Baseball In The Daytime: 5-20-08

Back from a weekend hiatus in which Banky travelled to the Pro Football Hall of Fame (which is overrepresented by Chiefs and Steelers) and I went to a gay play manly ballgame with Cecil, we bring you another edition of Baseball In The Daytime. We're stuck with but the one contest this afternoon, and it's a Mets game no less. So after the jump we'll get into a few fun no-hitter morsels.

NY Mets @ Atlanta, 11:05 Mountain When I looked at the NL East prior to the season, I saw flaws in all of the teams. Florida has no money (they're in first place), Washington has no stars (accurate), Philly has no pitching (likewise), and Atlanta has a weird mix of elderly stars and low-upside prospects (pretty close). Los Mets, however, seemed to be stacked--they added Johan Santana to an above-average rotation, their lineup was loaded, and I still has faith in Willie Randolph.

Well, I was dead wrong. Santana has been effective but he's no panacea. Outside of today's starter John Maine (who's facing the Braves' Tom Glavine) the other starters have been atrocious (especially Oliver Perez). The bullpen can't hold a lead and the closer's a dick. And that vaunted offense has sputtered mightily. On those times I am forced to watch this wreck of a team, I find myself thinking that if you can retire David Wright you can pretty much sail through this lineup. It's basically a one-man batting order.

Lester No-Hits Royals It's nice to know that my personal no-hitter jinx has been exorcised. I watched the beginning of last night's KC-Boston game, left for dinner in the fourth, listened a bit on my way home, but only found out about Lester's bid in the ninth. I'm happy for the kid, happy for my own decision to stick with him on my fantasy team, and I'm blessed with a few leftovers this morning.

As Royals fan Rob Neyer pointed out (Insider required) on ESPN.com today, KC hadn't been no-hit since 1973. In fact, the last one (hurled by Nolan Ryan, his first of seven) occurred six days before I was born. This most recent no-no comes the same week I turn 35.

In that time, Neyer continues, the Royals have been one-hit a whopping 23 times, including once by current Red Sox pitching coach John Farrell.

I also find it remarkable that Jason Varitek has now caught four no-hitters in eight years, while Los Mets have been around since 1962 and have never had a pitcher record the feat (Ryan, Tom Seaver, David Cone and Dwight Gooden notched their hitless games after leaving Queens). So go get 'em, John Maine, and Play Ball! Read more

Monday Miscellany

Having had limited IntraWebs access for the last four days, I'm a bit behind with regard to the goings on of the world outside of the world. Or something. Either way, I've put together a few notes of interest that the more professional sports bloggers of the 'spheres likely already covered. Though they're far from breaking news, they're likely to inspire quotation bubbles full of random symbolism. Dig in.

Earl Campbell criticizes Cedric Benson.

Bryan Armen Graham covers 100 seasons of woe for the City of Brotherly Love.

Hockey ratings are way up.

A four-game stint between the Royals and Red Sox kicks off at Fenway in just a couple of hours. Probably not very exciting for the masses, but bet on Seven and I being tuned in. Each contest has interesting pitcher duals, the final contest pitting Brian Bannister against Dice-K. Suh-wing, batta', batta'.

Anna Kournikova is like, back or something.

Sports networks continue to enjoy putting hot chicks on the sidelines.

Another Humberto sighting?

Last week, two Dodger fans sitting next to one another caught foul balls on consecutive pitches, a probability calculated at 10,000 to 1 – or about the same odds that Andruw Jones will ever hit another home run.

(courtesy of eTrueSports)
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Stay Classy, Kansas City: Alberto Callaspo

It's back to the ball diamond with today's installment of "Stay Classy, Kansas City." For the refresh: We're dissecting class-act athletes, past or present, that have played for Kansas City -- future vote to be held -- sports teams. For the record: The Michael Strahan sack record was one of the gayest things I have ever witnessed in my entire life. And for the really interested: I challenge each and every reader (that doesn't write for this blog) to stack the comments with I-didn't-know-Kansas City-had taglines. The only difference, though, is that it's time to be creative. If one guy finishes the sentence with "professional sports teams," then it's off the board. Back to Guy Classy, though, just after the jump.

Old No. 7 informed me, a number of weeks ago, that Kansas City Royals infielder Alberto Callaspo had an interesting history. I was a little surprised, in that I thought he had an interesting future. Regarding what is to come, I haven't really seen enough of his glove-related skills, but I sincerely doubt that he can be a better fielder than Tony Pena, Jr. And now that TPJ has glasses (Editor's Note in Guinness-Commercial Voice: Brilliant!), he can do more with the bat than bunt. But whatever.

In his short-thus-far career in the majors, Callaspo has notched 58 hits, no homers and 16 RsBI. Nothing spectacular, but he's got a twinge of promise, I suppose. Either that or there is some correlation to the Arizona Diamondbacks unloading him and getting really good. Where there is no correlation is in how two people wed, procreate, then wind up in a predicament like the one detailed in this report. I mean, I'm sure there's some correlation somewhere, but sheesh.

According to the report, Paola told Phoenix police that Callaspo hit and kicked her during the altercation Thursday. But more chilling were the details she told police regarding incidents that occurred within the past four weeks.

Paola said that after an argument May 2, she struggled with a knife-wielding Callaspo, coming away with a half-inch cut on the right side of her face.

She also said that while at a hotel in San Francisco, where the Diamondbacks played the Giants from April 20-22, Callaspo struck her about three times on the side of her head with a fist. Their 17-month-old son, Igor, was sleeping, but Paola said he woke up when she began to scream. Paola told police that Callaspo "picked Igor up and threw him back onto the bed, causing Igor to strike his head on the headboard."

