Lost & Found: Manhood

No more "Which J.C. did Jay Cutler Play Like?" around here anymore. The reasons are: a) the answer has been the same pretty much every week (read: kinda shitty, with little nougats of goodness thrown in to mix it up), b) he's young and doesn't deserve the criticism, next John Elway, all that PC glad-handling wish-wash hullaballoo, and c) nobody gives a ratcock, anyway.

So it's done. Good. Whatever.

But in order to placate my ego, and further shat upon this now-dismal team, I introduce a new feature: Lost & Found with the Denver Broncos!

This week:


Dre' Bly's jock.

This item was found by Ross Kurcab, head turf manager at Invesco Field at Mile High, during Monday night's post-game walk-through. It was laying near the east sideline, a few yards shy of midfield.

If anyone knows or sees Dre', please let him know that we have his jockstrap. And Brett Favre has his testicles. Oh - Greg Jennings has his nose, too.

Some Q&A with Business or Leisure

Q: Didn't you just break up with a girl today (even though you weren't dating)?
A: WORLD SERIES WORLD SERIES WORLD SERIES WORLD SERIES WORLD SERIES WORLD SERIES WORLD SERIES WORLD SERIES WORLD SERIES WORLD SERIES WORLD SERIES WORLD SERIES WORLD SERIES WORLD SERIES WORLD SERIES WORLD SERIES WORLD SERIES WORLD SERIES WORLD SERIES WORLD SERIES WORLD SERIES WORLD SERIES

Q: Didn't your sister just have a biopsy?
A: WORLD SERIES WORLD SERIES WORLD SERIES WORLD SERIES WORLD SERIES WORLD SERIES WORLD SERIES WORLD SERIES WORLD SERIES WORLD SERIES WORLD SERIES WORLD SERIES WORLD SERIES WORLD SERIES WORLD SERIES WORLD SERIES WORLD SERIES WORLD SERIES WORLD SERIES WORLD SERIES WORLD SERIES WORLD SERIES

Q: Don't you work like 18 hours a day and constantly think about your own death?
A: WORLD SERIES WORLD SERIES WORLD SERIES WORLD SERIES WORLD SERIES WORLD SERIES WORLD SERIES WORLD SERIES WORLD SERIES WORLD SERIES WORLD SERIES WORLD SERIES WORLD SERIES WORLD SERIES WORLD SERIES WORLD SERIES WORLD SERIES WORLD SERIES WORLD SERIES WORLD SERIES WORLD SERIES WORLD SERIES

Q: Don't you live in NYC and don't most Yankee fans have something to say no matter what the circumstances?
A: WORLD SERIES WORLD SERIES WORLD SERIES WORLD SERIES WORLD SERIES WORLD SERIES WORLD SERIES WORLD SERIES WORLD SERIES WORLD SERIES WORLD SERIES WORLD SERIES WORLD SERIES WORLD SERIES WORLD SERIES WORLD SERIES WORLD SERIES WORLD SERIES WORLD SERIES WORLD SERIES WORLD SERIES WORLD SERIES

Q: I'm sensing a pattern?
A: WORLD SERIES WORLD SERIES WORLD SERIES WORLD SERIES WORLD SERIES WORLD SERIES WORLD SERIES WORLD SERIES WORLD SERIES WORLD SERIES WORLD SERIES WORLD SERIES WORLD SERIES WORLD SERIES WORLD SERIES WORLD SERIES WORLD SERIES WORLD SERIES WORLD SERIES WORLD SERIES

Q: Is baseball the only thing that matters in this entire world?
A: WORLD SERIES WORLD SERIES WORLD SERIES WORLD SERIES WORLD SERIES WORLD SERIES WORLD SERIES WORLD SERIES WORLD SERIES WORLD SERIES WORLD SERIES WORLD SERIES WORLD SERIES WORLD SERIES WORLD SERIES WORLD SERIES WORLD SERIES WORLD SERIES WORLD SERIES WORLD SERIES WORLD SERIES WORLD SERIES WORLD SERIES WORLD SERIES WORLD SERIES WORLD SERIES WORLD SERIES WORLD SERIES WORLD SERIES WORLD SERIES WORLD SERIES WORLD SERIES WORLD SERIES WORLD SERIES WORLD SERIES WORLD SERIES WORLD SERIES WORLD SERIES

