Tag Archives: mariners

gg!

Mariners 7, Athletics 3

And so we head into the All-Star Break and baseball takes a three-day holiday. For reasons I can’t really articulate, it feels like the whole world is going on holidays for the next little while; I woke up thinking about how odd it was that CBC’s morning programming was exactly like any other weekday. But, of course, it is exactly like any other weekday because it is any other weekday.

This was a good game. No, scratch that. It was a great game. How much did I love it? I loved it very much. I don’t want to go so far as to say it was the best game I’ve seen all year, but it was pretty damn close. I was watching this one on KSTW and on Fangraphs at the same time, as well as continually hitting refresh at USSM, and for some reason I felt much more connected to the game than I usually do when the game’s on TV. (Three different information sources at once will probably do that to you.) The see-saw back and forth, then the bases loading, then Ibanez’s bases-clearing double, and the brawl that followed… it was great baseball. No, scratch that too: It was great entertainment, a fun, wild, crazy game and a perfect way to spend a Sunday afternoon. The great performance by Ellison was just icing on the cake — I’ve hardly been one of Ellison’s bigger defenders, and frankly I doubt the club would miss him were he DFA’d, but it was a great day for him, and a pleasure to watch.

That’s not why I’m writing this, though, why I’m trying to record this so I remember it. This was the first game in a long time where I never really worried about the Mariners being able to win. Even after Seattle lost the lead, after Ellis singled and two guys scored on Beltre’s error, I somehow knew we were going to pull it out — because we’ve been pulling these out all season, and while we’ll always have screwed up plays and bad games, I felt somewhere inside of me that this wasn’t to be one of those bad games. And though I couldn’t have predicted how it was going to get pulled out of the fire, it was, and we won, and I was deliriously happy for the rest of the day.

It’s an interesting feeling. I haven’t felt that way about the Mariners since 2002, maybe 2003 if I’m feeling charitable. It is almost the exact opposite of what I felt on a regular basis last season — “we may be up by five runs in the bottom of the seventh, but don’t worry, they’ll find some way to fuck it up” — and the worst part was that feeling was confirmed more often than not. This season has been different. I went into it with the sense of impending doom, that it was going to be another losing season, another year of futility, another six months of watching the Mariners screw up and play bad baseball, and that hasn’t happened yet, in spite of the shitty trades and frankly awful performance from some players. Sure, there that pair of obnoxious six-game losing streaks, but the losing stopped, and there’s also been a couple of fairly long winning streaks, too. I no longer have this lingering fear that the bullpen will cough up a bunch of runs and turn a W into an L, though a lot of that has to do with Mateo being gone. I realize that I am now going into every game with the expectation that the Mariners will, if not win, then at least give the other team a very good run for their money, and that’s something I haven’t been able to say for at least four years, maybe five.

To be clear, there are still problems with this team. There are still 77 games left, and we have many questions about starting pitching and the vortex of suckitude they call Jose Vidro. But Adam Jones in Tacoma will help — this is a matter of when, not if, and sooner, rather than later — and probably help more than most think. And really, in spite of the problems that have, in all fairness, been there since the beginning of the season, they’re 13 games over .500, 2.5 back in the West, and unless the team collapses in some kind of dramatic and horrifying way… well, part of me thinks it may still be too early to think about that.

But we’re here, at the All-Star Break, and the team is still in contention. In no way are the Mariners out of it. After that last six-game losing streak I thought for sure we were toast, but then the Angles got swept by Kansas City (!) and we reeled off a host of wins, and suddenly we’re nipping at their heels with half a season left. The second half is going to matter, in a way that it hasn’t in a very long time, and I have a feeling it’s going to come down to those final weeks in September, and maybe particularly the double-header in Safeco… and when was the last time you could say that?

A second half that matters. A real penant race. Who’d have thought?

Siddown and shuddup

I came home early Monday morning after an eventful night that never seemed to end, only to fall into a fitful sleep punctuated by frequent phone calls from Scheduling. In between, I had my first baseball dream of the season. I don’t really remember what it was about, but I do remember waking up in the early afternoon with this strange, giddy feeling: Two hours to first pitch!