What I'd like to do is make jokes about Jerry Springer-sounding guests that name their kid Igor, but I just don't have the heart. Since the Callaspo-for-Billy Buckner trade, I've not come across any reporting on the Venezuelan's domestic tendencies, but I'd like to think that if Paola made the move to Kansas City, there's a little less brawling and fewer knives involved in their home life.
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Lone Reader Wedding Weekend Wrap: Take One

There's some sports material in here. I swear. But mostly, it'll be hodge-podgy, so feel free to move on. In sum, a select group of folks ranging from Maine to California to Zambia to Kansas City to Canadia all gathered this weekend to witness the House of Georges' adorable Lone Reader cash in his bachelor tokens for a life of beautiful wedded bliss (Editor's Note: Sucker.). Sources close to the ceremony weekend would assure that it was a good time. Unless you ask the kidneys and livers attached to those sources, that is. Translation: It is pure miracle that many aspects of this event were not wrecked and destroyed as most of the guests were ridiculously hammered for the entire four-day weekend. I know there was talk of going streaking. Whether or not it happened, I'm still unsure; I turned in around four a.m. most of the nights. My brain, however, survived, and actually absorbed a few facts. It promises to share a few of them after the jump.

(1) The Lone Reader's bachelor party started, odd as it may sound, at the NFL Hall of Fame. That was the meeting spot. I enjoyed myself there, and will likely touch on it once or 47 times as the week progresses. It was expensive, and didn't have tons of bells and whistles, but I thought it was pretty damn cool. I was blown away, however, at how many guys were not very impressed/disappointed by it. I'm not really sure what they were expecting...actually, I am: TLR wanted NFL cheerleaders selling giving away beer in each room. Immediately after our visit, we hit multiple liquor stores and spent roughly $400 on booze. Just to kick things off. And that doesn't include Friday night's keg, wedding reception alcohol, or the 80 bottles of Scotch rolling around the festival grounds all weekend.

(2) Liquor laws in Ohio are fucked up. The aforementioned purchase, we discovered at the register, could not be made with a credit card. Cash only. They gave us the legal "reasoning" behind that, but that's a brain cell that didn't make the flight home. In this purchase, no dark rum or vodka higher than 40-proof was included. Oh, it was desired; just not available. There's a total of one state-licensed liquor store in the entire county that sells vodka that doesn't freeze in the freezer, and rum that doesn't taste like seasoned urine. At the facility grounds, we walked around all weekend with booze in hand. I was seldom seen (wedding reception included) without a PBR can. We drank liquor in the lodge while checking in, cocktails on the ceremony grounds during the ceremony, and brought our own spirits to the catered reception that had boatloads of watered-down booze and Bud Light. Ugh. They let us bring our Scotch, our beer, and our Nalgenes full of concoctions into the recepation. They let us stash it behind the bar, and gladly served us our own booze on request. But not before carding us. Strictly and without fail, almost to the end. To me, that was like a Marine lieutenant asking the newly enlisted you if you're 18 just before he shoves you out of an airplane, but whatever.

(3) No matter what the journalists are saying that circulation/subscription numbers reveal, there are still some good newspapers out there. I did my duty everyday and brought an Ohio newspaper back to our cabin, and it was hungrily devoured. We learned lots from our print scribes over the weekend. For example, Cleveland Cavaliers fans exist, and somewhat cared about the team's playoff run. And Browns' coverage is pretty hard core, even in the off-season. And Indians' red-hot pitcher Cliff Lee is married. To a lady that can look hot (Editor's Note: Don't search. It only gets less flattering.).



So, yeah. We like papers, yes we do. We like papers...I thought I could do it, but threw up in my mouth a little bit instead. That's probably enough about this topic today, though. More tomorrow? Count on it.
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Stay Classy, Kansas City: Nick Lowery

Coming at our vast readership from the sticks in Ohio is another exciting installment of "Stay Classy, Kansas City." As we prepare for rehearsal-related material for The Lone Reader's day-away nuptials ceremony, it's really important to take sacred time with friends and family and throw it in the garbage so that one can editorialize about former athletes they despise. And that's just what I aim to do today. Thus far in the series we've talked about hookers-and-cocaine hockey defensemen, baseball manager tirades, and offensive linemen that like to ram spouses with vehicular modules. Today, after the jump, we stray, and visit an example of how to be a complete and total douche bag.

There are a million Nick Lowery stories to debate, this most recent one aside. Know what? I'm simply not interested in them. Why? 'Cause I fucking hate Nick Lowery.

Why? Well, that's a good question, as are most that one asks of oneself. Truthfully, I probably shouldn't hate him. But I do. I shouldn't because a lot of my animosity should be aimed at the front office and coaching staffs -- those of Lowery's tenure -- of the Kansas City Chiefs for all of the pain and suffering they put me through. That pain and suffering translates to this: this team, for most of my childhood and early adolescense, could not manage to accomplish a single thing beyond kicking field goals and losing football games.

So, it's not necessarily, for the point of this series, to assume that Lowery is not a classy guy. That wouldn't be fair. I'm just here to illustrate the fact that I think Lowery is the source of the motivation behind calling dudes "tools." And that's so because he always struck me as a smug prick, way before I knew what "smug" and "prick" meant. I'm aware of the fact that this anguish comes from seeing him immediately after endless failures to get in the end zone, year after year after year. But it wasn't like I'd not want to see him and he'd come out on the field and do something cool. He wouldn't.

