PHILLES WIN!

THE PHILLIES ARE THE 2008 WORLD SERIES CHAMPIONS!

I knew this team could do it, I just didn't know if they would, it being a Philadelphia team and all.

First of all: bravo to the Rays. They have much to be proud of and nothing to be ashamed of. I don't see them catching that same kind of lightning in a bottle again in a division containing Boston and New York, but they were a great team from start to finish. Bravo to Joe Maddon, who absolutely must be MLB Manager of the Year.

Cheers to Cole Hamels, Series MVP (he got a new Camaro, and gave it to his wife immediately to celebrate her birthday), and to Brad Lidge, whose perfect season as a closer continued all the way through a series-clinching save. Wow. Record books. And Charlie Manuel: thanks for erasing or justifying years of almost with Tito Francona and Larry Bowa.

This team reminds me a lot of the 2004 Red Sox. Both championships feel less like the result of one season and more like the culmination of a half-decade of drafting, building, struggling, failing and growing. The Phils have been almost there for a decade, broke through last year, and took over tonight. They were no one's World Series favorite at the beginning of the postseason. It doesn't matter.

Boston-Philly next year? We were so close!

The Philles should be a Series contender for years to come. What a feeling!!!! I have had such a terrible week (actually a terrible 2008); it felt good to jump up and down and scream myself hoarse for my boys J Roll, Ryan, Cole, Shane and Lidge.

The only problem is that I left my Cooperstown Collection Mike Schmidt jersey at the Coles'. I may have to make a special trip to Oregon Hill tomorrow just to get it. Not even joking.

The craziest week

I've been paralyzed by the weight of all the stuff I've had to write about, and it's just putting me further and further behind. I may expound on some of the events of the past seven days more later, but here's what I've got for now:

Hamlet arrives

Hamlet had its preview and opening, and it's going very well. We were still tweaking down to the last minute because, you know, it's freaking Hamlet. The cast is all wonderful, and Jeff and Liz in particular have taken some extremely bold choices and molded them into a unique and authentic Hamlet-Ophelia relationship. And how about Katie "Girldenstern" Ford being on the cover of Style Weekly? Stop it, Marcellus!

Great cast; I love them all. Three more weeks of Hamlet coming. [Andrew takes a breath.] Deep and slow, big guy.

New computer

This is the first blog entry I've typed on my new MacBook. I'm enjoying the heck out of it, climbing a steep learning curve, and certainly appreciating the long battery life (as I did in fact leave my charger at home). What stinks is that I had planned to get a sleeker, sexier, more powerful model, but learned to my dismay that it didn't come with a FireWire port. That's effing ridiculous. Mac is the preferred platform for digital audio and video applications, and they release a model without the high-speed port that camcorders and digital mixers all use?! Given a choice between buying up $500 or buying down $300, I descended. So my standard MacBook delights me despite my dissatisfaction with Apple. I'm still getting my Mac feet under me. And she still needs a name.

So is there a connection between switching from conservatives to Obama and PC to Mac? It seems like there should be.

RTCC Awards

What a thrill and a joy it was to be there on Sunday night! A big chunk of the Richmond Shakespeare contingent sat in the back, being the bad kids. It was quite a challenge chatting with the stupendous Sarah Cole to my left and with the lovely Liz in the row in front of me. I'm still a little sore from all the turning and twisting and leaning.

It's very relaxing to go to an awards show when you know you have absolutely no chance of winning. I truly own the experience of "It's an honor to be nominated." Two of the people I was most rooting for, Stephen Ryan and Becky Cairns, did win, and I was happier for them, I think, than I would have been for myself.

When the names were being announced for "Best Direction," Sarah jumped to her feet and screamed, "THAT'S MY DATE!" I win.

Sarah, mother of two, was wearing her prom dress. It was big on her.

Virginia Center for Architecture

I feel bad that I forgot to make a bigger deal with this, but I was a lecturer at the Virginia Center for Architecture's "Fresh" series on Tuesday night. I was asked to talk about creativity for 40 minutes. Jeez, twist my arm.

I have been working on a book about acting called The Five-Tool Player equating the five physical tools baseball players develop with five improvable tools for actors. This seemed like a good opportunity to kick-start that and begin to put a framework together.

It went very well, and was nicely received by a diverse audience of about 30. It was interesting how much they wanted to ask and talk about queer theatre issues, and where the line is between an edgy performance and selling tickets. I'm hardly an expert on these issues, but I'm pretty sure I bloviated convincingly.

What surprised me was how many audience members talked about how much of the material they could take personally, to apply to their own careers and lives. I didn't expect that, and it will definitely shape the writing of the book. You know, when I get all that free time to do that.

Phillies - Rays

If the Phils don't start getting some hits with runners in scoring position, it's going to be over in five.

December surprise?

Uh, I can't talk about that yet. But it's going to be cool.

The Phillies are in the World Series!

The rebuilding is over. Next year is this year, finally. No more Braves, no more Mets, no more freaking Marlins. We can stop talking about the team of Carlton and Schmidt, or even Krukie and Wild Thing, and enjoy J-Roll, Hamels, Howard, and Lidge.

After 15 years as NL also-rans, all potential never realized, not quite spending enough money, not quite drafting well enough, not getting quite the right free agents, it has all come together in this chance to win the whole thing.

The Series starts Wednesday, and the Phils will be mightily rested. Now if only the Red Sox can come back from 3-1 (it's not like we haven't seen it before), my ultimate sports dream/nightmare will come true.

ESPN's Jayson Stark on the Phillies.

My head asplode

Today is too much sports awesomeness for me to handle..

1:05: Washington Redskins at Philadelphia Eagles.

After last week's upset over the Cowboys, arguably the biggest event of the first quarter of the NFL season, the Redskins unbelievably finish their road division schedule in week five. I was expecting a .500 year from my 'Skins this year, especially after that deuce they dropped at the Giants in week one. But after the way the O-line and D-backs have played the past three weeks, I'm almost believing they are an NFC power. Why almost, when many of America's most knowledgeable NFL pundits are penciling them into the playoffs? Because I'm a Redskins fan, and I'm quite accustomed to the heartbreak of Norv Turner and Steve Spurrier teams, not to mention the perpetual teasing almost of Gibbs II: Electric Boogaloo.

(Gibbs II, at least, made the playoffs twice in four years. And he won a playoff game, something the Redskins have done twice since Dallas last won any. Eat that, Cowboys!)

Everyone's talking about the poise of Jason Campbell (Soup!), the punch of Clinton Portis, and the playmaking of Santana Moss, and rightly so. And don't discount the contributions of O-line coach Joe Bugel, who may have finally forged some new Hogs, and defensive coordinator Greg Blanche, whose scheme made Tony Romo look like Tony Danza last week.

(I do wish the Redskins would stop wearing white-on-white, though. It works for teams who have done it for a long time like the Browns and the Chiefs, but there's championship tradition in the white jerseys and burgundy pants. At least they're not wearing dark-on-dark, a hideous look that makes NFL teams look like AFL teams. I would have liked to see the 'Skins switch to the 70th anniversary retro uniforms full-time, but if they're sticking with the classic look, I wish they would wear it in the classic combination.)

