A Classical Interlude

Posted on January 22, 2014 by Jackie, The Baseball Bloggess

There are some who might read this space from time to time and think that all I care about is baseball.

Not true.

I care about lots of things. Classy things.

Like music.

So, today, this post has nothing at all to do with baseball. Enjoy this classical interlude …

A local orchestra was rehearsing Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony.

This is Beethoven.

There is a section where the bass players don’t play for an extended time. One of them decided that it would be better if they filed offstage and took a “break” during that section.

On the night of the performance, the bass players filed off as planned. One suggested, “Hey we’ve got 20 minutes, let’s run across the street to the bar for a drink!”

So off they all went, tuxedos and all, to loosen up. Fifteen minutes and a few rounds later, one of the bass players said, “Shouldn’t we head back? It’s almost time.”

But the leader announced, “Oh don’t worry, we have time – I played a little joke on the conductor. Before the performance started, I tied string around each page of his score so that he’d have to untie each page to turn it. The piece will drag on a bit. We’ve got time for another round!”

So they had another round, and then, staggering a bit, they made their way back across the street to finish the piece.

Stepping onstage, they immediately noticed the conductor’s angry expression.

“Gee,” one player asked, “Why do you suppose he looks so tense?”

“You’d be tense, too,” laughed the leader. “It’s the bottom of the ninth, the score is tied and the basses are loaded.”

(well, I did mention Beethoven …)

Don’t Try This At Home

Posted on January 19, 2014 by Jackie, The Baseball Bloggess

Ty Cobb goes “spike’s up” into home. Navin Field, Detroit (1912 or 1913). Public Domain image.

Don’t try this at home.

Because it is stupid. (“It” being Ty Cobb’s collision. My pun, on the other hand, is brilliant.)

As a baseball-writing massage therapist with nearly 10,000 massage sessions under my belt, I’m often asked for my thoughts about home plate collisions.

Actually, no one’s asked.

But, I’m going to tell you anyway.

Because I’ve been thinking a lot about home plate ever since my last post.

And, because one doofus said on his webpage (which has approximately a zillion more readers than I ever will) that banning home plate collisions is further proof of the “wussification of America.”

And, all I could think was, “Good god, how many times has Glenn Beck’s head collided with the sidewalk? Because he sure sounds like he’s brain-clunked pavement a few too many times.”

Glenn Beck doesn’t know what he’s talking about.

But, I do.

I know collisions. I see colliders every day. Colliders are my massage (and Yoga) bread and butter.

I have clients who have collided with other people, with airbags, with telephone poles, with staircases, with the ground (woody, gravelly, asphalty, rocky, and cementy.) I see clients who have broken things, strained things, torn things, ruptured things, and gotten their bells rung.

I sometimes see them a day after they have collided and often for years afterward.

I see equestrian clients who are tossed off of their horses so often that you would think their bottoms are loaded with crazy Wonderland-like springs that catapult them randomly through the air and into rocks and bramble. Over and over.

I have clients who live with chronic pain and permanent injuries and brain impairment because they collided into something – or someone – else.

I know colliders.

So, I am delighted that Major League Baseball is taking the necessary steps to ban home plate collisions – where a base runner coming home seeks to dislodge the ball from a catcher’s mitt by violently colliding with him. That’s how the Giants’ Buster Posey broke his leg in 2011. And, that’s how many professional ballplayers sustain debilitating concussions throughout the season.

Home plate collisions are needlessly dangerous, unnecessary, and just plain stupid.

Former Catcher and now St. Louis Cardinals Manager Mike Matheny retired in 2007 following a series of concussions caused by home plate collisions. He lost 18 months of his memory as a result. If I haven’t convinced you, listen to him, click here.

Baseball’s owners and the players’ union are still working out the details and wording, but the belief is that new rules could be in place by the start of this season or 2015 at the latest.

ESPN’s Buster Olney (who has so many “insider” sources, he probably knows someone who has spilled all your secrets), was told that the new rules would include:

• Catchers cannot block home plate.