Instead, he'd trot out there in that retarded single-bar helmet, that really didn't look cool on anyone. He'd stand there, leaning forwardish, and dangle his arms out in front of him, then reach up into that gay-ass helmet and pull on his moustache with both hands about 47 times before the ball was snapped. Then he'd drill the pigskin through the uprights, and offer himself an over-zealous fist pump. Oh. I forgot. Except when it fucking mattered, like, in important, threshold-of-the-season type scenarios. And then he sucked rotten lemons.

But yeah. Repeat that pattern for like forty-hundred seasons or so, throw in a zillion Chiefs and NFL records, blend it up, strain it into a glass, and whaddaya' have? A total dill hole, that's what. I suppose that, had the Chiefs, say won a couple of Super Bowls while Nick the Dick was on the payroll, I'd probably love the guy. But I don't. He can fall onto a pile of battery-acid soaked porcupines for all I care.

But oh well. At least it's 2008 and the Chiefs have abandoned the philosophy of losing lots of games they couldn't win by buckets full of field goal attempts. Christ.
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Baseball in the Daytime: 5-16-08

With 7 on route to the Front Range, and Colorado's stringent driving-whilst-blogging laws being what they are, it's up to this complimentary leg o' the Iron Triangle to step once more unto the breach, dear friends (that's Shakespeare!) So I present to the three of you, and whatever residents of Dubai and Sri Lanka are surfing for bikini porn, your fix of sunshine roundball.


It's the start of interleague play tonight, and there's only one intraleague (notice that? Inter- versus intra-? You won't get that kind of grammatical exactitude from your local sports section, kids) match on the schedule--and it just happens to feature my favorite squad, the baby bears from Chicago's north side, against the historically-dominant-but-now-just-barely mediocre Bucs of Suck City.

Pittsburgh @ Chicago Cubs 2:20 Eastern Standard Time

The Cubs are in the lead in a surprisingly good National League Central division, but we fans have been here before--like, not very often, but still. The home team is trotting out youngster Sean Patrick Gallagher, who you might be surprised is from Boston, and who also sports a shudder-making 6.48 ERA and 1.68 WHIP. Eek. Good thing I picked him up in our fantasy league this morning.

But I have faith that he'll at least have a shot at the win. The Cubs are currently hot, having won their last two and seven of their last 10, and they're facing the eminently beatable Tom Gorzelanny, who claims an uninspiring ERA of 5.97 and looks like Jeff Francis' dumbass older brother.

I see something of a slugfest brewing in this matchup--and if it does, hopefully it will feature multiple dongs from Geovany Soto, Aramis Ramirez and Nate McLouth. You can guess why I chose those three. Fantasy baseball has destroyed every last bit of my sense of right and wrong.

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Land of Linkin'

The House of Georges, where we say fuck the white wine.

That's not how we roll. We don't see color.

More links. Why not? There's a lot of chuckleworthy shit out there on that vast invisible playground of pornographers, Metal Gear enthusiasts and attention-starved teens. So let's to a bit of it...

Totally took it right off Deadspin's front page, so credit where it's due and all, but seriously--you'll see why. This is freakin' awesome.

Beloved, respected journalist, hero to underpaid grunts in newsrooms everywhere, justifiably loses his temper (headphones recommended).

That Pat Kirwan. Always coming up with a new idea. Next: a machine by which persons on opposite sides of a territory might communicate without use of messengers.

Have I ever linked this? If not, my mistake.

This alternately makes me sad and happy at once. Like alcohol.

Kudos the consistently good AOL Fanhouse for the link to this hilarious piece of homoeroticism. All the guy does is win. And make sweet love to other men.


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Baseball In The Daytime: 5-15-08

It's payday, so you're lucky you caught me early--by noon I'll be nipple deep in a glass of pinot grigio. I mean whiskey, damnit. No one around here drinks white whine, only brown liquor. In fact, make mine "whisky," without the "e," it's more frontiersman that way.

Rejoice, fellow drunkards, for there are nine, count 'em nine day games on tap today. They involve a wide spectrum of major league teams as well as the Kansas City Royals. And speaking of the Royals, Banky was kind enough yesterday to give us a clip from Hal McRae's infamous tirade. It's pretty good, and I like the fact that one of the reporters came out of it bleeding, but I have two major issues with Hal's rant. One is that all the curse words are bleeped out, and that is f***ing bulls***. The other is that Hal goes after a bunch of reporters. Everybody hates reporters anyway, except other reporters. Sportswriters are like lawyers or politicians or bloggers, the scum of the scum.

Which is why, in the comments, I linked to Lee Elia's postgame press conference from 1983. Now this is how you do it, folks (if you're at work or around children turn down the audio):

But I'm not simply trying to one-up Banky by posting a juicier clip. Lee Elia makes an important point:

That's the criteria of them dumb 15 motherfuckin' percent that come out to day baseball. The other 85 percent are earning a living.

That's us, friends! We are that 15 percent! The number is lower now, of course--even in these scary economic times less than 10 percent of the American workforce is unemployed. But even those of us with jobs can slack hard and enjoy day baseball with our laid-off, lazy and retarded brothers and sisters! Lee Elia is our patron saint, and his words give us hope and inspiration. PRINT IT.

Oakland @ Cleveland, 10:05 Mountain Somebody has to win the Central, and it may as well be the Cleveland Indians. Their superior pitching depth is starting to exert itself, and most think it will only be a matter of time until their lineup starts scoring more runs. Rookie Greg Smith is charged with holding back those bats today, while Aaron Laffey applies his humorous array of pitches to the Athletics.

