Czar Me!

Put me in Coach, I'm ready to play!  Mr. President, I volunteer to be America's Ebola Czar.  I know you've got a guy, but instead of a political operative you need somebody that has really seen some nasty stuff.  My friends and regular readers (Hey, stop laughing.  I have a few.) may be scratching their heads, wondering why I would volunteer.  After all, my germophobia, previously documented here and here, is one of my defining characteristics.

Think about it, though, who would be more prone to overreacting vigilant than I would?  I've been giving hand washing clinics to my family for years.  Avoiding the bodily fluids of strangers has been my life's work.  I think port-o-potties are the devil.  I'm the guy that begs his hockey teammates not use his water bottle. (And if you do, Please, please, no lips.)  I once boiled my silverware because I did not think it was clean enough. (That is 100% true, by the way.) I believe public restrooms should be visited less frequently than the moon. Have you even seen my Pinterest board, "Fifty Ways to Decorate Your Hazmat Suit"?  Why not share my knowledge with the world?

Lest my readers think my motives for throwing my surgical mask in the ring are completely altruistic, let me remind you how selfish I can be.  You see, I figure the Ebola Czar has one of the best Bubbles.  I'm guessing the probable order is President, Vice President, apparent national treasure Derek Jeter, then the Ebola Czar.  When the shit really goes down, I bet my family and I would get space in the bunker.  And access to weapons-grade military soap.  Not to mention, as Ebola Czar, I would probably be working closely with drug manufacturers.  Maybe then I would get a chance to meet the blonde babe in that Viagra commercial that pops up between every televised inning of postseason baseball.  (Seriously, isn't that commercial a bit much?  I have a lot of other avenues to watch soft-core porn.  Were implicit scenes of guys working with wood or women taming stallions not good enough?  Now we need this woman basically promising me that if I throw the blue pill down she will throw her blue dress off?  Just get back in your mountain-top bathtubs and caution me about four hour erections, please.)

So, Mr. President, I humbly submit my resume for Ebola Czar.  May I make one further request?  Can we change the name of the position?  This czar thing has gotten a little out of hand.  The number of czars in government today is only exceeded by the number of blue-ribbon commissions created to study things.  Maybe we could empanel a commission to consider a new name.  I suggest Captain Ebola, the Hyperbolic Ebolic, or my personal favorite, the Ebolic Avenger.  Thanks for your time.

2014 > ALCS

 The Orioles 2014 season may have ended with thud, but that does not erase what was a terrific season.  It was easy to fall in love with this roster of mostly no-name cinderellas as they routinely overcame adversity, produced comeback wins and rekindled a little Orioles Magic.  It was a surprise season, as most baseball "experts" pegged them to finish third or fourth in the AL East.  Fans should be grateful the team advanced as far as it did; it far exceeded most expectations.

The ALCS result is a little hard to swallow because of the way the games played out, but also because a chance to get to the World Series slipped through their fingers.  You never know how many chances a team has to get that close.  As for the ALCS itself, I don't want to see any Bucklash against the manager.  Don't buy into the conventional media hype that has the "Genius" Buck Showalter being outmanaged by the "Dimwit" Ned Yost.  The games were exceptionally tight; the Royals just made a few more plays in the clutch.  And if I could hand the ball to Herrera, Davis and Holland in the seventh, eighth and ninth innings, I believe I could make a run at the pennant, too.  Buck should be Manager of the Year  and Dan Duquette should be Executive of the Year.  They cobbled together a lineup that overcame injuries to All-Stars and kept getting better as the season progressed.  Duquette stole Nelson Cruz for $8 million.  He added pieces from the scrap heap to help out when Matt Weiters and Manny Machado were lost to injury.  De Aza, Paredes, Kelly Johnson and Caleb Joseph -  no Murderers' Row, but contributors to winning the division.  The emergence of Zach Britton to anchor a bullpen that Buck masterfully orchestrated.  And who had Steve Pearce stepping in with 21 homers in place of the suspended (and sub-.200) Adderall Kid?  Nobody, that's who.  The clock struck midnight when the team ran into the Kansas City Buzzsaws Royals.  However, just because the Royals are out-magicing everybody this postseason doesn't mean the O's are a bunch of pumpkins.  Sometimes you just get beat.