• Runners will not be allowed to target the catchers.

• Umpires will determine whether or not the plate was blocked or the runner targeted the catcher and this will be a reviewable call, and

• Players who violate these rules will be subject to disciplinary action.

This won’t eliminate all collisions. But, it will eliminate some extremely violent home-plate encounters.

In its very earliest long-time-ago incarnations, baseball required a runner to be struck by the ball in order to be out. Yes, just like dodgeball you would throw the baseball at the runner – as hard as you could and sometimes right at his head. If you severely maimed him in the process, well, hey, it was the 18th century, he probably wasn’t going to make it to 40 anyway.

But, that was stupid. And, baseball improved its rules.

The rules already protect fielders from collisions by base runners who seek to break up double plays through collision or “spikes up.” (Interference is called on the base runner and he is out.)

A sprained ankle might slow you down for a week or so. A concussion is much sneakier and can cause permanent brain damage that you won’t notice until one day you’re standing in a grocery store and you wonder, “Why am I here?” (And, not in an existential way, either.)

Watch the PBS Frontline documentary League of Denial that shows, in grim detail, the heartbreaking damage that concussions have done to professional athletes. Watch it here.

Glenn Beck, apparently, thinks that baseball rules are unnecessary (in the same way that he believes that government is unnecessary, until the potholes on his street need fixing).

Life has risks. Games have risks. Jobs have risks.

I know that.

But, that doesn’t mean that an employer doesn’t have the responsibility to try to eliminate risks whenever possible.

A bakery gives its baker an oven mitt so he doesn’t melt the skin off his hands when he pulls the bread out of a hot oven.

A warehouse puts brakes on its forklift so a driver doesn’t run over his colleague who is stacking boxes.

Baseball stops home plate collisions.

Good heavens, why are we even debating this?

I’m guessing Ty Cobb, like Glenn Beck, would say that minimizing injuries is a wussy thing to do. (Although, honestly, I don’t think Cobb would use the word “wussy.”)

But, tough. And, stop whining.

Those nasty spike’s up, knock-em-down, slasharoos that Ty Cobb made famous are stupid. (Say, Ty, maybe if you picked up the pace a bit coming in from third you could have beaten the throw to the plate. Now THAT’s exciting baseball!)

Just 25 days until pitchers and catchers report.

By: Frettie, used with permission via Creative Commons 3.0

Skizzle, Sweet Skizzle.

Posted on January 9, 2014 by Jackie, The Baseball Bloggess

The bases in baseball might have been imagined in the 19th century, but their beginnings were probably much earlier than that. Historians often reach back to the 18th or even 17th centuries to find something undeniably baseball-ish about the games children played.

(Historian David Block can take it all the way back to 1450.)

(There are a lot of very good baseball historians in the world today. You could probably fill Wrigley Field’s bleachers with them and have to pour the overflow historians into Fenway. Football historians, on the other hand, can easily be transported in a minivan.)

Bases are the grail for many historians. If a game had you run to a specified point or “base,” you were probably playing some form of baseball.

But I think if they were inventing baseball today, there would be no “Home.”

Oh, the base would be there … the plate, the dish, it has a few different names. The umpire might still ceremoniously dust it off with a whisk broom from time to time, and it would still be 60 feet 6 inches from the pitcher. But, I don’t think we would call it “home.”

We might call it a Blast Pad, a Stamping Stone, or the Swat Zone. Those all sound cool, right?

Or, more likely, we’d just make up a word. The Skizzle! The Bagzooka! The Scoreatorium!

(God, I’m bad at this.)

Two minutes of Blast Pad Bliss!

But, surely not “home” … which conjures up images of the kindness of mom and cookies and soup and underwear hanging on the line.

And, unlike baseball, the place in life where you start and then you end isn’t always the same “home.”

I’m not even sure I know what a hometown is. Is that where I was born? Where I grew up? Or, where I’m living now? Because I can call each of them “home.” And, they are all quite different places. (The ocean is on the other side now.)

