Big Red

If it's not one guy, it's another. That's what I fucking love about this team. On any given night, a new hero can emerge. And a case for team MVP could be made for about half a dozen guys right now.

That's what separates our mighty A's from those assholes in Anaheim: If Vlad sucks, they ALL suck. The Angels have now lost their last five games. In four of those, their offense has scored three or fewer runs. And as you might expect, Vladdy isn't really knocking the snot out of the ball over that span. He's four for his last 20.

In July, when Vlad hit .208 with a .640 OPS, no one was there to pick him up and the Angels played sub-.500 ball, going 13-14.

And in May, when the reigning AL MVP hit .224 with a .697 OPS, the Angels' hit .245 as a team with a .671 OPS. It was only because of the team's pitching (3.34 ERA for the month) that the Halos were able to avoid disaster.

That isn't the case with our club. There's so many guys that could carry the team for long stretches. Chavy, Crosby, Johnson, Payton. Maybe even Kotsay and Kielty, who have each hit over .320 for an entire month this season. And while I don't think Nick Swisher is at the point in his career where he can go on month-long hot streaks, he CAN end a game with one swing of his bat at any time.

This is why Macha's asinine line-ups continue to frustrate me. The guys who obviously CAN'T get ridiculously hot, Kendall and Hatteberg, continue to get significantly more ABs than the guys who can. Jason Kendall leads the team in ABs THIS month. More than Chavy. More than Johnson. More than Payton. Kendall and his .500 OPS have 25 more AB's than Mark Ellis and his .931 OPS. That's fucking ridiculous!

Imagine if one of Kendall's ABs each game was given to Ellis. How much would the complexion of the game change? If know if I was a pitcher, I'd much rather face a guy that can only hit singles (and not even hit them very often), than a guy that's hitting .300 with some pop. Ellis can make an opposing pitcher pay for a mistake. Take the recent Detroit game against Bonderman as an example. When's the last time Kendall led off a game with a homerun? Or even a double?

Keeping a pitcher on his toes from the get go can do wonders to set the tone of the game. And the tone Jason Kendall's been setting all year sounds like billy goat ass-raping a chimpanzee.

I wish our dumbass manager could see that. I wish he had the stones to finally make the move. Maybe he IS a puppet. I tend to think he's just stupid.

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I don't know if any of you noticed, but our mighty A's can clinch the season series with the Angels if they win the next two games. So while a sweep in Anaheim would be sweet for a number of reasons, clinching the series could possibly be the most important . A four-game lead would basically turn into a five-game lead. And with a road-trip to Texas, Cleveland and Boston coming up, our guys could use all the breathing room they could get.

Hopefully our guys can to Lackey early and often and keep that possibility alive.

Keep Chewing that Juicy Fruit, Asshole

Apparently, Ken Macha's idea of a "line-up shuffle" is swapping Jason Kendall and Mark Kotsay at the top of the order. Hey asshole, let me fill you in on a little secret...JASON KENDALL ISN'T HITTING!

Now, I don't really fault Kendall for not hitting that well this season. Whenever a catcher switches leagues, I EXPECT for his offensive numbers to drop significantly. I believe that switching leagues for a catcher is the hardest move to make in all of baseball. And since, from all accounts, Kendall takes the catching/calling aspect of his game very seriously, it doesn't shock me that a career .300 hitter's average could drop 40 points from one season to the next.

I've accepted the fact that Kendall's going to have a sub-par year offensively. It doesn't bother me because what he's done behind the plate is pretty damn remarkable. I'd much rather have a catcher that hits .260, but leads a bunch of twenty-somethings to the lowest ERA in the league, than a guy that hits .300, but is catching a staff with an ERA of 4.50.

But here's the one thing that separates me from Ken Macha: I don't expect Kendall to hit.

Track record, schmack record. If there's one exception to the "hitters hit" theory, this is it.

