Hit by a Pitch

Archive for the ‘Vintage’ Category

Untitled: August 8, 2006

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Here is a post from August 8, 2006. Posting it here doesn’t necessarily indicate that I like it or much about who I was back then.

When I was a kid, our dog Czar never got to go anywhere, so on those rare and joyous occasions when he was ushered into the family car, it was The Most Exciting Thing Ever. I’d sit in the back seat with him and he’d climb on me so he could stick his nose out my window and then he’d burst back to the other window, covering the seat in tufts of husky fur. More often than not, these otherwise awesome trips ended at the vet, where all the excitement and happy anticipation turned to dread as he tried to pull us far, far away from the door leading to a world of horror.

On Saturday night, I enthusiastically presented myself with sparkly eyeshadow and perfectly straightened hair. I mix expensive (Seven jeans, Louis Vuitton handbag) with cheap (Old Navy tank, Steve Madden shoes) because I’m not trying too hard. I’m ready.

After finding a decent-enough parking space, we pass a party in what is either an apartment or a gallery. The music is good and people are dancing. Then we turn the corner to see the line. Of course there is a line at the club. Immediately I start pulling the leash in the other direction.

I’m not standing in line. I’m not paying a ridiculous cover. The thing is, though, even if I didn’t have to stand in line or pay cover, I don’t want to go in there. It doesn’t matter who the DJs are. I can’t do this. The whole scene — the people in line (except for the big guy in the Sox hat — he makes me happy), the bouncers, the drunk 21-year-olds singing terrible songs who walk by, the thoughts of crowds and overpriced crappy drinks inside — it makes me sad to, and I swear I’m not exaggerating, like, the very core of my being. I can’t do it.

Ben is excited about the DJs but says he hates this, too. I know he’s just being nice. He says it’s fine if we don’t go but still looks for opportunities to stand in the line for more than a minute. I tell him to go without me because, and this is the thing, I’d rather sit at home by myself than be here. I really would.

The last time we tried to go to something like this, we ended up arguing on the street and going home. This time we don’t argue. We never argue any more, or if we do, it’s logical and almost fun and whoever is wrong admits it and we’re good. We walk past the party again and if only we knew people who had parties like that, smallish parties where you move the furniture and dance to the good house music before going outside to cool off on the porch, well, that would be awesome. Instead I apologize for being an asshole and I’m crushed by the weight of how much I suck. I really am. Ben says it’s fine and he’s not bothered and I believe him but that makes me more disappointed by the fact that I can’t even hang out at a club for a few hours. What’s wrong with me?

We sit at a bar that isn’t crowded or annoying and drink decent beer. We need hobbies, you know, things to get really into. We’ve had the same conversation before, where we talk about being tired of the things we’ve always done but how we aren’t sure of what to do now. Hiking is nice. Gardening is nice. I don’t know, though — you can’t get really excited about hiking or gardening. Well, maybe you can, but we don’t. So I don’t know. I try to understand my logic — why, for example, will I happily stand in line to go to a Broncos game, but the second you put me near a line to get into a club I find it unacceptable? I don’t have the answers, but sometimes, these little struggles are what makes life interesting.

Sometimes I find it incredibly hard to spend so much of my life with someone who puts my happiness before his own. It’s never bad — I don’t mean it like that — but it makes me realize that I want to put his happiness before my own at least some of the time. That makes me sound all kinds of jacked-up and self-centered, doesn’t it, but it’s one of the most honest things I’ve ever said. I don’t think I’ve really thought about that before.

When they say that relationships are work, I guess it’s true but it’s misleading. Saying that relationships are work makes it sound like they’re hard, like they require you to give up part of yourself, like they suck at least some of the time, like they require you to tolerate a lot of crap, like they take too much compromise. If relationships are work, it’s the kind of work that you love, like being the closer who comes in to strike out the side and win the game (I couldn’t go a whole post without talking about baseball). It’s the kind of work that makes you feel content and good, like making pasta sauce that you simmer and stir while barefoot in the kitchen drinking a glass of wine. I don’t know. I’m getting cheesy now. But it’s good. Really good.

Written by Tracy

September 11th, 2011 at 9:17 pm

Vintage: Lithuanians + Craig Sager = AWESOME

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This was originally published on August 11, 2008.
Dan Steinberg is my new favorite person on the internet. Yesterday, he discussed the fact that Lithuania’s Fans Are Balling. I love this so much, because he recognizes something that has made me very proud for many years — My People are freaking awesome. We love our basketball. And we have the tie dye (well, “we” in the sense of, as a people, some Lithuanians represent by wearing tie dye although I personally do not because, well, ew) to prove it. Also, many of us have green eyes, which is rare (I learned this the other day). Random, but cool! Like Lithuanians! We’re also known for being stubborn, which is a blessing and a curse, let me tell you.

