Same Old (Looney) Tunes

Last Thursday, SI.com did the unthinkable: they placed the anonymous and forgotten Padres atop their power rankings, lording over the dueling AL East behemoths and, obviously, the rest of baseball.

The venerated site did this, apparently, because for the previous two and a half weeks the Friars had beaten up on 2010 lowlifes Arizona, Chicago and Pittsburgh (with a few Ws over the Giants and Brewers thrown in for good measure). Either way, at one point San Diego had won 10 of 11 and seemed like an unstoppable machine.

Whoops.

Not content to merely let their cover jinx extend to the power rankings on their website, the blurb within the power rankings alludes to the Padres' 96.7% chance to make the playoffs; according to Baseball Prospectus, best in baseball at that time. These two factors put the Padres in rarefied air - nothing but air, unfortunately.

Know how in the old Looney Tunes cartoons, a character - usually Wile E. Coyote - can run off of a cliff and continue running on air, but only until somebody - usually the Road Runner - points out the situation? Of course you do. That's where the character, succumbing to physics and a huge "Look Down!" sign, plummets comically to a dusty and deserving death. (Ok, not "death" per se, but you get my drift.)

It's the Thought that Counts

Throughout my life, my mother has had a hard time buying me gifts. When I was little it was no problem, because if it was a toy, I played with it. No big deal.

But once I got a bit older, my mother started buying me clothes. For birthdays, for Christmas - clothes. And they were never in style at that moment, or things I liked, or they didn't fit. Basically, I can't remember one single article of clothing my mother ever got me for a gift where I was like, "Sweet! I'm gonna look awesome in this!" And then I wore it, and it totally got me chicks.

Still, I knew my mother loved me. It was the thought that counts.

I feel the same way today as a Padre fan.

Yesterday new GM Jed Hoyer traded a pitching prospect (Wynn Pelzer) for the deteriorating corpse of Miguel Tejada. Ok, that might be a tad harsh. Sure, Miggy's only OPS-ing .670 this year, with just seven homers in 401 ABs. But he's still a veritable doubles machine, and should stand to drive in some runs if the guys ahead of him can get on base.

This move means that Chase Headley probably moves to the outfield, Everth Cabrera gets sent down, and Jerry Hairston gets a lot more time at short. Hoyer has said that Tejada might see some time at short, but I don't see it. He's too old, and many of the Padres' starters induce a lot of grounders. He should either play third or maybe second, but not short. Please. Part of this team's strength is their defense, and playing a 36-year-old at SS severely hampers that. (Unless you're dreamy and can go to your left, like Jeter!)

Is Miggy the same guy who won the 2002 AL MVP? Not even close. Is he as bad as his numbers this year? I'd like to think not. Would you put up good numbers on that Orioles team? Cal Ripken rolled over in his grave so much this year he ended up in China.

This isn't a C.C. Sabathia-type move, but it's a move. It adds a little pop to the lineup and announces that the Padres are buyers. Buyers! Man, that feels good to type.

Plus, San Diego's pretty close to Mexico. They got cheap pharmacies down there, right?

I was right! I was right! Fuck you all! I was right!

When we write our baseball previews, we obviously don't take them very seriously. We write about robots, and do them in the form of letters home to mother. I mean, the Mets to win the NL East? Guffaw!

But when I did the NL West, little did I know that I would accurately - and by that, I mean PERFECTLY - predict both the record and place finish of my Padres. Did I really think they'd win 75 games? No. They were supposed to be terrible. And they were, offensively. I would've been happy had they avoided 100 losses like 2008.

Yet they had decent starting pitching, a good bullpen, a fantastic year from Heath Bell, and some timely hits here and there. They were one of the best teams for the last 3 or so months of the year. Kyle Blanks and Will Venable emerged as possible slugging stars to bookend Adrian Gonzalez, the most unheralded star in the game. Everth Cabrera and Tony Gwynn Jr. proved that speed up the middle is a good thing, especially in a park slightly smaller than Yellowstone.

So thank you, Padres, for a completely-not-terrible year. Yes, I was proud of 75 wins. Damn proud.

(But not too proud of picking the Rockies to finish dead last. You've made a powerful enemy today, Jim Tracy!)

Alone and Drinking: A Long, Leisurely Liveblog of 2 Games You Couldn't Give a Fuck About

It's the night before Labor Day and people are partying, but I've got tons of booze, a laptop, and two games on the tube: my alma mater, Colorado State, taking on the hated Buffaloes of Colorado in the EPIC Rocky Mtn. Showdown, and later the Padres take on the Dodgers in the "Best vs. Worst West-Coast Throw-In Bullshit on the Deuce" game on ESPN2.

I'm going to drink heavily and type some shit in here.

7:05 - Ralphie comes out in one of the more tired traditions in collegiate sports. It's only interesting because buffalo are likely to be extinct soon. Way to go, frontiersmen.

7:12 - CSU gets the ball to start. Our QB is named Grant Stucker. That sounds like an asshole's name. He better not play like an asshole. First play from scrimmage is a dump-off for a first down. All right, then.

7:15 - I should also mention that our running back is white and wears #7. Only at CSU. But after a long bomb (that should've been a TD if Stucker didn't underthrow it), the Great White Hope scores. Ok, then.

7:23 - A few sips into beer #2 and the Rammies force a 3-and-out. I don't want to get optimistic or anything, but this is a good start.

7:35 - Just realized former CU QB Joel Klatt is one of the guys in the booth. I'd make a joke here, but he's got a job. I don't. Advantage: Shitty Quarterback.

7:37 - On 3rd-and-15, CSU tips the pass and picks it off, and gets a facemask on the return, not to mention a horsecollar that was declined. You know what that deserves? PBR CHUG. I'm going to time it: O/U is 27 seconds.

7:39 - 25.77 seconds. I win! The prize is a bottle of White Horse scotch my friend Hannah got me for getting ceremoniously fired. Thanks, Hannah. Boo, says my liver.

7:43 - As Dion Morton goes in motion, the snap hits him, bounces right up to him, and he races to the sideline to get a first on 2nd-and-1. A good sign? I hope so. A sign of a QB not knowing what the fuck's going on? Definitely.