So if there's a guy on my team that I expect isn't going to hit much more than .250, and if he's proven over the course of the last five months that he ISN'T going to put up the numbers that he has in the past, I'm not going to bat him lead-off. Or second. I'm going to bat him ninth and be thankful for whatever offensive production that nets me. And batting him ninth would be just like having a "second lead-off hitter".

So who takes Kendall's spot in the line-up?

That's right, Mark Ellis. He's got the second highest OBP (behind Dan Johnson) on the team. And he's averaging 3.90 pitches per AB, which would rank 25th in the league (ahead of Mr. Patience, Scott Hatteberg) if he had enough PA's to qualify. These are numbers he's put up with a Kendall "protecting" him in the line-up for a large part of the season. And as a happy coincidence, Ellis just happens to be the hottest hitter on the team.

This would be the perfect time to make the move. And if it doesn't "work," would our mighty A's really be worse off for trying it? I don't think so. August has been Kendall's worst month of the season. Maybe even of his career. I'd have to check. He's hitting .204 this month. Ellis COULDN'T POSSIBLY do worse than that (usually that isn't a valid argument, but not in this case).

So what's keeping Macha from making the move? Kendall's contract? Billy Beane? Stupidity?

It's probably a combination of all three. But if Macha wants to prove to all the doubters (like me) that he isn't a moron, he'd sack up and make some moves. REAL MOVES.

When the team was struggling mightily in May, he just sat on his hands. The jackasses in the media will say that Macha "didn't panic." I say that he was too much of a spineless dope to shake things up. Even after some of the team's veterans went to him with their suggested line-up, he didn't do a damn thing.

I can totally picture him looking over that line-up with that stupid grin on his face. Looking up after about seven seconds, patting Jason Kendall on the back and saying, "That's nice, Jason. Now go outside and play." Kindda like what I do when my two-year-old niece draws me a picture of a horsey before I stick it on my fridge.

Spineless. Gutless. Weak. Going with the same damn line-up day after day doesn't take any balls. Bobby Crosby's average has dropped 50 points over the past two months. But there he is batting third day after day. And I LOVE Bobby Crosby. In my opinion, he's already one of the best shortstops in the league. But if he's struggling mightily over the course of two whole months and I'm managing the Oakland A's, I'm not going to continue batting him third. Not when Dan Johnson's hitting the cover off the ball. Not when Jay Payton's driving in a run per game. Only if Bobby Crosby and I were dating would I start worrying about hurting his feelings.

Same with Hatte. Greg's already covered most of this, but if this moron doesn't start DH-ing Melhuse instead of Hatte after the September call-ups, believe you me, he isn't going to hear the end of it.

Grow some balls, Ken. When you do, I'll be the first to give you props. And for all you gum-chewers out there: Stay away from the Juicy Fruit. It makes you stupid.

Weekend Re-cap

Friday, 07:30 pm: Arrive at Steak & Ale for my birthday 'celebration'. Why Steak & Ale? 'Cause I like steak and I like ale. And I'm not very creative. We're half an hour late.

Friday, 07:42 pm: With two kids under the age of one joining us for dinner, "So when are YOU going to start having kids?" is asked for the 297th time of the evening.

Friday, 08:04 pm: I've decided that I'm not going to drink tonight. I'm going to cash in on my birthday sex after dinner and I don't want any problems with my equipment.

Friday, 08:20 pm: Dinner conversations are pretty boring when I'm not drinking. Talk is about a man that thought he was a bear. Turns out that in a fight between a man that thinks he is a bear and a real bear, the bear wins. Who'd of thunk it?

Friday, 08:35 pm: Gift time.

---Flashback to Monday---

The Wife: Your parents and your sister want to know what you want for your birthday. I already told them that you don't want gift cards or cash.

Roman: Just tell them to put some thought into it. As long as it's not cash or gift cards, I don't care.

The Wife: Are you sure?

Roman: Yeah. OH! WAIT! Tell them I want Madden '06.

