Wednesday, September 3, 2008

as I said . . .

(I love Jim Hayes. Anybody else?)

Yadi must really like pie.
And Troy, of course, is not one to be left out when it comes to baked goods.
I'm going to need more flour...

I'm not going to tell you what happened to me during the game last night. Suffice it to say that now that school has started again, I've been getting up at 4:30 every morning and driving a LOT every day, and when you combine that with the copious amounts of pie that have been lying around (seeing as none of the players have been here to claim them) and the fact that pie does not just lie around for long, you can use your imagination to figure it out.

I did, however, watch every excrutiating inning of the loss today. That's all I have to say about it. No, scratch that, I have one more thing: Someone needs to castrate our bullpen.

The Brewers got swept by the Mets. That's good.

The Cubs have lost five (?) in a row. (Correct me if I'm wrong.) That's also good.

I hope Zambrano is okay. After a very long recovery, that is.

I was listening to the radio guys on 1380 again this afternoon and surprised to hear all the negative comments (from listeners) directed toward Glaus. Maybe there are just a lot of die-hard Rolen fans out there who still haven't gotten over the trade, but you can't argue with Troy's numbers (or Rolen's, for that matter), and I think it's a real shame that we don't have more love for Troy in Cardinal Nation.

Speaking of Troy, he hit his 300th career home run today. Muchas felicidades, Troy.

Book two will be entitled Men are from Mars and Troy Glaus is from somewhere even better: The story of it's only September 3 and I've already been thinking about the GG for a month

Here's a glimpse...

Heat rose up from the ground and the dry air seemed to sizzle throughout the stadium as the afternoon wore on. Two teams had come together on this late summer day. Two teams, each in the heat of a pennant race and each looking to prove itself here in the heat of the desert.

The scorching southwestern sun beat down relentlessly on the players' heads as they marked their positions in the field of play. They squinted towards the plate and the mound, exchanging glances with each other and their coaches.

In a scoreless game, now with a runner on base, the number two hitter stepped confidently into the batter's box and carefully adjusted his helmet. His bat swung loosely in his left hand before he assumed his stance, but soon he acknowledged the pitcher and readied himself for the battle.


The pitch came in just over the plate, the ball spinning as it flew through the air. He braced himself as his bat cut across his body, moving with a will of its own, his arms merely following helplessly behind.

He heard the crack of the contact before he felt it, and when he did feel it he knew it had been enough to send the ball into the stands. The world seemed to slow down then, every movement drawn out as he watched the ball fly over the outfield and into the seats beyond.

He was acutely aware of every sensation. He smelled the burning wood and heard the thud of the bat as it hit the dirt behind the batter's box. He felt the air pass over the sweat on his face and arms as he spun and ran down the line. His eyes burned from the dry air and dust, his legs tingled as they carried him over each bag and back to the plate, and his heart pounded in his ears.

It was a moment he would remember the rest of his life. Number three-hundred. How many players can say they've reached that milestone? How many? One more, now.