I don’t really remember much about where I was born. We moved when I was still mini-sized. (I was born in the same hospital as Robin Ventura, by the way. So I’ll always have a little hometown kinship with him. And, I never liked Nolan Ryan.)

Then we moved to another part of California. And, when I was old enough, my dad taught me about “home teams.” And, since we lived near the Bay Area, I became a Giants-A’s-49ers-Raiders fan.

(It really stinks being on a football boycott when the 49ers are doing so well. Or, leastways, that’s what I’ve been told.)

My dad schooled me in football. My little-girl baseball knowledge pretty much boiled down to ranking the players on my baseball cards on a highly precise and carefully researched Cutie Pie Scale. (Oakland A’s? Very cutie pie.)

I showed flashes of home team spirit, as seen here when I firmly and sadly crossed “GIANTS” off of my Willie Mays’ card when he went to the Mets.

Even then, I was conflicted by what home means. If Willie Mays was no longer a Giant, what was the point? What good is having a home, if no one is going to stay there?

Then we moved.

(Please enjoy this brief interlude as I spend nearly 10 home-team-less years in North Dakota.)

The East Coast, above-zero temperatures, and my very first real live baseball game couldn’t come fast enough.

I tell this story a lot, and it is true. When I stepped out of the cement walkway and into the upper deck of Baltimore’s Memorial Stadium for the very first time, I saw the green grass and the diamond spread out before me.

And, I looked, and I said to myself, “I’m home.”

So, maybe the Orioles aren’t technically my “home” team, since they’re 126 miles – and lots of traffic – away. Does it matter anymore where you actually live? Or, do we define home differently now?

Baseball players, themselves, are nomads. They are shuttled around from team to team, town to town. There are few Cal Ripkens left out there who get to play every day for their own hometown team.

Home plate may be the only “home” a player can count on during his career.

(And, woe to the American League pitcher who only gets a look at “home” and never gets to actually go there.)

Fans have cable and the internet and can watch any game from practically anywhere in the world. Live.

I can listen to Vin Scully call a Dodgers game thousands of miles away. Jon Miller, who I missed for so many years, now comes through loud and clear calling Giants games on my Sirius Radio.

Anywhere can be home. And, if anywhere is home, maybe home isn’t the same thing that it once was.

In baseball, home is where you start and where you hope you end up. You’ll run around for awhile, but, if all goes well you’ll end up again at home, right where you started.

In baseball, that’ll earn you a run.

In life, I’m not sure what that gets you anymore. Sometimes, if you end up back at home – to sleep, perhaps, in your parents’ basement – it’s because things haven’t quite worked out so well in life.

I think my home is right here, right now. With my Editor/Husband, the bushel of cats, and the brand-new barn (and unfinished porch). I like coming home. To here.

Skizzle, Sweet Skizzle.

Divine Discontent Gets A Day Off … (almost)

Posted on January 1, 2014 by Jackie, The Baseball Bloggess

“Any writer worth his salt writes to please himself. … It’s a self-exploratory operation that is endless. An exorcism of not necessarily his demon, but of his divine discontent.” ~ Harper Lee

First off, thank you to that reader who emailed me last night to tell me he can snap his fingers. (This, in response, to my heartfelt admission yesterday.) I exorcise my divine discontent … and for this, you taunt? Truly? Truly?

So, what’s new in divine discontent today?

This.

I’m not sure that it’s ok to unleash fireworks at midnight on New Year’s Eve/Day. I mean, sure, set off some whistling Moonshine Bottle Rockets, Blazing Rebel Fountains with all the pretty colors, a few of those nameless ashy, snakey things. Prairie Fire cones, Nuclear Sunrise candles. Go ahead. Sparklers? Sparkle your pants off.

No, I’m talking armaments. That sound like – or could possibly have actually been – cannon fire.

I went to bed before midnight because I taught Yoga this morning.

But, I awoke at midnight to the sound of shelling. Wait, what? Grant’s marching toward Richmond again?

The booming, wall-rattling shelling was coming from our neighbor’s house, about a quarter-mile and one full cow pasture away.