---End Flashback---

Friday, 08:36 pm: Open the gift from the sister and brother-in-law. It's a gift card to Sears.

Friday, 08:37 pm: Open the gift from the folks. It's a shirt that looks like a tablecloth and some cash.

"I put the receipt in there in case you don't like it."

--Mom

In case??? You know you're not the favorite child when your mom finds a gift that she knows you aren't going to like and gives it to you anyway.

Friday, 08:39 pm: Open the gift from my lady. Napolean Dynamite and a gift card to Sears.

Friday, 08:40 pm: Open the gift from my best friend and his wife. It's a gift card to Lowe's.

Talk about a twist. Before, they used to just get me crappy gifts. Now they're going out of their way to give me exactly want I DON'T want. Now THAT'S funny.

You might be wondering "Sears? Who the fuck shops at Sears?"

Not me, but let me explain. You see, the wife got me this workbench and a some kind of saw and drill (from Sears) for Christmas. Eight months later, the workbench is still in it's ridiculously large and heavy box in my living room. So I figure my loving wife told everyone to get me gift cards there so that I'd buy more tools and start using all that crap. What a peach.

Do they sell Madden at Sears?

Friday, 08:45 pm: My parents open their anniversary gift from me and the wife. It's nice bottle of tequila. They love sitting outside and sipping on Margaritas. Even my dad, which I think is kind of queer, but whatev. As summer comes to a close, a bottle of Don Julio is the perfect gift.

Friday, 08:46 pm: My sister informs the folks that she'll be giving them their gift "later." And she's their favorite. Good times.

Friday, 09:20 pm: Someone gets carrot cake for dessert. Which leads to talk of carrots. Which leads to talk of rabbits. Which leads to talk of, you guessed it, this damn bear-man. If you ever get in a fight with a bear, you might want to shoot him with a gun because apparently hitting him with a frying pan just makes him angry.

Friday, 10:07 pm: I get home just in time to catch the end of the game.

Friday, 10:08 pm: Spoke too soon. A two hour game? Wow. Sounds like Johan brought his "A Game". Haren too. I didn't expect for us to win this game, so I'm not too pissed. I'll catch the end of the Angels' game instead.

Friday, 10:10 pm: Willie Bloomquist sucks. I'm fairly certain the A's are kissing sole possession of first place goodbye.

Friday, 10:15 pm: JJ Putz sucks too. Bye-bye first place. Now I'm a little pissed.

Friday, 10:40 pm: I catch a Costas Now segment on Dock Ellis before retiring for the night. I thought I had heard it all. That might be the greatest baseball story ever.

Saturday, 09:00 am: Game time. My eight-year-old nephew has his first football scrimmage. In his short life, he's done Kung Fu, swimming, tennis and now football. I think he starts his guitar lessons next week. No baseball because it's "boring." What a dick.

Saturday, 09:15 am: It's apparent that the other team isn't showing up, so I'm in for a morning of drills. Even though my nephew has demonstrated over the past month that he's the fastest kid (by a long shot) on the team, it's been decided by his coaches that he's going to play linebacker. Outside linebacker. Guess who's playing tailback? That's right, the coach's son. He's the smallest kid on the team. Morons.

Saturday, 09:35 am: I'm convinced that my nephew can't tackle.

Saturday, 09:50 am: Now we're talking. One of these stupid drills has my boy playing tailback. Three carries, three touchdowns. He made some pretty sweet cuts too. And I'm not just saying that. Take note of number 63, you douchebags.

Saturday, 09:55 am: Now he's an offensive lineman.

Saturday, 10:00 am: Now he's a defensive lineman. This is a really stupid drill.

Saturday, 10:04 am: Now he's playing linebacker. He still can't tackle.

Saturday, 12:02 pm: I start cleaning out the garage so that I can put this workbench together. Guess the wife's plan worked.

Saturday, 02:00 pm: Game time. I have to listen (thanks, FOX). Actually watching isn't an option since I'm still cleaning this damn garage.

