October Baseball In The Daytime: Rockies-Phillies Game 2

Before we get into a breakdown of today's contest at Citizen's Bank Park, I have a few thoughts about Lou Piniella, the Cubs' loss and pitch counts.

First of all, I wasn't watching that game really closely. It was getting late, I had already seen two awesome games, and I was kind of multi-tasking with TBS in the background. It was very hard for me to take a baseball game announced by Dick Stockton seriously. So I have no idea if Big Z was struggling at all before Piniella pulled him. I just remember looking up and thinking it was odd that Chicago's ace was lounging in the dugout during the seventh inning of a 1-1 game.

And now, everyone's pissed off about it. Rightfully so. Yanking Zambrano after 85 pitches to save him for Game Four in that situation is dumb as shit. Only thing is, I don't think that's why Lou made the move. Carlos Marmol has been fantastic lately, and he was obviously fresher at that point than Big Z. I think it was a calculated move to get his best pitcher for that spot in the game on the mound. Of course Zambrano could have pitched another inning or two, but why sit around waiting for him to tire and/or implode?

Of course, if Marmol did his job this would all be a moot point and the Jay Marriottis of the world would be singing Lou's praises. The thing that raises the most eyebrows is the Game Four Excuse, which I think is a total B.S. job by the manager. It's a smokescreen to draw attention from the fact that Lou (rightfully) does not have full faith in his top pitcher.

And the way that casual fans and commentators throw around pitch counts is ludicrous. Baseball is all about numbers, and certain statistical plateaus. Over the last century and a half, something like a .300 batting average becomes entrenched. If you're above it consistently, you're a great hitter. There is some validity in talking about 100 RBIs in a season, or 300 wins in a career, because those levels represent meaningful achievements that happen to coincide with nice round numbers. They've been around a while and they've stood the test of time.

Enter pitch counts, a stat that debuted in the general baseball lexicon in the last decade. We treat 100 pitches as some sacred number, with no relation to the arm that has delivered them. 100 pitches for Nolan Ryan is way different than 100 pitches for Mark Prior. Everyone loses it when Big Z hits the showers after 85, but if he was at 115, everyone would have lost it had he been allowed to pitch the seventh. Fuck pitch counts--they should be a tool for organizations to monitor players, not dime-store analysts to second-guess strategic decisions.

Does it all matter? Sure, but it's not like the Cubs and their inconsistent offense had much of a shot against Brandon Webb anyway. They simply need Ted Lilly to save their season tonight, which may be almost as preposterous as it sounds.

Back to Philly, where those same casual baseball fans and media types will be baffled by today's pitching matchup. Franklin Morales is your Colorado starter, while Kyle Kendrick is slated to throw for the Phils. Who? I'll tell you who. Morales is the flamethrowing lefty that spent most of the year in Triple-A before heading up I-25 to the big club in August. The Rockies didn't really want to lean on him, but injuries to Aaron Cook and Rodrigo Lopez forced their hand. He's been fairly excellent since.

Kendrick has a few months more experience, but has followed a reasonably similar arc with his club. The Phillies found themselves minus Freddie Garcia midseason and young Kendrick saved their bacon for a while. He definitely sputtered a bit in early August, but he's excelled down the stretch and stands at 10-4 on the year. He's a perfect pitcher for this team, as he eats innings and rarely gets lit, and the sticks do the rest.

Our first pitch will once again occur at one o'clock Mountain on the Turner Broadcasting System and XM 183. One note to Major League Baseball: Fuck You. I paid for a subscription to MLB.TV in April to watch day games in the office, but you're charging extra for the playoffs? Eat a dick. Eat a bucket full of dicks. I'll simply roll to a bar and drink my lunch again. No choice.

And finally, let's talk more about conspiracies, cheating and Colorado teams that can't just win clean. Courtesy of the always-intrepid Buster Olney, here's an interview with the umpire that called Matt Holliday safe on Monday (my favorite part is the last paragraph, where he admits to being somewhat of a drunk). And here's some blatant rumormongering concerning Rockies closer Manny Corpas, who some suspect was doctoring baseballs in Wednesday's win. And I'm sure they steal signs, and distribute HGH openly in their clubhouse, and Clint Hurdle was probably on the Viagra when he banged that hooker in his Philadelphia hotel room last night. Cheers!
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Last Call

The big talking point around the sports blog-o'-hood today is the lawsuit filed by Josh Hancock's dad. I'd imagine that 98 per cent of intelligent people think this lawsuit is bullshit and indicative of all that is wrong with overly litigious America.

That's a perfectly reasonable position. I was (unfortunately) listening to Colin Cowherd this morning, and he did what he often does: make a salient point that I reluctantly agree with. Cowherd called Old Man Hancock out as a man and as a dad, stating that the restaurant and the tow truck company did not force the pitcher to get loaded, speed and talk on his cell with pot in the car two days after he'd wrecked another ride.