Is this finally the year we stop looking to next year? In Jim Zorn, have we finally found the Next Big Coach instead of the Big Name Who Lets Us Down? It's early, but it sure looks that way. We may have replaced The Last Joe Gibbs with The Next Joe Gibbs.

If we win in Philadelphia, I'm officially going from fan to believer.

Speaking of Philadelphia...



1:07: Philadelphia Phillies at Milwaukee Brewers.

I think the entire City of Brotherly Love's head is asplode today, actually. What do you watch, marquee rivalry football game or series-clinching baseball game?

I was really hoping the Phils would win last night. Any game programmed against the Redskins is going to lose for me. The Phightins are relegated to commercial-break status. It isn't that I don't love the Phillies, it's that I lurve the Redskins. I could give you an allegory from my life, but it would only make sense to about three people. Trust me, those three would say "Ohhhhhh, okay, I get it. Yeah, you have to watch the Redskins game, I understand."

So I'm torn between the desire to see the Phillies win the NLDS and the desire to see the 'Skins win in Philly. What do I do if both games are close in the late innings / fourth quarter? My greatest hope is for either the Phillies or Redskins to have it put away by then so I don't feel bad about the bits I miss. Or I watch a gamecast on my laptop while the other game is on TV. Or I buy another TV and set them up side-by-side, as I did in Albany when I was writing a weekly football column. That was cool.

It still hasn't been announced who's starting for Philadelphia, making sports writers' jobs very hard. All I know is that Jeff Suppan is starting for Milwaukee, and Suppan has a strong postseason record. Jobu wake up bats. Series tied 2-2 is very bad. Is very bad.

I have a feeling about Chase Utley today, and about Pedro Feliz. Hence the picture of Pedro Feliz. Move it on to the NLCS, Phils. Give the home town fans something to cheer them after the Redskins beat the Eagles 27-22.



4:15ish: Andrew Hamm at Elsinore Castle.

This is where Andrew works on his lines hardcore. He also works on music for the show. And apparently he refers to himself in the third person.



7:17: Los Angeles Angels of Anaheim at Boston Red Sox.

Beckett is pitching. At Fenway.

Nuff.

Said.



Of course, I have to watch all of this with one eye while the other is studying my lines for Hamlet. It's the Angels - Sox game that's most going to suffer. I promise I'll break away for the final three innings at least.

On a non-sports note, I worked on my lines Friday afternoon in Hollywood Cemetery. I spent a lot of time on 1.1, which features the appearance of Hamlet Sr.'s ghost. While working on that scene, a cat leapt out of the bushes, yowling, startled. Even in mid-day it scared the shit out of me. I responded by silently shouting, "Stay, illusion!" and delivering my speech to the ghost directly at a gravestone. I promised I would remember the name of the man I was addressing, but I can't recall it. It made my heart pound unexpectedly. Cemeteries are scarier to me than I thought they would be.

Working a ghost scene in a graveyard is scary, would basically be the point I'm making here.

Determination Beats Talent

My desire to write about Henley Street's Richard III is being hijacked by my need to memorize my lines for Hamlet and work on music for a house party. For now, I'll stay away from things theatrical and focus brieflly on the Phillies' second-straight NL East title, clinched last night. Also, Jimmy Rollins' quote above is just about the best three-word sentence ever.

Dare I dream? Red Sox-Phillies? Would my head explode?

Curt Schilling: Hall-of-Famer?

I had been planning to write about this, but ESPN's Jayson Stark makes all the arguments I would have made much better. Here's Stark's essay; click on the link to read some great debate between Stark and emailers afterward.



Monday's topic, courtesy of Nelson from Portland:

"There's only one logical question for this week. Is Curt Schilling a Hall of Famer? I am a huge Sox fan and big Schill supporter. However, I have to say no. The numbers just are not there."

On a November morning five years from now, the 2013 Hall of Fame ballot will show up in my mailbox. And on that ballot, I'll find the kind of name that makes Hall voting so rewarding--and so impossible:

Curt Schilling.

Nelson from Portland says he isn't Hall of Fame worthy. Me? I'm not so sure of that. So let's take a look at Schilling's fascinating Hall of Fame credentials.

THE CASE AGAINST

If you base your Hall decisions just on the old wins column, you won't vote for this man. That seems obvious. His 216 wins are 72 fewer than Tommy John, 71 fewer than Bert Blyleven and 38 fewer than Jack Morris. And none of those guys had a plaque last time I checked.

For that matter, if Schilling has thrown his last pitch, he'll also wind up with fewer wins than Joe Niekro (221) or Dennis Martinez (245). And neither of those guys even made it to a second year on the ballot. So clearly, that's what Nelson is referring to when he says "The numbers just are not there."

THE CASE FOR

Ah, but it depends which numbers you're looking at. And I looked at bunch of other numbers--numbers that rank all righthanded starters from 1992, the year Schilling first moved into the starting rotation in Philadelphia, through 2007, the year he apparently threw his final pitch in Boston. Here's what I found:

Schilling not only led all of them in complete games (with 83), but only one other righthander in the whole sport (Greg Maddux) was closer than 25 CGs away. Just Pedro Martinez had a better strikeout ratio than Schilling (8.59 K/9). Only Pedro and Roger Clemens had more strikeouts than Schilling (3,116) , period. Just Pedro and Maddux had a better WHIP than Schilling (1.137). And nobody had a better strikeout-walk ratio. In fact, Schilling's K/BB ratio (4.38 whiffs for every walk) ranks No. 1 among ALL PITCHERS IN THE MODERN ERA.

So how compelling are those numbers? And I haven't even mentioned October yet--the month in which he did his finest work of all.



Schill has been my favorite active baseball player for 15 years (my fave all-time being Mike Schmidt), and the fact that his marvelous career might have ended with a whimper of shoulder surgery breaks my heart. Today's news on that front is good; the surgery went well and he may be able to start throwing by winter. But even if he's thrown his last pitch he can have no regrets.

I wonder if he's thought about which cap his Hall of Fame bust should wear.

Hank Steinbrenner Is a Jackass.

From the Associated Press:

NEW YORK -- Yankees ace Chien-Ming Wang is expected to be sidelined until at least September after injuring his foot running the bases, prompting club co-chairman Hank Steinbrenner to chastise the National League for playing without a designated hitter

An examination in New York on Monday showed Wang partially tore a tendon and sprained his right foot Sunday during the Yankees' 13-0 interleague win at Houston. He will be on crutches and wear a protective boot for a minimum of six weeks, the latest blow to the team's banged-up pitching staff.

"My only message is simple. The National League needs to join the 21st century," Steinbrenner said in Tampa, Fla. "They need to grow up and join the 21st century.

"Am I [mad] about it? Yes," Steinbrenner added. "I've got my pitchers running the bases, and one of them gets hurt. He's going to be out. I don't like that, and it's about time they address it. That was a rule from the 1800s."

Making a rare appearance on the bases at an NL park, Wang pulled up rounding third and hobbled home on Derek Jeter's single. Wang doubled over after scoring, pointed toward his right foot and was helped off the field.

"This is always a concern of American League teams when their pitchers have to run the bases and they're not used to doing it," Steinbrenner said. "It's not just us. It's everybody. It probably should be a concern for National League owners, general managers and managers when their pitchers run the bases. Pitchers have enough to do without having to do that."