Saturday, 03:25 pm: Still cleaning. CD's I have found so far that I had forgotten that I even owned: Radiohead - Hail to the Thief, 40 Below Summer - Invitation to the Dance. I also found a dishwasher hidden in one of the back corners. An EFFING DISHWASHER! This garage is a fucking mess.

Saturday, 03:35 pm: I quit. The garage actually looks a little worse now than it did when I started. Looks like the toolbench ain't getting put together today.

Saturday, 03:40 pm: Since I'm not doing anything, the wife asks if I can "help her" wash the dog (the Rottweiler, not the Bassett Hound). Here's a little secret for all you single guys out there: When your wife asks you for help, she really wants you to do it yourself while she stands there and tells you how you're doing it all wrong. This can get particularly frustrating when your wife "needs help" moving furniture.

Saturday, 03:50 pm: It's raining now. And the dog still "needs another lathering". God is a pretty funny character.

Saturday, 04:15 pm: Time to get ready. My wife is trying to set up one of her friends with one of my dad's friends. There's only...oh...12 years separating these two love birds. The girl just graduated from college in May. The guy's been a lawyer for at least 10 years. I'm sure they're going to have tons in common. I'm getting dragged along to dinner and a concert on this little triple date.

Saturday, 05:30 pm: Arrive at dinner. The wife's friend isn't a bad looking girl, she's just a little chubby. She'd probably be pretty hot if she dropped about 30 pounds. Her juggs are enormous.

Saturday, 06:00 pm: My dad's friend arrives half an hour late. His juggs are enormous.

Saturday, 06:15 pm: It's pretty obvious that these two are completely incompatible. But the night is still young. Let's see what happens.

Saturday, 06:25 pm: Talk turns to the concert that we're about to go to. It's a Beatles tribute band that plays nothing but songs released in 1964. My dad's buddy is a pretty accomplished guitar player and could probably play every Beatles song ever. My wife's friend can't even name all four Beatles. She didn't know George, of course.

This is a disaster.

Saturday, 06:45 pm: "Did you hear about that guy that lived with the bears?"

Saturday, 07:23 pm: I've decided that our waiter is the best waiter in the history of restaurants. His name is Scott and he's obviously a gay. I bet he could bag my wife's friend before man-juggs over there.

Saturday, 08:05 pm: The concert is under way. The love birds are sitting next to each other and some jackass right behind me keeps yelling, "I LOVE YOU, JOHN!!!"

John's dead, asswipe.

Saturday, 08:10 pm: My wife leans over and asks, "Which one is supposed to be Ringo?"

Saturday, 08:27 pm: These guys REALLY look and sound like the Beatles. But I guess that's the point.

Saturday, 09:00 pm: Intermission and this recording keeps reminding people that "CDs of this performance are available in the lobby." Now why would I buy a CD of these jackasses when I could just buy a CD of the REAL Beatles?

Saturday, 09:15 pm: Concert's back on and "Paul" wants us to get on our feet. Good grief.

Saturday, 09:37 pm: I'm still standing. Paul is now officially my least favorite Beatle.

Saturday, 10:18 pm: Concert's finally over and we're off to get some drinks.

Saturday, 10:25 pm: Guess the wife's friend wants to send the message that she's not interested. She sits between my wife and my dad. Ouch.

Saturday, 10:43 pm: I think I just fell a sleep for a little bit. Guess the Red Bull didn't work. I wonder if the vodka cancels out the liquid Speed.

Saturday, 10:55 pm: This waiter sucks. He's gay too. My drink's been empty for like 15 minutes. Scott would have been all over this.

Saturday, 11:25 pm: No bear talk so far. We're all about insects tonight. Did you know that if a brown recluse spider bites your penis and it goes untreated for four days, that they have to cut off half of your penis (length-wise)? Yeah, me neither.