LA Dodgers @ Milwaukee, 11:05 These two transplanted franchises meet today in what was once the parking lot of old County Stadium. It was 50 years ago this season that Walter O'Malley uprooted his Bums from Brooklyn and shipped them west to Los Angeles. And back in 1969, Major League Baseball granted an expansion franchise to Seattle, the Pilots. They lasted one year before they closed up shop and moved east to Milwaukee, where they became the property of a car salesman named Allan H. "Bud" Selig. I sincerely hope that this history is firmly planted in the minds of today's starting pitchers, Chad Billinsgley and Ben Sheets. Because those scouting reports they normally have to read are boring.

Toronto @ Minnesota, 11:10 Local media loves the hometown-boy-makes-good story, so I'm sure they are all over this Glen Perkins character. The Twins pitcher, who'll start today versus the Blue Jays, was born in St. Paul and matriculated at the University of Gopher Hockey. Does this mean he'll throw more strikes today? Or that the strikes he does manage to throw will be jacked off to by an adoring reporter from the Pioneer Press? You'll have to tune in to find out. Dustin McGown, from parts unknown, pitches for the Jays.

Washington @ NY Mets, 1:10 One of the things I like about baseball are the little rituals. Every player wears their pants and socks a little differently. Some guys won't step on the foul line between innings, and some guys will only eat chicken as a pregame meal. Mike Pelfrey used to wear a mouthguard, and between pitches he would spit that thing out, chew it from six different angles, and then suck it back in before dealing. I tell you, it was a disgusting spectacle, and it made me want to watch Mets games on the radio. But Pelfrey has ditched the mouthguard, because apparently the way he sucked it would indicate which pitch was coming. Wow. Jason Bergmann starts for the Nats, and he sucks in entirely different ways.

Pittsburgh @ St. Louis, 11:15 From New Busch comes this showdown between the Pirates and cards, represented on the mound by Ian Snell and Joel Piniero. Neither of these guys wear a mouthguard either.

Detroit @ Kansas City, 12:10 Head on down to Kauffman Stadium today, Kansas City residents. Parking is ample, and instead of paying for a bat in the lineup the team instead bought you a big ol' scoreboard. If the game is boring, I'm sure they'll show your favorite soap operas on that thing. Kenny Rogers and Gil Meche hope to hold off The Young And The Restless for the duration of the afternoon.

San Diego @ Chicago Cubs, 12:20 Greg Maddux is old, but I'm pretty sure he never played under Lee Elia. He did make his major league debut for the Cubbies, though, and today he returns to the Friendly Confines in search of career win No. 351. Ryan Dempster will try to prevent that from happening, but he's from Canada.

Houston @ San Francisco, 1:45 In the Bible, we read a story about a man named Sampson who lost his mighty powers when his hair was shorn. I'm pretty sure that story was true, because the Grateful Dead wrote a song about it. Today another Sampson, whose first name may or may not be Chris, tries to slay the mighty Giants and Tim Lincecum. I have no idea how long this Sampson's hair is, this ain't Us Magazine.

NY Yankees @ Tampa, 2:10 The Yankees finally manned up last night and put an end to the preposterous 11-game home winning streak the Bay Rays had been surfing. Tampa still sits alone in first in the AL East, and that's a sentence I have never typed before and may never type again. Little Ian Kenndey gets the call once again for the pitching-desperate Yankees, who would give anything for a Carl Pavano start right now. But who wouldn't? I'm more of a Scott Kazmir man myself, because he throws hard strikes from the port side of the boat when he's not suffering gruesome injuries.

Well, that's your schedule today, folks. I do have to say that I've never worked so hard, so get your ass to the tavern and Play Ball!
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Stay Classy, Kansas City: Hal McRae

This is "Stay Classy, Kansas City." The purpose of this promise-to-be-short-lived feature is to review some oopses and blunders, be they one single event, or a career of fumblage, of a variety of current and former athletes that have donned Kansas City uniforms. Once the series concludes, we'll publish a post reviewing all of the candidates, and throw up a cute little poll on the side bar in certainty that our readers will participate. At the completion of yesterday's installment, I forecasted some baseball for today's segment, and it is baseball I will deliver. Today we will, via the fabulous Tubes of You, review a timeless meltdown by a man who once roamed the outfields and the dugout benches of the Kansas City Royals. All the fun and goodness is just after the jump.


Mr. McRae spent his first four seasons in the bigs with the Cincinnati Reds that had Dick Sisler at the helm. He would then log 15 seasons with the Kansas City Royals, and finish his career as a player with three all-star appearances, a lifetime .290 batting average, a lifetime .454 as a slugger (including a 1982 Silver Slugger award for designated hitter), and over 2000 hits. He, along with Amos Otis, Willie Wilson, Frank White, and U.L. Washington remain fixtures of my childhood years as a Royals baseball fan.



In the early 90s, however, McRae put on a different Royals uniform, that of the skipper. The Royals' days in the sun had begun to fade, and personally, I had begun to focus much more intently on that other fictitious Kansas City franchise. Although only two of McRae's four seasons as manager went the full 162 games, he finished above .500 in three of them. Seven years later, however, he signed on as the main man for the Tampa Bay Devil Rays, where, he, uh, did not. His lifetime record as a manager wound up at 399-473, which isn't necessarily horrible, but his fifteen seconds of fame, perhaps are.

The only prelude I can offer to this clip would be something along the lines of, How in the flip would this guy handle media coverage today? Yikes.