7:49 - Long pass over the middle, Stucker hits a diving John Mosure (honky RB) for a score. 14-0, Rams. CSU wraps the first quarter up, fittingly, with a good wrap-up on an open-field tackle. We may not have athletes, but we usually tackle well. We're the Patriots of college football, except we don't win. And our fans aren't douchemops.

7:59 - Stucker hits a long completion inside the 10, and at the tail end of the play the "Flag" graphic goes up on the screen under the score ... only the color guys don't acknowledge it and explain it, they just talk about the play. HEY ASSHOLES, WHAT THE FUCK WAS THE FLAG FOR? It appears to be taunting on CSU at the end of the play, but they don't say. Fucking amateurs.

8:03 - Speaking of amateurs, it's Joe Morgan and Steve Phillips on ESPN2 for SD-LA. Has anyone in the history of sports broadcasting been unluckier than Jon Miller? It's like instead of Costello, Abbott got stuck with Dane Cook and Carlos Mencia.

8:06 - Picture-in-picture is one of the greatest things ever. Aside from owning 2 big-ass TVs. And blowjobs. Can't forget blowjobs.

8:09 - My man Tony Gwynn Jr. went from a potential top-5 leadoff guy to hitting 8th on possibly the worst offense in the majors, in a span of about 3 months. That's not ... that's not good. Oh, and the Buffs have to punt again. Cue the Nelson laugh.

8:13 - Re: 8:06 - add "leftover shrimp lo mein" to that list. Oh, and O-dog boots little Davey Eckstein's grounder. San Diego - we score runs only if you fuck up!

8:15 - Adrian Gonzalez doubles to right-center. Two RISP, one out. Vegas odds are 10/1 the Pads don't score here. Oh, and the Rams' best receiver just dropped a perfect long bomb that hit him right on the hands.

8:17 - Well, shit. Grounder to Furcal at short, he goes home, and Lil' Ecky makes a nice slide. The Pads lead! The Pads lead!

8:26 - The Buffs convert a 4th-and-5, minutes after a bad pick by Stucker. I mean, Cody Hawkins is the coach's kid. That's lame, right? Right? The drive ends with a 55-yard FG that would've been good from at least 60. 17-3, CSU.

8:37 - With 10 seconds left in the half, the Rams line up to try a 45-yarder. All the extra points have been low, so I'm not optimistic. And ... it's absolutely drop-dead perfect. 20-3 CSU. With one second left, and with all 3 timeouts, the Buffs kneel. HAHAHAHAHAHA.

8:50 - I just got rebuked on a potential phone conversation by my boy Berg, whose argument via text is apparently "cell phones don't work in Minnesota." YOU'RE FULL OF SHIT, YOU BIG BLONDE FUCK. I hope Brett Favre fucks up the Vikings worse than McDaniels screwed the pooch with the Broncos.

8:55 - Kevin Kouzmanoff is up with the bases juiced and nobody out. And he ... singles up the middle! My man Kouz ain't the best hot corner man with the bat (although he's been a STUD with the leather), but he could be a shit-load worse. 3-0 Pads going into the bottom of the 3rd.

9:05 - Hawkins completes a deep pass over the middle inside the 10. The good feelings of the first half are gone as Colorado scores on the next play, one minute into the first drive of the 2nd half. 20-10 CSU. Uh-oh.

9:12 - CSU goes 3-and-out. Well, that was fun while it lasted. Am I inherently negative? Of course. It's got me this far.

9:17 - CU's Darrell Scott makes a one-handed grab on a floater screen and gets a first. Is that the first-half equivalent of CSU's snap-hits-the-guy-in-motion? Probably. Meanwhile, a Russell Martin single drives in Manny to cut the Dodgers' deficit to 3-1. Oh, it was a check-swing single. Good to know. I HATE THE DODGERS.

9:22 - After a review, a CU catch and helmet-to-helmet hit by the CSU safety causes a fumble that is awarded to the Rams. Do I care? Fuck no. Give us the ball. We need a break. These games are always in Folsom Field in Boulder or at Invesco, the neutral site in Denver. This shit is never at Hughes. Either way, we suddenly have no offense, and Stucker looks like a guy named Grant Stucker. Shit.

9:27 - Note to self: stop picking at your healing blister wound on your index finger with a pair of nail clippers while you're drunk. Things won't end well there, chief. Next note to self: refresh your scotch on the rocks.

9:28 - Gonzo goes yard to left. He's one of the top 3 opposite-field power hitters in baseball, bar fucking none. Goddamn that man can play the fucking game. 4-1 Padres, top 5.

9:31 - On 4th-and-1 on their own side of the field, the Buffs gets stuffed on a run to the left. If the Rams don't get at least a field goal on the ensuing drive, we will lose. I have no doubts about that. Also, a CU linebacker's name is Beatty. I wonder if he's seen Ishtar. Or Bulworth.

9:35 - On 4th-and-1, Stucker barely gets across on a QB sneak. Why not call a bootleg, or a play-action on that shit? GROW A PAIR, DAMMIT. And as soon as I type that, Stucker has not one but TWO guys WIDE FUCKING OPEN and hits the man in black between them both. Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeesh. Me no rikey this game now. Time to get scotch.

9:41 - There's not much better than seeing "Shawne Merriman arrested" on your ESPN scrawl. Fuck that guy. Let's hope the lights don't go out in jail, bitch.

9:45 - On the first play of the 4th quarter, Stucker holds on a late blitz and takes the sack. Luckily the Rams have great punt coverage, and the Buffs start inside their own 10. Still ... GODDAMMIT. Absolutely NO fucking offense in this second half.

9:47 - I haven't had a cigarette in 6 1/2 months, but holy shit does one sound good right now.

9:52 - After talking about how the Padres have a chance to play spoiler in the last 3 weeks, Joe Morgan says "Well the Dodgers have the best record..." and I change the channel. I imagine that sentence ending with "in the NL West," as the other two guys in the booth think of something to say that's not "You're a fucking idiot, chocolate midget." And after converting on 3rd-and-short deep in their own end, the Buffs get called for illegal motion, and fail on 3rd-and-long. Good field position, CSU. PUT IT AWAY FOR THE LOVE OF FUCK.