Q: WORLD SERIES WORLD SERIES WORLD SERIES WORLD SERIES WORLD SERIES WORLD SERIES?
A: WORLD SERIES WORLD SERIES WORLD SERIES WORLD SERIES WORLD SERIES WORLD SERIES WORLD SERIES WORLD SERIES WORLD SERIES WORLD SERIES WORLD SERIES WORLD SERIES WORLD SERIES WORLD SERIES WORLD SERIES WORLD SERIES WORLD SERIES WORLD SERIES WORLD SERIES WORLD SERIES WORLD SERIES WORLD SERIES WORLD SERIES WORLD SERIES WORLD SERIES WORLD SERIES WORLD SERIES WORLD SERIES WORLD SERIES WORLD SERIES WORLD SERIES WORLD SERIES!

Q: If you were a wolf, would you--
A: WORLD SERIES, BITCHES.

Outside the Aviary: "Transmit Failure"

We're staring at another World Series Championship. It's a fantastic sentence, to say the least, for a a fan of baseball. I'll spare you the lines of camaraderie and list of heroes. I'll spare you the "tumultuous season" speeches and self-aggrandizing "I'm a Sox fan in New York" horseshit. Instead, I have a question-- or at least one is coming.

When I played middle school basketball, my father coached the team. His entire life was basketball-- I played probably four to five hours a day-- alone or in groups-- with his watchful eye popping in and out of my view. I was cultivated for my growth spurt, like any coach's son-- by being strictly fundamentals and no flash. When 7th grade came around, I was a hobbledehoy with discernible skills, yet I was ridiculed for making the team due to my father being the coach. I was harassed in hallways, booed in pep rallies and even maligned by other teachers before leaving for away games. I was a bench player. I scored maybe-- maybe-- 12 points all season.

Still, as my team prepared to take the conference championship, I felt like I earned the celebration. I was front and center in the locker room with my teammates (who mostly hated me, by the way). I talked as loud and proud in the school as anyone else after the loudspeaker confirmed what I already knew: we were champions. I knew I earned it.

There was one kid that joined on about two-thirds through the season. He was less skilled than me, a little taller but with no ball-handling ability, a set of skimpy legs that could not perform the necessary footwork. In short, he was put on the team out of pity after he had transferred from out of town. He never played much-- even in garbage time-- and when he did, he was essentially horrendous. We'd feed him the ball in times he couldn't fail, but he found a way.

So, then, what of the Red Sox championship? If they close out, amidst the champagne sprays and leaping crowds of athletes, there will be one awkward jump and yell: that of Eric Gagne. When a team wins a championship despite its distractions and in spite of a player unable to perform, where does that player fit into the lavish party that is the post World Series lovefest? I mean, as a bench player (like myself or an Alex Cora) I can see the involvement. But as a man that singlehandedly blew so many games in tenable situations, earned his boos from the crowd, became the bane of Sox fans worldwide and never derailed his own failures, where does Eric Gagne fit in? Will the players acknowledge him-- a newcomer who stepped in and failed when it mattered in the regular season, the postseason (other than garbage time) and even when trying to explain his failures?

Even worse, if the Sox close out with another blowout, does he hold the ball in the ninth inning? Does he close out the second World Series title in 89 years? Is that the face I want to see in highlights on ESPN, DVD sets of the season, interviews with players years down the line? Gagne, awaiting the captain, Jason Varitek, his glove tossed asunder, with a shit-eating grin on his face as though he earned his keep on a team built to win a World Series? Eric fucking Gagne? I know Francona would do it. He's got a soft-spot in his wonderful heart for headcases (Coco, Manny) and embattled players (Pedroia in May, Drew all season long) and in each instance these guys have paid him back in spades. Eric Gagne has done nothing of the sort.

If he's holding the ball for the last pitch, if he is the first face I see as the Red Sox celebrate a World championship, so help me, the season will be a little less sweet.

I remember the locker room, the kids laughing and throwing things at one another in joyous celebration. Then I remember this one kid smiling and talking to me saying, "We did it, man. We did it." I remember me saying, "yeah we did," but not meaning it. What I meant was, "We did it-- not you." If the Red Sox season ends with a Gagne pitch, so be it, but you know at least some of the players will look him right in the eye and mean none of what they say.