And that's today's class act, gracious readers. We'll be back next week with more historical facts.
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We Are Hot Chicks Wednesday: Here's to the Lone Reader

Almost exactly a year ago, two-thirds of the Iron Triangle matriculated out to the City of Kansas to attend my wedding. While they traveled from the various locales of the Centennial State, a little guy we've come to know as the Lone Reader hiked south from Canadia. With him came his lovely fiancee, and tomorrow the wife and I will be loading our backpacks, and leaving on a jet plane to attend theirs. Now I've known this LR character for roughly 22 years, and he's carried many a bag along his path in life. He's also brought many a lovely lady back to the TLR love shack with him. While most escaped unscathed, none passed the life-partner litmus. None until now, anyway. After the jump, we'll have a look at a few of the specimens that never sought refuge beneath TLR's covers.

Daisy Marie



The Lone Reader has been known to have an affinity for brunettes. His future wife is one.



He has, however, never been a fan of zebra-striped sheets. Sorry, Daisy.

Irina Sheik



As kids, and rabid WWF fans, TLR and I grappled on many occasion.



He'd be Jimmy "Superfly" Snuka, and I'd be Don "The Rock" Muracco.



Only on rare occasions would we opt for the Iron Sheik, spelling doom for one another with the threat of the Camel Clutch. If I had it to do over, I'd leave TLR out and mount this sheik's camel. Ooo. Yeah. I went there.

Veronica Verakova



Though TLR lives very near a beach,



that's attached to water of course,



I doubt there will be any shoreside bonding sessions with Veronica. Or anybody besides the Misses.

Victoria Valmer



Like many men, TLR has always struggled with whether he's an "ass" man,



or a "boob" man. My vote is that he's a boob and an ass before he's a man. Zing.

Christine



Many a blonde has crossed paths with TLR.



And many a one-named woman as well. Lucky for him, his days of paying for talent like that are over.



At least one would presume they are. After tomorrow night, maybe.

Francine Dee



If the man about to be wed has made it thus far without some Asian variety, I'd be surprised. But I'd check his bedpost first.

Ashlynn Brooke



In a recent interview with yours truly, Miss Brooke said she had a couple of gifts for TLR. I told her to send them my way; I'd be sure to pass them along.

Erica Campbell



Erica Campbell will actually be helping with the festivities. She's in charge of hair,



jewelry,



wardrobe, and,



uh, decor or something.

Megan Jones



Megan Jones wanted to sing "Happy Birthday, Mr. President" on the big day.



I didn't have the heart to tell her how far off she was.

Laetitia Casta



Miss Casta had a few honeymoon suggestions for the groom-to-be.



When I told her that she'd have to run it by the wife-to-be,



she wasn't very pleased.



In fact, she went to sulk in a corner. It's not too late to bail out, dude!

Kathy Lee



The Lone Reader wasn't very pleased when I told him that Kathy Lee might make the journey.



Well, until I said, "not that one, dude."

Zdenka Podkapova



In other news of the displeased, Zdenka voiced her frustrations with missing an opportunity to "get to know the guy."



When I told her that his fantasy was an evening in the sack with Roger Goodell and LeBron James, however, she couldn't have run away any faster.

(There's the weekly fix, y'all. It was all made possible by Gorilla Mask and Daily Niner, as usual.)
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Baseball In The Daytime: 5-14-08

We're going to stretch it out a bit today, like a long reliever who's getting shelled that the manager just leaves in. Takin' one for the team. Savin' the 'pen. Eatin' up the innin's. Please, just stop with the colloquialisms.

After the jump, along with the usual day baseball schedule, we'll take a peek inside the Kansas City Royals at (roughly) the quarter pole of the season.

Seattle @ Texas, 12:05 Mountain The Ballpark at Arlington is your venue for this not-so-thrilling clash of AL West foes. This is The House That W Built--back when his hobby was "owning" the Rangers with other people's money, our current president assembled baseball's juiciest club (here's the '93 roster) and a bandbox to go with it. Today, free of the cream and the clear, these Rangers go with the bad pitching and the bad hitting. Feldman starts today against the Mariners' Carlos Silva. Feldman!

Boston @ Baltimore, 1:05 This brief, annoying little two-game series concludes at Camden Yards with a duel of young starters. Jon Lester is your Soxer dealing from the left side, while Daniel Cabrera is your Oriole from the right. Let's play Crossfire! Boston's mini-swoon continued last night as Josh Beckett was uncharacteristically hittable and Manny Ramirez grounded weakly to the pitcher with the bases loaded and nobody out. On the plus side, my softball team rolled once again, so cash in those parlay tickets, kids.

Fun With Numbers, Royals Edition Operation Cellar Evacuation is complete, at least for now, as KC has relegated once-mighty Detroit to the AL Central basement. The Royals are not a lousy club, but they've certainly cooled off from their hot start. Can they sustain this pleasant mediocrity? Maybe.

The pitching continues to be a bright spot, particularly the bullpen. Royal relievers have posted a 3.81 ERA, which is good for 8th in the league. The 105 strikeouts from the pen is third best in the AL, but unfortunately that total represents 41 per cent of the staff's 255 K. They need more swings and misses from the starters.

Even though those starters' ERA is 10th in the league (4.53), new manager Trey Hillman is allowing his young arms to go fairly deep into games (just over 6 innings a start, comparable with the AL's elite teams). Overall, the Royals have the makings of a nice staff, but longer starts and a shutdown bullpen aren't much of a weapon if you don't score runs.

The Kansas City Offense has been dreadful. The boys in blue are last in runs (3.6 a game) and home runs (a dreadful 19) and 12th in the AL in both on-base (.314) and slugging (.362) percentages.