9:56 - Mark Sanchez is on the CU sidelines, resplendent in black CU gear. He's apparently a very good friend of the Buffs' Scotty McKnight, who got his bell rung earlier when he fumbled. Get ready, Jets fans.

10:00 - I wish I had some weed. Holy fuck.

10:03 - 3rd-and-goal, the Rams try to run and can't punch it in. HAVE SOME FAITH WITH THE ASSHOLE QB. For fuck's sake. The kicker shanks it just inside the left upright. 23-10, CSU, less than 10 minutes to go. They should've punched that shit in. I AM NOT IMPRESSED.

10:07 - Is there anything worse than peeing on yourself? I was just busting a freestyle-Rush-type solo and looked down to notice I had somehow dripped a few drops onto my green Starter basketball shorts. I mean, other than shitting yourself, pissing on yourself is the birds.

10:09 - I'm officially drunj.

10:11 - After a dead-ball foul, the Buffs convert on 3rd-and-15, CU's first third-down conversion of the night. I mean, what the shit. BRING THE THUNDER, KERR.

10:17 - The Rams get their fourth sack of the night on 3rd-and-long. For a team that had a college-worst - and, for the record, there's about 120 schools playing in FBS - a COLLEGE-WORST 9 sacks last season, that's a good thing to hear.

10:21 - The Buffs get a great punt return with about 4 minutes to play, but it's called back for an illegal block. A few minutes later the Buffs convert on 4th-and-1, and they get a sizable gain on the next play. If they get in the end zone they're going to onside kick and I don't like that.

10:25 - In one fell swoop, there's a deep pass interference on the Rams and a two-run base hit by the Dodgers, cutting the Pads' lead to 4-3. Everything is crashing down. CRASHING DOWN AND I'M DRUNJ!!!

10:29 - Sanchez bee-yotch McKnight grabs a semi-fade in the end zone. 23-17 CSU, onside kick to come. A weird onside kick ensues, but the Rams recover. They've got 1:55 left to kill and run this shit out. I am not holding my breath. And out of the blue, on the first play, Leonard Mason busts a long run down to the 2. Since the Buffs have no more timeouts, that seals it. The Rams will kneel and sew it up. FUCK AND YES. YOUR FOLSOM CURSE IS NO MORE, YOU PARTYING TRUSTAFARIAN SHITHEADS. BOW TO THE SUPERIOR GREEN AND GOLD.

10:40 - Clare just got home, and she's messing around with her new iPhone. Now, we all know people with iPhones. A good number of you have them, and if you don't, you've grabbed your friends' just to fuck around with it. So, basically, it's like a new pet. I'm super stoked to have it around, and I want it to myself. Is that creepy? Probably. But I don't care.

10:43 - I'm sorry, but "The Informant!" looks awesome.

10:46 - Re: 10:25 - I'm an idiot. Apparently the PIP isn't as cool as I thought. The Padres still lead 4-1, and the Dodgers never scored 2 to make it 4-3. It's still 4-1 Padres. Could CSU and the Padres win on the same night? GOD BLESS BOOZE.

10:50 - Gwynn Jr. races into the gap in right-center to take away a hit from Juan Pierre. If there's one thing Jr. didn't inherit from his old man, it's the ability to ingest turkeys telepathically.

10:53 - Re: 10:46 presumptually re: 10:25 - Shit. Andre Ethier strokes one into the LF corner to score 2, and NOW it's 4-3 Padres. Well, you can't get both ends of a doubleheader. At least not when you have no job, and you're drinking shitty scotch at 11 pm on a Sunday. There are rules, you know.

11:04 - Heath Bell comes in to close it out for the Padres. The ESPN guys in the booth are praising his nutsack, which means it probably won't end well. Clare is going through the ringtones on the iPhone. There are MANY good choices. God damn you, AT&T.

11:10 - Bell throws a slider on 2-0 to Jim Thome. He needs a double play ball here. He also needs to cut down on the bacon, you fat fuck. Thome hits a routine fly ball to left, 2 out. Ethier coming up, tying run on first. Ethier is the walk-off king. He's got curly hair, like a Jew. If we all know anything, it's that Jews never succeed. LET'S GO HEATH! LET'S GO HEATH! LET'S GO HEATH! You all should know I'm German.

11:15 - Ethier flies out to left, and even though the Padres don't sweep the series they take 2 of 3 of the set. And on FUCKING CUE, Joe Morgan praises the Dodgers for "showing a lot of character by winning the last 2 games in Colorado ... and let's see what happens." HOLY FUCKING BALLS. THE WORST TEAM IN THE NL WEST JUST WON 2 OF 3 IN THE HOME OF THE BEST TEAM IN NL WEST.

Ways in which Joe Morgan should die:

• Sharks eat his testicles, and replace them with grenades

• Michael Lewis writes his death in a Stephen King-style post-apocalyptic-ish story, and Billy Beane carries it out, with a hockey stick and a Duane Reade basket full of razor blades

• Jon Miller electrocutes him in the booth via Burrito Supreme
• Derek Jeter beats him over the head with a bat, and glove, and cleats, and the lifeless corpse of a 13-year-old cancer patient from Mott Haven whose only goal in life was to meet Joe Morgan and Derek Jeter
  
• Pete Rose shows up and just says "Jesus Tap-dancing Christ you're pathetic." Then he signs his autograph on Morgan's forehead in arsenic ink, which slowly seeps into Morgan's skull and slowly convinces him that he once hosted the Ed Sullivan show, which drives him to insatiable craziness since he looks to his right and sees Steve Phillips
  
• Steve Phillips beats the fuck out of him with a microphone and a ham sandwich
  

11:39 - Holy shit. Ok, CSU won 23-17 (I had a CSU T-shirt on). The Padres beat the Dodgers 4-3 (I had one of my many Padres hats on backwards). I can only assume that both of my teams that were involved in games tonight won because I was wearing their shit. And I can totally live with that. Because that's how I roll, you motherfucking monkey fuckingmothers.