They Grows Up and They Grows Up and They Grows Up

Umm ... wow. I mean, there's no other way to explain it. How apropos that a team with a bruise for its colors would put such a monumental beat-down upon every base ball club in its path. Sports Illustrated cover jinx? Screw that, man, the Rockies are just talking about their fantasy football teams and taking it one game at a time.

This has been said ad nauseam, but I'm from Denver. And I'm not a Rockies fan. I've been a Padres fan all my life, and a few years ago I resigned myself to the fact that I'd die before I ever saw the Rockies in the World Series.

Oops.

[Checks pulse, pinches self]

But this? This is like the younger brother that you and your friends used to let hang around, and you'd make him go and get you Cokes and Totino's. He'd beg to get into games, and you'd tell him to buzz off - until you'd let him in for a play or a series or an inning and then completely ignore him.

And then, while you're off smoking and drinking your memory away at college, he grows up. Fast. You come home for Thanksgiving and your formerly pipsqueak little bro is suddenly 6'2", a chiseled 190 pounds, and he looks like a goddamn Calvin Klein model. And instead of wanting to hang out with you and your buddies, the three hottest girls in his high school show up to take him to a "movie."

But hey, I'm bitter as shit. My team had a good team this year, and the Rockies brushed them off like dandruff (although, NLCS MVP Matt Holliday still hasn't touched the plate. Just sayin'). People are going to talk a ton about the faith angle, and God's team, and all that (look for FOX to heavily play up the Mike Coolbaugh story, for better or worse). And yes, we know - they don't have any history. Sorry. Nobody cares that Denver itself has a pretty long baseball history, back with the old Denver Bears and then the Denver Zephyrs, and that as way back as the early 1960s Denver was considered for expansion.

And, no, nobody knows who the hell these guys are. Well, it's evidently apparent that they're pretty damn decent at playing baseball. So, if you're a baseball fan, you might want to push all that other shit aside and just ... watch.

Because we rarely remember the moments when the little ones grow up.

Heed this advice or I cancel the subscription - ALL of them

Dear Editors of Sports Illustrated,

I know what you're about to do.

Don't.

Let me say that again:

Do. Not. Do it.

You're going to want to put the Colorado Rockies on the cover this week with a cute little tagline; something along the lines of "Rocktober" or "Rocky Mountain High" or "Purple Philly Eaters." You will drape the borders in purple and black, and you may or may not have a nice, detailed close-up of the raspberry on Matt Holliday's chin all cropped and ready to go. It's the biggest story of the playoffs thus far and, naturally, you want to take advantage.

Please refrain. I know I gave everyone free will and all that, but seriously: fight the urge.

Look what you did to Philadelphia. They came back from seven down with only 17 games to play to win the NL East. They had more momentum on their side than you could shake a cheesesteak at. So what do you do? Put Jimmy Rollins on the cover. Proclaim him the MVP. Tout their moxie, their make-up, their mojo. And what do the Phillies do? They proceed to play Brett Myers's wife to the Rockies' Brett Myers. They get treated like a Red Sox fan in Yonkers. Their bats turn to ashes. They go from Liberty Bell to Misery Hell.

Well, I won't let you do it again.

Do you see what I've done? I've taken the Colorado Rockies to the NLCS. Let me repeat that for you, in case it didn't quite seep in: I've taken the Colorado Rockies to the NLCS. The National League version of the Tampa Bay Rays. The last - and only - time they made the dance, they got there on fumes. If it wasn't for the strike-shortened 1995 season, the Astros would've caught them and passed them like a space shuttle zooming by a fat pigeon.

I've done some amazing things in my time. All those Victoria's Secret models? That's all me. Do you know how hard it is to make hundreds of thousands of sunrises AND sunsets? Every freakin' day? It ain't like making the kids pb&js, doing some Sudoku, meeting a client for lunch and then heading off to O'Rourke's for a White Russian or two. No, no, no. I worked for this. Hard.

And not only did I have to do it on the large scale, I had to do it locally, too. Turned the Broncos' defense into 11 old guys wandering around a King Soopers looking for Bacon Bits and Aspercreme. Removed the anchor of their offensive line; got the new running back to do his best impression of Redman from "How High." It's the second week of October, and sports fans in Denver are talking baseball. Hell, I should win thousands of converts and a sacrifice or six just for that.

