My Favorite Guys, The Bullpen

I've come to the conclusion that the two most important things in life are good friends and a good bullpen.
Bob Lemon

08/12/2012

Cardinals 7 Phillies 8
F/11

Dear Redbirds,

A lot of things went right for the offense Sunday 

afternoon. We continued our hot-hitting (14 hits!) from Saturday and finally

scored more than four runs.

The problem came when my favorite guys, the bullpen
came into the game and proceeded to do their their favorite thing, which is blow.

I wish Lance freaking Lynn would start going deeper into his starts,
it is getting annoying.  And Jaime better figure out how to go deep
into games when he returns.

Pitching Inconsistency: the bane of the Cardinal's existence, amirite?

Til Later

Keeping the Faith. 0/2 for the week

Faith consists in believing when it is beyond the power of reason to believe, It is not enough that a thing be possible for it to be believed. 

Voltaire

You have to understand that life and baseball is littered with all kinds of obstacles and problems along the way. You have to learn how to overcome them to be successful in life.

Dave Winfield

06/12/2012

White Sox 6 Cardinals 1

Dear 'birds,

I can't get over how poorly you all have been playing. I can't get over how little you all have been winning.

What is going on!?

After a botched double play last night lead to the Sox scoring the first two runs of the game, Mike Shannon said this: If you play the game properly, good things will happen to you.

So true.

Love ya still, but know  that you're officially an embarrassment.

Til Later

Just Like Old Times

Baseball, it is said, is only a game. True.  And the Grand Canyon is only a hole in Arizona. Not all holes, or games, are created equal.

George Will

06/08/2012

Cardinals 14 Astros 2

Dear Redbirds,

Happy Flight to the Lou!

Last night's game was great-- wonderful pitching from the starter and the 'pen, and a lot of offense!  I remember back in April when ya'll used to play this game that way all the time. Can we go back to that style of play permanently, please?

You don't have to outscore your opponents by 12 runs every night... or maybe you should, considering that when we score 5 runs-- which should be enough to win most games-- a pitcher always finds some way to mess it up.  Perhaps I should address the pitchers instead: STOP CAUSING US TO LOSE BALLGAMES!!  Starters-- go deeper into games so our bullpen stops be overworked and overexposed.  Thanks.

I'm excited for tonight's game against the Indians.  I hope last night was indication that we are going to start winning more.

Hey, let's do the "impossible" and win another game this week!

Til Later.

"Happy Flight!" meter: 10/16

PS. What is up with all the strikeouts that happened this road trip?

But They/We Scored a Run (It's almost like a victory)

"I hate losing more than I even wanna win."

-Brad Pitt as Billy Beane in Moneyball

06/03/2012

Cardinals 1 Mets 6

Dear Redbirds,

Another day, another loss.  When is it going to end?

I've noticed that during this VERY HORRIBLE stretch, I have been confused about whether to us they or we when referring to the team.  I'm still mostly using we (yes, grouping myself in with losers), I think.

Some people hate when fans say "we."  I like "we."   It means you support the team, you are (hopefully) there through the winning streaks and the losing streaks.  People say we when they identify with the team, when they have accepted the team as part of their identity.  Is it harder to accept a team that is losing as part of your identity?  Or do you stick with the we during losing streaks because you see the traits that can make the team special?

I really hope the Cardinals figure this out.  I hope we are still within striking distance at the All-Star Break.

It is never easy.  It wasn't easy last year, either.  I don't think we were ever under .500 last year, though.  Actually, we were 4 games under on April 9th, 2011.  Last year was a tough summer (August was ugh), but we were still over .500.  We definitely can't have a bad August this year, we don't have enough early season wins to support a failure like that.  We are at .500 now a third of the way through the season.  Where will we be when half the games have been played?  Hopefully we start trending upward.  And soon.

I watched Moneyball last night.  Maybe we'll go on a winning streak like the 2002 Oakland A's!

Til Later

Baby Birds are Making Noise, Causing a Ruckus

There are three types of ballplayers: those who make it happen, those who watch it happen, and those who wonder what happens. -Roy Campanella

04/15/2012

Cubs 3 Cardinals 10

Dear Baby Birds (previous members of the Memphis Mafia), 

You are awesome! You make it happen.  Last year, Jon Jay wound up playing in 159 games-- the most of any Cardinal.  When David was injured, Daniel Descalso played third base so well that he was a gold glove nominee.  Allen Craig and David Freese became a large part of the post season offense.  Lance Lynn excelled in his playoff bullpen role and has been an awesome starter so far this year.