Is that really necessary?

Are you trying to kill the old year … or the new one?

So, when I got up at 6:00 a.m. today, I suggested that I might go outside and lay on my car horn to greet my new year and wake the neighbors.

Editor/Husband suggested that I not do this: “They have a cannon.”

Editor/Husband would like to share this cannon joke with you. Click here.

(He tried to tell it to me at midnight, but I just wanted to go back to sleep.)

Let’s start the year …

First up, baseball.

Yesterday, I exorcised my baseball discontent … giving the Baltimore Orioles’ owner some chin music for being a cheapskate, skinflint, and tightwad (these all mean different things, by the way, and he is all of them).

But, let me begin 2014 on a positive note.

I love the Orioles annual pet calendar. Proceeds support BARCS, Baltimore’s animal shelter, and animal welfare organizations are dear to my heart.

But, here’s the thing. To produce the calendar means that the Orioles must do the photo shoots and get everything to press well in advance. (Spoiler alert: teams can change, BARCS calendars cannot.)

The result is a beautiful calendar of Orioles posing in last year’s summer sun with handsome rescue dogs and bushels of adorable kitties. (It’s clear the low-ranking rookies often end up with the kittens … don’t think Stevie and I haven’t noticed.)

I opened up the 2014 calendar today, and look at Mr. January and Mr. January!

Oh.

It’s the newest Washington National Nate McLouth.

(In 2013, pitcher Jake Arrieta was traded to the Cubs just as his month as Mr. July was beginning. Jim Johnson – see, I told you I’m not done with this – had just completed his Mr. November reign when he was traded to the A’s on December 2.)

Stevie is not happy about the Jim Johnson trade either … or the lack of calendar cats.

In previous calendars, most players enjoyed their own month. This year, there seems to be more two-players-to-a-month sharing. The size of the team hasn’t changed, so maybe the Orioles are now thinking, “Yikes, let’s just stuff a few players on the page and hope that at least one of them is still around come next year.”

But, back to being positive.

I love my Orioles calendar. (But, boy, I’ll miss Nate. And, Jim.)

Just 44 days until pitchers and catchers report.

Next up, Yoga.

I taught Yoga this morning. It was great!

And, finally, Life.

Have a great 2014.

(See, wrapped them all up again.)

Divine Discontent can have the rest of New Year’s Day off!

Lamar says “hey.”

Early Is My Friend

Posted on December 31, 2013 by Jackie, The Baseball Bloggess

New Year’s resolutions generally stink.

All good intentions to get healthy, go running, or eat better go out the window when a foot of snow covers your car, knocks out your power, but you still have to go to work.

You know it. I know it.

(There’s no resolution in the world strong enough to keep me from a piece of chocolate or a Diet Mountain Dew.)

Oh, look, Stevie’s a Dewbie, too!

If pressed, my New Year’s resolution is pretty simple – make it to 2015 and write on here from time to time. Because I love writing stuff for you. Really. Both of you. You’re both wonderful and incredibly good looking.

In the spirit of New Year’s let me tell you two honest things about me:

1) I cannot snap my fingers. I really can’t. It’s not that I choose not to. I would snap all day. If only I could. (There. Just tried again. Still can’t.)

(Editor/Husband says I snap my fingers like a second-grader. A paste-eating second-grader. I’m not proud of this.)

2) The only New Year’s resolution I ever kept was years ago when I worked in an office. I used to needle a colleague all the time. (She was a very nice person, but she didn’t know who R.E.M. was, for god’s sake, how could I not needle her? I was in a very sarcastic phase of my life. I know, so glad that’s passed.)

So, for New Year’s I promised her that for an entire year I was going to be nice to her. And, I was. I was so nice, fawning over her and always asking how her day was going (often interrupting her several times an hour just to ask), that I proved to be an incredibly annoying nice person. Imagine that!

Lisa became a successful – and very nice – lawyer. I write a blog with two readers. So, as you can see, sarcasm gets you nowhere, kids.