So let me get this straight, Hank, you incompetent imitation of your idiot father. It's the National League's fault for your pitcher stepping awkwardly and injuring himself freakishly. Wang hurt his foot because the National League plays real DH-less baseball, not because he wasn't properly trained to run bases in Spring Training. Maybe you should also blame Houston's pitching staff for giving up a hit to a freaking American League hitter. Or Wang himself for actually swinging.

Maybe, just maybe, pitchers should be expected to be baseball players, too, Hank. Maybe they should have to develop some version of all five baseball tools, instead of just throwing and occasionally covering first base. You know, like ALL PITCHERS had to do until late in the 20th century. Moron.

All I can say about Hank Steinbrenner is that it's a really good time to be a Red Sox fan.

Jayson Stark on the 2008 Red Sox

An excerpt from ESPN.com:



FORT MYERS, Fla. -- Unless you're older than Eddie Joost, older than Dom DiMaggio, older than Zsa Zsa Gabor, you've never lived in a world like this.

You've never lived in a world where a baseball season was about to begin and the Boston Red Sox could be described with a word millions of New Englanders were once completely unfamiliar with:

Favorites.

Red Sox fans can be found in many of the world's faraway places, but especially in Japan.They're not your grandfather's Red Sox anymore. They're not your great-grandfather's Red Sox anymore. They're not the tragic, accursed figures of not so long ago anymore.

Winning one World Series didn't change all that. But winning two in four years -- yup, that did it.

The Boston Red Sox, as we know them now, are not expected to choke, or gag, or fizzle. They're expected to win. They're built to win. And they're darned sure good enough to win.

"The story has changed now," says Tim Wakefield, now in his 14th season with this team, a man who has witnessed this transformation from the best seat in the house. "It's changed from tragedy every postseason -- from: 'They did it again. Blahblahblahblahblah' -- to something different."

Something different, huh? Does that describe it?

Repainting your living room -- from white to tan -- that's "something different."

But watching the Red Sox go from "A Team Doomed by Fate, Curses, Sunken Pianos and Assorted Bucky Bleeping Dent-Type Villains to Never Win a Stinking World Series for the Next 8,000 Centuries" to "Only Franchise in History Not Named the Yankees to Sweep the Series Twice in Four Octobers" -- that supersedes "different," doesn't it?

It's kinda like waking up one morning and finding your family just moved to Mars. That's how unfamiliar we are with this universe -- a universe where even the Yankees are trying to catch the Red Sox. Where everybody, in fact, is trying to catch the Red Sox -- except, possibly, Hank Steinbrenner.



It's a fun read if you're a Sox fan.

Curt Schilling on the Mitchell Report

From Schilling's blog, 38 Pitches. Schill has been a very vocal advocate for cleaning up the game for many years, and has never been shy about giving a controversial opinion. He's also my favorite active baseball player.

It is a long, complex read, and these excerpts don't do it justice. But if you don't have 20 minutes to read the whole thing, you should at least see these parts:

On admitting guilt:

...These three guys (Andy Pettite, Brian Roberts, and Gary Bennett) were man enough to admit they were caught, made a huge mistake, and asked for forgiveness. There will be many who say they only admitted what they did because they were caught, which is probably true in every case, but the fact of the matter is that when you look at how many names are now out there, very few have chosen to own up to the mistake and take responsibility. To dissect the manner of their apologies, or try and discern intent is irrelevant to me. I know all three guys are good people. The world is full of good to great people that have made mistakes of this magnitude or worse. I’ll argue that this mistake in many cases doesn’t define the people I know, but merely points to another fact of our lives that people continually dismiss.

We’re human, we make mistakes, some bigger than you, some smaller, but at the end of the day it’s what makes us human. These guys made mistakes and I do mean mistakes. They didn’t accidentally do this, this was a conscious decision with far reaching implications and they should be held accountable. Problem is the fans version of accountable is completely dependent on their opinion of the player in question. If you are a fan then all is forgiven, or there is much less vitriol than you might have for other names mentioned....

On Jose Canseco:

...The problem I have, and the opinion I have, is based on the fact that he (Canseco) lied his entire career, every single day of it. He cheated his entire career, and lied about it. He spent his entire career on the record claiming he didn’t use PEDs (performance-enhancing drugs), yet only when his life was in shambles and only when it served Jose Canseco the most, did he ‘come clean’. Only then did he become this bastion of truth and honesty. Is that not the scam of scams? He made his hundred million or so, and when he was no longer good enough to compete up here, only when cheating stopped being enough to keep him competitive, only then did he scream ‘blackballed” and vow to get his revenge. Only then did he tell the truth, or his version of the truth.

Which in the end gets us here. Say what you want about Jose, and there are things I disagree with and think he’s wrong about, but I have yet to find someone he’s named who’s NOT been guilty or tried to clear their name. The view I have on that is maybe a bit too simplistic but I look at it like this. If Jose had named me in his book, it would have taken about 20 minutes for me to issue a press release vehemently denying the allegations, which would have been as closely followed as possible by as large a legal action as I could have possibly taken to sue for slander, libel, defamation of character and anything else I’d have been able to legally do. It’s either that, or I’m guilty. There is no gray area here, you either did, or you didn’t and Jose, up through today, hasn’t called out anyone that’s sued his ass off for false representation, slander, libel or whatever you would do if someone said something like this about you, that you didn’t do....

On Roger Clemens:

...So as a fan my thought is that Roger will find a way in short order to organize a legal team to guarantee a retraction of the allegations made, a public apology is made, and his name is completely cleared. If he doesn’t do that then there aren’t many options as a fan for me other than to believe his career 192 wins and 3 Cy Youngs he won prior to 1997 were the end. From that point on the numbers were attained through using PED’s. Just like I stated about Jose, if that is the case with Roger, the 4 Cy Youngs should go to the rightful winners and the numbers should go away if he cannot refute the accusations....

Schilling's focus on the lack of libel suits is an angle I hadn't thought of. When is Alex Rodriguez going to sue Canseco; when is Bonds going to sue the writers of Game of Shadows? If they don't sue for defamation of character, we can only assume that they are refusing to do so to keep evidence out of court.

He's got me softening a bit on the guys who apologize; if they're guilty and have even half of a conscience, what other choice to they have? The only problem with that, Andy Pettitte, is that HGH has to be in your body for months to do anything. It's not something you take once or twice, look in the mirror, admire your new six-pack, and move on; it's not something you take once or twice and your torn rotator cuff is all better. I think it's likely these guys are plea-bargaining in the court of public opinion; admitting to enough for us to get mad for a few seconds, then forgive them. I maintain a high level of skepticism with these guys who claim to have "only tried it once or twice." If you believe that, you probably believe Bill Clinton didn't inhale.

But regarding Slimeball Canseco, look: It wasn't going to be an angel who named names. It was going to be a user, it was going to be a sleazebag, and it was going to be someone who had a lot to personally gain. It was going to be someone who had as few scruples about calling out former teammates as he did about cheating in the first place. Canseco is our mob informant, and a seven-figure book deal is his immunity. This final bit of slime is the one redeeming moment, the necessary evil, his overall reason for being, before he drifts away into the oblivion of some horrible VH1 celebreality show.