On Sunday, Matt Carpenter had possibly the greatest day of his professional career-- he went 4 for 4 with five RBIs, a triple and a home run.   I say he was a pretty good sub for his childhood hero, Lance Berkman.

It came to Cardinals Nation's attention that Matt Carpenter will need a nickname-- simply because he shares two names with rather prevalent members of the St Louis Cardinals, Matt Holliday and Chris Carpenter.  A few suggested names (courtesy of St. Louis Post Dispatch's Cards Talk members) were Little Carp, Lil Carp, MC Hammer, T.O. (the other) Carpenter.  My favorite suggestion is knuckles. It definitely fits because he doesn't wear batting gloves!

My favorite thing about the Baby Birds/Memphis Mafia is the fact that you guys have experienced success together in the minor leagues and are now making memories together in the majors.  Plus, Puma says that the thing he likes about the Cardinals young players is that they all come up knowing how to play.  

'Til Later

P.S. Please win tonight-- I'll be in attendance! GO CARDS!

Tossed into the 'ssippi (i.e. those "in the dog house"):

Matt Holliday- Matty hit a long flyout Sunday, he was  warned.
Tyler Greene-  Ugly error on what looked to be a easy, routine play.

Ain't Nothing 'Bout It Luck

"Baseball presents a living heritage, a game poised between the powerful undertow of seasons past and the hope of next day, next week, next year."

Jim Thorn

Dearest Birds,

Please do not look back and reminisce about last October.  The only time "World Champion" should cross your mind is when you receive your rings on April 14 and raise the pennant over centerfield on April 15.

Do not strut around like World Champions-- play with a chip on your shoulder.  Remember that there's always something to prove.  There are those who doubt this team can repeat, show them it's possible.  Play like underdogs.  Play with scrappiness, stubbornness, and abandon.

Repeating won't be possible if you let complacency settle in your gut.  Your heart should pound with the wish to return to the Fall Classic, and your gut should burn with the desire to make it happen.  It takes work to make it there, you know that from last year.  Put in the work.  Put in more work than last year.

Learn from the 2011 Cardinals, their resilience, their refusal to give up all year-- from February 24, when Wainwright underwent Tommy John surgery until October 27, when they did the impossible in Game 6 of the 2011 World Series.

That team made it so far because they refused to dwell on the members they'd lost.  They did not make excuses.  No one said or thought about how much better, how much easier, the season would be if Waino was available, because twenty-five other guys were.

Focus on the guys in the clubhouse, the ones who take the field, and do not make a presence of any absences.  Create an identity.  Look at past teams and take the best from all of them, become the ultimate Cardinal team.

Play hard.  Play smart.  Play like a Cardinal.  Have fun.  It's just a game. 

In summary, know your enemies and respect your friends. Your enemies are: complacency, contentment, doubt, what was.  Your friends are: resilience, hard work, faith, what is.

'Til Later

P.S. This post's title comes from a country song "Something 'bout a truck" by Kip Moore.  I like this line about luck, although I do believe that luck does have something to do with what happens over the course of a season.  Teams who stay generally healthy during the season are lucky.  I hope the Cardinals are lucky in health this year, especially since they had so much misfortune in that department last year.

I chose this line because you shouldn't depend on luck-- you should work hard and create your own luck.

Dirty Diamond Dreaming (Part 4- The End)

4. There are only two seasons--winter and baseball. --Bill Veeck

Last January, I was seriously wondering why winter spanned a full six months.  As snow fell outside my window, I stared dumbly at my fingers, counting and attempting to figure out how such weather was  possible.

My thought process went something like this:

How come it's still winter? I swear no other season is this long... Didn't winter begin sometime in October?  And it ends in March... so that's six months.  Huh. (I prepared my fingers for a recount) October, November, December, January, February, March. Wow, none of the other seasons are that  long! (Pause)  Hold up, winter began December 21 baseball ended in early October. Or, at least, the Cardinals' season did. Huh. That one quote was right. There realy are only two seasons.

And then I laughed maniacally, because baseball makes a person crazy.

Dirty Diamond Dreaming (Part 3)

3.  That's a winner!-- Jack Buck

By 2004, I was entrenched in Cardinal Nation.  It was probably unavoidable.  I mean, I grew up on the Mississippi river bluffs a mere twenty minutes away from the world's most baseball-crazed city.  It was inevitable.  I realized that it was my birthright, seeing as Dad grew up a Cardinals fan.

Now that I was a fan, and my sisters showed interest in the game (though Kaylee only watched so she could check out the Cardinals' second baseman, Mark Gruzielanek), Dad told us his childhood Cardinal memories.