While I see the timely need to lard up this blog with some resolution jabber, it being a new year and all, you’ve probably already realized that I’m not really the best person to go to for advice or encouragement.

Unless you happen to own the Baltimore Orioles. Here are some resolutions for you, Mr. Angelos.

First off, get us some pitching. Spend some money … you can’t take it with you and you’re not getting any younger. You can never fully redeem yourself in my eyes after trading Jim Johnson, but you can make amends.

Let’s start with a Starter, ok? I mean, a real Starting Pitcher – a mean-as-cuss, ace-of-the-team alley cat who throws both fire and finesse.

A pitcher who understands that his day doesn’t end with the words “he was roughed up, again, in the fifth inning.” A pitcher who strives for “27 outs” … in a single game, not in a month.

Mountain Lion and Dr. Perky are cheap.

He won’t be.

At the risk of seeming greedy, pony up for another bat in the lineup and maybe a strong bullpen arm to replace the one you so callously and cruelly threw away. (It may be a new year, but I’m not over this Jim Johnson thing yet.)

In short, Mr. A, let’s spend some real dough so that the rest of baseball will stop thinking we’re the class weirdos.

# # #

So, you know how this blog is supposed to be about baseball and Yoga and life? And, how I talk a good game (always aiming for the bleachers) but rarely wrap them all up together? I feel bad about that.

Let’s fix things.

Earlier this year, I came upon four particularly useful rules. Or, resolutions. Call them what you like.

They were posted by a pitcher above his locker.

I love these rules. They are good reminders for a pitcher. They are good reminders for a Yoga student. They are good reminders for life.

Here they are.

~ Go 0-1. Must have action. Early is my friend.

~ Get the ball down. Strikes below the knees.

~ Manage the game. Slow down. Break a bad rhythm.

~ Take your time between pitches. Take a time out and reset.

That’s baseball talk, for this: Start 0-1. Throw a strike. Be confident.

Be in control.

Take charge and responsibility for your actions. If you’re being a doofus, change.

And, always step off the mound and take the time you need to think things through when feeling pressured or else you may do something really, really stupid.

Which in Yoga I boil down to that one simple, most important resolution of all …

Don’t forget to breathe.

Sounds good to me. Let’s do this.

Happy 2014!

Cleaning Out The Attic

Posted on December 29, 2013 by Jackie, The Baseball Bloggess

The scratching in the attic has quieted down.

Last count in Editor/Husband’s trapping project: Bears, Raccoons & Squirrels – 0. Mousies – 6.*

* As in many sporting statistics, context is important and there’s often an asterisk: Editor/Husband has trapped either six individual mousies, or one single mouse over and over. Or, some variation of that. I suggested id’ing the mouse by marking its head with a Sharpie pen before releasing it outside. Editor/Husband is going with the less precise, “This one looks a bit smaller than the last one” method. As usual, my method would be complicated, but far more definitive.

This is what six mice in the attic sound like when accompanied by a stand-up bass. (Fun Fact: mice cannot play stand up stand-up basses, because they are too small.)

I don’t feel too bad putting a mouse outside when the weather is nice. They have their little fur coats after all. Our cats really don’t care one way or another.

(And, yes, we only use live traps. We’re not murderers.)

# # #

This conversation really took place on Christmas morning.

Editor/Husband hands me a gift bag. I look inside.

Me: It’s an orange.

E/H: It’s a Christmas tradition.

Me: That’s nice. (Reaches in and takes orange.) This orange is cold. (Pause) Did you get this out of the fridge? (Pause) Is this the orange I bought at the grocery store on Sunday?

E/H: It’s a Christmas tradition.

Christmas tradition.

Here’s the other gift Editor/Husband gave me.

It is 855 pages and weighs nearly three pounds … which is about the same weight as 88 house mice.

(I am on page 98.)

# # #

While Editor/Husband continues to de-mousify the attic, I’m cleaning things up as well, by going through a few folders filled with this year’s baseball photos.

And, I keep coming back to this little scrum of photos that I took at the indoor batting cage at the University of Virginia.