One thing does have to be mentioned here, though: Last season was a great one. From top to bottom, start to finish, it was full of drama and as many great stories as a year of baseball has had in a long long time. Is that because of PEDs? Of course not; if the Mitchell report has brought nothing else to light, it has confirmed the idea, long held by me, that pitchers are benefitting as much as the hitters. The field isn't exactly level, but both sides of the ball have benefitted. I'm not ready to throw out entire seasons. Steroids and HGH didn't create Ryan Howard and Jimmy Rollins, the Rockies' win streak, Buchholz's no-no, or the chapion Red Sox. Most or all of that would have happened in a clean league.

I'm not ready to give up on baseball yet. Not as long as there are Curt Schillings and Jimmy Rollinses in the game.

F.P. Santangelo: Baseball (Closestthingtheycanfindtoa) Hero

From ESPN.com:



Santangelo admits HGH use, says he'll 'face the music'
By Wayne Drehs
ESPN.com
Updated: December 14, 2007, 10:18 PM ET

As he sat in front of his television Thursday, waiting for the official release of the Mitchell report, former major league outfielder F.P. Santangelo feared the worst. He knew he had purchased human growth hormone from former New York Mets clubhouse attendant Kirk Radomski. He knew Sen. George Mitchell's investigators had asked to speak with him, a request he had denied.

And yet as Santangelo watched ESPN reporter Jeremy Schaap on live TV, quickly thumbing through the report's 409 pages before Mitchell eventually spoke, Santangelo prayed that his name wouldn't be read.

"I just kept saying, 'Please Lord, don't name me right here, right now. Don't be one of the first guys. Don't be one of the first guys,'" Santangelo told ESPN.com on Friday. "And I wasn't. That was a relief."

But the relief didn't last long. Minutes later, when the report was released online, Santangelo was one of at least 86 people accused by Mitchell of using performance-enhancing drugs.
Yet Santangelo has handled the 24 hours after his appearance in the report differently. While the aftermath of the report's release has been littered with no comments and vehement denials, there was Santangelo, who now works on Sacramento's KHTK Radio as a member of, "The Rise Guys" morning show, on the air Friday morning, admitting what he had done and taking calls from listeners who were equally eager to praise and condemn him.

In an emotional two-hour radio appearance, the seven-year major league veteran, who last played with the Oakland A's in 2001, confessed to using human growth hormone, explained how and why he did it and publicly apologized to his two kids, his ex-wife, his parents and listeners. He talked about the difficulty he had in explaining it all to his children, and the concern he had that his son, F.P. Jr., would be teased Friday in middle school.

He even shared a story of reporters hiding outside his home Thursday evening and the guilt he felt each time the doorbell rang and he saw a look of fear on the faces of his kids.
"That was the part that made me feel, as a Dad, as bad as I've ever felt," Santangelo told listeners. "They were scared. That was the one thing that really hit home is that I made these bad decisions and now my kids are scared. I almost felt like a pedophile." (story continues)



So this is what passes for remorse in America now? This is penance, this is reconciliation, this is a sympathetic figure? No doubt this is just the beginning of a landslide of major league baseball apologies and confessions by dozens of the 86 names in the Mitchell report. And, just like Michael Vick and Sean Taylor's killers, FP Santangelo is sorry for one reason: because he got caught.

He has a two-hour radio show in the Bay area. If he was really haunted by the spectre of what he's done in the past, if he really felt bad for his kids, if he really felt any real remorse at all, he had hours on the air every week to make things right. All it would have taken was a few seconds: "I took HGH, and I'm sorry."

This is bull. This isn't sorry. Sorry is when you confess and make things right because of your conscience, because of internal motivations. This is like when you hit your little brother and your mother grabs your arm and makes you say you're sorry; you mumble "I'm sorry," but you still love the way you made him cry. FP Santangelo, who Mama Mitchell forced into the open, isn't sorry enough to give a big portion of his salary--which he earned by cheating--to a steroid education charity. He just wants to get this over with and hopefully keep his radio show.

Plagiarists and people who steal research lose their jobs. They lose their money, they lose their grants, they lose their reputations, and they lose their awards. This is exactly the same, exactly the same.

If it takes being caught for you to know what you did is wrong, you don't know a damn thing about right and wrong.

Apology rejected.

An Open Letter to Major League Baseball

Dear Baseball,

As you may have guessed, I need to talk to you about the Mitchell report.

First of all, I'm not quite sure whom I should address this to. Is it the players, or maybe the players' association, union bosses, and agents? Is it the corporate paymasters, the owners, the advertising dollars? Is it the broadcasters and reporters, or is it the Commissioner, supposedly at the top of the whole organization? Or is it the real people in charge of the sport, the fans who have bought record numbers of tickets in recent years?

You see, I have to include the fans in this, because they're what addiction counselors refer to as "enablers." Sports radio may buzz with outrage over the cheapening of baseball's gaudy records, but the outrage doesn't extend to the box office or the souvenir shop. People are going out to the ball park in droves to see 40-year-old flamethrowing pitchers with HGH-healed bodies face down big-headed, roided up batters. They're buying jerseys with their names and numbers on the back. And they're cheering juiced-up homers and strikeouts in record numbers.

My point is, we're all culpable here. We're all to blame, but I'm going to take my medicine first, before I hand any out to anyone else.

Steroids in baseball is my fault.

I was drawn back to interest in the game by the 1993 Phillies, then the 1995 Indians. We've known for years now that both teams were led by chemically enhanced stars. (To be fair, John Kruk and Curt Schilling never exactly had the bodies of an Adonis.) Red Sox fandom came later, from the timeless smell and feel of Fenway, so very different from the stew of entitlement I experienced in New York. I seldom bought tickets, but I bought hats and jerseys and coffee mugs, MLB Showdown cards and the like, I watched a lot of ball on TV and discovered SportsCenter. I probably bought a lot of things advertised in games. And in 1998 I watched with everyone else as Mark McGwire and Sammy Sosa smashed Roger Maris' home run record. I cheered and hollered and screamed with excitement as if nothing smelled funny here. It was fun, and it was exciting as hell. It's not just chicks who dig the long ball.

So it is with complete acknowledgement of my part that I address the rest of baseball nation.

Players: Just stop. Stop. Put down the needles, spit out the pills. Stand on your own two feet or fall, like a human being does. Sports attract us because of their purity, the unerring "our guys did it better than your guys" factor, the score at the end being the undisputable result of superior preparation and effort on a level playing field. I can't shoot myself up with something to make me a better actor, administrator, musician, leader, teacher, or writer. You're not just cheating in your game, you're cheating the allegory. Baseball isn't a George-Will-ian microcosm of life if you can only succeed at baseball by cheating.

I know it's impossibly naive of me to expect you to stop because of poetry, but I'm asking anyway. Stop because stopping is the right thing to do. Stop because if you can't make it as a major league baseball player without cheating you aren't really a major league baseball player. To fail as a man is infinitely better than to succeed as a sham.