"When I was younger, Daddy had bought us all radios, so I always used to listen to the game in my bed at night," he told us while we sat around watching the Cards win yet another series.

It was July and they were already 20 games over .500, and 10 games ahead of everyone else in the division.

My sisters and I laughed.  We tried to picture Dad as a three year-old with the radio tuned to the game.  I could imagine him listening to the game as a three year-old-- Dad probably came out of the womb knowing where to place the radio dial-- but I ran into problems every time I tried to turn him into a little boy.  I kept picturing his grown man's head on a little boy's body.  It didn't work too well.

"I wish I had memories of the Cardinals from when I was younger," I sighed, wishing that I hadn't raged such a hard war against the radio.

"Well, I took you and Kaylee to several ball games when you were younger."  Dad's brown eyes stared into mine, "but you all always complained about the sun, so we never stayed too long." As if it were our fault that St. Louis summers are only a shade cooler than Hell.

"Oh, well," I said in attempt to be offhanded, but I was pretty angry at the stupidity of my younger self and wished I had seized the opportunity to watch Ozzie Smith play short or hear the late Cardinals announcer Jack Buck proclaim, "That's a winner!" after a Cardinals victory.

I may have missed out on some of the great players of the past, but I was enjoying some amazing baseball.  In 2004, the Cardinals had a fearsome triumvirate in the middle of the lineup dubbed the "MV3," that is, the Most Valuable Three.  Albert Pujols, Jim Edmonds, and Scott Rolen led the Cardinals to a World Series against the Boston Redsox.  The Cardinals were the favorite to win-- they had won 105 games in the regular season-- but the Red Sox swept the Cardinals, breaking the Curse of the Bambino.  I was devastated.  I had ridden this rollercoaster for six months, going through the highs and lows (granted, it was mostly highs), only to see my team flatline.

I spent that winter trying to forget that baseball existed, but that proved impossible once the fresh, carefree breeze of spring arrived and carried away the autumn-chill of the loss.  I found myself again mesmerized by the solid ring of bat striking ball, the dull thud of ball striking mitt, and the rush of watching Jim Edmonds make highlight-reel plays in center field.

That summer was the last season the Cardinals played in the old Busch Stadium.  Dad and I went to a game to say farewell to the stadium that hosted six World Series and a brilliant cast of hall-of-famers.  I followed Dad closely as we walked through the press of the crowd.  The stadium was a maze to me.  The ramps and stairs seemed to head nowhere and everywhere at once.  Red-clad fans were walking these ramps and stairs with the single-minded purpose of finding their seats before the first pitch.  Dad led me to one ramp, and we walked steadily upward for what felt like a mile.  Thankfully, we made it to our seats in time to hear a clanging bell and see the ballplayers-- they looked like ants from this height-- run out the dugout and take their fielding positions.

I quickly discovered that the action on the baseball diamond is complementary to the interaction with family members and surrounding fans. Cardinals hall-of-famer Lou Brock once said that "baseball is the background music to America."  He is right.  Everyone knew exactly what was happening in the game, but there's also ample time to converse and develop a friendship with the stranger sitting next to you.  Life happens in the midst of the game's thrills.

Dad and I laughed at the drunks in the stands, and rose with the crowd to watch a home run disappear into a lucky fan's glove.  We handled other fans' money and drinks-- we passed the money down the row to the beer vender ("Git yer ice cold Budweiser here-ah") the fan had flagged, and sent back the cool, sweaty drinks.

During the seventh inning, the speakers played Keith Urban's "Days Go By" as the number signifying the days remaining until the Cardinals moved into the skeletal ball park next door was torn from the right field wall.  At the seventh inning stretch, I stood with the crowd and sang "Take Me Out to the Ball Game."  Dad, the crowd, and I smelled the sweet scent of victory on the horizon and shouted, "Root, root, root for the CARDINALS" at the top of our lungs.

The next year, 2006, was a bumpy ride.  I was accustomed to my team winning all the time-- the 205 victories in two years had spoiled me-- and had forgotten that there are teams out there like the Royals and Pirates that consistently finish 20 or more games under .500.  That October, the Cardinals limped into postseason play with a sad tally of 83 victories, and by some miracle of God managed to reach the World Series to compete against the Detroit Tigers.  The Cardinals were such underdogs that the snarky pundits claimed that they would lose it in three games, which isn't even possible with a best of seven series.  I had faith the Cardinals could upset the Tigers; however, I didn't want to get caught up and experience the disappointment of 2004, either, so I went to a costume party to put my mind at ease.  I wound up hanging around the television with friends watching the Cards beat the Tigers soundly.

