Silverado and reached behind the seat and pulled out one of those folding shovels like you’d see in an army surplus store.  I’m not sure why he carried it, but it did not really surprise me that he did.  Anyway, while the rest of us were acting like retarded fools, Fred calmly shoveled several hundred pounds of the glowing sand into the bed of his truck.  He figured he’d take some home, spread it around his flower beds and such.  Conversation starter.  Fred was always thinking ahead like that.

I was with him the day his sister died.  She was killed on the beach highway, on her way home.  She wasn’t driving, it was her and three of her friends, and they were all pretty drunk, I heard; as was the guy who crossed the center line and hit them head on.  And probably a majority of everyone else on that highway that day.  Everybody involved in the wreck died at the scene, basically.  We had been down at the beach for the day, and Fred and I headed back to town 45 minutes to an hour after his sister and her friends did.  When we came up on the wreck, we didn’t know what it was at first.  We were freaking out because there were cops everywhere.  We were both pretty loaded, and we thought we’d come up on a DPS sobriety check roadblock.  But it wasn’t; and when we saw what was left of the light blue Cutlass 442 her friend had been driving, we knew what had happened.  I don’t know my immediate reaction, I just remember that my emotions at the time were dulled by being intoxicated.  So were Fred’s; I distinctly remember him being almost stoic when he found out his sister had been somewhere in the tangled mess of that Cutlass.  Even though they were essentially D.O.A., Fred’s sister and another girl were life-flighted to UTMB.  So we jumped back in his truck and turned around and hauled ass to Galveston.  By the time we got there, his sis was long gone.  I remember sitting in the hospital while Fred called his parents and let them know what had happened.  We were sobered up by then, and I felt myself getting emotional, but Fred’s voice never broke.  I admired him a lot for that.  His little sister has been gone now 31 years, but I can still remember parts of that day very clearly.  Too much, too soon.

Fred lives in South Carolina now, in Georgetown, near the ocean.  He’s a civil engineer.  We don’t see each other much anymore, but we keep in touch by e-mail and the occasional phone call.  Fred is a big Astros fan, always has been, and he tries to follow the team as best he can; but he says even with his MLB package and the internet, it is not the same as living close by.  I called him last week, on his birthday, and at one point he asked me, “Are things as bad as they seem?”  Yes, I told him, maybe worse.  That’s what he thought, he said, but he’d hoped he was wrong.  But, he can see it all the way from fucking South Carolina.  Fuck.

While talking last week, we remembered the night of the phosphorous ocean for some reason, and I asked him what he ever did with all that sand he’d loaded in his truck that night.  He laughed and said some of it is in the pitchers mound on the AAA field at the Little League park in his hometown.  The sand had never glowed at all after that night on the beach, and I was glad to hear that.  What happened that night, if it happened, was fleeting.  Only the people who were there are left to tell the story.

Fred’s sister didn’t make it past age 15, and so I will always remembered her as young and pretty and a little bit wild and really funny; and not as what she might have become, good or bad.  I sometimes wonder if she was ever even here at all, if I didn’t dream her up like I sometimes think I dreamt up that glowing night on the beach, so many years ago.

But I didn’t dream her up, and I feel like I will see her again someday.  On a night when the phosphorescent ocean is glowing in the background, the gleam shooting like lightning across the horizon, as the endless waves keep breaking and breaking, out beyond the first sandbar, before rolling up and washing over our bare feet and toes, as we stand together there on the beach.  I will be with her there on the beach that night, and I will put my arm around her when she shivers in the wind, and I will say something clever, and then I will listen to her terrific laugh.  Fred will be there, too, of course; sitting in his lawn chair next to his truck, drinking a beer and listening to the Astros game on the radio.  I’ll be able to hear the broadcast in the background, over the sound of the breaking waves.  The team will have pulled out another stellar win that night, moving decisively into first place.  Yes.  From my dreams to God’s ears.

No one hears his lonely sighs
There are no blankets where he lies
In all his deepest dreams he flies
With sweet Melissa

**********

Astros get swept by the Giants, 0-3.

THE WEATHER

**********

Lady census taker
Come on in and check me out
Sit down here beside me
And tell me what it’s all about

You won’t mind if I feel your thigh?
Mark it down, I’m just that kind of guy
I’m in love with you and I don’t know why
Lady census taker.

Lady census taker
This must be my lucky year
I didn’t mail back my survey
Just so they would send you here

You’ve got those twitchy eyes
The kind that mesmerize
Bet you’ve counted lots of guys
Lady census taker.

Lady census taker
It’s great that you’re getting paid
Though I didn’t realize the feds
Were hiring meth heads these days

Oh, you’re probably a tweaker, but I don’t care
I dig sunken cheeks and long, stringy hair
And that chipped front tooth looks so debonair
Lady census taker.

Lady census taker
You make this full-time cynic hot
The way you hold that clipboard up to your chest
It shows me just what you got

I don’t know if you counted all my children and cars
Or how many nights I spend alone in bars
But I’ll bet you remember our little trip to the stars
Lady census taker.