They make me smile. Because, they are in focus.

All you really need is just one baseball …

And, just one bat …

(Wooden preferred …)

And, a little pine tar if you can spare it …

Maybe a few extra baseballs in case the first one gets hit into the woods …

(And, now I’ve cleaned out my baseball attic … for this season, anyway.)

I Wrote This For You On Christmas Day.

Posted on December 25, 2013 by Jackie, The Baseball Bloggess

Do people read blogs on Christmas Day?

Do people actually write on blogs on Christmas Day?

Is that a bad thing? That I’m still in my pajamas and writing on here on a day that is ordinarily set aside for family and friends and festive gatherings?

That, as I write, Editor/Husband is setting up the bigger, stronger Hav-a-Hart trap in the attic because he’s wondering if the mouse up there isn’t a mouse after all, but something quite a bit larger. (Like a squirrel? A raccoon? Possibly a bear? Who knows what comes into this house on its own. We once had a snake that lived in our toilet. I’m not kidding.)

(He’s baiting it with a waffle, in case you’re interested.)

(And, by the way, thanks, Cats, for letting mice – or whatever is scratching on the walls up there – live in the house with us.)

This is a flying squirrel dressed as Santa Claus. (So, don’t say this blog post isn’t appropriately festive.)

Oh, yes, Christmas.

If you happen by this blog and actually read it today … or from time to time … you have brightened my heart. You really have.

And, I wish you all good things during this special time …

May you be surrounded by the love of family and friends …

Have a catch.

But, if they start to make you crazy (and they just might), may you find a little space …

May you find joy doing the things you love …

And, most important, may you find the quiet peace of your heart … (and, hey, snacks!)

And, for those of you keeping score … Just 51 days ‘til pitchers and catchers report.

(I took all of these photos in 2013. Camden Yards, Baltimore. The Diamond, Richmond, Virginia. Davenport Field, University of Virginia, Charlottesville, Virginia.)

Winter Is Only Three Days Old …

Posted on December 24, 2013 by Jackie, The Baseball Bloggess

“There are only two seasons – winter and baseball.” ~ Bill Veeck (1914-1986, Renowned Baseball Owner, Promoter, & All-Around Interesting Guy)

And, winter’s only three days old.

There may be no box scores to pore over, but baseball seems far more resilient than my basil plants that quickly kicked their buckets when the nights turned cold many weeks ago.

The only cat outside here on an icy night is this terracotta one.

The Baltimore Orioles are still trying to climb out of the PR mess they created when they backed out of their “pending physical” agreement with “Failed Physical” Free Agent Pitcher Grant Balfour last week.

(Spoiler Alert: There is still nothing and no one under my Orioles Christmas tree.)

Watching baseball writers gleefully tear apart this Orioles-Balfour story during an otherwise quiet holiday week is like watching my cats tussle over a handful of turkey treats. Lots of pushing, shoving, pawing, and the occasional shrieking. (That shrieking would be Stevie.)

Stevie. Post Treats.

But, it’s never winter for long.

And, the Orioles aren’t the only game in town.

The college baseball season begins in mid-February, which is just a few snowstorms away.

The University of Virginia, which is 40 minutes down the road (hey, UVa, are you reading this? When are we going to get our season ticket seat assignments?) will begin their season on February 14 ranked #12.

And, here’s a weird thing. College Baseball has issued its list of Pre-Season All-Americans. Really? You can do that? You get to be an All-American without even playing yet?

Well, heck, then maybe I’m an All-American. I haven’t played yet either. But, I think a lot about baseball. (I’m thinking about it right now.) That must be worth something. So, thank you for this honor, National Collegiate Baseball Writers.

But, truly, big congratulations go out to UVa’s Mike Papi (who we call El Oso Sueño for no real reason, except that we like the way he stalks around covering left field) and Brandon Downes (who we call Brandon Downes because that’s his name) for being named Pre-Season All-Americans.

UVa’s Mike Papi out in left field.

UVa’s Brandon Downes cap tipping.