Commissioner Selig: Give total amnesty to offenders who confess before pitchers and catchers report to Spring Training. This is your fault as much as theirs. You knew this was happening, Bud, you knew. And you did next to nothing until Congress - Congress, for crying out loud, the most useless and impotent body this side of the U.N. - made you. Give amnesty and start again. If, after the amnesty offer, players fail tests, strike their stats from the records. Erase them from history. All their stats, even their names, gone from the record books as if they never played. It's the only way; it's the only penalty that makes sense. Of course you can't know if steroids helped Jason Giambi to 20 home runs or 200, but you know it helped him to home runs. So if, after offering the carrot of amnesty, players merit the stick of erasure, drop the stick on them. Hard.

Yes, I know the Barry Bonds thing isn't addressed by the above scenario. He's never going to play again, so he'll never test positive. That's fine. Let his numbers stand as a monument to your own stupidity, as a cautionary tale. Let his so-called records tell us, "When we sacrifice integrity for money, this is what happens." Leave his seven hundred whatever up there to remind us all to never let this happen again. We all know the home run king is Hank Aaron.

Baseball Fans: Go to minor league games until you're convinced that Major League Baseball is actually substantially cleaned up. Better yet: if you've got an independent league team, like the Northern League, nearby, go there. Trust me; a live minor league game is the best sports experience in the world. The seats are closer, the tickets and beers are cheaper, the lines are shorter, and the whole experience is just more pure. Yeah, the minor leaguers are roided up too, but at least they're not making millions, or most of them aren't. Go to high school games, go to college games.

If you absolutely must follow your favorite team (and, I must admit, it's going to take a lot more than this to make me stop following my beloved Red Sox and Phillies), watch them on TV or listen on the radio. Don't buy tickets, don't buy that new jersey, don't buy a new hat. Wear the old ones. Until you're convinced that baseball is taking real steps to end the culture of drug use, stop giving them your money.

And while I've got you listening, fans, educate yourself about the game. There's a lot more to cheer for than the home run and the strikeout. A ground-ball pitcher's duel is one of the most sublime and beautiful things in sports. Watch the beauty of a 4-6-3 double play and cheer. Shout out loud for defense and the struggle for control of the strike zone. Stand up and applaud your team after they score a run on a walk, a sac bunt, a steal, and an infield single in a tough inning. In my opinion, that's way more fun than a home run. It's the most complex and beautiful game in the world; there's more to love than just the fireworks.

Fix it, baseball. Do the right thing for a change, not just because of money or PR, but because it's right. You're baseball in America, and you should be right.

Yes, the Mitchell report is largely a political document. Yes, it's largely non-prosecutable, and most of the offenses detailed in it are from four-plus years ago. Yes, much of the information came from dirtbag drug dealers with plea deals. But this is your chance, baseball. This is your chance to start something new.

Fix it.

Whitlock on Bonds

Another great piece of opinion from Jason Whitlock, including a Bill Clinton reference.

An excerpt:



If Barry goes to jail, it’s because he chose 756 over freedom. Vanity short-circuited his common sense.

He could’ve copped to everything when the investigators interviewed him years ago and disappeared like Mark McGwire.

Bonds already had enormous wealth. A legacy, an important one, in baseball was already secured.

He wanted baseball’s most hallowed record, and he wanted it untarnished, so, in my opinion, he manipulated the truth.

He didn’t have to. I’ve never pitied Bonds, and I don’t today, even though he’s facing charges that could conceivably land him in jail for 30 years.

What I’ve always rejected is the silly notion that bringing down Bonds would somehow cleanse baseball and the sports world. It doesn’t. It doesn’t even begin the process. It does just the opposite.

The prosecution of Barry Bonds simply gives Bud Selig and all the other owners of professional sports franchises another fig leaf to hide their culpability in America’s steroids arms race.

Bonds Indicted At Last

News flash! Barry Bonds has been indicted for perjury and obstruction of justice in his testimony about the use of performance-enhancing substances.

Raise your hand if you're surprised.

No one? No one? Bueller?

This isn't news, it's death and/or taxes. It's the sword of Damocles finally falling. Four counts of perjury, one count of obstruction, and Bonds is facing up to 30 years in jail. The all-time home run king, the face of the "steroid era" of baseball, the jillion-time NL MVP and cleanup hitter of my 2001 championship fantasy baseball team is finally officially accused of what we all freaking know he did. The suspected taint of the last two decades is now official.

And I feel terrible for him.

Bonds isn't employed by a team right now. This affects no one but himself. He has no teammates or ownership to back him up or support him.

Bonds has been far from a lovable teammate. His former Giants clubmates cheered for him at the plate, avoided him anywhere else. He has no deep ties to on-field compatriots, no one to stand beside him.

Bonds has been antagonistic with the press from day one. He certainly has no support from the fourth estate. Now he's not just the sexiest sports news story in decades, he's also a target for some gleeful media assault.

Through his own actions, Barry Bonds has been resented and disliked everywhere he went. He is totally alone.

Not for a second am I defending Barry Bonds or suggesting that he shouldn't go to jail if and when he is found guilty of what every non-San-Franciscan American darn well knows he's guilty of. But if you think Michael Vick was alone--and Vick might be the happiest man in the world now that someone else gets to be "Sports' Most Wanted"--that was nothing compared to the way Bonds has separated himself from any substantial support system outside his immediate family.

And it didn't have to be this way. It's not like Barry Bonds wasn't a future Hall-of-Famer before he Hulked up.

I maintain that the advantage of steroids for hitters is in large part imagined or overblown. Pitchers are using them to increase velocity as well; I have it on pretty good authority that, in the college and minor-league ranks at least, performance-enhancers are used more by pitchers than hitters. And no steroids improve hand-eye coordination, ability to read the ball's rotation, knowledge of pitching tendencies, or view of the arm angle.

But it's still cheating. More than that; it's a pattern of lying in the face of overwhelming evidence that would make a Clinton blush. I did not have sexual relations with that syringe.

Still, I feel terrible for Barry Bonds, the loneliest man in America today, by his own design. I don't support him, but I sympathize, and my prayers are with him and especially with his family, whom he has made victims of today.

I hope this doesn't ruin his life. It's enough that he and others like him have stained a whole era of baseball.

Who's Cursed Now?

Well, the ALDS series are going exactly as I'd hoped, the NLDS the exact opposite. Also, my prediction that all four series would go the full five games seems a tad unlikely since all four series currently stand at 2-0. Colorado continues to roll against Philadelphia, Arizona is making the Cubs look like the Cubs, and Boston has been too clutch for the Angels to handle.

But it's the Yankees-Indians that I want to talk about.

Let's look at some numbers. Since taking a 3-0 lead over the Red Sox in the 2004 ALCS, the Yankees have a combined postseason record of 3-12. This streak, of course, began with the franchise-crippling collapse as Boston took the last four games of that series. Yes, the Yankees have made the postseason every year for over a decade, but since 2000 it's been only to lose. Alex Rodriguez, the Yankees' everything-but-champion thoroughbred, who had a gaudy 6 homers and 13 RBIs in New York's six-game season sweep of Cleveland, is 0-for-6 in the first two games of the Division Series, and the Yankees are hitting .121 as a team.