**********

I still haven’t figured out how to root for this year’s Astros team.   Unlike the sniveling masses, I refuse to throw in the towel on this season and bide my time until the Texans season starts, grumbling about delusional owners and Baseball Prospectus grades for our farm system.  But what’s the alternative?  There ain’t no sunshine when my baby’s gone, and there ain’t no soaring bright hope to focus on this year.  Bourn is still thrilling, and the young pitcher are showing some signs of maturity, but hell, if that’s all you can hang your hat on, what do you do during the other eight batters?

In the previous franchise doldrums in the early nineties, I was a fan hooked on the adventures of Gonzo and Baggy and Bidge, with little regard for the fact that the latter two would someday form the nucleus of a playoff (and World Series) team.  If they won, great.  If they lost, oh well.  Besides, at that point in my life, I was more concerned with figuring out whether Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups or Starburst were the best path to a young girl’s heart.  I never quite figured that answer out, and by the time the Astros were good again, that girl was gone to New York to become a ballerina, and I had a less candy-centric view of romance.

Obviously, it would be treasonous to root against my hometown team.  But even as it regards the players on this team who infuriate me (Pence and Lee), I can’t even bring myself to root against them.  When Pence hits a walk-off double, I’m happy for the dopey little guy.  I even allow myself the hope that he’s turned some sort of corner, that’s he’s finally figured it out and will finally live up to the potential that’s been thrust upon him.

As has sometimes been mentioned here, the root word of fan is fanatic.  I love the city of Houston (kiss my humid ass, Alkie), and I love the Astros.  I’ll be a fan through thick and thin.  But during this thin time, I just don’t know if I can muster enough gusto to be a true fanatic.

Probables

Tuesday, May 11th, 7:15 CST

Macrobrew Stadium

Brett Myers (1-2, 3.60) v. Brad Penny (3-2, 1.99)

Eliza Dushku is an actress whose most recent show, Dollhouse, occasionally featured her getting punched (though not in the way that Limey is currently punching himself).   Up until recently, Dushku dated Brad Penny, because she has either bad vision or bad taste.  So I guess what I’m getting at is that both starting pitchers know a thing or two about women who’ve been hit.

Allegedy.

Ahem.

Penny’s been impressive this year, having hooked himself up to the John Smoltz Memorial Rejuvenation Machine that’s kept in the basement of Busch Stadium.  Or it could just be that being in Missouri, without all the distractions and moderately attractive people in California, he’s had more time to focus on his craft.  One of those two, to be sure.  Against the Astros of years past, Penny has been formidable, with a .217 BA against him; however, Bourn, Blum and Lee all hit him well.

As much as I’m still queasy about Myers as a person, Myers as a pitcher has been a hoss, staying on the mound deep into games and relieving the burden on the ‘pen.  The Co-ards do hit him rather well, with Skippy Schumacher, Ryan Ludwick and Matt “Oww My Balls” Holliday as the most common offenders.

Wednesday, May 12th, 7:15 CT

Yellow Piss Field

Wandy Rodriguez (1-4, 4.59) v. Kyle Lohse (0-2, 5.45)

Paging Brad Arnsberg!  Brad Arnsberg, please pick up the white courtesy phone!  In our heart of hearts, we all kinda hoped that 2009 wasn’t a fluke for Wandy.  I don’t think it’s fair to say that it is at this point, but it’s starting to look like an outlier at least.   Roller Coaster Wandy is back, y’all.  Overall, he’s had success against St. Louie, with only Ryan Ludwick and Skip Schumacher batting over .300 against him; even mighty Prince Albert hits just .212 against him.

Kyle Lohse is so boring, his name is Kyle Lohse.  His last name sounds like it was going to be something long and Germanic or Scandinavian, but it just gave up five letters in.   He’s still looking for his first win, and if Hunter and Caballo hit him the way they have in the past, he’s probably going to have to keep looking.

Thursday, May 13th, 12:45 CST

Dear God It Just Tastes Like Mineral Water Ballpark

Bud Norris (1-3, 7.52) v. Chris Carpenter (4-0, 2.80)

Bud’s struggling, and working with Arnsberg to fix a hitch in his mechanics.  He’s faced the Cards twice, and has been hit well by David Freese, Zeppo Molina, and the ever-annoying Ryan Ludwick.  Ludwick: I hope you get lost in East Saint Louis while searching for hookers, and someone goes all Wire on you.

Carpenter is disgustingly good and apparently a decent human being.  Fuck that noise.  Let’s remind him what it’s like to lose.

Injuries

Astros

Alberto Arias – out for season, strained potential

Tim Byrdak – 15-day DL, horrible Lasik reversion injury

Cards

Matt Holliday – Sore Groin.  Really.  I totally didn’t even know about this before the “Oww, My Balls” joke earlier.  Sometimes things just come together.

Felipe Lopez – 15-day DL, Sore elbow from meeting Eliza Dushku, aka BIMBS (Be In My Bunk Syndrome)

Giveaways

Wednesday: Ice Mountain Autograph Night!  Get player autographs, sponsored by a bottled water company.  So basically all the Cards corporate sponsors make tasteless, low-alcohol content beverages.

What To Watch For

– Bud’s mechanics.  Are you a four starter in a third starter’s body, or a fifth starter/long reliever in a fourth starter’s?

– Bourn’s possible suspension if his appeal doesn’t go through.  Myers says that sometimes umps just need a little bump to keep them in line.

– Hell if I know: I’m going to be watching with my hands half-covering my face, since this one is probably going to be ugly.  Fucking Cardinals.