The Sad, Sad Story of San Diego's Slugging Sisyphus

We live in the Information Age. The fact that you're reading this at all is a testament to just how easy it is to find facts, quotes, stats, pictures, opinions, Thai menus, funny t-shirts, midget-on-llama porn, cheap airfare, crossword puzzles, and literally anything else your twisted little mind can imagine, all by tapping on a keyboard.

As if that's not enough, we can now do all this on our phones. Wherever there's a strong enough signal we can look up the name of that guy in that one movie, or Juan Pierre's career caught stealing numbers. In the car you can listen to some blowhard and Mike from Queens debate Joe Girardi's use of the bullpen. And if we happen to be at home, we have hundreds of channels filled with scrolling tickers, pop-up graphics, and exquisitely coifed talking heads all pumping us full of juicy, gravy-covered tidbits of knowledge.

We are swimming in a sea of data, and we are drowning.

Exhibit A: Adrian Gonzalez is 5th in the All-Star balloting for National League first basemen.

That's right ... fifth. Fif!

Aside from being a little thing called, oh, the major league's leading home-run hitter, Gonzo has gone gonzo and put up these numbers, just a tad over two months into the year:

.289 avg, 22 HR, 43 RBI, 39 R, .412 OBP, .663 SLG, 1.075 OPS.

Here are the same numbers for the 3 guys immediately ahead of him in the balloting.

Prince Fielder: .276 avg, 12 HR, 49 RBI, 30 R, .412 OBP, .530 SLG, .942 OPS.
Ryan Howard: .266 avg, 16 HR, 45 RBI, 36 R, .348 OBP, .591 SLG, .939 OPS.
Joey Votto (recently placed on the DL): .357 avg, 8 HR, 33 RBI, 23 R, .464 OBP, .627 SLG, 1.091 OPS.

Albert Pujols leads the balloting by a wide margin, and rightly so. Even if the game wasn't in his home city, Pujols is having yet another monster year and is the best all-around player in his sport, let alone his position.

But while all 3 of those guys are having very good years, they: A) all play in hitter's parks; B) all have very good hitters both in front of and behind them; and C) are not in Gonzalez's class in the field.

Already this season he's had a stretch where he's homered 6 times in 5 days and 5 times in 6 days. The poor guy has slugged 39% of the Padres' ding-dongs. Think about that: if the Padres go deep, there's a 4 out of 10 chance Gonzalez stroked it. That is fucking insane.

Every game Padres pitchers pray that Gonzo will bail them out and, more times than not, he does. He did it last year, and he's doing an even better job of it this year.

And the fact that many baseball "fans" - either via TV, the internet, sports talk radio, or the papers - don't recognize it, just because he plays for a shitty team in a small market, is a sad, sad state of affairs.

I knew it! I'm surrounded by a**holes!

"Sir! We're tracking something on Mr. Radar. It's moving fast. It's going right past us, and it's heading for Earth."

"What is it?"

"We don't know, sir. Radar is picking up the outlines of ... a baseball team."

"A baseball team?"

"Yes sir. It appears to be ready to crash in a desert."

"Then get down there and comb the desert. Do year hear me? COMB THE DESERT!"

[Hours later]

"Find anything yet?"

"No sir."

"How 'bout you?"

"No."

"What about you guys?"

"Man, we ain't found shit!"

[Minutes later]

"I'm getting a strong feeling ... over there."

"There's something here ... in the sand! There appears to be an ugly uniform. It was camouflaged in, sir. And there's an insignia! Look - it's an SD!"

"San Diego. Oooh, I hate San Diego! Even with the good weather!"

"What shall we do, sir?"

"Ready the ship. We're leaving. This whole place has gone from suck to blow."

"Well, they did start out 9-3, sir."

"This team once won nine out of twelve games? That's ludicrous."

Little Davey Eckstein tours Petco Park

[David Eckstein arrives at Petco Park and is met by a member of the Padres' PR team]

PR: How are you, Mr. Eckstein? [extends hand] I'm Nathan. Nice to meet you.

DE: [gazes skyward, shakes hand] Nice ... to ... meet you, too. Wow, you're huge!

PR: I'm 5'9". So, you ready to do this?

DE: You betcha! I have my notebook ready and everything! So tell me, exactly what kind of topsoil is used on the infield? Is it a mix of desert sand, red clay and ground-up black granite?

PR: [confused] Well, I actually don't know that. You'd have to talk to Brian, our groundskeeper.

DE: Can do! What's his phone number, home address, email address, Facebook handle, favorite food, mother's maiden name, and one true love?

PR: [even more confused] I ... you know, I'll get you his number, or a card, or something later. [looks around for help] Hey, second base is looking good. Think you're ready to make the switch from shortstop?

DE: Oh, indubitably! I've been training non-stop for three straight months! As a matter of fact, I'm contracting my ab muscles off and on as we speak! You don't get to be 2006 World Series MVP on talent alone, I tell you what!

PR: Then do you mind if I ask what your hat means?

DE: [takes hat off, looks at it, puts it back on at adorably cute upwards-and-slightly-to-the-side angle] Oh, that just means saying NO! to settling for second-best! Always shoot for #1, that's what my pops always says! Hey, what's that?

PR: Oh, that's the Western Metal Supply Company building. It's a landmark here in downtown San Diego, and instead of demolishing it to make way for the new park, the architects decided to incorporate it into the design, and utilized the corner as the left-field foul pole. It's very unique.

DE: Wow! That's stupendous! When was it built?

PR: 1910, I believe.

DE: Neat-o! Does the brick facade have a standard structure bearing of 2,300 lbs. per sq. inch?

PR: [scratches his head, checks his watch] You know, I'll have to get back to you on that. Well, that's about it. Anything else?

DE: Actually, yes, Nathan! Would you be so kind as to distribute this for me? [pulls sheet of paper out of notebook]

PR: Sure. What is it?