(You see, Colin? That's called attribution. When someone else has an idea you can use it, but you need to give credit to the author. It's not that hard.)

I personally think that Old Man Hancock is missing the boat, not in his frivolous lawsuit but its target. Let the tow truck company and the restaurant alone, grumpy, and go after the real villain here: Missouri.

Those who have not traveled to the Show-Me State and sampled its wares may not know this, but Missouri's bars are open until forever. Sometimes they close at three, and sometimes seven, and sometimes never. It's very confusing, especially when you're plastered, tired from driving across Kansas, and stubbornly defending the greatness of Colorado. I tend to get really wasted and disoriented in Missouri, and it is totally not my fault. That fucking state and its mesmerizing alcohol laws will completely knock you on your ass.

Plus, most of the chicks there are fat. And there are a bunch of broken-down cars on the side of the interstate. And the humidity blows. I conclude that all of these problems are directly attributable to the mysterious last call policy.

So what I'm saying is, Josh Hancock's dad, you're barking up the wrong tree. Sue Missouri, and preferably every single citizen in a class action. It's their fault.

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You Know You Make Me Want To Shout

Greetings again, boys and, uh, boys. Today we are once again live and rockin' in Kansas City, on the HoG's first-ever staff field trip. Seeing as how the Weekend Correspondent is in an alcohol-induced coma and Bankmeister is fixin' to honeymoon, you and I are going to be seeing an awful lot of each other over the next week. Let's establish the ground rules: you don't like me, and I do not like you. Settled.

Without question, the greatest thing about sports and being a fan is that you have something to talk about with other guys. Were it not for this fact, men would never have conversations, with anyone, at any time. Sports gives us an avenue for actual discourse with any stranger.

Face it: small talk blows. If I were forced to talk to you in a social setting, the details of your job would bore me to tears in approximately one second. Don't be offended, my job is just as tedious and awful. Work sucks, and talking about it when you're not at work sucks one hundred per cent more. I wouldn't care if you were a covert special agent for a mercenary assasin squad full of lethal strippers, after about a minute I'd prefer a hollow point bullet to the temple over your job-related war stories.

Family & kids? Please reload and fire again. Your wife is exactly the same as mine. They don't understand us and they shop a lot. Your children suck at most everything they try and they are not well-behaved. If you regale me with stories about them it only makes me hate them, and hate you.

While these bullshit details about our lives are horrible conversation, sports make it easy. I can and do spend hours babbling with complete strangers about early entries in the NBA draft, Double-A baseball and the kind of trim that bench players pull. And football. Always football. Even most gay men I've met can carry on a minute or two about the NFL.

That's why, if you are a guy and you don't like sports, you are the lowest life form possible. I'd rather deal with pedophiles than the guy who says "I'm not that into sports." What? Why do you even leave the house? These "men" sicken and disgust me, in that they make my day to day life more difficult. Because I'm lazy and I like things easy.

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This Is a Test of the Emergency-Index-Finger System

Two of America's favorite (and by favorite I mean elite, all-time winning homos to coach at redneck, raping universities) were "surprisingly" eliminated in the first round of yesterday's NCAA hoops tourney. Texas Tech head coach Bob Knight and his Red Raiders squad fell victim to the high-scoring, #7 seed Boston College (84-75) in the East Regional, while in the West, Mike Krzyzewski's Duke Blue Devils allowed Virginia Commonwealth's Eric Maynor to nail a 15-foot jumper with less than two ticks on the clock, sealing the Dukies' fate 79-77.

Al Skinner, BC head coach and brother of FBI Assistant Director Joel, said he felt confident about his team's composure from the beginning.

"I told our guys to stay relaxed," Skinner said "and reassured them that, if they didn't, I'd rufie someone random and give them a drugged-up version of a Knight/Michael Hutchence choking they wouldn't soon forget." Skinner said that his pre-game pep talk resulted in some soiled jocks in the locker room, an adverse effect he overcame by telling his squad "he was just bullshittin'."

The VCU Rams club, notching its first tournament victory since a 1985 win over "We Are Marshall", celebrated into the wee hours of the Columbus morning. Anthony Grant, in his debut season as Rams HNIC, took his players to the Gentlemen's Spot where members of the players' entourage mimicked Pacman Jones' weatherman, causing the clouds of dinero to open up like a Seattle afternoon. Rams' senior guard Jesse Pellot-Rossa told teammates in the Spot's V.I.P. Room that he "couldn't wait to get to San Anton', where (he) gon' pound some Texas pussy Duke LaCrosse style."

The Rams' next opponent comes in the form of the not-so-lady Volunteers of Tennessee that delivered a Deebo-esque beatdown of the 12th-seed Long Beach State. Skinner's Eagles will face the 47th consecutive version of John Thompson and his Hoyas.

How far can one man's seed coach a collegiate club? Look out, Sean Sutton. Your kids got lots of bangin' to do. Read more