I've said it before and I'll say it again, the cure for all of these problems is but a Dayton Moore phone call away--Barry Bonds. But the requisite balls to make such a call seem to be in short supply, so it's theoretically possible to trade for a stick or two--you could always take on Richie Sexson's enormous salary. Last year's No. 1 pick, shortstop Mike Moustakas, is languishing in A ball and there's little batting help on the horizon in the farm system.

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Tuesday ThumbTubes And YouNails

We now bring you live to another installment of ThumbTubes and YouNails, where we do absolutely nothing but post video clips, links, and photos that are occasionally complemented with colorless commentary and unimportant opinions. While we typically scour the Net for material related to the rough focus of this blog, it's never beyond us to include something random, distasteful, or completely disassociated with the sporting world. Join us after the jump.

We haven't checked in with our boy Rany in some time, but having done so mere moments ago, it's possible that we may need to expand upon the WalkOffWalk Watch, a Baseball in the Daytime in-post feature that lives and dies at random intervals each week. We would also like to suggest that Rany reconsider his sub-headline regarding Tony Pena, Jr., and perhaps examine his since-switching-to-glasses batting statistics.

While everyone's busy freaking out over LeBron James' "no regard for human life" (commentator Kevin Harlan) dunk, or Bron Bron telling his mom to sit down as she tries to give Kevin Garnett and Paul Pierce a piece of her mind, I prefer to look at what James does more often than dunk/scold mom: travel.



The clip's old, but his non-dribbling skills have been on display this post-season as well. Or so I'm told. One of many (obvious) reasons why the NBA has become less and less appealing over the years.

The wily fellas at Kissing Suzy Kolber have offered another installment of their hilarious feature "Ask Jay Cutler." The series takes mailed-in questions from readers, and Cutler exerts endless amounts of time answering their questions with heartfelt answers, like this one:

I followed with great interest the recent news that you had been diagnosed with Type 1 Diabetes. I myself suffer from the same condition. I’m on a fixed income so dealing with it is a real challenge. I spend about $115 a month on insulin and that accounts for about 15 percent of my income. Sometimes I have to cut my dosage from week to week to make sure I make it to the next paycheck. I know the risks, but it’s something I’ve learned to monitor and live with. Certainly someone of your status has been exposed to effective strategies and low-cost programs for dealing with the disorder. Any help would be greatly appreciated. And Go Broncos!

-Struggling with diabeing

(Cutler's response):Get more money.

In an effort to perhaps touch the warm fuzzies of the blanche feverpisses of the world, Bugs and Cranks published this post in which Orlando Cabrera talks about how awesome being on the payroll for Los Californaheim is. And apparently the Halos' manager is a pretty bright cat.

With all due respect to the other big league managers, Mike Scioscia is the smartest guy in the big leagues right now,” Cabrera said. “Any team you give to him, he’ll turn it into a team that wins a lot of games. He teaches you how to outsmart your opponent.

Sources tell us that Scioscia also: pours a mean glass of lemonade; dominates a chessboard; always has cookies and pie on hand; is a closet Dodgers fan.

Sticking with baseball and the teams of guys that frequent this site, here are a couple dudes enacting Boston Red Stocking batting stances.



And here are some pinstripes impersonations.



And the Baby Bears.



Those guys are, uh, pretty funny. I trust the Royals batting stances will be up within mere hours.

In all things NFL-related, we haven't enjoyed a good poke at the brothers Manning in some time here on the House of Georges. Somebody has, though.



And of course we must have something hockey-related. This post from Big Daddy Balls is pretty spot on. I find it hilarious for a lot of reasons. Primarily, NHL '94 on the Sega Genesis is the game that got me going on video hockey. And apparently, I was in the majority as my team was the Blackhawks. And I would get schooled over and over again by BDD's Mogilny move. It used to piss me off to no end.

When I got a Play Station though, I figured out the move for NHL '98, one in which on a fast break, you could skate down through the faceoff circle (skater's forehand side), cut back and skate along the outline of the crease, and almost always dump a wrist shot in the net. It was sweet revenge that I wreaked on many a guiltless party. Either way, the post is sweet, and the comments are, for the most part, pretty entertaining, too.
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Tradition Tuesday: Scoping the Choncosphere: 5-13-2008

Sometime around the turn of the millenium, we started The Tradition. Cecil and Old No. 7, ever-basking in the orange sunsets of John Elway and back-to-back championships make an annual pilgrimage out to the Truman Sports Complex to view their Broncos at One Arrowhead Drive, and I, often hopeful of a red-and-gold Lombardi day, meander out to the Rocky Mountains to watch the Chiefs play football at Invesco Field at Mile High Stadium. We mainline spirits in the form of Pabst Blue Ribbon, consume smoked meats in Last Supper fashion, and run our mouth to just about anyone that will listen. Occasionally we invite the wives, and we almost always watch the visiting team lose. It's a grand old time.

Here at the HoG, we're going to keep The Tradition going with Tradition Tuesday--a weekly state-of-the-rivalry address.

The wife and I had our one-year anniversary yesterday. Not only was I suckered into a pre-anniversary, Bed-and-Breakfast-style weekend getaway, I somehow agreed to a nice evening of tapas, smashed-grape beverages, and gift exchanges on the evening of. It was something. Today, however, I've sent her back into the work force, and re-affirmed her non-existent beliefs that pounding on a keyboard in the basement will someday translate to all the mixed nuts we can eat, and a life of blissful joy thereafter. Me one, wife zero.

