That Did Not Just Happen.

I was wrong. GOD HOW I WAS WRONG. Florida State Seminole, J.D. Drew.

Seriously, though. If this team loses in the next two games, I will be sad, yes, but I will not be angry. This was the greatest comeback I have ever seen in a playoff game. This includes 2004 and Dave Roberts against the Yankees. I mean, holy Jesus Lord.

AL East Preview

Yeah, it's time again. The Baseball season is ALREADY FUCKING HERE, so we're previewing the whole shebangs the only way we know how: by making shit up. Today is the AL East, currently led by the Boston Red Sox by .5 yen, er, games.

Boston Red Sox-- Yeah, I know, I picked 'em last year to win it all merely by bias. But I was still right. In any event, things will be cruising along early-- a halfway decent 15-7 record-- when Manny Ramirez decides he's going to war. Citing his "hatred of the terrorists", he will report to Theo Epstein his desire to serve his country. Theo, shrewd man that he is, will still trade his rights for two players to be named later and the working arm of Nomar Garciaparra from the Dodgers (AKA Red Sox West). With these parts, and the hair the Marines shave off of Manny, Theo will create a hybrid player named Hydroponic Jones. He will hit for the cycle in twenty straight games before violating drug policy, leaving the Sox with a platoon of Coco Crisp and Brandon Moss. Record: 95-67, World Series.

New York Yankees-- The team will respond well to Joe Girardi's principled, military-style discipline until they lose a key game to the Angels in midseason. Joe Girardi will describe A-Rod as a prima donna in a media leak. Misunderstading his new manager, A-Rod will think he said Pre-Madonna. A pouty, unhappy A-Rod will fire back and say that he is the "Queen of Baseball. Madonna isn't fit to soil my cleats." He will slump after hearing snickers from his teammates every time he settles in for the next pitch, causing the Yanks to falter in the second half. The laughter will stop, however, when Jason Giambi's old tumor problem comes back in the form of a second head that takes over his body and destroys itself. Charged by the loss of a teammate, and by Hank Steinbrenner's annexation of Tampa Bay, they will make the playoffs, only to lose in the first round again. 93-69, ALDS losers.

Tampa Bay Satan Fish, er, Rays-- I have no idea what is going to happen to this team, but I got a hunch they're due to launch from the depths to the semi-depths. I do think, however, that Joe Madden will opt to have Rocco Baldelli repaired bionic man style from spare parts of his first car ever-- a Yugo. Also, Scott Kazmir will evolve into the ace that noone cares about on a team few think exist. He'll be like a violet in a field of dead bulls. GO RAYS GO. 80-82, no playoffs.

Toronto Blue Jays-- A mediocre start will prompt A.J. Burnett to try to throw nothing but fastballs in one game. As a result, shards of his shoulder and back will coat the front row of fans. A class-action lawsuit will take up most of the team's attention and Troy Glaus will testify that Burnett "always wanted it this way" in a tearful moment. Meanwhile, the team will suffer the indignity of a 14-game losing streak while Vernon Wells goes on strike for more pitches to hit. Oh, and they lose the lawsuit on grounds of, um, disgusting. Yeah, that'll do. 75-87. Playoffs? Not a chance.

Baltimore Orioles-- The entire city of Baltimore will rise up like flames and overthrow Peter Angelos. A radical sect of this movement will advance on Washington DC and burn down RFK Stadium, forcing the Nationals to play in Richmond at the R-Braves AAA stadium. They will advance, an angry horde thirsty for the blood of baseball's elite. Yankee stadium will fall, Fenway next, David Ortiz's body covered in the blood of Bartolo Colon, Detroit razed like London in 1666 and then, in the grandest design of all, Bud Selig will be removed in the bloodiest coup in MLB history. Meanwhile, the team blows and they didn't really want this anyway. 50-112. Playoffs? Good Morbid God THERE'S SO MUCH BLOOOOOOOOOOOODDDDDDDDD.

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.

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.

A Completely Worthwhile Proposal

Photo courtesy Chricket Go Queek Queek
Thanks Paul.

I love the AL East. I really do. Despite my hatred of the Bombers, it's great that they exist. I am in love with the Red Sox. Always have been. I have nothing but love for the Blue Jays. I think it's cute that the Orioles still field a team. I harbor no ill-will for them, either. In general, I like their teams from the past and their forthright belief that they deserve a future that Old Man Angelos won't give them.