I watched the fifth game of the World Series at home with Dad and my sisters.  The Cardinals led the series three games to one.  They only had to win one more game to capture their National League leading tenth championship.  We followed every pitch attentively for the whole nine innings.  When Adam Wainwright's curveball landed in Yadier Molina's glove for a called strike three, my sisters and I began screaming and jumping.  I attacked my father at the same time the Cardinals piled upon each other as Fox announcer Joe Buck channel his father and proclaimed, "For the first time since 1982, the Cardinals have a World Series winner."

Dad wandered outdoors for some reason and quickly came back. "Hey, girls, come out and hear this!"

My sisters and I stood barefooted alongside Dad in the chilly October air and basked in the surrounding madness.  Car horns-- from the nearby interstate, I guessed-- blared continuously and loudly.  I heard the jubilant yells of neighbors.  My breath curled like smoke into the night air as I laughed at the rest of Cardinal Nation being just as Redbird-crazy as I.  When a particularly loud whoop reached my ears, I unleashed an answering one of my own.

Once again, the Cardinals had taught me another life lesson: don't give up when the odds are against you. The most important thing is to have faith in your abilities. 

Dirty Diamond Dreaming (Part 2)

2. I got Redbird Fever and the Cardinals are the cure.-- Gretchen Wilson

The book that planted the baseball seed in my soul (or, perhaps that seed was already there and the book only served as fertilizer) was The Speed of Light by Ron Carlson.  Recently, I've checked the book out from the library because I hoped to figure out why it made me such a fanatic.  The best I can work out is that the baseball that was wrapped around nearly every line of the novel wound up wrapping around me, too.  I still don't understand what possessed me to wander in my parent's bedroom that July afternoon in 2003, but I did.  I walked in, sat down, and watched the game with my father.

As I sat there, I realized that baseball was more than "three strikes yer out."  No, it was much more interesting than that.  It was confusing, too, for a girl who had made it her life's goal to avoid any baseball at all.

"Dad, what's an RBI?" I questioned.

To his credit, my dad didn't laugh at such an inane question. "An RBI means runs batted in--"

"Oh!" I interrupted with a laugh.  Duh, Katie, I thought.

"So, when a batter gets a hit, and a guy scores, the batter picks up an RBI." He was smiling.  His voice had that pleasant lilt it gets when he's answering a question for someone who genuinely wants to know the answer.

And that was my introduction to baseball statistics.  I don't think any other sport works with so many numbers.  In baseball, everything a player does is recorded.  You can even find players stats in the newpaper.  Just the basic stats, though, like batting average and earned run average.  They don't have any of the new-fangled sabermetric stats, which are near impossible for the average fan to decipher.  Back then, in the early days of my baseball fever, I only gave these stats a passing glance.  Now I follow them closely.  I know that hitting .300 is considered to be very good-- which is scary because that means the batter failed to get a hit seven times out of ten.  I know that the Mendoza line-- batting .200-- is considered the lowest average a non-pitcher can have and still be in the major leagues.  I know that a pitcher with a 3.00 or lower earned run average will win a lot of games.

But, like I said, I didn't really understand all the statistics back in 2003.  I didn't understand the Bo Hart fever that was sweeping through Cardinal Nation, but I caught it.  Unlike baseball fever, Bo Hart fever faded away.

Little Bo Hart is a red-headed second baseman who was called up to the Show shortly before I began watching.  His .460 batting average endeared him to Cardinal Nation.  The guy couldn't get out.  Plus, he was spunky and played hard.  Those facts bewitched me and other Cardinal fans until his average fell below the Mendoza line.

It was Bo's passion for the game that brought me back to my parents' bedroom those summer nights. He darted around second base, dove to snag line drives, and lept over the runners who slid into second with the sole intent to inflict harm and prevent the double play.  Of course, all second basemen dart, dive, and leap, but Bo did it harder.  It was like he knew that his days as a major leaguer were numbered, so he ran hard even when it was an obvious out, he dove for the balls way out of his reach, and he smiled.  Bo Hart taught me the first life lesson I learned from baseball: If your all wasn't enough, you have nothing of which to be ashamed.

Dirty Diamond Dreaming (Part 1)

The following is a creative nonficton piece that I will post in 4 parts.  I wrote it for a Intro to Creative Writing class a year ago.  This is how I fell in love with baseball. Enjoy!


