TW(O)T...now with boobs

I could spend a few sentences introducing you to our first-ever guest columnist, but instead please enjoy a video from her jr. high talent show:

Take it away, Crystal!

Saturdays with Santana (at Shea)

One of the first images I was greeted with upon arrival in New York last week was a city bus covered with a massive image of Johan Santana in orange and blue. (Seriously, who picks team colors of orange and blue? Even my favorite Venezuelan with his gorgeous caramel tones is hard pressed to pull off that color scheme.) It was a bit of a reality check, along with a mouthful of exhaust. He really is gone.

Lucky for me, though, the fates aligned. My second MLB outing of the year got me out of the baggie-topped Dome and into the equally doomed-to-rubble Shea Stadium to witness the matchups of Santana v. Sheets; Fielder v. peanuts and Cracker Jacks; Wright v. single women (and let’s be real, gay men) everywhere.

So what did I learn from our east cost brethren? Let’s see.
Does a 5-3 outing really warrant booing? Apparently so, if you are fans of a team that crashed and burned in historic proportions to miss the playoffs last year and wanted to welcome their new superstar with open arms. I mean, sure…he allowed three homeruns and botched a key play to hold a runner on third. But still. He’s so cute! New Yorkers really do kind of suck sometimes. (Just kidding, Derek Jeter New York! I love you! Call me!)

Drunk girls on stuffy local trains are never not funny. And if you ever run into Zoe the Mets Fan on the number 7, you’re in for a real treat. She’ll ask to marry you and tell you how hot her best friend’s boobs are…just be sure you get off the train before she starts turning splotchy and stops talking. I think that means vomit is forthcoming.

Shea Stadium’s last year is being commemorated with orange and blue metal beer bottles. WHERE IS THE LOVE, Metropolitan Sports Facilities Commission? Are you just going to let the Metrodome slip quietly into the night?

I’d like the DH abolished. It just adds a bit more spice to the game—it was really fun to watch Santana at bat (and to see his average go from .200 to .143 in a matter of innings), it makes each at bat (and non-pitcher batter) a bit more valuable, and it keeps Barry Bonds out of work. Discuss.
Prince Fielder running towards home plate to field a bunt is a sight to behold. Just picture that for a minute, please. Yep, I laughed.
I snuck into the new Mets stadium and buried a Nick Punto jersey in the outfield. Now where’s my ESPN.com story?

Milwaukee actually looks really good. I’m not sure what Bud has done behind the scenes to orchestrate what could be a turnaround for the ages, but I was impressed. This Sheets kid is pretty tremendous.

The attractiveness rating for the Mets declined roughly 61% with the loss of Carlos (C-Button, in these parts) Gomez and addition of Luis Castillo to the lineup. Just because I know you guys care about those things.

My east coast baseball tour continues this Saturday with a stop at Fenway for the Sox v. Texans. I’m excited to see Manny’s braids and weed rimmed eyes, Ortiz’s bedazzled accessories, and Papelbon’s crazy eyes and dancing legs up close and personal as well as continuing my ongoing investigation to determine whose hot dog reigns supreme (Fenway Frank, watch out…the Dome Dog is coming for you). Oh, and watch a little baseball, too.

All I really have to say, though, is this: thank god this didn’t come to pass. We’ve already suffered enough.

Back. To the Future

Hey sports fans. Remember me? Well, I'm back and badder than ever. Badder than toddler grammar. I'm Color Me Badder.

Pooh has been admirably holding down the creative fort here lately, but with the arbitrary benchmark created by some long-forgotten Roman having recently passed, I figure it's time for a founding father to finally chime in during the long off-season.


I know that the potential gyro(ball) sandwich marketing opportunities in Boston have never been more rampant, and that Zito's overhand curve swooshes and swashbuckles with million-dollar ferocity, but the price tag on starting pitching this off-season has been shocking and the single biggest story of this winter of our discontent (halloffamefbidrugscandal what now?). They are Tiffany Crystal. And I'm sitting here trying to take back the Silva my sister got me for Chrismtas to Kohl's to get a refund on the sale price, while searching for parts on ebay for original discontinued Radke models. You know, the one with real tears?


While I can't help but think that the contract negotiation in San Fran involved an errant zero or two which no proofreader or lawyer caught, it causes great fear to the baseballing part of my brain. Here we sit, Twins fans, on the precipice of the most hope-ridden season in recent (or all) Twins history. With an impending outdoor (they can play baseball outside?) stadium, and an F-bomb repacking his warhead with enriched slideronium, the near future of the Republic of Twin is Rayban bright. Even while Terry Ryan (rightfully) does his best Rip (Van Winkle, not Torn or Hamilton) impersonation. And yet I sit here with a profound dread.

How much would Johan Santana be worth on the open market right now?

If this question, and others like it (with the names Morneau and Mauer subtly substituted) don't cause you fear, perhaps you're too busy fearing fear itself, or the reaper. Or maybe I underestimate the importance of luck and timing in major league sports. Maybe I have been buying hope options in great big piles, hoping to backdate them to 1991 prices (thanks for the tip Steve Jobs!). Or maybe I'm finally starting to realize what being a small-market team really feels like, after so many years of just thinking it meant you had to really, really suck. All the time.

(Ir)regardless, I feel....a great big....something...on the horizon. And it's almost here.