It's the Devil Rays that kill me*. A more pointless franchise (yes, that includes the Rockies) does not exist in baseball. Possibly in all of sports. I understand the small payroll and young team, but this is the same excuse I hear every year. It just ain't happening for these guys. They are are the AAAA of the American League. THis is not to say that they couldn't compete in a different division that the Payroll Division, but the rules are the rules.

In fact, I'm all for losing the team. There, I said it. Let the Marlins own the nation's wang. Let the transplanted New Yorkers cheer against the Mets in the NL East. However, I am NOT in favor of contraction. This leaves the best and brightest of this young team to the top bidders in the league. Instead, I have a plan to make my beloved AL East all the better. Combine the Orioles and D-Rays**. Then, the cast-offs will find jobs in other markets.

The Orioles are closer than many think to being a threat. I like their starters-- three of them at least. Sure, this wouldn't help their insufferable bullpen all that much, but look at the rest of the league. Boston is all starters (minus Okajima and Papelbon). New York is old and all starters (minus Rivera). Toronto is, well, hurt. Right now, the Orioles could make a respectable later-than-May run at the East with this pitching:

Starting:
Bedard
Kazmir
Guthrie
Cabrera
Shields

Relief:
Reyes (7th-9th)
Ray (Closer)
Fossum (Long Relief)
Shuey (mop-up)
Bradford (Weird arm/lefty guy)
Burres (Long Relief/Spot Starter)
Baez (Roster Spot/ They Paved Paradise...)

So, that's not the strongest set of pitchers, but Bedard has become more consistent, Kazmir could pitch with, you know, pitchers, and actually get better rather than flounder near .500 with flashes of brilliance. Chris Ray could look around him and see a few helping hands and not feel the pressure of the world on his chest, and Reyes has pitched well in the AL in case Ray falls apart.

The lineup, then, could be:

Carl Crawford (LF)
Nickie "The Fish" Markakis (RF)
Wiggington (1B)
Tejada (DH)
Mel Mora (3B)
Brian Roberts (2B)
Brendan Harris (SS)
Corey Patterson (CF)
Raul Hernandez (C)

You've got Boom Bitch, B.J. Upton and Iwamura on the bench or you can let Mora go since he's a little older. Either way, I can see that lineup scoring a lot of runs with a combination of speed, youth and rejuvenated power. Plus, you can move Markakis and Patterson up and down the order depending upon who you play.

Though, I have not tried to figure the salaries for taxation, look at who you've dropped. The bulk of the Shawn Camp all-stars (aka AAA pitching staff) of the Rays are gone. The Orioles roster of relievers is thankfully depleted. The dropped crew can try their hands as the new Tampa Bay Devil Rays (affiliate of the Orioles) begin their first season in their rightful AAA league. Or they can try new teams. It's completely up to them. They could make some decent Major-League-experienced trade bait (maybe for a catcher that makes contact on either of these rosters). Either way, both the Orioles and the AL East bolster themselves.

I know it's insensitive to kill a team and devastate a small fan base, especially since they've never had a chance to see their team succeed. Also, admittedly, this is still a fairly weak team. Face facts, though, Tampa Bay has been a place where good players grow to leave and old players go to die. It's depressing to watch their 100 loss seasons and hurtful to know what it feels like when Orioles cry. At least this way, one of the two is competitive without having to try and lure away stars that just want the Steinbrenner or Henry cash, anyway.

* Yeah, I was thinking about this while the two teams played each other last night.
**The only catch? Angelos HAS to sell the team beforehand. I can't have that guy messing up my brilliant ideas.

Outside the Aviary: "Against All Odds"

Tonight, I watched something I didn't think I would see. I watched a kid younger than me beat a fantastic offensive team in their own home while the Red Sox lead the division. He garnered comparisons to Chris Young (from Orel Hershiser, no less) by getting out of jams and making the right pitches. He let the defense work when he couldn't strike his man out. He snuck in his offspeed stuff after using his fastball to get ahead early. He didn't let his walks beat him. Jon Lester went to work.

At times, I would say that Lester looked like he could contribute for the rest of this season. This is astounding seeing as how he struggled before a prolonged DL stint last season and lost his command at critical times throughout his young career. The Indians weren't often fooled by his pitches, yet they never hit the important ones. The Grady Sizemore home run aside, Lester gave them chances for walks and cut fastball singles, but never the chance to hurt him terribly. This is the pitcher I saw last season, before his injury. It's the guy that seemed calm in the face of whatever confronted him-- whether it be a bases loaded situation or AAA options being mentioned when he couldn't get out of the fifth inning.