Dan Steinberg also bestowed upon the world the most awesome interview with Craig Sager to ever exist. What do I make of Craig Sager and his fixation on blonde Lithuanian women? If you’ve read about me on Deadspin, you might be surprised.

Craig Sager

Prince Williams/Getty Images

Craig Sager is one of those guys who I notice every time he’s on TV, but I don’t really know anything about him. Whenever he’s reporting from the sidelines of an NBA game, I yell at B, “Dude! Check out what he’s wearing! When you’re old you need to dress like this!” His wardrobe is the shit and in life, he’s attained a certain level of awesomeness.

My thoughts on the Craig Sager interview are twofold. First, I think that, once you’ve achieved a certain level of awesomeness in life, you’re allowed to say some crazy shit and that adds to, rather than detracts, from your awesomeness. Second, I think that there’s nothin’ wrong with appreciating anybody’s hotness. I’m not going to blame anybody for finding, say, blonde Lithuanian women hot. They are! There’s nothing wrong with recognizing that.

I also love the wardrobe discussion. Quoth Sager:

Yeah. I brought all sorts of different underwear that match my shirt. That’s the only thing I can do.


Anyway, my favorite part of the interview isn’t anything Craig Sager said. It was something Dan Steinberg said. Here’s a snippet (Steinberg is in bold):

The dunking mascots missed all of their dunks off the trampoline.

Did they?

You’re not supposed to miss your dunks off the trampoline.

Well, see, I can give you perspective on that too, because I was [Willie] the Wildcat at Northwestern.

Of course you were.

No really, I just died from laughing so hard. Craig Sager, international pimp and appreciator of Lithuanian sexy women (is saying “Lithuanian sexy” redundant?) is talking about all kinds of shit and, just to show how he thoroughly out-awesomes you in every possible way, he tells you that, in addition to being married to a Luvabull and being too busy to pay attention to dunking mascots while he provides his earth-shattering commentary on athletic festivities, which is how he makes a living and is much cooler than whatever you do, he throws in that he was the mascot at Northwestern. To this, what other response could there be but, “Of course you were.”

I’m going to find a way to work “Of course you were” into my everyday conversation when possible.

I was the attorney who worked tirelessly to exonerate the innocent defendant with the help of newly discovered DNA evidence.

Of course you were.

I was really drunk and actin’ a fool at the Rockies game before they put me in the little self-contained jail within the bowels of Coors Field.

Of course you were.

Maybe I’ll even wear tie dye while saying it.

Written by Tracy

August 10th, 2011 at 8:59 pm

Vintage: Meet your new BFFs (or not, if you’re me)!

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This was originally published on November 15, 2010.

I run a Meetup group. I’m probably the worst Meetup group organizer, ever. At best, I schedule something once a month, attend the event, and respond to approximately 33% of the emails I receive within three weeks of receiving them.

I do one thing right, though. My Meetup group is public. Many Meetup groups are private. When a group is private, you can’t see where and when the next events are. If the group looks promising, you might decide to join, because that’s the only way you can find out whether you’re interested in attending the group’s events.

Sadie at the dog party.

This is how Sadie rolls.

Why are so many groups private? Maybe it’s because organizers want people to have to join their groups to find out about the events so the groups get more members. Maybe it’s because organizers are paranoid and don’t want random people from the internet showing up to their events — oh wait, those people wouldn’t be on a website designed to allow random people from the internet to show up to their events. Right? (As a side note, the internet privacy thing is really stupid, because anyone with half a brain, a book of matches, two sticks to rub together, some baking soda, a surly feline accomplice, and an internet connection can figure out your real name and where you live in approximately five minutes.)

The process of joining these private Meetup groups is a little more elaborate than you might expect. Many groups require you to answer a bunch of questions before you can become a member. Over the past few years, I’ve joined several private meetup groups, most of them relating to dogs or babies. So I’ve answered many questions about my dogs or baby. More often than not, the process goes something like this:

You find a Meetup group that sounds good:

Welcome! This group is for awesome people just like you who have awesome dogs and/or babies and like to do awesome things! We meet regularly to do fun stuff at awesome locations and hope our members and their dogs and/or babies will be BFFs!