For the briefest of moments last night, though, I convinced my wife to pop into the venue that boasts the worst name in restaurant history, otherwise known as Jared Allen's Sports Arena & Grill. I'm fairly certain that all six people at the bar, besides us, were employees, and upon questioning, our lovely bartender told us that Mondays are always slow, and, not to worry, business is still good. (Editor's Note: I heard from two different sources this morning that it's slated to close this week.) During our lengthy 16-minute stay in the building, I enjoyed a Sierra Nevada Pale Ale, while the wife consumed a nine-dollar, 164-ounce concoction called "The Punter." It contains Smirnoff Lime, strawberry vodka, triple sec, cranberry juice, sour mix, and Sprite. The vessel in which this drink -- which, by the way, I have a hunch that "punter" was meant to be interpreted as "pussy" -- is served is akin to an oak barrel in volume, and might as well come with a tap on the side, so as to make for spout flowage straight into the gullet. And then we left.

Other noted specialties on the drink menu, however, include the "Any Given Sunday," the "Dirty Bird," "Jared Juice," the "Bronco Buster" (Smirnoff Blueberry, Three Olives Grape, DeKuyper Island Blue Pucker, sour mix, and Sprite), the "Sea of Red," the "Packer Attacker," and the "Raider Hater." Then, in case the number of nifty-named drinks aided in some memory lapse, the theme of the evening is printed on the back: "Wine 'em, dine 'em, 69 'em." The place totally rocks the Casbah. And by "Casbah," I mean nunnery. Because this stuff is too good to pass up, I'll list some regular-menu items, too. In the "First Down" category, there's "Gunny's Nachos," "Boomer's Boomers," "Swing Batta-Batta Sticks," "Head-first Sliders," and my personal favorite "'Broncos Line is Soft'-Pretzels."

If a diner's in the mood for light fare, he or she can select from the "Training Camp" section. Among others, it offers a "Caesar Chavez," a "Protect This House Salad," and a "Fiesta Bowl." Anyone craving poultry can opt for something from "Mangino's Big Chicken Breasts." A few selections there include: "Fried-ay Night Lighs" -- chicken tenders -- "The Italian Job," and another gratuitous kicker shot in the form of "Colquitt Chicken." Over in "D.T.'s Deli," options range from the "Wrigley Field Reuben" to the "Allentown Pork Tenderloin" to the sundry "Bring it to the House Hoagies." Other amazing category names include "Dick's Dogs," "Pop-Warner League," and "Post-Game Party."

I'll just say that if the person behind that verbage is still alive, it is a cryin', freaking shame.

Elsewhere in Traditon-related news, though, the non-soft line of the Denver Broncos likes cocaine, but not enough to take ownership over it. Shocker.

The boys over at Bronco Talk have a couple of clips I can't seem to embed. But check them out. There's some great footage of the wirier, less-tanned Rat speaking to the media.

And apparently, Rat, Jr.'s sister went to college with Jenna Bush, or something like that.

Chris over at Arrowhead Pride has a good piece on new Chiefs tackle Ken Shackleford. That's a pretty great name. I mean it's no Kory Lichtensteiger, but pretty close.

Matt over at Broncos Gab worked really hard to put together this post about Horse-Faced Colts Draft and The Great One going into business together again. Professional Bull Riders Tour? Really?

Chris at KC Chiefs Fanatic also has a clip I can't embed. It's a highlight reel of Chiefs' new safety, DaJuan Morgan. Morgan comes to Kansas City from North Carolina State, and was the Chiefs' third third-round pick in last month's draft. Kid looks pretty good.

Predominantly Orange is, uh, still there.

And finally, Jonathan Rand has some thoughts on our good ol' AFC West over at Chiefs.com.

That's it for this week. Be sure to stop in to Jared Allen's joint before it closes. I hear a glass of "Playoff Juice" goes real well with the "Rock Chalk Pork Chops." Good times. Good eats. Awful Names.
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Stay Classy, Kansas City: Victor Riley

Time now for episode two of "Stay Classy, Kansas City," where we play around with PhotoShop and dig around for dirt -- like the low-life blogsters that we are --on current and former professional athletes that have played for Kansas City franchises. We kicked off this feature yesterday with a look at former NHL tough guy Steve Durbano, an interesting character to say the least. Today's subject is former NFL tackle Victor Riley. Let's learn about him in a sourceless trashing, likely full of fabrications and allegations, just after the jump.

Back when the Kansas City Chiefs' front office knew next to nothing about draft picks, also known as the late 90s/early 2000s, they carelessly dropped a 1998 first-round (27th overall) pick on a guy out of Auburn known as Victor Riley. The 6'5" 300-pound+ big man would start 47 games for the Chiefs in his first three seasons in the league. As the Dick Vermeil era began, however, he would only log five starts in 2001, before shipping out for all of the pleasantries New Orleans had to offer. He'd spend three seasons in the French Quarter, then head west to Houston where he started a whopping eight games before calling it a career.

And that, folks, is how you scout talent, and pay said talent lots of money to play for your team. Eight seasons and done. Now, as we all know, the position of professional offensive lineman is a quirky one. Only in the last decade or so have running backs made noteworthy efforts of giving credit to the guys that block for them, and quarterbacks seldom seem to touch on the issue. Thus, the measuring stick for these guys comes in some strange combination of starts and Pro Bowl berths, with a little examination of team sacks allowed, and maybe even fumbles recovered. Thus, if a guy drums up 10 solid seasons as a starter, he was good. Riley did not. I won't go so far as to say that he was bad, but suffice it to say that he was no pillar of the right-tackle community. When the Chiefs released him, they were molding one of the greatest O-lines to ever take the field. When the Saints, who've almost never been good, had run him around the block a few times and decided to part ways, that's saying something. Then, if a guy can't hold a job as an O-line starter for the Houston Texans, methinks retirement might be an option. I mean, just ask this guy.