I've got news for you, Yankee fans. Your team is the new Red Sox. They're a regular-season powerhouse, good enough to get you there, but there's something broken or missing in their spirit, the something that wins championships. Now you're starting to learn how it feels to root for a team that's cursed, or that has lost 10,000 games in its history: desperation disguised as hope and every confidence marred by crossed fingers. It may be time for Joe Torre to ride off into the sunset, not because he's not a brilliant Hall-of-Fame manager, but just because after seven years the magic and chemistry of the Yankees' late-90s run is simply, demonstrably, just not there any more.

For more evidence that the very elements are conspiring against the Yankees, look at poor Joba "Don't Call Me the Hutt" Chamberlain, whose eighth inning appearance was one of the strangest things I've ever seen in sports. A swarm of insects descended on the Yankees in the field, concentrating around Chamberlain on the mound, circling his head and sticking to his sweaty skin. A time out had to be called for Off spray to be applied; it did nothing. Holding a tenuous 1-0 lead, Chamberlain walked Grady Sizemore on four pitches, then threw a wild pitch which allowed him to advance to second. After a sac bunt moved Sizemore to third, the pitcher bounced another wild one past catcher Jorge Posada, allowing the Indians to tie the game.

Seriously, I'm moving my Bible study back to Exodus to look for evidence that Moses was a Sox fan. Who let the bugs out! Bzz! Bzz bzz! Bzz bzz! I half-expect frogs to descend on Yankee Stadium for game three.

It's sure looking like Cleveland-Boston Arizona-Colorado LCSes. Can the Yankees (or the Cubs, the Angels, or my beloved Phillies) come back from the brink of elimination? Sure they can. For inspiration, all they have to do is look to the example of the 2004 Red Sox to see what a legendary comeback looks like.

Or they can look at the 2004 Yankees for an example of legendary collapse, a disintegration which seems to continue three years later.

Jayson Stark on the Phillies

With packing, moving, and other such bedlam, I don't have time to expound on the glory of my beloved Red Sox and Phillies winning their respective divisions this year. I will say that the Phillies' comeback the last two weeks is one of my favorite sports stories ever. And there's something very satisfying about the Yankees being the Wild Card for a change. I can only hope or dread that the Sox and Phightins meet in the Fall Classic.

For now, I present Jayson Stark, who wrote a beautiful piece about the Phillies over at ESPN.com

Phillies somehow make the impossible happen
By Jayson Stark

Updated: September 30, 2007

PHILADELPHIA -- Every once in a while in sports, stuff happens that just can't happen. Can't. Shouldn't. Doesn't feel like it happened even after it happened.

We think we've just witnessed another insane, improbable example of that phenomenon -- the tale of the 2007 Phillies.

We know they won the NL East on Sunday. We know they beat those cooperative Washington Nationals, 6-1. We saw it happen. Saw the man who threw the final pitch, Brett Myers, fire his glove into the sky. Saw the fireworks erupt above him. Felt the stadium gyrate. Saw the champagne spray.

But even after seeing all that, we found ourselves asking: What just happened?

Didn't the Mets just lead this team by seven games, not even three weeks ago?

Wasn't this a team with a 4.73 staff ERA, a team that gave up 821 runs this year, a team everybody in the entire United States of America knew didn't have enough pitching to win?

Wasn't this a team that -- considering it just finished a season in which it put five starting pitchers, two closers, the incumbent MVP and the guy who seemed destined to become this year's MVP on the disabled list -- needed a trainer's room the size of Fairmount Park?

Wasn't this a team managed by Charlie Manuel, a fellow whose city concluded, about 12 seconds after he came to town, that he couldn't manage a car wash, let alone a division champion?

Wasn't this a team that played in a football town, a town that long ago decided the local baseball team wasn't ever going to win anything in the next 10 or 12 centuries?

So how do we explain what just happened here? How do we explain the most improbable September comeback of all time, happening to this team? How do we explain these miracles of sports, when this stuff that can't happen somehow does?

"I don't know how to explain it," said Phillies shortstop Jimmy Rollins, the man who clearly saw this coming months before anyone else, the man who said back in January that this was The Team To Beat. "I don't know why you feel certain things or why things happen. But I just felt that way. Something came over me. The question was asked. And I just said yes, I feel we're the team to beat. ... And in the end, that's how things happened."

Those things couldn't have happened without a whole lot of self-destruction from those star-crossed front-runners, the Mets, of course. Those things couldn't have happened if the Mets hadn't become the first team in history to make a seven-game lead vaporize in the final 17 games of a season.

But if you go through the great collapses in sports, you'll find one thing in common:

There has always been more than one actor in every one of those shows.

You can't collapse unless there's someone there to catch you. You can't finish second unless someone else roars out of your rearview mirror to finish first.

So while much of the hemisphere will choose to remember what transpired here as a monumental el foldo by the Mets, there will always be another side to this story.

There will always be this Phillies team, a team that went 13-4 down the stretch as those Mets were going 5-12. A team that glued itself closer together as those Mets fell apart. A team that couldn't possibly win -- not logically, not even mathematically -- but did.

Remember, this team led in the standings for precisely one day all season until the moment it started shooting that champagne around the room. The only other National League team in history to do that, according to the Elias Sports Bureau, was the 1951 Bobby Thomson Giants -- another team that had people asking: What just happened?

Well, when stuff like this does happen -- this stuff that defies all sense of what's probable, or even possible -- there is always more to it than the names on the scorecard, or the numbers on the stat sheet.

"You know what?" said Manuel on Sunday. "We love to play. If you watch us play, our players really love to play. I've been around a lot of teams. And this team here, as far as chemistry goes, is definitely the best [of any] team I've ever been around. "And I think who we have and how they play, our chemistry, our atmosphere which comes from the guys on this team, is what definitely made the difference in pulling this off. I think some of the teams I've had before were divided at times. But this team right here is a team that stayed together."

That was never how it used to be, you realize. For years, this was a team whose reputation was the mirror image of the 2007 version. All those teams heard, for years, was that they "didn't know how to win." Or didn't know how to win when they most needed to win. Or something like that.

The GM who put this team together, Pat Gillick, made his share of moves that didn't work. No doubt about that. But he's gotten no credit for the best thing he did -- consciously remaking this club's chemistry, deliberately building around energizers like Rollins, Chase Utley and Aaron Rowand.

"This is a big-game club now," said Myers. "I think we relish these situations, of being in big games when they count. I think we play better when we're relaxed. And I think we felt like we had nothing to lose coming into these last two weeks.

"I don't think anybody in here was pressing, especially compared with the past couple of years when I've been here and we've been so close and came up short. I think there are a lot of guys here who have been through that. And we're just like, we've seen how that is and how that feels, and it's not fun. And we've seen how tense we get -- like, we've gotta win, we've gotta win, we've gotta win. ... And it's just different now."

We'll never be able to measure how much of that difference is a product of the never-ending positive energy that flows out of the local shortstop. But let's just say they're related developments.

On Sunday, Rollins was one of the last Phillies to arrive at the ballpark -- to the point where Manuel gently kidded him beforehand: "Hey, you gonna play today?"

Rollins flashed that smile that almost never leaves his face. Was he going to play? Yeah, right. His team had teed it up for 161 games before this one. The shortstop had started all 161. So "yeah," he laughed. "I'm gonna play."