The O's go home and the Royals move on.  I do not root for the team that beats my team in the playoffs.  I know some fans who cheer the victor so they can say their team lost to the eventual champion.  That's garbage.  After a hard fought series, I usually have grown to dislike the opponent and want to see them go down hard.  For a time, I thought it might be different this year.  Before the ALCS, I thought I might root for the Royals if they won; they were a great underdog story and play an exciting style of baseball.  Not now. Besides the awesome Lorenzo Cain, screw those guys.  I hope somebody wipes the smug smirk and Ming the Merciless eyebrows right off of Eric Hosmer's face.  Jarrod "You know you are only a fast pinch runner, right?" Dyson should shut up.  And Jeremy Guthrie is the worst. I wasn't offended by his stupid shirt; I was offended by his unnecessary apology.  Go full-on d-bag and own that.  Finally, can we all please stop pretending that the 2014 Royals invented this station-to-station, speed kills, defense wins brand of baseball?  Sure, they executed the fundamentals and made Small Ball big.  You know who else does that exceptionally well?  The San Francisco Giants, the Royals' likely World Series opponent.  Good luck.

The Kansas City Royals may leave me disappointed this morning, but they can't change the big picture.  They can't take away a season of baseball that started with watching the Opening Day telecast with Grace in my lap and a  Natty Boh in my hand.  They can't take away game updates from my mom, who rarely missed a game and fired me texts while I was working and couldn't watch.  The Royals can't take away Grace begging to go to Camden Yards all summer or wanting to wear her orange when I wore mine.  They can't erase the shared experience of discussing the Birds with strangers on the street that see your hat or jersey as an invitation to chat up the home team.  No, the Royals can't take away any of that.

Nor can the Kansas City Royals take away Game 2 of the ALDS.  My first playoff game, which I  joyfully documented earlier this month, was more than the game.  It was spending quality time with my father-in-law, my brother-in-law and my cousin.  It was seeing the excitement in my father-in-law as he attended his first postseason game, too.  It was cold beer and laughter.  It was wrong turns and parking problems, jokes and questionable driving.  It was the community of baseball and it was a gift I will cherish.  Even if the Orioles had not won, it would have been a memory to treasure.  But they did win and we got to smile and clap and cheer our heads off.  So, I will not fret about the ALCS.  Instead, this moment, captured on video by a stranger outside the stadium and sent to me by a friend and huge Orioles fan, will be how I remember a Magical 2014 season.

Delmon Young's Game Winning Double From A Block Away

Post by Beth Rolnick.

Orange You Glad You Got Tickets?

Last Friday, through good fortune and the generosity of my cousin, I scored free tickets to Game Two of the American League Divisional Series at Oriole Park at Camden Yards.  It was a day nearly forty years in the making; this was the first Orioles playoff game I had ever attended.  To say it was the greatest game I have ever seen in person would be a gross understatement.  I was having a blast win or lose, but the dramatic way in which the Orioles delivered their fans a victory made the day that much sweeter.  Camden Yards has long been one of my "happy places", yet I learned that she shines even brighter in the postseason.  Many wonderful things about the ballpark are amplified by the playoffs.  So much orange - shirts, jerseys, and rally towels furiously waving.  Impossibly green grass.  Ice cold batting practice beers before noon.  The most enthusiastic National Anthem "O" I have ever heard.  Baseball stadiums, when full and loud, are communities unto themselves, an intoxicating blend of nostalgia and civic pride.  That feeling was never more evident than during the eighth inning Friday afternoon.

