Memphis 8, Your Portland Beavers 7
Inning One: Meditations on a Homestand
I hope I’m not speaking out of turn when I say that, to the lay fan, the concept of the homestand is not an entirely important one. Lay fans — of which I have always been one, up until my recent stint as Official Baseballing Journalist — will typically consume their baseball in one of two ways: either by a) the medias (TV, radio, internet), and/or b) attending the occasional game. For that reason, the whereabouts of the team on any given day is (are?) not relevant at all to the fan’s enjoyment of his fave team, except maybe the effect an away game in a different time zone will have on starting time.
The situation is dramatically different, though, for your average, run-of-the-mill Ecstatic Truth Journalist. A discovery I’ve made — not groundbreaking, I understand, but real enough — is that the season really is made up of a series of homestands. Today’s game was the second-to-last game of their third homestand of the season, the first two (homestands, that is) occurring April 17 – April 24 and May 4 – 11. So, basically two months into the season, the Beavers have only been home for three different stretches.
Perhaps the effect is even more pronounced at the minor league level, as only the players, coaches, two or three radio people, and a few select others travel with the team. That leaves a greater portion of others left behind — including, but certainly not limited to, your average, run-of-the-mill Ecstatic Truth Journalists.
This is just to say.
Inning Two: To Clarify
A homestand is a series of games played at a team’s home park.
A handstand is something that children and drunk people do.
A home truth is a fact or truth, usually about oneself, that is unpleasant to acknowledge. Like, involving body odor or questionable lending practices.
Home Truths is a novel by British, er, novelist David Lodge. Except, if you’re gonna read one of his books, don’t read that one first. Start off with either Nice Work or Therapy.*
Homey don’t play dat!
A bon homme is a good guy. A good, French guy.**
Prudhomme was the winner of the inaugural Nobel Prize in Literature. Duh.
A prude is a girl who won’t make out with me.
Every girl won’t make out with me.
Therefore, every girl is a prude.
Q.E.D.
*And yes, you should take my word for it.
**Oxymoron? You decide!
Inning Three: Another Thing to Clarify
Memphis Redbirds left fielder Jon Jay is not Founding Father and Federalist Papers co-author John Jay.
Here are some things that are expressly not named after the Cardinals prospect:
- Towns in these respective states: Maine, New York, Vermont
- A county in Indiana
- A street in Brooklyn
- The City University of New York’s College of Criminal Justice
- High schools in these respective towns: Cross River, NY; Hopewell Junction, NY; San Antonio, TX
- The colonially-themed hotels of the Best Western Hotel chain
- Exceptional scholars at Columbia University
- An undergraduate dorm at Columbia University
- A dining hall, inside the eponymous dorm, at Columbia University
Here’s one thing that John Jay didn’t do today:
- Jack a donger
Inning Four: The Pain Quotidien
The reason why the 16-year-old baseballing Carson Cistulli was a decent hitter is because the 16-year-old Carson Cistulli had decent hand-eye coordination, had played baseball most of his life, and because the competition at the JV level wasn’t so intimidating in New England’s very prestigious Independent School League, of which my alma mater Milton Academy was a part.
The reason why the 18-year-old baseballing Carson Cistulli was a crap hitter is on account of, despite having decent hand-eye coordination and having played baseball most of his life, the 18-year-old Carson Cistulli played at the varsity level, which, whatever its other distinctions, featured opposing pitchers who could throw at such velocity as might rearrange one’s face if and/or when a pitched ball made contact with it (i.e. one’s face). A baseball, for those not holding one in their hands currently, is hard and, when traveling at certain velocities, dangerous.
Never was this made more clear than during today’s game, when in each of the first three innings, respectively, home plate umpire Jason Kiser, Memphis shortstop Tyler Greene (as a runner on third base), and Memphis catcher Bryan Anderson were all struck with by batted balls (foul tipped, foul lined, and foul tipped, in that order). Each, despite being bigger, stronger, and generally better than yours truly, were shaken up by their respective experiences.
None of which is even to mention how, during Tuesday night’s game, Memphis center fielder Shane Robinson, while tracking a long fly ball hit by Portland’s Eliezer Alfonzo was hit in the face by the ball after it struck the scoreboard (thus rendering it a home run) and ricocheted back onto the playing surface. According to Media Intern and All-Around Go-Getter Rob “Rocket” Morse, “That dude was down for awhile.”