DE: It's a list of all the terms or words usually attributed to players like me! It's basically just a footnote to all the marketing and research people in the organization, as well as the sportswriters, but hey - every little bit helps!

PR: [reads list] "Scrappy. Tough. Feisty. Gamer. Fundamentals. Persistent. Dirt Dog. Heart. Hustle. Plucky. Over-achiever. Blue-collar. Gutsy. Energetic. Catalyst. Old-school." Hmmm. [folds up paper, puts it in his pocket] Sure, David.

DE: Thanks! [takes a deep breath] Man-oh-man, I can't wait to hit here. Look how close those fences are!

PR: Actually, the ball doesn't travel well here at all. You've played here before, so you probably know that this is one of, if not the worst hitting parks in the majors. It's probably not going to be a boon to your .361 career slugging percentage.

DE: [bows head] Yeah, you're right. [whips head up, smiling] But look at all that room in the gaps for bloopers!

Congratulations on picking up your KhalilBot 5000!

Dear Cardinals of St. Louis,

Thank you for agreeing in principle to accept KhalilBot 5000 for two middle-of-the-road relievers. We have enjoyed our KhalilBot 5000, and we expect you will, too! We suggest you turn KhalilBot 5000's dial to "2007," when it hit 27 home runs, 44 doubles and drove in 97 runs. We strongly suggest you remove the "2008" setting, though, and use a belt sander to remove said etching from the numbers on the torso, located right below the nape of the "neck."

Again, thank you so much for this courtesy, and good luck in your future. Enclosed are the instructions we received from its wholesaler, Clemson University, in 2003.

Sincerely,

the San Diego Padres

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

GREENE INDUSTRIES
Butler, Pennsylvania

Hello, and thank you for purchasing a KhalilBot 5000! Many, many kids and laconic adults have had so many super-happy-funtastic times with their KhalilBot 5000s that we must give you these detailed instructions on how to extract the most thoroughly enjoyable experience with your new, sometimes-baseball-playing friend!

1. You do not need any tools. KhalilBot 5000 comes fully constructed! You never have to lift a finger. (Except to press the Power button, that is! Or wave "no no" when KhalilBot 5000 swings at another 0-2 breaking ball in the dirt.)

2. Have you noticed the color of your KhalilBot 5000? If you looked at the name "KhalilBot" and assumed it would be black or maybe a dark, caramel brown, you are mistaken! To avoid upsetting the retinas, our KhalilBot 5000s come in a patina of calming light-peach and stainless steel. This is a neutral tone, meant not to draw too much attention. Sometimes, if too many eyes are focused on KhalilBot 5000, its wires will got crossed and it will not perform up to specifications.

2a. In addition, do not stare at KhalilBot 5000 for more than six seconds, even though its gaze can by cryptically hypnotic.

3. Do not try to adjust KhalilBot 5000's facial expressions manually. KhalilBot 5000 only comes with one facial expression, what we call "camel watching a David Lynch movie while trying to download songs off of iTunes." We think it works in just about every situation!

4. Remember to oil KhalilBot 5000 once a day, every day. If you do this, KhalilBot 5000 will perform amicably, like a graceful Ozzie Smith making smooth plays in the infield. If you do not do this, KhalilBot 5000 will perform poorly, like an aging Rafael Belliard lunging at pitches out of the zone.

4a. Also, do not get KhalilBot 5000 wet. This may damage the structure of the hull (rust) as well as the wiring and microchip processors (shorting out, surges). We strongly recommend avoiding coastal areas like South Carolina or San Diego.

5. IMPORTANT: Each day at 11:00 A.M. local time, your KhalilBot 5000 will shut down for approximately 15 minutes. It will do this on its own, no matter what activities are taking place at the time. Our programmers have installed this cachet in order to keep your KhalilBot 5000 happy and peaceful. If you disturb or interrupt KhalilBot 5000 during this time, you can kiss your new best friend Baha'i!

6. You must NOT, under ANY circumstances, get KhalilBot 5000 near Greene Industries' Storage Box Receptacle J-4. They are not compatible, and destruction will only occur at your peril.

7. Upgrades are available for your KhalilBot 5000. These include, but are not limited to: The ability to somewhat resemble a human being; Taking pitches the opposite way, where they're thrown; Haircuts that won't get you beat up; On-base Percentages greater than .350; and many, many more. Please visit our website.

Follow these directions and you will have a long, happy relationship with your KhalilBot 5000. If you have any questions or concerns, please call our toll-free number or e-mail our staff from the home page of our website. We don't think you will, however; everyone LOVES KhalilBot 5000!*

*Transaction is final. Warranty subject to terminate at any time.

We Didn't Lose 100 Games! Fuck You, Cocktasters

Yeah, that's right. We avoided 100 losses. Only those douchetruck Nationals lost 100 games. Pads fuckin' rule, man!

[Is handed a note that the Mariners have as many losses as the Nationals]

Oh, shit! Really? Those northwestern rain-sucking ducknuts lost 101 games, too? What a bunch of shitdogs!

[Whips out penis, urinates on Jody Gerut, flings speedos at Nick Hundley]

It's a switter-beet thing, man, going from playing for a playoff berth last year and then finishing behind the Giants this year. The fuckin' Giants, man! They're so old, Paul Newman was their backup centerfielder. They pay Barry Zito to fucking pitch, man! Imagine that shit!

[Applies cocoa butter to groin area, puts on strapless goggles, climbs into tanning bed]

Gotta bronze, brah. Not enough sun down here in San Diego.

[Grabs newest edition of Hustler]

Be back in a minute, dawg.

[Closes tanning bed]

20 Minutes Later

[Tanning bed door opens]

Fuck yeah. Have you seen Edgar Gonzalez? I totally wanna shit in his cleats. No? Ahh, fuck it. See ya later, dicknose.

[Takes off strapless goggles, walks off with Hustler-sized light spot on his chest, fist-sized light spot on his penis]

Hey, has anybody seen my phone? I gotta call Marcus. He gets off at the late shift at T.G.I.Friday's pretty soon.