Or cancer.

I remember reading that Jon Lester was diagnosed with cancer and thinking... damn, that kid had a shot. I'm not gonna say his courage or anything other than the luck of finding the disease early had anything to do with his comeback. I'm not a doctor. Nor do I care to offer my opinion on how or why Jon Lester came to be a fantastic feel-good story amongst the Vick/Donaghy/Bonds face-off amongst the talking heads in sports. All I know is, eleven months ago, the Red Sox were all but out a pitcher. I mean, even AIDS cowers in a corner when Cancer enters the room. Yet, Lester made his pitches tonight, answered his post-game questions and now he waits for his next start to see if he or Kason Gabbard will be the fifth starter when Curt Schilling is ready to pitch again.

In fact, I get the feeling that tonight had nothing to do with courage. I think Lester came out and threw the ball. He listened to his catcher, trusted the lead his offense gave him and did what came naturally. It was the same thing he did with his doctors and family a few months ago, the same thing he did with his coaches and teammates in the minors and the same thing he'll do when Theo Epstein and Terry Francona decide if he is ready to contribute every fifth day come August 6th-- Schilling's scheduled return. The courage part is hard. Tonight was easy. Tonight, Jon Lester got to have some fun and beat a playoff-ready team.

Tonight, Jon Lester beat the Cleveland Indians. That seems easy, compared to amateur oddsmakers (like myself) who wrote him off eleven months ago. Courage takes on many forms when a 22-year-old kid takes the mound for the first time in the majors. Or battles cancer. Tonight was neither of those things. All Jon Lester did was go to work tonight. And win. That had to feel right, though it looked wrong. I couldn't believe what I saw. Neither could his parents.

All along, however, Jon Lester looked like he was doing something normal. He was doing his job.

Outside the Aviary: "A Half Life in Two Movements"

The movement of Josh Beckett from disappointing headcase (Media's take) to All-Star caliber pitcher (actuality all along) is in motion. The reasoning has been well-documented-- his penchant for hotheadedness was a force behind his fastball and it's failure-- but psychology had only one part in Beckett's sudden rise. Alongside coaching changes and an understanding of his surroundings, Beckett's 7-0 record has more to do with function than it does mindset.

The function of a pitcher is no longer to be the star of a baseball game. Since the advent of sporting television and the highlight, the throngs of sports fans have lauded their attention on offensive output: the home run, RBI, etc. The mindset of a team, however is split in half. Nowadays, the Ted Lilly's can demand top-dollar while the Alex Gonzales' (more important due to everyday play) are scrounging for tips from teams needing to plug holes. Beckett's superiority was dormant (labeled "potential")-- especially since his domination of the 2001 playoffs. Yet, the Red Sox said that they got a proven young winner, not a prospect.

That Beckett has proven them right in a young season is not surprising. As many times as being lauded for his "stuff," he has been criticized for being bullish. His penchant for fastballs in frustrating counts was noted on practically every blog and media site in the world of Red Sox baseball. However, this bullishness is exactly why he has relied on pithing off-speed this year. He's proving that he can out-pitch anyone that has traded his pigheaded idea of being the brand-name fireballer to being a Cy Young candidate. You could see it late last year. The frustration of trying to show everyone up who was complaining about his fastball has now turned to shutting everyone up about his value over two prospects.

Why the bullishness? It's simple: Bonds' need to be the best wound up getting him the spotlight for steroids and record chases, Clemens' need keeps him continually coming back, Schilling's need makes him baseball's player-politician. Those who will not stray from the spotlight find ways to bring it to them. Beckett realized that being a jerk in a jerk town just leads to frustration (Pedro learned this as well and though Schilling refuses to learn, that's what a politician does, right?). Beckett learned that simply being the best pitcher in a major market will garner you the attention you desire. Pitchers may not be the most watched superstars, but they are the most coveted.

I call it the Cowperwood Corollary. Dreiser's trilogy of a rich man shows a character motivated not only by avarice, but the attention it garners. Cowperwood wants to be rich and powerful, but refuses to be a politician to do it. Beckett wants to be considered the ace of a staff predicated on people vying to be the ace. It's a position that since the Pedro-Schill years that has become impossible to care about unless you are a fan of the Sox. Wells, Pedro, Schill, Beckett, and Daisuke all vied (or continue to vie) for the glorious position of being lauded as the best since Clemens in the early 90's. Attention and adoration, to be sure, are motivating factors before athletic dominance.