By the time he reached home plate in the bottom of the first inning, the framework for this outrageous plot was already in place -- right there on the out-of-town scoreboard in front of him, a board that read: "FLA 7, NYM 0."

"That was the first standing O for an out-of-town scoreboard that I've ever heard," said third baseman Greg Dobbs.

But the Phillies still needed to do something about their own end of the scoreboard. And that's all Rollins could think about as he rocked in the batter's box.

"I was trying to figure out, how was I going to get it started," Rollins would say later. "I was thinking about it all last night, and I really couldn't come up with any answers. You know, yesterday, we just kind of came out dry. You know, there was no pressure: If we lose, we still have tomorrow. If we win, we've still got to play tomorrow. But we didn't have that option today. And I was just trying to get things done."

He knew he was only 2-for-14 lifetime against Washington starter Jason Bergmann. So it wasn't as if there was some "Get It Started" button he could push. But he decided to search for one anyhow.

"I came in there and ate like two bites of an omelette," Rollins said. "I didn't have much of an appetite. I just sat there and watched how he pitched, how he pitched, how he works and how he works. And when I got on base, I was going to do whatever it took to score a run."

He got on base with a line-drive single to center, six pitches into the game. Three pitches after that, he was on second with his 40th stolen base of the year. Eight pitches after that, he was on third with steal No. 41. Two pitches after that, he was crossing home plate on a sacrifice fly by Utley.

"And I think that allowed everybody to relax just a little bit," Rollins said, "and just play baseball the rest of the game."

That wasn't the end of Rollins' MVP highlight reel, though. There was a walk and another run scored (No. 139) in the third inning. And there was the dramatic pinnacle of his day -- an RBI triple in his 716th and final at-bat of the season, a triple that propelled him into the fabled 20-double, 20-triple, 20-homer, 20-steal club, alongside Willie Mays, Curtis Granderson and good old Wildfire Schulte.

It looked and felt like one of those "This Is What MVPs Do" video clips. But Rollins plans to leave the MVP arguments to someone else.

"I don't vote," he said the other day. "I just play. And I play to win."

But what he has always needed most, what all the thumpers in his lineup have always needed most to make that winning possible, wasn't more runs on the scoreboard. It was finding a few pitchers who could keep the other guys' runs off that scoreboard. And as you may have heard, that's been kind of a problem.

The Phillies' 4.73 team ERA is the highest of any NL playoff team in history that didn't play in scenic, altitudinous Denver, Colo. Those 821 runs they allowed are the most by any NL playoff team ever.

But the 820 they gave up over the first 161 games didn't matter a whole lot Sunday. All that mattered was that the guy they handed the ball to in Game 162 was just as determined not to let them lose.

That was 44-year-old Jamie Moyer, a man whose trip to that mound Sunday was poetically perfect for all kinds of reasons. For one thing, Moyer was the only player in uniform who could actually remember the last (and only time) the Phillies won a World Series. He was a 17-year-old kid from nearby Souderton, Pa., back in 1980 -- and blew off school to watch the parade.

"You know, we had a team meeting last year when we were going down the stretch, and I got to speak and share some things," Moyer said. "And I told these guys the last time I was involved with a parade, I was in high school and I skipped school to go watch it. And I said I'd like to go down Broad Street for a parade again some day -- except this time I'd like to be riding in one of those floats."

But Moyer's presence on that mound was fitting for reasons beyond his familiarity with parade floats. He was also the only Phillies starter to make it from start to finish this season without a visit to the disabled list, despite the slight technicality that he was the oldest starting pitcher in the league.

Oh. And one more thing: Even though Jamie Moyer was 550 starts into his career, he'd never, ever pitched a game quite like this one.

"I've pitched the last games of a season before," he said, after spinning off 5 1/3 innings of one-run baseball. "But I've never pitched a game at the end of a season that meant more than this."

Then again, just about no one else has, either. If you exclude seasons where both teams involved in a race this close were going to make the playoffs, this was only the second time in the last 25 seasons that two teams came to the park on the final day of a season in a flat tie for first place.

The only other time: 1993, when the Braves and Giants found themselves in that spot, 103 wins apiece into an epic season. Coincidentally, the man who pitched for the Braves that day was Tom Glavine. Which could have made for a special story. But it turned out that the old-timer with the best story on this day was Jamie Moyer.

He pitched the Phillies into the sixth, on the way to becoming the oldest pitcher in history to win a clinching game. Then he handed it over to the three men who have salvaged the Phillies' bullpen in a remarkable September -- Tom Gordon, J.C. Romero and Myers.

And then it was 4:34 p.m. local time. And Myers was spinning the third strike past Wily Mo Pena that finished off this unimaginable saga -- and unleashed a window-rattling roar that announced to the world that Philadelphia was, officially, a baseball town again.

You wouldn't have thought these people would know how to celebrate after all these years. Heck, since the last time the Phillies played a postseason game (1993), 23 other teams have played at least one playoff series. The Yankees alone have been to the playoffs 13 times in all those years when the Phillies didn't tour October once.

But the tears, the hugs and the 44,000 spinning rally towels told you these folks seemed to remember how this worked. And on the field below them, Myers was hurling his glove toward the clouds above -- and the team that made this possible had a pretty good celebration going itself.

"You know what," Myers would say an hour and a half later. "I don't even know where my glove is now. And you know what else? I don't think I care."

Jayson Stark is a senior writer for ESPN.com. His new book, "The Stark Truth: The Most Overrated and Underrated Players in Baseball History," has been published by Triumph Books and is available in bookstores. Click here to order a copy.

Richmond Braves Win the International League Championship!

R-BRAVES WIN! R-BRAVES WIN!

Karen and I were in the house tonight as the Richmond Braves won their fifth Governors' Cup International League Championship.

Trailing the Durham Bulls 2 games to 1 in the championship series, the R-Braves had game 4 rained out on Friday night, necessitating a double-header scheduled for today. Game 4 began at 3:00; if Richmond won, game 5 would follow at 7:00. I had rehearsal for Richard II from 10:00-5:00, but Grant Mudge sent me a couple text messages from the stadium to keep me posted. Good thing, too; the game was pre-empted on the radio by both the Virginia Tech game and the Hokie postgame show. I can understand losing a previously-unsceduled R-Braves game for a Hokies game, but the postgame show? Anyway...

Grant's last message was 1-1 in the bottom of the 6th. By the time I got to the Diamond, it was the top of the 8th, 4-1 Braves. Grant was sitting with the Thrifts in row G of section 108 (boxes between home and first), and there were open seats with them, so we joined them. It was cooling off, so I called Karen and told her to bring something long-sleeved for herself and for Grant, who was wearing shorts.

Final score of game 4: 6-2 Braves. Karen arrived and game 5 commenced.

If game 4 ended well, game 5 started downright brilliantly, with the Braves scoring 4 runs in the bottom of the 1st and never looking back. Outfielder Doug Clark hit a three-run home run off the right field foul pole, followed on the next pitch by Carlos Mendez's dinger over the left field fence. The rest of the game seemed to feature a succession of Durham hitters swinging their arms out of their sockets, as if trying to hit a 5-run homer. What started as heart looked more like desperation with each inning.