1. Baseball is like church.  Many attend; few understand.-- Leo Durocher

And... he hits a long one! Get up, baby, get up!

My sister Kaylee and I squirmed in the backseat.  The sun was beating down on our bare thighs, and the wind rushing in from the window was hot and heavy.  My dad was driving us to our grandmother's house.  It actually only takes 30 minutes to get there, but back then my sister and I thought it took an eternity.  It was especially long when my father listened to the baseball game, and he was always listening to the game.

"Dad," I whined, "Can't you turn it off?  It's so boring."

The game made no sense to me.  It was just some boring old guy speaking through the cracks and pops of AM radio.  I absolutely hated it, but that was before I could appreciate the beauty of the game-- the way its quiet and loud moments crawled under your skin and conspired to make you love it.  There was a loud moment occurring right now.

"Well, Mark McGwire just hit number 33," Dad said, ignoring my request once again. "Griffey and Sosa are still close, though."

"Who cares?" I grumbled, "It's so stupid."

This conversation is evidence that I was a disgraceful sourpuss at nine years old.  My parents and I butted heads often, but on no topic was there more head-butting than where to place the radio dial on hot summer afternoons.  It was war, and I lost every battle.  In middle school, when lunchtime conversations turned toward Things We Hate, my answer was invariably baseball and bananas.  This was in strong contrast to the things my friends disliked, which was some combination of boys (this was always said after the speaker's quick glance at her newest crush), the creepy gym teacher (this was unanimous), and shop class (where the only thing we could do with certainty was sand wood).  Of course, I was throughly convinced that anyone would have my ice hatred for the game had they experienced those long car rides.

By age twelve, I surrendered and stopped raging a war against the radio.  Dad didn't want to turn off the game? Fine. I had my CD player, and a book-world to get lost in.  Ironically, it was a book that led me to baseball.

More Later!

           

Mercurial Missives

"A baseball game is simply a nervous breakdown divided into nine innings"  Earl Wilson

The 2011 Cardinals' season was a crazy, emotional ride for me.  I mean, I was more bipolar than usual over the course of a season (and I've had some dark baseball moments over the years).  August was the lowest month because my team had so much talent but was not playing up to par, my team had shown so much heart-- fighting back after losing their Ace to Tommy John, overcoming deficits in late innings, rebounding after blown saves (second most in the league)-- only to die on the metaphorical field of battle after being swept by the Los Angeles Dodgers in late August.

From NLDS Game 4 Post Game Interview (as I heard on Fox Sports Midwest):

Reporter: How many times has this team been announced dead by the proper authorities?

Lance "Puma" Berkman: A lot, I mean, but y'know, that's what we're here for-- entertainment purposes.



I didn't lose all hope, but the Cards certainly looked officially dead, so I and anyone else with proper sense declared them as such.  Of course, gladiators that they are (supreme entertainers), the Cardinals revived themselves (again), played a brilliant month of baseball and with the help of the Atlanta Braves, Philadelphia Phillies, Chicago Cubs closer Carlos Marmol (according to Cubs fans), and Cardinal Nation (according to Tony La Russa) the Cardinals claimed the National League Wild Card.

It is because of that September rush and the thrill of "Red October," that I have decided to blog my experience of watching Cardinals baseball.  At first, I was unsure exactly what I was going to focus on-- some blogs go into player and game analysis, others are vendettas railing against the front office.  I want this blog to be a reactionary blog-- reacting to all the funny and frustrating things that occur over the course of a season.  The best way to do this, I think, will be to write letters to the team after each game.  I believe baseball fans would agree when I say that one develops a strangely close and personal relationship with the team you follow throughout Spring Training to those first wary, exciting days of April, and through the dog days of summer to the stretch run.  You understand their weaknesses, marvel at their strengths, you watch the team evolve as they take hits but stay resilient. You share 162 nights with your team, and the team and the personalities it encompasses become an intimate friend-- granted, one you occasionally yell at -- but a friend nonetheless.  This is why I will frame my reactions in the form of a letter-- because I will be addressing a friend.  They will be "mercurial missives"-- I am sure my views in some letters will directly oppose one another-- but that is because I am a bipolar fanatic!  And that's okay.  It's that silly (and occasionally pathetic) perspective that makes the season fun, because it makes a triple in the bottom of the ninth, down by two runs, with two-on, two-out, and two-strikes one of the best moments of my life. 

So... in this space I will write letters to my Redbirds, letters "for the birds"--  meaningless little ramblings in the world's view, but special missives in my view, in my world. Take a peek through my lenses and stay awhile!

'Til Later