This sounds good, but of course I don’t know who these awesome people are or what awesome things they do at which awesome locations, because:

This group’s content is available only to members.

Of course it is. But it sounds really great, so I click the little red “Join us!” button. Yay! BFFs for me and my dogs or baby are just seconds away! Or not!

First, I must request to join this Meetup group. What, do you think they let anyone in off the street? No. They have standards, people. (I’ll focus on dogs now, because I write about my kid often enough as it is.)

You must fill out your profile and then be approved by the Organizer, Tom Brady, before you join Awesome People and Their Awesome Dogs.

Okay, I can do that, because this sounds really awesome.

Unfortunately, the process gets off to a bad start, because the first thing they want me to do is:

Introduce yourself.

Below this command is a box that says, “Introduction.” That’s it. No question, no prompt, nothing. What do they want to know about me? Do they want to know that I am an awesome person with awesome dogs, or do they need specific facts supporting the assertion that I am an awesome person with awesome dogs? I become paralyzed by indecision and decide to skip to the questions.

What kind(s) of dog(s) do you have?

I start with just the facts:

I have a Rottweiler, a black lab/border collie mix, and a miniature pinscher.

That’s really boring, though, and I worry it makes me sound like some kind of German elitist with an obvious token mixed breed. Tom Brady might not think I’m awesome enough to join Awesome People and their Awesome Dogs if I give such a boring answer to an obviously meaningful question. Let’s try this again:

I have a super-awesome and friendly Rottweiler who will not try to eat any awesome people or their awesome dogs, ever, I promise, and is involved with Habitat for Humanity (Peaches! Isn’t that adorbs?); a black lab/border collie mix who is hilarious and quirky and writes letters of encouragement to inmates at a local correctional facility (Coltrane); and the world’s most amazing miniature pinscher who looks very good in sweaters and in her free time knits blankets for homeless livestock (Sadie).

What is/are your dog(s) name(s)?

Oh, crap. I already answered that. Do I list the names again and make it look like I think Tom Brady is an idiot or do I go back and revise my answer to the last question to remove the dogs’ names? I better revise my answer to the last question.

 How did you meet your dog(s)?

Coltrane voluntarily got himself incarcerated in a maximum-security prison just west of Chicago, where his brother Lincoln Burrows was imprisoned after being framed for a murder he didn’t commit. As part of his elaborate plan to escape from prison with his brother, Coltrane developed fake diabetes and often came to the infirmary, where I worked as the prison doctor. Eventually we fell in love and one day I left my keys lying out in the open, where Coltrane grabbed them and later escaped with his brother and a quirky cast of supporting characters including an annoying but lovable Lithuanian kid who stole a baseball card. This is why I no longer practice medicine.

Sadie and I were both contestants on Cycle 13 of America’s Next Top Model (the petite season).

Peaches hitched a ride on the Cannonball Express as it left Memphis. The train was running behind schedule and the conductor, a stickler for timeliness, did not notice a Rottweiler lounging in a boxcar. Ahead of the speeding train and around a curve that blocked the conductor’s view, several cars of a freight train that should’ve been on the passing track sat on the main track, because the passing track was not long enough to accommodate the two freight trains that were there. The fireman of the Cannonball Express saw something on the tracks and alerted the conductor, who, his voice laced with terror, screamed “Jump! Jump!!” Peaches, being a smart dog who more often than not responds to spoken commands, heard this, scrambled to edge of the boxcar, and jumped, just seconds before the train plowed into a caboose and cars carrying corn, hay, and wood, instantly killing the conductor. Peaches and the fireman survived with only minor injuries.

Are you available to attend weekly playdates with your dog(s)?

Yes! Of course! That’s why I’m joining this group. Of course, it depends when and where the playdates are held, because I have a job and many other very important responsibilities, including but not limited to going to the gym, talking shit on the internet, and watching high-quality television programming.

After answering all of these questions, I wait. One night, someone will come to my house, blindfold me and make me sing “I’m a Little Teapot” in front of Old Capitol and then perform one of two seemingly impossible tasks featuring Russian classical music or cinema.

After that, I’m in. Congratulations! I am now officially Awesome People! I see the path before me and it looks like one of two things:

(1) For dog Meetups: Our next Meetup is Saturday at [insert time approximately one hour before you wake up] at [insert address with five numbers in far outlying suburban town here].

What? Listen. We’re downtown people who aren’t going to waste our time driving with our dogs to an address that is so far away from anything it has five numbers.