Saturday, 11:40 pm: I'm going home. The wife's friend goes home with us. No night cap for the two love birds. The wife asks what she thought.

"He's perfect... for my aunt."

Good times.

Two Outta Three Ain't Bad

Nice birthday dinner - Check.
A's avoiding another ass-raping - Check.
A little birthday sex - Oh well, there's always next year.

It was actually me that passed on the birthday sex in order to watch the end of Wednesday's game. By the time the game was over, the wife said it was "too late."

"I'm too late? Can't you bump your eleven o'clock to eleven fifteen?"

--Roman

She didn't think that was very funny. And since it was decided that I wasn't going to get my gifts until today, I'll cash in tonight...unless the game runs long.

Sacrificing sex for baseball isn't gay, is it?

Anyway, it sure was nice to steal those last two games from the Angels. Not that our mighty A's didn't do their part to win those games, but Anaheim sure made their fair share of fuck-ups.

Though a lot of good things came out of this series (the most important being the results, of course), I've still got my concerns about the team. When's Kotsay going get healthy? Why the hell isn't Hatte on the DL yet? What's wrong with Crosby? Why can't we hit crap pitchers like Paul Byrd? When did Joe Kennedy start blowing Ken Macha? Why does Macha insist on batting Kielty ahead of Swisher versus righties? Is Harden a big game pitcher? Why is Ginter still on this team?

With all those questions up in the air, this series could very easily have been a sweep. A demoralizing sweep. At home. Fortunately, it wasn't and now our A's have sole possession of first place.

For me, the REAL test begins tonight. I've always been more comfortable when we were the chasers instead of the chasees. If our guys were to fall out of the playoff picture after coming back from so far down, I might just have to hunt down and murder Ken Macha.

Which, now that I think of it, might not be such a bad thing.

A Birthday Wish

Dear Birthday Claus,

As you well know, it's my birthday. Just like Dan Johnson, I'm turning 26 today. As I've been reminded numerous times already today, I'm now closer to 30 than I am to 20. That really doesn't put me in the celebrating mood. So I'm not going to ask for much this year. Maybe a nice dinner and a little sex with the wife (not necessarily in that order). Perhaps a case of beer. Nothing special. I don't even need a cake.

But there IS one thing I would like to request of you on my "special" day: That you'd not subject my mighty Oakland A's to another ass raping like the one I witnessed yesterday. Talk about a beat down. For the first time in a long time, I had to turn off the game. Don't ask me what happened after the fourth inning yesterday, 'cause I don't know. Well, I know I kicked one of my dogs (the Rottweiler, not the Bassett Hound) in frustration. And I know I said some pretty nasty things to my wife, but I have no idea what happened in the game. Vlad could have hit for two cycles. Macha could have been chewing his Juicy Fruit extra angrily. Beats me. I was watching Laguna Beach (The one where LC got drunk in Mexico and rode Stephen like a gaucho).

Our "ace" is going tonight. If he were to get shellacked the way Harden did yesterday, there's no way I could enjoy my day. I only get one of these a year. And since it's also my parents' anniversary today, I have to share my day. So if you would do me that favor, I'd greatly appreciate. And if you want to get me Madden '06 while you're at it, I won't stop you.

Sincerely,
Roman

Inspired by AJ

JoeSpeaker's son turns four today. The family's been pressuring me and the wife to start cranking 'em out, but I'm way too irresponsible to be having kids. When my dog shits on my lawn, I just throw it into my neighbor's yard. Waking up with morning wood still cracks the hell out of me. When my wife's not home, my meals consist of cereal and beer. I still pee in the shower. I asked for a PS2 game last Christmas. And will ask for another one this Christmas. When I have to iron my own shirts, I only iron the front ('cause the back's going to get wrinkled anyway). I watch Laguna Beach. I call a woman's vagina her "coochie poochie". I fart on my wife when she's sleeping.

And these people want me to change diapers and read bedtime stories? Yeah, right.