If the temperature at UVA home games falls below 45, there’s free coffee and hot chocolate for fans.

This fall I went to some UVA intra-squad games and the temperature dipped into the 50s. I dressed for a blizzard and below-zero wind chills and I was still cold. (Editor/Husband wants me to clarify that the temperatures dipped into the “high” 50s that night. But, I’m pretty sure it was 10-below.)

So, can February chill keep me away from a baseball game? (Editor/Husband hopes so. But don’t be so sure, honey.)

In the meantime, while I dream of sunshine and the baseball that comes when the weather turns warm against my face, and the outfield grass grows thick and lush and impossibly green, here are some of my photos of the UVa Cavaliers playing baseball in the sweetness of 2013.

(Most of these photos are from UVa games played in September and October.)

UVa Sophomore Nathan Kirby.

UVa Junior Nick Howard tidying up.

UVa Sophomore John LaPrise.

UVa Freshman Jack Roberts.

(He’s safe.)

Counting the days ’til baseball returns.

Waiting for spring in the dugout.

The bullpen is waiting, too …

And, boy, so am I.

Baseball’s Beautiful. But, The Off-Season Stinks.

Posted on December 22, 2013 by Jackie, The Baseball Bloggess

“I love baseball. You know, it doesn’t have to mean anything. It’s just very beautiful to watch.” ~ Leonard Zelig, from the movie Zelig *

When baseball is a game, it is good. It is beautiful.

The grass is green, the sun is warm. Just a game. A beautiful, simple, splendid game.

But, when it’s the off-season, baseball stinks. Players are tucked away and resting up (some are playing golf, some are signing multi-multi-multi-million-dollar deals).

They become a commodity. This one gets traded. This one gets bought. This one is left on the shelf like a sad, dusty bottle of Justin Beiber cologne just hoping someone needs a desperation gift on Christmas Eve.

It sort of makes me uncomfortable when humans are treated like products. (I know, that’s the point of business, right? I’m awful at business.)

The off-season is like a soggy wad of hairball trapped in my throat. (Editor/Husband does not believe that I can know what a hairball feels like, but I’ve seen my cats get all buggy-eyed, rear back, and start to vomit. I’m pretty sure I feel the same way right now.)

I hate the off-season.

The Baltimore Orioles traded away Jim Johnson, their closer, to Oakland, even though I specifically asked them not to.

photo by me, 8/25/13

Bye, Jim.

I’m a big Jim Johnson fan. I’m a fan of bullpens and relievers in general. I’m still pretty steamed over this.

(And, yes, I’m looking forward to the “I told you so” blog post that I’ll write next season when Jim has a great year in Oakland. And, I hope Oakland will fix its sewage-in-the-dugout thing before Jim gets there. Dear Oakland, he’s used to nicer accommodations.)

The Orioles let their Left Fielder Nate McLouth go to the Washington Nationals.

photo by me, 8/25/13

Bye, Nate.

Yeh, I’m kinda sore about this, too.

But, they got a new left fielder guy. A guy from the Royals. So maybe I’ll write about him next season.

The Orioles then were about to sign a new guy to be their closer.

Yay, it’s Christmas! We have a new closer under our Christmas Tree!

Grant Balfour, oddly enough, was Oakland’s closer last season. We were ready to sign him last week. Then something went wonky during his physical (which often happens when you’re a I-can-see-the-hill-but-I’m-not-quite-over-it 36-year-old pitcher with a shoulder that’s been knitted back together with pins and needles) and the Orioles pulled the deal.

And, then began the kerfuffle.

Let me share the kerfuffle highlights:

Orioles: We are not happy with the results of the physical and we are looking elsewhere.

Balfour: I am healthy.

Orioles: You are not.

Balfour: I am too.

Orioles: Are not.

Balfour: Am too.

This has been going on since Thursday.

I don’t like all the off-season shuffling and wheeling and dealing and trading and moving things around.