(2) For baby Meetups: Our next 100 Meetups have been scheduled. They are all for days and times you are at work. Even so, we will send you 900 reminder emails for these Meetups you cannot attend.

Great! Thanks!

*Thanks to Ben for suggesting that I write about my Meetup frustrations and for being obsessed with Casey Jones.


Written by Tracy

July 8th, 2011 at 5:34 pm

Posted in and life,Vintage

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Vintage: Colorado

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This was originally posted on June 29, 2007.
I’ve always thought that location is very important. If I don’t like where I live and how it affects every day, I will be miserable. Way back when I started blogging (I wrote stupid, boring entries) I was festering in the misery of no longer being happy with where I was and what my life looked like. I spent a year or so, I think, contemplating, studying maps, learning about cities, trying to figure out where to go next. Normally, I don’t spend so much time thinking and planning, but saying “fuck it all” and moving was a big deal and I had a condo to sell and I guess I realized how absolutely important this was.

beach + mountainWhile Ben and I were deciding where to go, I didn’t know who I would become after I got there, but I did know that where I went would significantly affect who I would become. I mean, I was ready to give up my career and the only state I’d ever really known. I don’t like the fact that the way I’m saying this makes me seem like tofu, something that is bland and takes on the flavor of whatever’s around it. I don’t think it’s quite like that, but maybe it is. Imagine if we moved to Vermont. Maybe I’d spend the winters wrapped in chunky knitted scarves and browsing in bookstores. If we moved to a small town along the Oregon coast, maybe I would’ve become kind of beachy, although we’d only last there a year before moving to Portland. If we moved to Bellingham, Washington, we’d grow herbs in our little kitchen where I’d bake pies, but I’m sure we would’ve ended up in Seattle.

I suppose it’s all kind of random and I don’t really know how or why we ended up in Nederland, Colorado. It all kind of makes sense the way it happened, but to this day when I tell people about how we moved from Chicago to Nederland, the universal reaction is WTF. The first time we ever went to Nederland, we got good coffee at a little coffee shop set up in a train car and sat outside under the sun and watched people in the kind of pants you’d wear to go hiking if you know what you’re doing wander around with their large, friendly dogs. Nederland was a perfect little cocoon for a year, but of course we ended up in the city.

The other day I got out my copy of On the Road so I could read the parts about Denver. I think location is important, so when I read the book, I don’t care so much about Dean or Chad King or Carlo Marx or Sal. The only character that matters is Denver itself. Denver is something you think about while you’re speeding across Nebraska or sleeping on the grass in Longmont. It’s hot and there are mountains nearby and there’s a buzz of excitement that starts at Colfax and radiates through the whole city.

Maybe we know more about ourselves than we realize. Did you know, four years ago, that I would be in love with beer and spending as much free time as possible at live sporting events? Did you know that Ben and I would have a house near downtown, a vegetable garden, and a dog, and that I’d have a job I really like and my shit pretty much together? Could you imagine me being anything other than this?

The thing is, if we’d moved anywhere else in the world, I don’t know if any of these things would’ve happened. If we lived in Vermont, I guess I’d get to watch the Frost Heaves play hoops, but I wouldn’t know about Jose Mesa and I wouldn’t be well-versed in the fine art of heckling at baseball games. And you know what else? Maybe even our weaknesses are good things. If I weren’t afraid of flying, we might not have ended up here — I remember looking at maps and thinking about how much it would suck to drive from Washington state to Illinois to visit family, ever, but driving from Colorado would be manageable. Maybe I don’t need to hate the fact that I have issues. My issues are the things that keep me grounded, and without them I’d just be out there doing totally crazy shit.

It’s hot here, and there’s no water, but even better, there are mountains that let you get out of the hot, stifling air. On Sunday, we went hiking in Rocky Mountain National Park. It was so hot even in the mountains it was 87 degrees when we left the car at the trailhead. We picked out a trail that led to a lake and went up 2,000 feet and 4.5 miles one way even though we didn’t have enough water. The lake at the end of the trail was, and I’m not kidding, the most beautiful place I’ve ever seen, clean water surrounded by a beach surrounded by a pine forest surrounded by mountains, like somebody took all the best parts of nature and put them right there in one place. I took off my shoes and walked barefoot on the sand and in the water and right then, even though I was thirsty and even though my legs were tired and even though I knew we had another two-hour hike to get back down the mountain, everything was absolutely perfect.