Some Suggestions For Mr. Black

It's no secret at all that the Madres possess one of the worst offenses in the Major League baseballs. With Jake Peavy and Chris Young both having spent some time on the DL this year, Trevor Hoffman not quite being his HOF self, and Mark Prior being, well, Mark Prior, runs are at a premium for this team.

Ruh-roh.

Therefore, here are some things that Bud Black can do to scare up some offense in San Diego.

• Replace the 6-8 hitters with a bat taped to a weather vane stuck into the batter's box and hope it's windy that day
• Clone Adrian Gonzalez
• Trade for Tony Gwynn Jr., hope nepotism works as good in baseball as it does in the U.S. government
• Draft Steve Detwiler
• Introduce Khalil Greene to certain things: women, booze, comedic films, masturbating, chocolate, It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia, Patton Oswalt, porn (internet and otherwise), mild hallucinogens, Ana Ivanovic, card games, medium-rare steaks, etc.
• Find a time machine, enter "Brian Giles: 1999-2002"
• Give everyone those big Flintstone-looking wiffle ball bats
  
• Punch somebody. Anybody. Anything. Get all Jerry Manuel-esque and threaten somebody's life with a switchblade
• Sign the other three members of the Fantastic 4 so Scott "The Thing" Hairston feels more at home
• Deal Paul McAnulty for Det. Jimmy McNulty (if he can pound a baseball like he pounds pussy, watch out)
  
• Read Broken Vessels by Andre Dubus - I am (thanks to BorL) and it's phenomenal. Plus, it's got to be a gillion times better than watching this team attempt to hit the goddamn ball
• Go out and get somebody with some MOTHERFUCKING SPEED (next-to-last in SB with 24, one more than the Pirates)
• Spread gasoline, light match. Move over about 10 feet, repeat. Keep repeating until all is nothing

I'd be funnier, but I can't. This team is killing me.

Phony Phisits Petco

I’m listening to the game now, just getting onto 805 North. It’s the top of the 16th. Technically, I didn’t see the Padres win that game. It was 9-9 when we left.

Saturday was my first game at Petco. My buddy got tickets from his work - 20 rows back, just to the first-base side of home plate. They were the best seats I’ve ever had at a sporting event that I wasn't working at or reporting on. We sat behind a guy with designer glasses frames, a silk designer shirt, drinking a designer mixed drink. In a small plastic cup. His wife was in her mid-40s. She had had a boob job at some point in her life (probably recently). When I yelled “Bush league” after a play, she made a W joke. She had voted for him.

David Ross flies out to center. Still knotted at nine.

At that point I wished I had some more real people in those expensive, season-ticket-holder seats surrounding me. When Ryan Freel came up, I yelled “Farney” as loud as I could. I explained it to my friend, who’s not that in-tune with things of that nature. Nobody knew what I was talking about. Every time Bronson Arroyo came to bat, I screamed out loud about the horrid, putrid nature of his music, and how it made me want to torture puppies. Again, I explained it to my friend. Some people around me laughed, but they didn’t know what was going on. Ken Griffey Jr. received a "60 16-pound boxes of pennies?!?" cry. I received empty, strange stares.

Aaron Harang just struck out his ninth in relief, Kevin Kouzmonoff on a check-swing. We go to 17.

The Padres looked horrible. There were at least three guys in the starting lineup that should not be paid to hit major-league pitching. Catcher Luke Carlin, recently called up to replace the injured Josh Bard, could not summon anything positive from either his Jedi or comedian namesakes. He made a few bad throws and looked overwhelmed at the plate. Wil Ledezma has a live arm, but it’s a wire that sprays wildly around, electrocuting stray dogs. He grooved one to Joey Votto, who blasted it to the grotto in center. He drove in four. The next day, Sunday, against a right-hander, Votto will not start at first. Dusty Baker was suspended for Friday and Saturday’s games, but he was in charge on Sunday. I think those occurrences are not a coincidence.

If you had told me that I would see a game in which the Padres would hit four homers, and they would still lose, I would punch you in the throat, phone your mother, and call her a whore. But it might happen. Two outs in the top of the 17th, bases loaded, the immortal Paul Bako at the plate. Josh Banks on the bump. He’s young, and already in his fifth inning of work. There is an ominous feeling. The sky is blue, and a few clouds hang over the Pacific Coast. The ocean is infinite. Bako chases a high fastball. We go to the bottom of the seventeeth.

There are no beer or hot dog vendors at Petco. If you want David sunflower seeds, or an ice cream cookie sandwich, or cotton candy (the 40-something-year-old woman in front of me on Sunday happily and eagerly lapped up a stick of blue sugar, getting it disgustingly all over her lips, teeth and fingers. I’m all about doing what you want, but there should be limits, and that’s fucking one of them), or licorice rope, or pizza, or soda, you can get it from the vendor. If you want a $9 Stone or an $8.25 Coors Light or a fish taco, you better get your ass up and walk to the concourse. I do not approve of this. There’s a reason I’m carrying 20 extra pounds around my midsection. I like to sit, and I like to drink beer. Get your shit together, San Diego.

David Ross hits a long shot to left. Caught. We move to Camino Las Ramblas, and the bottom of the eighteenth. Gametime: 5 hours, 36 minutes.

I wanted to get inside the Western Metal Supply Company building, but apparently you must need a ticket. It’s guarded like Fort Knox, or the US-Mexico border. The pictures I take are from a distance - the people there, on the patios, look young. And rich. And drunk. Instead I go beyond the center field fence to the Tony Gwynn statue to take a picture. It is massive. I reach to touch the bat; just out of reach, I bare my pale stomach for all to see. Luckily, the teenage girls laying on the grass not but five feet away are fast asleep. Why pay to get into the game if you're just going to sleep? Or read? Sometimes, kicking people in the temple should be legal, if not encouraged.

The FM station fuzzes out. I search frantically for an AM station, and get it just as Scott Hairston steals second. It’s the first Padre in scoring position since the fourteenth. I wish I had a small bottle of whiskey and a coke.