Inning Five: Kyle Blanks Watch!
If Kyle Blanks were going to Saint Ives and then met a man with seven wives, those wives would probably all divorce that first guy so that they could hang out with Kyle Blanks.
His line entering today’s game was: 258/358/454 (AVG/OBP/SLG) with 9 HR, 22 BB, and 49 K in 190 PA.
In 5 PA Wednesday afternoon, he went 1 for 3 with a 2B and 2 BB.
There must be at least one reader out there in the electronic ether who can do this with Kyle Blanks’s face.
Inning Six: Will Inman Watch!
Will Inman is a kid with a golden arm. Not the kid with the golden arm, but still pretty good.
His line entering today’s game was (Double- and Triple-A combined): 50 IP, 45 K, 10 BB, and 5 HR-allowed in 9 games started.
In 6 IP Wednesday afternoon, he had 4 K, 1 BB, and 2 HR-allowed.
This was Inman’s second start at Triple-A and also the second start in which he’s allowed 2 HR in a start at Triple-A. Baseball orthodoxy suggests that repeatedly giving up big flies is probably a thing a pitcher might like to avoid, and this is one case where baseball orthodoxy is spot on. As I mentioned last report in a space very similar to this one, Inman’s low-ish grounball rate suggest that he might be gopher-prone at the major league (and it looks like, minor league) level. San Diego’ Petco Park should protect him from that to some degree. The real question — the one that remains unanswered — is whether his game, which is based more on deception than true stuff, is able to deceive the ginormous men of the Show.
That said, his curveball is at least good enough to get him kicked out of Harvard.
Inning Seven: Stretch
Note to self: write something either hysterical or marvelous or both here.
Inning Eight: Game Summary
10′ Barca’s first attack of any note results in a goal! Astonishing. Iniesta charges past Carrick and finds Eto’o who cuts inside Vidic and hits a right foot shot underneath Van der Sar. Game on! GOAL! Eto’o!
70′ United made a mess of possession, Puyol nips in and gets it down the right for Xavi and he swings in a delightful cross for Messi to plant a perfect header back across Van der Sar. GOAL! Messi!
94′ It’s all over! Barcelona are the European Champions!
Inning Nine: Incredibly Timely Ecstatic Truth Memorial Day Weekend Sporting Report
It was my intention, initially, to file an entirely separate report with a name not entirely unlike the title of this particular inning; however, owing to an adundance of sloth, I didn’t do it. Had I written said Report, it would’ve begun something like:
Man, whoever said it’s a hard-knock life must’ve been some kind of spunky red-headed orphan or thuggish MC-cum-media-tycoon from Bed-Stuy’s Marcy Houses or something. It most likely was not a resident of, or visitor to, the Greater Portland area this past weekend, and it definitely was not yours truly, who spent Friday through Monday in a joy coma.
I haven’t been inside a womb for an awful long time, but, if my pop psychology is up to snuff, I’m led to believe that each of us human-types desires, at some level, to return to one (i.e. a womb) on account of how damn comfortable it is. Having said that, if my pop medical science is up to snuff, I’m led to believe that, for an adult woman to allow a full-grown person into the aforementioned privatest of parts (i.e. her womb), it would hurt like the Charles Dickens. So a tension exists here: a whole bunch of people wanting in, but with no way to get there. This is the sort of tension that we, in the literary sciences, refer to as a cucking fonundrum.
Or, that’s what we call it most of the time, at least. This past weekend, however, owing to weather that our friends in the meteorological sciences might refer to as “frigging awesome,” the residents of the Rose City were granted womb-like atmospheric conditions* for which to better commemorate a) those who died in military service, and b) the human spirit’s capacity for leisure.
*Without the messy spills.
And had I finished said Report, I would’ve gone on to inform the Reader both that, in Sunday Bar League Softball action, Team Disjecta beat Team Red Flag 16-6 at Westmoreland Park and that, on Memorial Day itself, Your Portland Beavers defeated the Redbirds of Memphis 2-1.
I would’ve said so many other things, too, if I’d been at all interested in doing justice to either of those games. So how about this: how about we just pretend I wrote those things, you pretend you read those things, we slap each other on the butt, say “Good game,” and go our separate ways.
Or otherwise, just watch this and get teary-eyed against your better judgment.