I don’t know that other people think about place the same way I do. Some of the most intimate relationships I have are those with the places where I live, and maybe that’s why I love it here so much. Denver isn’t showy and doesn’t say much, but every day it presents me with the small things you put together to make happiness. I really love it here, and could you imagine if I didn’t know about Jose Mesa?

Written by Tracy

June 27th, 2011 at 9:09 pm

Posted in and life,Denver,Vintage

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Vintage: Tadahito, you’re with Jose Mesa now.

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This post is from July 27, 2007.
The White Sox traded Tadahito Iguchi to the Phillies today.

Here’s part of the phone conversation I had with Ben after getting the news –

Me: I’m very sad.

Ben: Why?

Me: They traded, like, my favorite player.

Ben: Who did?

Me: White Sox.

Ben: Who?

Me: Guess.

Ben: Thome?

Me: No.

Ben: Konerko?

Me: No.

Ben: You have too many favorite players.

Me: …

Ben: Jenks?

Me: No.

Ben: Pierzynski?

Me: You’re right, I have too many favorites.

Ben: …


Ben: Well, I won’t have to hear you yell “TADAGUCHI” any more.

Me: [cries]

This has something to do with

Marines mascot

The original post included a video that since has been removed from YouTube. It was from the 2006 game against the Houston Astros where Iguchi hit a 3-run homer in the 8th inning and a grand slam in the 9th. I miss that guy!

Where is he now? Playing second base for the Chiba Lotte Marines in Japan (that website is in Japanese and I have no idea what’s going on over there).

Written by Tracy

May 23rd, 2011 at 8:29 pm

Vintage: Did I tell you about the time Ben almost put his eye out?

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I wrote this on June 29, 2004.

Chimay is made by Trappist monks who have dedicated themselves to God and the next best thing, beer. As it says on their website:

Take a bottle of Chimay, uncork it, smell it, already the beer is giving off its subtle aromas.

Then allow this incomparable liquid to pour slowly into its Trappist chalice. Then just close your eyes and savour it.

You are not drinking an ordinary beer, this is a Trappist beer, a beer of tradition that you are tasting!

Ah yes, it is quite splendid, and we do have the proper Trappist chalice from which to enjoy the fine, traditional ale.

The problem occurs when the cork is a bit too eager to escape from the bottle.

Me & Ben

This picture is also from 2004.

As you may know, the elevation change from Boulder to our lovely home [in Nederland] is approximately 3,000 feet. As I understand it, there is less air pressure up here, and so it is often the case that pressure is affected when one transports objects from there to here. For example, if we ever bring home a bag of potato chips, by the time it gets here, the bag looks ready to explode because the external pressure has decreased to a point where it is less than the internal pressure. Or something like that.

Today while I was on the porch shaking out a rug after returning from the grocery store, I heard Ben scream from inside the house. I figured that he had spilled something exciting like the fresh mozzarella in the kitchen, but when I came inside, I found him lying on the floor. Apparently the laws of physics (is that physics — I think so, but I never took the class in high school because I was too cool for that) apply to Chimay. On removing the little cage that keeps the cork in place, he was unpleasantly surprised by the immediate release of the cork. Into his eye.

I don’t take eye injuries lightly, and after looking around online for a few minutes while he mentioned that he could not see out of said eye at all but wasn’t sure if it was a big deal, we took the trip down the mountain to the emergency room. There, we learned words like hyphema. Apparently, his eye is full of blood between the cornea and iris. It’s also scratched. We have to go back bright and early tomorrow to see the ophthalmologist, but there is a possibility of permanent eye damage and he’s out of work for at least a week or two. In the mean time, he’s knocked out on Vicodin and Ativan and I’m giving him eye drops every hour and eye ointment before bed.

I don’t know why shit like this doesn’t happen to me instead of him.
Update: Ben’s pupil didn’t contract all the way in bright light for a few months after this happened, but his vision is fine and now his eye is back to normal. We always practice proper cork safety techniques in the rare event we encounter a cork (this involves putting a towel over the damn thing in case it comes flying out of the bottle, because holy shit, that does happen).

Written by Tracy

May 9th, 2011 at 9:51 pm

Posted in and life,Vintage

Tagged with ,

Rerun: I can fix you, Manny Corpas.

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In honor of Manny Corpas being signed to a minor league deal by the Texas Rangers today, here is a rerun post from 2008, when Manny was still with the Rockies.
Since I quit taking Adderall, I haven’t been much good at sitting down to write a post. On the plus side, I’m a much nicer person in real life. So there’s that. This is a lame attempt to get back into it.