It is Memorial Day, and nine heterosexual males are roaming slowly through Disneyland. Obviously, we are high. The muffins are good, and the rides are better. We are well represented, baseball-wise: I wear my Padres hat; another wears a Cardinals T-shirt; another a Tigers T-shirt; and finally, another a White Sox 2005 AL Champions T-Shirt. Sometimes we talk about sports, but mostly we walk silently, laugh at funny looking kids, wait in line for a while, then laugh our asses off on the actual rides. After the night is over, we head to the ESPNZone at California Adventure for what turns out to be an enjoyable meal. Fun fact: next to us is a big birthday party, and the final gift is a box of Ram golf clubs (the birthday boy didn't jump out of his chair). We all laugh when the person responsible for the gift reveals how proud they are of that fact.

Adrian Gonzalez, Professional Hitter, crushes a three-run, walkoff home run to center off Edinson Volquez. The Friars win 12-9 in 18, after 5:57 of play. I think, if my friend allows, I will partake in a victory cigarette. I may not have been there for the penultimate blast, but I was there. I saw a split. With this team, this year - I’ll take it.

There were fireworks after the Saturday night game, and I take some poetic license and add them to the end of this game, in my head. It is bright out, and the sun shines. However, I turn on my camera and cue up my favorite picture of center field on fire, retired numbers backlit and booming, and picture the Padres winning one, just for me.

NL West 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 NL West, God's division of choice. Don't believe that? Then go ahead and explain the last month of the 2007 season. Go ahead. I'm waiting, taintmoth.

San Diego Padres-- Ok, so, three division previews, three blatant acts of homerism. Do I care that I can say I could hit seventh for this team, and almost totally mean it? No. Do I really believe the Friars will finish ahead of the D(ouche)Backs? No. But I'm typing this thing, and this is what it says. But it will happen. Jake Peavy will use his three-year, $52 million extension as ammunition. Literally. The southern boy will bring an old-style musket to games and shoot down opponents with wads of $5 bills. Mark Prior will make about 10 or 15 starts, and, surprisingly, his arm will not turn into Bisquick. When Khalil Greene starts to bleed after taking a spike to the shin in August, everyone will realize that he's not a robot, and this knowledge will bolster the team and shoot them to the top (a .254 team average and league-low home run totals notwithstanding). Record: 93-69, NLCS losers.

Arizona Diamondbacks-- Randy Johnson has clearly sold his soul to the devil. It's the only possible explanation. The man is 44 and has reportedly been throwing smoke in camp. He also listens to heavy metal and plays the drums. Heretic! Late in the season, to get a boost, Johnson will feast on the flesh of some of the D-Backs' younger players. First he'll entice Stephen Drew into an empty trainers' room with a Maxim and a Ribwich. There he'll sever his carotid artery with a boxcutter and slurp the blood like a Chianti. Then, when Chris Young enters to investigate, Johnson will club him over the head with a bat and eagerly lap up the goo inside. Then he'll go out and no-hit the Giants. Record: 91-71, NLDS losers.

Los Angeles Dodgers-- Joe Torre. What more can you say for the guy? Other than the fact that he's got a 894-1003 record (.471 winning percentage) when he pilots non-Yankees teams that don't hemorrhage money out their ass? Umm ... not much, I guess. He manages people well, right? Well, isn't that the name OF THE FUCKING JOB? We'll see how stoic ol' Joe looks when Andruw Jones waddles up to yet another ducksnort bloop hit in shallow center, then follows it up at bat with a lazy fly ball to left. I don't even have anything bad to say about Nomar. I hope he can hit at least one more home run, so he can feel his cleat hit that thick rubber at home, then give hi-fives to his teammates before spontaneously combusting. God I hate this team. I will personally give $20 and a few month-old Playboys to the first earthquake to swallow these blue-clad fucknuts up. Record: 86-76, no playoffs.

Colorado Rockies-- Ahh, the feel-good hit of the summer. Or, one that involves baseball and not a badass bass-driven song about copious amounts of awesome drugs. Too bad that shit ain't happening twice. When Jeff Francis falls back to Earth at the tune of about 13-11 with a 5.13 ERA and a WHIP of who-knows-what, the Rockies will decide divine intervention is needed - again - ... and sign Pope Benedict XVI to a two-year, $12 million deal. Aside from a mid-90s heater and a nasty slider, PB-16 features a surprisingly lively stick, becoming a poor man's Micah Owings. It's not enough, though, as Matt Holliday succumbs to a late-season bout of mono after hanging out with LaDainian Tomlinson and Hope Solo while making another pretentious, snarky, "We can be funny, too, if you disregard our terrible past of making women and children work for next to nothing in sweatshops overseas! No, seriously, French Toast! That's so random it's hilarious!" Nike commercials. Troy Tulowitzki continues to be the best and most-clutch athlete in American pro sports with a last name that ends in "owitzki," however. Record: 85-77, no playoffs.

San Francisco Giants-- Realizing he's made a mockery of, in order: 1) working-class America 2) the institution of baseball 3) every other pitcher in the big leagues 4) the hitters he pitches against 5) every pitcher who had ever pitched in the big leagues, the minor leagues, college, and high school 6) capitalism 7) the Giants' front office and, finally, 8) the Giants' fans, Barry Zito formally apologizes for signing the most absurd deal in history, grabs his acoustic guitar and a surfboard, and hitchhikes down to Malibu. Feeling unburdened, the Giants then give Barry Bonds a prorated contract for the rest of 2008 worth roughly $19 million. His back zits proceed to drive in more runs than the entire lineup. Record: 158-4 ... wait, this isn't the AARP league? It's the National League? Of MLB? Oh, then ... 69-93. Bingo!

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.

The Culmination

Have you ever been reading something and heard someone say the word you're currently reading? That's happened to me quite a few times, and it's always strange. Throws you for a loop.

Well, I was laying in my hotel bed in Utica, NY on Friday night, reading a book and listening to Ben Harper when that phenomenon hit, although it wasn't a single word -- it was an entire phrase, ringing in my ears at the same time I scanned it with my eyes: "Some things never change."

My father, God bless him, is still an anal-retentive, short-fused sonuvabitch. My other mother (she doesn't like the term 'step mom') is still the sweetest person on Earth.