But I didn't come here to preach QB protection or running-game blocking schemes. I came here to point out one thing, and one thing only.

Kansas City offensive tackle Victor Riley Arrested for Ramming His Vehicle Several Times into Another Vehicle Occupied by his Wife and Infant Daughter

Victor Riley turned himself into police Friday morning on charges that he rammed his vehicle several times into another vehicle occupied by his wife and their infant daughter. The 26-year-old Riley was charged in Johnson County District Court with felony counts of aggravated assault, criminal damage to property, misdemeanor child endangerment and for leaving the scene of an accident. The above mentioned charges stem from a dispute on May 23rd in the Kansas City suburb of Overland Park, where Riley lives. Riley was released after posting $50,000 bond and is scheduled to appear in court on Tuesday. Riley's attorney, Kevin Regan, couldn't be reached for comment. Kansas City Chiefs general manager Carl Peterson released a statement saying that the team had only recently learned of the situation and had offered the Rileys the assistance of the team's player development program.

(courtesy of Buzzle.com)

The incident caused Riley to face the get-tough discipline of NFL commissioner Paul Tagliabue, who suspended Riley for a whole game as a result of that incident. "The league took one game from me and a one-game paycheck," complained the 350-pound lineman at the time.

(courtesy of The Boston Phoenix)

Hey. Nice work, Tags. Way to "get tough." I'd much rather have seen Gestapo Goodell, as our coveted Lone Reader likes to call him, rule over that one with his fist of iron. Anyway, I know this is a six-year-old issue, and Riley has probably served a penance, and been forgiven, but seriously. Repeatedly ramming a car with another car? A car that has your wife and baby in it? Jesus, dude. What gives?

And that's today's feature, kids. Tune in tomorrow and we'll examine a class act from the diamond.
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Stay Classy, Kansas City: Steve Durbano

Over the course of the last three and-a-half decades, there've been a lot of professional sports played in a lot of cities across the country. Naturally, this means that a lot of people have been involved in organizing, officiating, playing in, and keeping score of tons of contests. This mix of people opens the door to countless personalities all tied together by a common bond: the love of the game. Therefore, we're going to launch a little feature here, wherein we run down a list of interesting guys that have, at one time or another, collected a paycheck from a professional sports franchise in Kansas City. Why? Because a) that opens the door for lots of Hey-I-didn't-know-Kansas-City-had-professional-sports cracks, and we can never have enough of those; b) sources affiliated with the House of Georges are semi-familiar with KC; and c) we're a blog, thus it's in our contracts to overload our pages with mean-spirited potshots and sophomoric attempts to look like professional sports reporters. The intention of this grand scheme will be to run a blip on a sports figure a day, then we'll re-cap, and everyone can vote. Sound fun? Great. Jump ahead.

Steve "Demolition Durby" Durbano

Although tough-guy defenseman Steve Durbano wore the sweaters of the New York Rangers (13th overall pick in the 1971 NHL Draft), St. Louis Blues, Pittsburgh Penguins, and Colorado Rockies. In between stints with Pittsburgh and Colorado, he donned the blue, red, and gold of the Kansas City Scouts for a portion of the 1975-76 season, a campaign in which he logged an impressive, league-leading 370 penalty minutes.



Durbano moved on from the NHL, playing some minor league hockey before retiring in the late 70s with some 1411 PIMs. His life, however, would only get nuttier off the ice. In 1983, he was busted trying to smuggle roughly $550,000 worth of cocaine into Canada, an act for which he was granted seven years in the can.

Buried in a snowdrift of cocaine, yet drugs were not the worst of his problems. Cocaine didn't make Durbano crazy, although the last thing he needed was that extra jolt of aggression. This man seethed with rage, with violence, with malice. His own teammates feared him. Once, after he'd disappeared from the bench with 59 seconds left in a game ---- simply took off, peeved over his low ice-time ---- he was only permitted back on to the squad after the other players took a vote. What shocked is that a majority of teammates had given him a second chance. Perhaps they were afraid of what he'd do to them if they didn't...

...In 1998, the spectacularly inept Durbano had been sentenced to three months in jail on a charge of procurement. In other words, he was a pimp. He'd attempted to hire a woman ---- she was actually an undercover police officer ---- to work as a prostitute for the escort service he was running out of a Welland hotel room...

...Prison was familiar to Durbano. He'd spent 28 months in the slammer in the previous decade ---- one-third of the seven-year sentence he'd received upon conviction for trying to smuggle $568,000 worth of cocaine into Canada. He'd been employed as a bartender back then. That was in '83, just three years after his retirement. Between the coke bust and the hookers, Durbano had also been arresting for shoplifting five shirts from a men's clothing store. At his arrest, he had $12 in his pocket and claimed to be living on welfare.

(Courtesy of Boxing Scene.com, who attributes this to an obituary in The Toronto Star)

The following clip is a swell blend of Durbano fights, or attempts rather, that occurred while he was collecting a check as a professional athlete.



My favorite part is where the announcer says, "a bench-clearing brawl, something the WHA has grown accustomed to as the league slowly destroys itself.." Well, that and the fact that he cheap shots Bobby Hull. Apparently, Durbano once nabbed Hull's toupee and launched it into a crowd.

Durbano is said to have suffered from alcoholism for most of his adult life, and he died of liver cancer in 2002, having lived in the Northwest Territories for some time.


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