His 7-0 start is a simple case of function over form. To be considered the best, you have to be the best. To do that, you have to fool the best hitting and most overpaid division in the league. Fastballs weren't cutting it, so Beckett changed form. To gain attention as a pitcher, you either have to be a prima donna (Pedro, Clemens) or a loudmouth (Wells, Schilling) to try and outshine the sluggers (Bonds, Ortiz--albeit in opposite sides of the spectrum, so to speak) and be the bulldog at the forefront of the pack.

You also, more than anything else, have to sacrifice to win and be noticed. Schilling was willing to sacrifice his credibility in certain circles be a mouthpiece, Bonds was willing to sacrifice his name for famous records, Pedro was willing to kill his shoulder for wins. All Beckett needed to do was refine his talent. I don't know if he is now fully realized as far as potential is concerned, but at least the struggle has shifted. The need for recognition is going to become quelled, as long as the wins keep coming. If not, the next form will come. The fans are satisfied with wins, but will Beckett be as much? If the Cowperwood Corollary is right, then no. I hope I'm am wrong, of course. All-star caliber is something worth watching, but not at the expense of feigned star power-- just ask anyone following the news of Clemens, Schilling or Bonds as of late.

Outside the Aviary: "F-F-F-Foolin'..."

A report from Yankees stadium on Sunday (and another Red Sox victory).

I love fooling Yankee fans. Nothing beats doing it over the course of a Red Sox series either. It's like the dieting commercials you see on TV-- you can eat anything you want and still lose weight! It's simple-- wear anything you want without Red Sox paraphernalia on it and cheer as loud as you want for them! It's a guaranteed good time.

On Sunday, a particularly timid and tame group of Yankee fans filed into the section in which I sat. The combination of terrible pitching and losing record was beginning to grate on them-- you could tell. The kids in front of us were bored off of their asses by the fourth-- dumping peanut shells and stabbing holes in the plater's program faces with a pencil. The fans were yelling more at Mets and Rangers fans than they were at blatant Red Sox fans walking in and out of their seats. They were like a lame duck Presidential speech or a long-winded National Anthem rendition. It was as if the fans were ready for April to end rather than looking forward to the game's conclusion.

And with good reason, I suppose. Their Yankees, as has been well documented, are miring themselves in yet another slow start. This April, however, is different for one solitary reason: suspicion. When the Mets were ready to overtake the Braves last year, there was an attitude of, "Well, their due, but I can't pick against the front runners." People knew that the right amount of pitching mismatches and lineup adjustments had been made. The Braves were rife for domination, but the "hump" is never easily overtaken.

The stadium was never abuzz-- even in the ninth when Giambi came through with a double, even when Doug Mientkiewicz hit a three run job, and even when Alex Rodriguez came up in critical situations (welcome back Little Momma!). With last year's darling of the staff pitching, the fans were listless, yet unable to boo. They were in a conundrum-- there is no one to blame (injuries being the main reason) and no one to love. No heroes, no goats.

I know their pain. Last year's end of season came at the hands of a healthy Yankee squad versus a patched-together pitching dynamic including detritus from all over (Kyle Snyder?! Starting?!). The leftovers still remaining from last year were a past of the unraveling that could have happened in two innings: Tavarez unraveled in the third (wlks and a HR) and Timlin pitched a shaky eighth: (Jeter's HR and the tying run reaching the on-deck circle). The fact that the series is 5-1 thus far rests on the shoulders of new pitchers on both sides. Last year's domination has no carryover with Diasuke Matsuzaka or Jeff Karstens; Jose Vizcaino or Hideki Okijama. I understand the injuries, and stared from the stands at a team bereft of answers.

That's the biggest fool job on the Yankees this year. The trades of Randy Johnson and Gary Sheffield may have strockpiled arms, but it doesn't plug holes. The Craig Hansens and Manny DelCarmens of the world are always on the cusp of ready. The Julian Tavarez guys are always in between good stretches. The Sean ("Robin Wright") Henns are always struggling to strike out the superstars of the league. All of this on top of inefficiency an d injury. It's the "smart" plan. It's the "hope" plan. When the clutch comes calling, do you want to watch Sheffield hack at a high hard one, or do you want Melky Cabrera or a 65% Damon or a struggling Abreu? I know these questions well.