When I fell in love with baseball, it was when Cal Ripken was the Orioles’ shortstop. And, every day and every game and every season – year in and year out – he was the Orioles’ shortstop. I like things “just so.” I like my Cal Ripkens to be back every spring.

Sigh.

Now, I have nothing under my baseball Christmas tree.

But, Manny Machado’s knee is healing up. So, that’s a good thing.

“Machado’s Road To Recovery” ESPN, 12/10/13 (click to watch)

Watch Manny’s knee and his rehab here.

And, that’s the news from baseball. I’ve been monitoring the baseball tweet-and-trade machine, so you don’t have to.

Just 53 days ‘til pitchers and catchers report.

* Zelig is a wonderful movie. Woody Allen. 1983. You should watch it. (It has nothing to do with baseball. Really.)

A Therapist Airs Her Dirty Laundry

Posted on November 28, 2013 by Jackie, The Baseball Bloggess

Earlier this week I posted a photo of three days’ worth of dirty massage linens – stacked up into a pile that was taller than the washing machine.

First off, kudos to those clients who recognized their linens from last week! The Lumosity is paying off!

Second off, some of you apparently think that I’m exaggerating (you are wrong) or that I have no intention of actually washing and drying and folding, and washing and drying and folding, all through the Thanksgiving holiday (you are wrong about this, too).

For those who think your massage ends when you slide off the table … a relaxed bowl of melted muscles … I assure you, I’m thinking of you as I do the laundry. Every weekend. And, when pillowcases are in dangerous short supply, often at 5:30 in the morning.

(Yes, some of your linens are warm on the table because they were in the dryer at 6 a.m. that morning. And, I swear to you, if you hustle them into a laundry basket right out of the dryer, they will hold heat for hours.)

If you are one of my massage clients, know that I love you.

That’s why I do the laundry and fluff and fold it … at dawn and on my day off. I don’t mind. Really.

(Folding linens is a much nicer and far more productive task than all those office meetings and “brainstorming” sessions I sat through in an earlier life.)

But, here’s what you may not know.

Those linens? The warm, luxurious flannels? The light cotton ones? The sweet pinky plaids? At some point you indicated that you liked them.

You like being toasty warm during your session? You get my warmest, coziest set and the table warmer is set to “high”. You battle hot flashes and want the cool light blue ones? Check! You like the pink plaid ones, because, because they are so lovable and so pink? Sometimes, I’ll hold them out of the rotation for days just so they are ready for you.

The ever-popular Pink Plaids.

I pick your sheets just for you. It’s crazy, but when I see a set roll out of the dryer, I think of you.

Some of those flannels are wearing thin. Some sets last a season, some have lasted for more than a decade (2003 was an exceptionally good year for ever-soft and resilient Wal-Mart flannels.)

Some sheets have been torn apart by our new “high efficiency” washer.

Tearing my sheets apart is not efficient, stupid Washing Machine.

So, I’ve cobbled together “new” sets with top and bottom sheets that sorta, kinda match. (If you get an unmatched set, I have decided that you are a thoughtful client who will appreciate, and maybe even be amused by, my thriftiness.)

Lately, I’ve told a few clients, “This is it. I’m not buying any more linens. When these fall apart, I’m closing up shop.”

I said it sort of jokingly, but I was surprised by the response.

One of my clients (Pink Plaids) was angry. “That’s a ridiculous thing to say.”

One of my clients (Extra-Soft Medium Blue) was startled. “Really? Really? When? What are you going to do?”

(My response: “Write about baseball.” Which requires going to games, eating popcorn, and heckling umpires. And, where “spin cycle” refers only to my explanations about why Jim Johnson’s series of blown saves last season only shows what a great pitcher he is all the other times. He really is. Please don’t trade him, Baltimore.)

OK, the linen thing was sort of a joke. But, maybe not. It seems as good a barometer as any. (OK, my elbow is probably a better barometer, but watching the linens fray away is more fun.)

A Sad Postscript … Thanksgiving Tragedy for Lime Green Cozy Flannels.

Even using “slow spin”, Inefficient Washing Machine tore the top sheet to shreds today. Shreds.