And Tony Gwynn is still being overshadowed.

All it took was one healthy swipe across the land at the jam-packed Clark Sports Center on Sunday to see it: the overwhelming barrage of Halloween orange-and-black, the Animal-Planet-meets-the-Cartoon-Network phalanx of realistic Orioles and goofy animated Orioles, the saturation of "8"s that would make any NASCAR race envious. Maybe the tables would be turned if the Hall of Fame was in, say, Phoenix or San Francisco. But it rests comfortably in the idyllic rolling green fields of Cooperstown in upstate New York, a relatively short drive from Baltimore, where they have many heroes to cheer. San Diego has but one.


Sure, I'm biased. I've taken my online persona from the man. Tattooed his uniform number in roman numerals on my forearm and made some combination of my nickname, his name and his number just about every log-in and password I have (don't worry, I'm broke). Aside from a few paintings an old college roommate gave me, my walls are bare save a plaque with his rookie card (Fleer) above which hangs his autograph, which rests just under the 1998 Tony Gwynn Starting Lineup figurine purchased on eBay for half of what it cost to ship it.

Why? What compels a tall, lanky white kid from Denver to be so obsessed with a short, stocky black man from San Diego? It has to be something more than the way he'd slap an 0-2 curveball through the 5.5 hole on the left side for yet another single, right? Right?

I got my answer on Sunday. We didn't get a chance to put our stuff down on the lawn on Friday or Saturday, so we arrived at about 8:30 am. The whole front area was full. We found a place straight back from the stage, about halfway up the hill.

They announced that, because of impending rain, they were changing the order. Gwynn would go first, followed by Cal Ripken Jr., then a short tribute to Bobby Doerr, followed by The Ford C. Frick Award to Denny Matthews and the J.G. Taylor Spink Award to Rick Hummel. (Which ended up being a damn shame, because more than half the people left after Ripken's speech. I somehow convinced my father to stay. It didn't rain a single drop.)

Bud Selig got announced and was resoundingly booed. This made me smile. Then Gwynn came up. I ran down the hill and got as close I could to the giant huddled mass in front of me. I took some pictures, then took a knee, Little League-style, with both elbows on the up knee and the arms going in different directions. The wet, muddy grass digging into my kneecaps made up for the fact that I was in baseball prayer mode next to a garbage can.

His speech may not have been the most memorable ever (although some sources report he said "passion for the game" 114 times, I only counted 37), but it was deeply honest. The man knows hitting; that's exactly what he talked about.


Now It's 1:40 am early Tuesday and I'm fire-engine red all over. On the drive to the Hall of Fame Monday morning, I needled my father about running a red light. He pointedly told me to "shut the fuck up" and then, just in case I had the same horrid hearing as he did, repeated it with the adage that he didn't want to go out of his way in the first place. He just wanted to get me back home and get the hell out of New York before rush hour.

We got to the Hall as it opened at 9 am and there was already a beastly line. My admission is free for life because I donated a ticket stub that I found in a book of the July 4th 1983 Dave Righetti no-hitter, so I rolled in and was immediately told that it would be an hour or an hour and a half to see the plaques. I tried to sneak up and maybe get a shot over everybody, but they thought of that. The plaques were hidden behind a wall. I got a t-shirt at the gift shop and bounced. My father probably wasn't too happy to hear that I didn't do the thing that I specifically made him go out of his way so I could do, but it didn't matter: I was shutting the fuck up all the way back.



These things happen on vacations, though. It's not what I'll remember. I'll remember drinking with my father at the Italian restaurant across from the motel and him telling me about "Trygve," the black kid in college that got him into smoking dope (and the previous revelation that my father's had a small bag of weed in his drawer for "fourteen years"). And I'll remember playing catch with him in the damp grass behind the Hess station and outside the Motel 6.

I'll remember staying up until two in the morning on Friday to finish Tim Kurkjian's book, "Is This a Great Game, or What?: From A-Rod's Heart to Zim's Head - My 25 Years in Baseball" so that I'd be prepared when he signed it. When he finally did on Saturday morning, I asked him to sign the manuscript I just finished, "Is This A Great Wait, or What?: My 25 Hours In Line to Meet Tim Kurkjian." I'll remember him putting his head down and laughing. I'll remember telling him that, way back when, I was supposed to be the next Steve Rushin. I'll remember him telling me that I'll never be as good as Steve Rushin. I'll remember pointing out that he rarely uses semicolons; I'll remember that I said I noticed because I use them too much. And I'll also, until the end of my days, remember asking him if Harold Reynolds' firing was justified. (I don't want to get him in trouble with the Bristol Sith Lords, but let me just say I don't think he thought it was.)

I'll remember being witness to the greatest collection of baseball talent ever assembled in one place: 55 Hall of Famers plus the two new ones. I'll remember that, aside from the former Orioles, Willie Mays got the biggest standing ovation (which would've been dwarfed by Hank Aaron, had he been there). I'll remember saying their nicknames to my father as they were introduced: Rapid Robert. The Kid. Tom Terrific. The Baby Bull. Mr. October. The Chairman of the Board.

But most of all I'll remember the standing ovation given to my favorite player after his induction speech into the Hall of Fame. And I'll remember that, when it ended, it officially closed the book on my childhood. Because when you're older and grown up with bills and 401ks and company softball games you don't have the "favorite player" as it exists for its purpose. The posters, or the Fatheads, or the t-shirts exist to draw the youth into the game, entice them, and keep them there. I'll remember seeing the thousands of kids running around that day with Gwynn or Ripken jerseys on and thinking to myself, "they never saw them play in person."

It's not a shame, or anything sad, really. Great players come, and great players go. But the man who drew me to my team -- who made me a fan -- validated my efforts, and my time, by being so dedicated, so spectacular, so amazing, that he ended up as only one percent of all who've ever played the game to earn a bronze plaque in the Hallowed Hall. So in the coming days, months, and years I'll check the scores to see if my favorite team won its game. And the rock-solid testament to Tony's excellence will still be there, hanging, for any and all to see.

Luckily, some things never change.