This was not a good winter to be a Mariners fan. The team made some dumb, dumb moves. I don’t want to re-hash them now. For the first time in a long time, I let my subscription to Baseball Prospectus lapse, didn’t buy the book, didn’t read the papers, didn’t entertain the notion of going to Arizona in February or March. Why would I? It was only going to depress me, and the team wasn’t going anywhere at all. I tried to tell myself that opening day was going to be just another day, a post-nights day, and that I’d pretend not to care — so that the inevitable collapse and impending season-of-doom (does Ichiro leave? does Sexson’s shoulder implode again? do Joses Vidro and Guillen stink up the joint? will Bloomquist get a starting job?) wouldn’t hurt as much as it might if I were with it from the very beginning.

And yet, there I was: 1535, glued to my XM receiver, listening to that asshole Rick Rizzs ramble on and on about the pre-game festivities. This is going to be a long, long summer.

Then Felix threw a strike.
Then he threw another one.
He’d go on to throw 75 more.

I listened to most of this game on the radio and saw some bits and pieces on TV and my god! every time Felix threw that ball I could feel shivers going up and down my back. Like it was some kind of history in the making. It wasn’t, of course, but as Dave says, there were only a handful of pitching performances in the AL last year that were better than the one we just saw.

Baseball’s a funny game. You think you’re OK without it, you think you don’t really need it, and then suddenly opening day is here, with your favorite team stepping in for the first time, and you think, “they’re gonna suck again this year, I’m not gonna pay attention.” And then some 20 year-old kid, the future of the franchise, puts up a line like this: 8 IP, 3 H, 0 R, 0 HR, 2 BB, 12 K.

And all you can think is, “Sweet Zombie Jesus the baseball gods know how to get my attention.”

Baseball’s back. I couldn’t be happier.

Sob story

I try not to get too worked up about sports. At the end of the day, stripped of all the money and glamour and marketing, it’s all just a game. Games are, in the words of one guy, supposed to be fun. Tom Boswell once said there was something missing in the six months outside the baseball season, and I think he’s right — the repetition, the regularity, the consistancy.. ah, you either know what I mean, or you don’t. I’m not going to go all George Will here.

“Fun” was the key. It was fun to go to games. We went to a pair of games last spring in Seattle and watched the Mariners get thumped both times by the Tigers. (I boldly predicted to K. that the Tigers were probably going to win the World Series, based on Chris Shelton and some crazy-assed pitching, and for the first time in my life predicting sports I was only half wrong.) It was fraking cold, the beer was expensive, the tickets were insanely expensive, and they’d hiked the price on the garlic fries since the last time I’d been there, but it was still fun. I didn’t mind. I was twelve feet away from Ichiro taking practice swings in the on-deck circle. What’s not to like? K., a non-baseball fan, had fun. We were talking about going to Opening Day 2007.

Things are different now. They started to change when the Mariners traded Rafael Soriano to Atlanta for Horacio Ramirez. This wasn’t an inexcusable deal, just a stupid one — Ramirez is a back-of-the-rotation guy, not someone who’s going to change the outcome of your season. You need to have guys like him in your rotation, but you don’t trade good bullpen guys for him (and then complain you have holes in your bullpen). Soriano has a bit of an injury problem and took a hellacious line drive off his head on 29 August this year, though he has been pitching well in winter ball. So I can understand why holding on to the flame-throwing kid may not necessarily have been the Mariners’ highest priority.

Then this happened.

This is inexcusable. We’ll set my man-crush on Chris Snelling aside and ignore Fruto, though I do love Chris and Emiliano Fruto has an awesome name. The Mariners got older and more expensive and worse. That’s never the right side of a trade to be on. Jose Vidro solves exactly 0 problems for the Mariners. The Mariners had many issues going into this off-season, none of which cried out for an aging, out-of-shape 2B from the National League, and certainly not at $16M over two years with an option for 2009. About the only nice thing I can say about this trade is that Jim Bowden isn’t the dumbest GM in baseball anymore.