So please, for the love of Me, don't put the Rockies on the cover. You can throw them in one of the little corner banners, or at the bar along the top, but don't make them the focus. Please. If you do, it'll ruin all of my work. And that would be worse than my unfortunate, incidental inclusion in "What the #$*! Do We (K)now!?", truly one of the most inane, unwatchable pieces of slothshit I've ever had the misfortune of laying my omnipresent occipital organs on. Seriously, have you seen that movie? They had animated gelatin cells doing the Robert Palmer "Addicted to Love" video. At a wedding. If I have my say, the people responsible for that bubbling lake of diarrhea will spend eternity tongue-washing Satan's taint.

Well, now you know how strongly I feel about this. I ask that you do not disappoint me.

Sincerely,

God

P.S. This new "Players" section is - how to put this - weak. The old Scorecard was much, much better. Oh, and I love Gary Smith as much as the next guy, but jeez - could you actually get him to go to a game sometime? I'd sit through three paragraphs describing the scent of the locker room just for some, ya know, ACTION.

Outside the Aviary: "No More Bad Town"

I live in a baseball town. In many ways, this is a dream situation. Even Yankee talk, to me, is better than constant blathering about College Basketball when the season is so far away (North Carolina-- guilty as charged). My coworkers, friends and all the customers I see every day have a new fire in their eyes, a renewed vigor that I seem to forget until the first week of October starts. Sure, some it is bloodlust for the failure of my team, but it is all in good spirit. That is, unless you're these kinds of assholes.

I've almost been in fights over sports. Hell, I've been in a fight over a beer from a fridge. But never-- even when it involves assbirds in Brosius jerseys in 2007 yelling about how A-Rod is going to make Reggie Jackson disappear in the record books-- NEVER have I considered beating the shit out of another man (with help) due to sports affiliations. In 2003, a man (in North Carolina, no less) traveled the length of a bar to inform my friend Miles and I that we enjoyed homosexual anal and oral sex after Aaron Boone's home run in the ALCS. He actually, red-faced and wielding his beer like an axe, screamed "Better luck next time, assholes." We had no idea he was even there. He was picking a fight. Still, I didn't take the bait.

Duane Somers, 32, of Huntingdon, Pa., and Edward McConaughey, 42, of Orbisonia, Pa, are the exact reason I can't watch sports in bars as often as I want to. They are the reason I refuse to talk shit, even when my team is triumphant. They are the reason I stopped wearing my Sox cap to work every day-- the inclination for wanting to get into a shouting match with someone who thought Derek Jeter was the best defender to ever play the game was too strong. The art of loving sports is a tough one. There are those that devour their teams and those devoured by them. It's a shame Carlos Ortez got devoured as well.

It brings up a philosophical quandary. I think the reason I haven't posted for this site and have talked about sports less and less with my friends stems to the fact that I hate the people that like sports to this insane level more than ever before. The debates, the sniping, the constant criticism of something I have no control over, the lumping of me-- a person that talks less shit than Pirates fans-- in with Massholes and maniacs who didn't know who Jacoby Ellsbury was until two weeks ago. It is as pointless to debate the merits of Jeter's defense and A-Rod's offense as it is to figure out the meanderings of Manny's mind. I could care less.

This is not to say I don't cheer. Nor is it to say I wasn't at a bar last night celebrating one of the most dominating pitching performances of my lifetime (Cowperwood Theory in motion). I was not, however, screaming in Yankee or Angel fans' faces. I wasn't running through the streets proclaiming anything in particular. I was just watching the game. That's all. Nothing crazy. I especially didn't feel the need to beat the hell out of someone because they didn't wear the same hat as me. The people yelling the loudest are driving me away from one of the things I was most in love with and best at disseminating (see also: my general apathy toward college football and its rabid fan base).

Say what you will about multimillionaires and free-agency "ruining the game." I'm happy for a few more social disconnects at this point. I really am. That just puts me one step closer to enjoying sports without the fear of assholes and hospitals. That just makes one less asshole willing to pick a fight with me over a retarded groupthink mentality. Maybe--hopefully-- it will allow one less Carlos Ortez incident. I mean, c'mon, all he wanted to do was watch the game and go home.

Defeat

It's not that I've been texting people back in Colorado all night, having to hear (or read) their shit even though up until a month ago they thought Tulowitzki was a Polish diplomat.