The prelude to the eighth inning was pretty good, the game score notwithstanding.  Nick Markakis opened the scoring with a two-run homer that allowed us to cheer twice, once when it went out and once again when the homer was confirmed by replay review.  The Tigers battered Orioles starter Wei-Yin Chen, but Kevin Gausman relieved and held the humming Tigers offense in check.  Two defensive gems kept the game close.  Ryan Flaherty channeled his inner Brooks Robinson making a diving stab of a Miguel Cabrera grounder, starting a 5-4-3 double play aided by Johnathan Schoop's smooth pivot at second base.  Schoop later showed off his arm again when he took Adam Jones' relay throw and gunned down Cabrera at home keeping the Tigers' lead at 6-3.  That was a huge run saved, helping make the eighth inning rally possible.  As I said, the first 7 1/2 innings were just prelude.  It was the bottom of the eighth that cemented why I love baseball.

Entering the bottom of the eighth, the Orioles trailed 6-3.  The fans, boisterous all afternoon and buoyed by a season full of late-inning rallies, remained faithful.  Perhaps a bit more pensive than earlier, but no less faithful.  Grown men donned rally caps and rearranged their seats to change the luck.  Fans cheered and chanted, driven not by a Jumbotron ridiculously imploring them to "Make Some Noise", but by pure joy and a determination to play a part in the game's outcome.  When Tiger relief pitcher Joba Chamberlain, looking more mascot than major leaguer with his caveman beard and burly physique, took the mound to start the eighth the crowd went wild.  Chamberlain had been part of the Tiger bullpen meltdown in Game One.  We hoped for more of the same in Game Two.  In a bold move that I am still not sure if I love or hate, Joba answered our mocking cheers with a sarcastic doff of his cap.  His smugness would not last long, however.  With one out, Chamberlain plunked Adam Jones and the rally was alive.

Baseball's detractors lament that games take too long, that the game bogs down as each pitch is delayed by batters adjusting their batting gloves or pitchers stepping off the mound to gather themselves.  I say it is within these delays that the game's beauty resides.  Not burdened by a countdown clock, the game can breathe.  These precious moments between pitches allow suspense to build.  The game stills but the crowd does not.  On this Friday afternoon,  the buildup to each pitch had the fans clapping and yelling.  Baseball is such a game of failure that these hopeful cheers are not usually rewarded.  Frenzied anticipation is often doused by a strikeout or rally-killing double play. In Game Two, though, the Orioles answered with line-drive base hits.

After at-bats by Nelson Cruz and Steve Pearce, each a mini-drama unfolding within the larger narrative, resulted in two singles and a run, Chamberlain was yanked.  With the Orioles now down only two runs, the fans waved towels and screamed during the the warmup throws of reliever Joakim Soria.  It's the buildup, you see.  After J.J. Hardy coaxed a walk to load the bases, Delmon Young came to the plate.  Perhaps Mr. Young doesn't enjoy suspense and anticipation as much as I do because he drilled Soria's first pitch into left field.  When the ball landed in fair territory Camden Yards erupted.  When J.J. Hardy eluded the catcher's tag, sliding home with the go-ahead run, the roar somehow got louder.  I have been to a lot of games and concerts - NFL games, NBA games, NHL playoff games - and with the exception of forty stock cars blowing past at 180 mph, I have never been ANYWHERE as loud as Camden Yards when Hardy crossed the plate.

The aforementioned grown men wept as they stared blissfully at their rally caps.  The upper deck literally shook with joy.  High fives were slapped with folks that were strangers just innings earlier.  Unbelievably, a baby near us slept through the chaos, rocked to sleep by a little Orioles Magic and a team that won't quit.  No one sat down as Zach Britton blew away the Tigers in the top of the ninth to secure the win.  No one wanted to leave the bleachers, to end the shared experience.  Postseason baseball, timeless and sometimes epic, was finally something I had experienced in person.