I heard this and wanted to cry. It was the first time in years that baseball has moved me to such an emotion. Being a Mariners fan the past few years has been an exercise in futility — you know the team is never going to return to the giddy heights of 2001, and deep down you know they’re going to find some horrible way to screw it up. But there’s always been hope — that next year, they might figure it out, put it together, and win. Snelling was part of that hope. Fruto was part of that hope. At least, if they were going to suck, they weren’t going to suck and cost the team a lot of money.

Now, though, I’m left with this empty, hollow feeling. I don’t honestly believe this move makes the team better. There’s no way this trade makes any kind of sense for the Mariners. My team has committed to a player with declining skills who costs way too much money for far too much time at the expense of a pair of cheap players that could be effective — all in the name of solving a problem that isn’t that hard to fix in the first place (namely, finding a DH). I know Bill Bavasi’s job is in danger if he doesn’t Win Now!, but this is the kind of thing that (a) ensures you don’t Win Now!, and (b) ensures you don’t win Next Season, or the One After That Either.

I guess all I’m saying is that if my bloated body washes up in the Inner Harbor (or, given the way the wind is blowing now, somewhere around Port Angeles) with a note that says “Take that, Howard Lincoln!” stapled to it.. it’s a guy thing.

That about sums it up.

The Mariners have just finished being swept by every divisional rival in the AL West. They’re on an 11 game losing streak, with 19 straight losses against Texas, Oakland, and AnaheimLos Angeles, good for 10-32. To say I am displeased is a severe understatement, though I note that my observation from June seems to be eerily prescient, just in the opposite direction — I go away, they play excellent ball; I come home, they find new and imaginative ways to fuck up and lose.

I think this comment over at the definitive M’s blog kind of sums it up:

This team’s looking to arrive back in Seattle in about as good a shape as Le Grand Armée arriving back in Paris after the road-trip to Moscow.

When can we exile Hargrove to Elba? Soon? Please?

Whaa?

Seriously, I mean, huh?

Devil rays! IN YOUR FACE!!!

Not that I disagree with the sentiments or anything like that, but let’s be honest here — isn’t this a bit like picking on the handicapped kid in school? I’d think that being a Rays fan (or, worse still, a Devil Ray) is punishment enough without having Seattle fans get all sore winner-ish.

(Yay for sweeps, though. Woo!)

The time between meeting and finally leaving is sometimes called falling in love

Leaving Venice was a lot harder than I had anticipated. I’d fallen for the place, hard, and with the expectation of Rome ahead, I can’t really say I was looking forward to taking off. Rome was a bit of a challenge, if only because my paranoia had been turned up to 11 by every third word in my guidebook being “thief” or “pickpocket” or “involuntary vehicular manslaughter.” Not exactly an auspicious way to begin things, is it? Yeah, I didn’t think so, either.

As predicted, Rome was gruling. It was hot — hotter than I’ve ever been, anywhere, and I’ve been to the desert in the summer. It was like stepping off an airplane in Texas in the middle of August and trying to breathe mayo. Hot and humid, I saw thermometers reading above 34, and if I get home to discover that Europe was in the grip of a senior-citizen-killing heat wave, I totally won’t be shocked.

Rome was also awful. Every damn thing required effort. The people were unhelpful in a way that made me think malice had to be involved (but probably, on second reflection, wasn’t). Going anywhere required a lineup, and frequently a long lineup. K. and I spent 2:15 in line to see the Vatican Museum, all of it in the sun, and all of it surrounded by a couple thousand of our close, personal friends. Thank god for the shortcut at the end of the Sistine Chapel that leads directly into the Basillica; we might never have made it out of there alive otherwise. It was so hot that by the beginning of our third day, we’d had enough of our cheap apartment without air conditioning and splurged on a hotel room (which, in true Rome style, was way the hell out in the middle of nowhere).