The doubts are planted, and the Stadium is full of them. Most of all, there is a lifelessness right now. Of course, when I go in May, June and onward, the attitude will change. I'm sure the standings will change. But, more importantly, will the suspicion? The general rumblings are unsure-- as shaky as a Chase Wright fastball over the heart of the plate. The fans are occupied and languid for now. Will they come alive? Right now, apparently, not enough to worry about two guys in regular clothes celebrating right in front of them as Manny rounded the bases or as Alex Cora slid into third safely. Apparently, not enough to stick around while Giambi stood on second with his tenth multi-hit game or as Papelbon stood ready to deliver. Apparently not enough to hide their sneaking suspicions.

All this, and no one even noticed the shit-eating grin on my face. They were fooled, I suppose.

AL East Preview

We here at the Pretzel Factory are proud to present an absolutely absurd look into our idea of what will happen this year in Major League baseball team by team. They are broken down by division and in the order of predicted finish for your enjoyment. Enjoy your preview of the American League East, friends!

Boston Red Sox: I don't really think this team can win this division or make the playoffs in my heart of hearts, but I can't pick the Yankees. So, there it is. The Red Sox will win the East because I want them to. At the all-star break, with a two game deficit, Curt Schilling will change the name of his blog "Muting Michael Kay" after Kay says that the Yankees would be better off signing a younger pitcher in the off-season. This will prompt Kay to challenge Schill to a wrestle off. Little does Schill know, Kay is dirty. Mariano Rivera will sneak into the ring and hit Schill with a chair and Kay will scream "SEE YA!" before pinning Schill to win. Manny Ramirez will decide that this injustice must be avenged and will set a second-half RBI record propelled by an 11 RBI night against the Yanks eliminating them from playoff contention. Big Papi will laugh from the dugout heartily while carting Schill around with a wheelchair that is internet ready. Wins: 100. Playoffs: WS. Also, I'm a Red Sox fan. Thought you should know.

NY Yankees: Aside from the Michael Kay distraction, the Yankees will face their largest A-Rod distraction ever when the fans and media decide to start preening and petting him no matter what his role is in the clutch. He will become so enamored of himself that he will grow his hair into a lustrous main and refer to himself as SUPERHORSE. SUPERHORSE will hit for average, power and gallop around the basepaths with the reckless abandon of a young Enos Slaughter. Derek Jeter, jealous of SUPERHORSE's preening and newfound media-love, will refer to A-Rod as "Little Momma" during an ESPN Sunday Conversation in which he was shitcanned drunk. This will prompt both players to actively dive into the stands after EVERY foul ball causing irreparable facial structure damage to both men. Because of this, Hideki Matsui will declare himself (very humbly) to be the most handsome man on the team. Meanwhile, the team will suffer it's worst winning percentage in a long time: well above .500. Wins: 90. Playoffs: probably, but I'm not granting that honor on anything NEAR Giambi.

Toronto Blue Jays: Wait, there's a team in CANADA? What the hell is that about? I mean, COME ON. BJ Ryan plays In CANADA? Who's in charge here? Let's get these guys a real stadium in a real AMERICAN city for Christ's sake. Has Detroit got a ballclub right now? What about Anaheim? Don't worry, fellas. We'll take care of this right quick like. Doc Halladay don't pitch for no pansy-ass CANADIAN team for pussy nor money. One quick note: is there anything scarier than the bird Toronto designed to be the mascot? Holy living FUCK. That thing will kill us all. Seriously, did the guy who did makeup for The Crow make this? Wins: 87. Playoffs: Nah.

Baltimore Orioles: It all comes crashing down on opening day, doesn't it? Kevin Millar will make the papers for the first time in June when he hits a walk off dying quail to raise his average to .234. He will use the interview to rail against Peter Angelos' irresponsible running of the team. When he disappears, no one will mind or even notice. A clone of Nick Markakis will take his place and Angelos will name him Kevin Millar 2: Millar Time. A big hit, the clone will lead the league in smiles until he realizes the team is having yet another losing season mired toward the bottom of the East. Millar 2 will march into Angelos' office screaming CRUSH KILL DESTROY before realizing that he cannot destroy his master. The two will be married in August. What a nice little story. Wins: 71. Playoffs: Get the fuck outta here.

Tampa Bay Devil Rays: They got these big chewy pretzels here blaughtkdnguthgl. OK, in all seriousness, this team will start with the worst record in history until they sign Brewer, Horford and Noah and win 15 in a row to end the season. Still, it's no reason to go caring about a team that has a perennial spot on the spoiler list that Gammons does on Baseball Tonight every year. Wins: 59. Playoffs: We doin' it big. My Devil Rays know what I'm talking about.