It's not that I had to dip into a random bar in Astoria tonight - waiting for Business or Leisure? to get home - just so I could watch the first inning of the game ... and have the resident drunks all tell me that they're cheering for the Rockies because they took them and the over. (Random note: one of them thought "a mile" was 20,000 feet, which he quickly amended by shortening it to 3,500 feet which, in reality, is only about 33% off.)

It's not that I wore the lucky hat tonight, which I didn't wear yesterday - because I wanted to wear the 3/4 sleeve Padres shirt with the Bronco hat while I watched the Colts dismantle Denver with slim, slim hopes that the Friars would pull it out against the Brewers and end this orgasmic madness that has become the NL playoff picture.

And it's not even that Matt Holliday clearly, poetically, irrevocably and unmistakably did not touch home plate; nope, not even that.

It's the fact that I, with good Scotch, cheap Vodka and plenty of domestic brew cannot, in any way, shape or form, muster up the strength to post some picture that shows you how I feel.

We here at the Pretzel Factory are all about humor. Most of the time. We like funny things; like, say, a hamster holding a bouquet of flowers. That shit's funny. But I ain't got it. I got nothin'. Nada. Zilch. Zero. The big kaput.

I can tell you the man-love I felt when Adrian Gonzalez hit a grand slam to put the Pads up 4-3 in the third, and somewhat legitimize this team by having a 30-homer, 100-RBI guy (albeit in 163 games). I can tell you how a-fucking-glad I was to have Heath Bell on my team when he came in and straight shut the fucking door after Jake Peavy departed with a not-so-Cy-Young-esque effort. I can tell you the complete, juvenile, bare-feet-on-wet-grass joy I felt when Jorge Julio entered the game in the 13th and proceeded to throw baseballs towards Jupiter before grooving a pitch to Scott Hairston that "The Thing" pounded into the left-field seats for a seemingly insurmountable 8-6 lead. I can tell you that I then went to the restroom feeling giddy, feeling good ...

And then I can tell you that Hoffy came to the mound.

This is where the lack of a picture makes sense. A picture can be worth a thousand words - and in this day and age, a link may well be worth a million - but I can be sure, within a zillionth of an inch, that the pain in these words will be worth far more than any image you may lay your feeble eyes upon. For when Trevor Hoffman came in, and gave up a double to Kaz Matsui ... I'm going to say this slow, just so you understand . . . K-a-z M-a-t-s-u-i . . . I knew it was over. A two-strike gapper? To Kaz Matsui?

From there it unfolded like a wet origami swan. Tulowitzki - BAM! - double. MVP candidate and chin-gasher Holliday - BAM! - triple. Jamey Carroll - yeah, that's how it's spelled - BAM! - sac fly for the win. All off a closer who, it's unfortunately painfully evident, should give up his "Hell's Bells" theme song to the shut-down, fuck-you reliever who can: A) get people out when it matters; and B) claim that his surname is actually in the title of the goddamn song.

These are just rants, I guess, of a lunatic, a man who should find solace in the cold, weathering embrace of Mets fans around him. But who has more to be ashamed of? Surely it's the Mets, right? They had the biggest collapse ever, they showed no heart, they packed it in and gave it away.

But the Padres had the same ample opportunity to get into the playoffs; all they had to do was beat a down-trodden team once in the season's final two games, and they were in. They had a likely Hall of Fame-closer going in one of games, and the franchise's most popular player's son hit a game-tying triple off him. Go figure. Karma works in mysterious ways, but destiny appears to be one straight-ass shooter.

I got home tonight, tired and sullen, feeling sorry for myself. But then I realized there was a great few weeks of baseball left, and I should be ready for that. So I took the lucky hat off slowly, painfully, and eyed the top of the bookcase in my room where I store all my caps. There's really no rhyme or reason to them up there; they just kinda are. So I took it off and flung it up there.

It tumbled back down.

I stubbornly bent down, my back flaring up, my muscles sore from sitting awkwardly and fidgeting, being tense, watching the game. I picked it up and flung it up once more.

Again, it fell back down.

I cursed myself. I cursed the heavens. I cursed the baseball Gods and everyone from Fred Snodgrass to Joaquin Andujar.

I picked it up and chucked it up into the far corner, where it landed upside-down. It stayed.

Good, I thought. Third time's a charm.

It's just too bad the Padres won't get to find that out.