To be sure, the ancient stuff is… ancient. Not being of Judeo-Christian extraction I can’t really comment on the movingness of the Sistine Chapel or of St. Peter’s Basillica, but I can appreciate (a) age and (b) aesthetic beauty. The Chapel, in particular, is fascinating because of the work that went into it, and, knowing a bit about how much of a pain in the ass it was for Michelangelo makes it a bit more special. The Vatican has a nice collection of art but much of it is junk; I was much happier in the Belvedere in Vienna with the Klimts and Schieles, though I will give Raphael props for his exquisitly decorated rooms.

Unfortunately the Sistine Chapel is a no-photo zone. Which is fine, because the ceiling is too far away to get a meaningfully good picture. And they enforce it with guards, too, which is apparently necessary because a lot of people out there seem to think the no-photo rule applies to everyone except them. While watching the flashes pop (I mean, really), I wondered how damn stupid you have to be in order to do something like that. It’s a little like trying to think about how stupid you’d have to be to try smoking in an airplane bathroom but I apparently flew home with that guy from Tokyo a couple years ago, so I dunno. Afterwards I amused myself while walking back to our apartment by mentally composing a Cory Doctorow-style rant about the Vatican’s no-photo policy and, weirdly, came out on the Vatican’s side. (Not that this means much, mind you; I find I’m almost always on the other side of an issue from Cory.) The best part is that the no-photo policy came out of an agreement the Vatican made with the company that restored the frescos, so it’s not like its their policy, either! (You can see why this made for such a lovely Cory-rant.)

And to make matters worse, the Vatican apparently believes you can appreciate the splendor and beauty of the place with a thousand or so other people. WRONG. The Chapel desperately needs some kind of queuing system, though I guess after 2:15 in a lineup outside to get in another line might drive people to riot. Too many people talking too much (provoking the ire of the guards, again) makes for a decidely weird experience.

The frescos themselves are great. Bright, vivid, everything I’d been lead to believe they were not. It’s amazing what a few centuries of candle soot will do to something; I’m told people who saw them, pre-restoration, gasped when they saw the restored images. I can believe it.

I don’t have a whole lot else to say about Rome. I didn’t enjoy it, though people whose opinions I trust and respect seem to have exactly the opposite to say about the place, so I’m prepared to give it a second chance. But in the middle of the summer, on this trip, I wasn’t sorry to leave and arrive in the Cinque Terre, Italy’s Riviera.

This place… words aren’t enough. Five cute towns in the hills overlooking the Ligurian Sea, with beautiful beaches, warm waters, amazingly awesome food… what else do you want to know? Damn Rick Steves’ oily hide for making this place more popular! Our first choice town, Vernazza, was full and we weren’t able to get a reservation, so we ended up in Riomaggiore, which is to the south; a bigger town, but a lot quieter, and with blessedly fewer tourists. Vernazza, the Rickster’s “crown jewel,” is indeed nice (we had dinner there last night and are going back tonight) but damn is it ever noisy around the station (thanks, Trenitalia!) and it was so jammed full of tourists today that K. was grateful we didn’t end up staying there. (All of them, incidentally, packing a copy of Europe Through The Back Door.) We’ve taken the train the last two days to Monterosso, the most resorty of the towns, to lie on the beach and play in the surf, and holy frijoles, have we ever needed it. This is a vacation. Yeah, bitchez. I’m coming back here, you hear me?

Tomorrow we begin a nine-hour train trip out of Italy into Provence, which will be interesting: After two and a half weeks of being disoriented and having to guess at signs in Turkish, German, and Italian (usually with pretty good success),we’ll be in a comprehensible land once more. Two nights in Arles are followed by four in Paris, and for the first time since I was last in Montreal, over a decade ago, I’m going to have to make use of my French skills. Yahoo! Let’s find out how bilingual I still am!

And, on a personal note, I’d like to cite something here that drives me bananas: 41-39, .513, 2 games back of first place. I go and leave the Mariners in a state of total uselessness, and suddenly they discover how to play baseball again? Geez. At this rate, I’m gonna have to move to Uganda before they win the World Series.