Sitting six rows from the plate gave loudmouths like Grant, Karen and I some wonderful opportunities to make fun of the names of Bulls hitters. Hey, they're on the road; I feel no guilt. It was easy to make fun of Evan Longoria, calling him "Eva" (as if he's never heard that before) and asking him how his husband Tony Parker is. E. Johnson inspired me to chant "E. Jooohhn-son!"

But we really seemed to get into the head of Jason Pridie (pronounced "pretty") by singing "I feel Pridie! Oh so Pridie!" every time he came to bat. Poor Pridie boy went 0-for-5 tonight, striking out the first three times we sang his song. And they were bad strikeouts, swinging wildly from way behind in the count. I really think we pissed him off. I feel kind of bad about that. Initially, we were just singing it at the beginning of his at-bat, but he came to the plate with two outs in the 9th, and by then we had our entire section singing with us: "I FEEL PRIDIE! OH SO PRIDIE!" Before each. And. Every. Pitch. This resulted in a game-ending fly ball to deep right. Braves win. Jason's Pridie.

This is the second time I've been in the stadium for a minor-league championship, and there is nothing like it. This joins the 1999 Arena Cup (go Albany Firebirds!) among the greatest sports experiences of my life. Seriously, I'd take this above watching a Phillies, Red Sox, or Redskins championship on TV any day. There's just nothing like being there.

I'll post the T-D article tomorrow. Until then, I want to share the sheer joy of tonight's experience as best I can. So enjoy some pictures.


Eva(n) Longoria: Swing and a miss in game 4.



The Governors' Cup: on display in front of the stadium, awaiting a new home.




One of many Braves runs scored early in game 5.



The scoreboard: happy if you're a Braves fan, sad if you're one of the scores of Durham fans who drove up from North Carolina today only to sit behind the visitors' dugout and watch a crushing double-header sweep. Give them credit: driving three hours to root on a minor-league team is being a real fan. I complimented a group of Durham fans in a beer line.



The R-Braves enlist the help of Governor Tim Kaine to lift the heavy Governors' Cup. Kaine--a friend of Richmond Shakespeare and a genuinely good guy in my experience--showed up midway through the second game. His kids were there all day, including a boy wearing a "KAINE" #1 Braves jersey. God bless the Kaine family, friends of both sports and the arts.

So the Braves win their first IL championship since the magical 1994 team, which featured such obscure players as Ryan Klesko, Javy Lopez, and future Chipper Jones. Is there a major-league future ahead for Doug Clark, Carlos Mendez, and winning pitcher Kevin Barry? Could be. For now, I'm just thrilled to have been there when they won their minor-league title.

Next up: a one-game king-of-the-hill game Tuesday night in Oklahoma City against Pacific Coast League champion Sacramento. I'll have to settle for ESPN.

I feel Pridie. Oh so Pridie.

News from the R-Braves website.

Richmond times-Dispatch coverage.

MiLB.com coverage.

R-Braves Coming Home to Fight for the Championship

Boys and girls,

The Richmond Braves are tied 1-1 in the International League Championship Series, and the two or three games remaining will all be played at the Diamond. Through a freak of scheduling, the wild-card Braves have home-field advantage against the division champion Durham Bulls. The winner of this series plays the Pacific Coast League winner (Sacramento vs. New Orleans) in a one-game winner-take all AAA Championship game in Oklahoma City on September 18.

Come out and see the Braves. Come out because I can't get out of Richard II rehearsal Thursday or Friday nights.

Their website is http://www.rbraves.com/, but it only seems to work about half the time...

What a Day in Sports

You expect the opening day of College Football to be big and boisterous and exciting, but this year it was unique. Some random thoughts on what I got to watch and listen to yesterday:



Appalachian State Mountaineers 34, Michigan Wolverines 32.

Holy smokes. Would ya look at that.

A lot of the press this morning is reading this way: "1) We knew Appalachian State was a good program, but 2) Who knew Michigan could blow it this badly?" Well, I'm going to take the opposite view: "1) We knew Michigan has a long history of blowing National Championship aspirations with an ugly September loss, but 2) Who knew Appalachian State was this good?" I'm wracking my brains trying to think of a bigger upset like, ever, in any sport, and I can't come up with one. I'd say the Texans beating Dallas in their first game, but Dallas hasn't been good since 1995. This is the equivalent of a minor league team beating the Yankees, except bigger. Maybe sweeping a series with the Yankees.

All I can say is, three cheers for Division 1-AA.

Incidentally, Caitlin Upton, Miss "give maps to U.S. American students so we can help South Africa" Teen South Carolina announced this week on the Today Show that she plans to attend Appalachian State. Coincidence?





Virginia Tech Hokies 17, East Carolina Pirates 7.

After an emotional pre-game ceremony honoring the 32 victims of the April massacre, the Hokies looked drained. The game was unremarkable; sloppy VT offense covered by world-beating defense and special teams. But this was the first major sporting event for Virginia Tech since the world changed in April, a chance to move on and define the school by something other than unimaginable tragedy.

I didn't get to watch much of this game; I had errands to run and band practice. But here's what I really loved about the game. In a departure designed so no one would boo, both teams' marching bands participated in the pre-game festivities, and both teams charged onto the field simultaneously to massive applause. How great that was. I would advocate making that the rule for all college and high school sporting events.

Boston Red Sox 10, Baltimore Orioles 0.

The one game I got to watch a lot of was this one, which I saw from the fourth through the end. Pretty darn good one to choose, since it featured a no-hitter from Red Sox rookie Clay Buchholz.

Scouts and Sox fans know Buchholz's name, but few others do. His start was of the emergency variety, to give Boston's injured and aching starters a night of much-needed rest. Who knew he'd be giving the bullpen the night off as well? Buchholz's no-no came in his second freaking major league start, which is somewhere about 16 miles beyond unbelievable. It's not, however unprecedented; Bobo Holloman pitched a no-hitter in his first career start, and Wilson Alvarez, like Buchholz, in his second. Holloman won three games that season and nere returned to the bigs; Alvarez won 102 in a serviceable career, playing until he was 35.

Buchholz, 23, would have merited a close look even if second baseman Dustin Pedroia hadn't made that incredible diving catch to save the no-no late in the game. This wasn't a fluke like Holloman, and looks to be a harbinger of at least Alvarez's potential. Buchholz is known for hitting upwards of 96 on the speed gun, but he mowed down Oriole after Oriole with a fastball in the low-90s, a devastating changeup, and a curve that bit deeper and deeper with every inning. The last pitch of the game was the whole night in a nutshell, a filthy diving curve dipping right past an oblivious Oriole with a bat slung helplessly over his shoulder. The future looks promising for the Red Sox rotation if Buchholz takes this success and runs with it.

Don't ignore the fact that the Orioles, though struggling this year, had not been shut out this year until Buchholz came along. This was just what the Red Sox needed after the Yankee sweep, not just a shot in the arm but a massive and completely unexpected one. Buchholz wasn't supposed to draw national attention last night. He wasn't even really supposed to win, honestly. He was supposed to eat up some valuable innings and give Wakefield and Schilling another day. Who knew?

What a great day for sports.