Manny Corpas

Getty Images

One of the best things about being a sports fan is the sheer delusion. As a (kind of crazy, I’ll admit it) sports fan, one of my favorite things to believe even though I know it isn’t true is that I can somehow affect the game. Don’t you do that? If you wear your “lucky” jersey that you haven’t washed even though some asshole spilled beer on it that one time at Blake Street, your team will win. If you mercilessly heckle Barry Bonds until you almost get thrown out of Coors Field, which happens to you more often than it happens to most people, your team will win. If you make sure your hands aren’t touching each other when the enemy team attempts a free throw, they will miss. If you make sure your hands are elaborately linked together when your team attempts a free throw, they will make it. (That’s weird, but I honestly believed it for a while.)

You don’t want to admit any of these things to anyone, because, yeah, it makes you look a little crazy. But I’m totally okay with that.

My latest “I can affect the game” project is Manny Corpas. Here’s what I know about Manny Corpas — he’s really young. I saw him pitch his first-ever game for the Rockies. This was back in the day, when Jose Mesa was still here, and from what I understand, Jose Mesa was instrumental in shaping these young guys in the bullpen. But Jose Mesa’s not here any more. I don’t even know where he is — probably at home with Mirla and the kids in the Dominican Republic, because he sure as hell isn’t playing for anyone in MLB and that, my friends, is a travesty. But Manny came on like gangbusters, eventually taking over the closer position from a wonky and “injured” emo kid, Brian Fuentes. (Have you listened to his intro. music? Eesh.)

But Manny has had his struggles. Last year, I figured that what Manny needs is confidence. Of course, that doesn’t prove that I’m some kind of psychological mastermind or anything. You have a young kid doing something awesome and kicking ass, and it’s a matter of logic that when something goes wrong, which it is prone to do, his confidence will suffer. So last year I decided that to help build Manny’s confidence, I’d hang around the bullpen and yell at him.

If you’ve been to Coors Field, you know that it’s not hard to wander over and get a good view of the bullpens. From the first level, it’s like you’re Juliet looking down from your balcony to a handful of surly Romeos, complete with sunflower seeds and mitts waiting to get into the action. Last year, I started going over there and yelling “Manny Corpas!” from time to time. When he heard me, he’d turn and kind of do this sort of half-wave thing, with his hand by his head, something between a wave and a salute. Totally charming. Manny is awesome. If you’ve ever watched him in the bullpen, you see how it works. For a while, he sits there and tries to look nonchalant. But eventually, you catch him looking up and scanning the crowd. I’m convinced that he does this because, like any young guy, he wants someone to notice him. So I decided that I would notice him like it was my job.

Manny has been struggling this year, so much so that it looks like the closer job is back in the grasp of southpaw Brian Fuentes. So when I was at the game this Wednesday, I realized that it was time for me to fix Manny Corpas. Because I can affect the game. And I know what Manny Corpas needs.

So I wandered over to the bullpen. Manny was sitting there, and it looked like he had sunflower seeds, an energy drink, and chewing tobacco. (I tried to deny that the tobacco was his, but it was right next to him on the bench and it probably was.) When he looked like he was listening, I yelled “Manny!!!” and waved. This time he waved back, like he wasn’t even trying to be subtle. That was cool. Ryan Speier was getting warmed up and I kind of like him and his quasi-sidearm style that looks like he’s pushing, rather than throwing, the ball, but I never yelled at Ryan Speier. That’s because I was there only for Manny Corpas.

I decided right then that he was my new all-time favorite relief pitcher. If you know anything about me, you know that I’m ridiculously, to the point of being dysfunctional, loyal to my all-time favorite relief pitchers. And the good thing about Manny Corpas is that he worked with Jose Mesa, if only briefly. So there’s that.

So at Coors Field, I’ll always go over to the bullpen, but I’ll only cheer for Manny Corpas. You can’t cheer for everyone in there, or else it isn’t special. I cheered for Manny on Wednesday, but after Speier pitched, they brought Brian Fuentes into the bullpen. As soon as he showed up, Manny threw his cup full of sunflower seeds on the ground and left. I think he was pissed. I wonder if those guys hate each other, or tolerate each other through a series of sideways glances and subtle clubhouse barbs.

Brian Fuentes almost gave me a heart attack that game, but he pulled it together and the Rockies won their first game in like 100 years. I made fun of his intro. music for a good 15 minutes. Cheer up, emo kid.

Manny’s song:

Written by Tracy

April 8th, 2011 at 3:33 pm