Sunday, May 8, 2011

Fans. Why Being One Doesn’t Make You An All Star

Entering Week 3 of Operation Moustache Removal. We’ve still received no response from the one who calls himself “Zito.” Not even a BS fake response from the pathetic underling he probably pays to read his emails. Thank you, dear, sweet readers, for making complete a$$es out us by convincing us to send him that letter. As if we need help making complete a$$es out of ourselves.

Last week we reported our upcoming Midwest itinerary to you and not only did we ask you a poll question, but we also asked for some suggestions as to food, booze, and activities to partake in while in town. No one actually helped us out with that second piece. Is it because a) you don’t travel to these parts of the country, b) we haven’t tapped into that region’s demographic yet, or c) you’re just a pack of a-holes? Being a-holes certainly didn’t prevent you from responding to our poll. We asked how many times you thought we’d say, “well-played, Mauer” during our vacation. One person legitimately thought we’d only say it once because we’d “forget about the joke until we were on our way home on the plane.” While we can admit that we’re pretty forgetful, there’s just no way we’d forget that joke. Just no way. 4 of you voted for, “Oh, my God, you’re going to be so annoying. I feel bad for your “fellow” Twins fans.” That’s a bit harsh, but we can accept this judgment. We’re just thankful that no one voted for, “I don’t even know what you’re talking about. Who is this one you call Mauer and what does he play well?” If you had voted for this option, we would’ve spent this entire blog post making fun of you. Speaking of Zito and Mauer, anyone notice how both men are on the DL right before we’re scheduled to see both men play in Milwaukee and Minneapolis respectively? Coincidence?

In Fred K’s Cancer news, we are actively searching for partial t-shirt sponsors. We’ve already received one partial sponsor (Ambelos Construction Corp), but we need more! If anyone is interested in slapping their logo on the backs of the innocent walkers we’ve managed to suck into our vortex, please email us so that we can work something out. To up the ante, we’ve decided to prank call Brian once a night (don’t you worry about who Brian is…just know that he’s a defenseless man who loves to wear sweater vests) until these t-shirts are paid for in full. For the sake of Brian’s sleep cycle (cos’ it’s definitely not for the sake of his personal life), someone contact us as soon as possible. Thank you for understanding.

Additionally, now through July 1st, you may donate online to Fred K's Cancer at our online fundraising page. Every dollar counts, so please give what you can. Thanks!

Now, kids, it’s time for the School of TBB to teach you a few things about being a fan. As a fan, you should loyally defend and support your team of choice through the best of times and the worst of times. However, you should not butcher that which you love by assuming that rooting for Derek Jeter automatically grants you Jeter’s powers of executing the leaping throw to first.

Our lesson for today brings us to the reason for this evening’s post. The TBB participated in a secret mission on Saturday that involved a lot of stealth, cardio, trash talking, and peanut butter ice cream. During this mission, we discovered a pack of a$$ clowns attempting to play the sport of baseball. Now, under no circumstances are we declaring that you should never play baseball if you can’t compete with the likes of Roy Halladay. That would be unreasonable. We DO expect you to play a GAME with some sort of enthusiasm and enjoyment or else why the hell are you playing? It’s senseless. We’re getting ahead of ourselves. Let us start from the beginning.

While walking through Central Park, we found a rag tag group of men and one woman (who, in all honesty, looked like the most athletic one on the field) playing a pickup game of baseball. Being in a bit of a feisty mood (and being major a-holes), we decided to hang around the game and do commentary. We figured it was a gesture of kindness on our part because commentating would make them feel special…as if they were real ball players…or something. Before assuming that our kindness would be appreciated, we asked permission. The man who replied to our request was dressed as if he was about to board a yacht. White polo shirt, khaki shorts, and brown loafers. We figured that he must be serving as some sort of score keeper because who in their right mind would show up to play in the dirt in such nice, clean clothing and non-functional footwear?

Jeeves stared blankly at us at first before answering. “Okay.”
“Do you mind?” Serena asked.
Blank stare. “Yes.”
“Really? Are you kidding?” Lisa asked. “Cos’ I really can’t tell with you right now.”
Blank stare. “Yes.”
“So would you let me play on your team if I asked?” Lisa asked. Did we forget to mention that as a joke, Lisa chose to wear a backwards hot pink bicycle helmet on her head?
Blank stare. “Okay.”
“Really?” Lisa asked.
Serena forced a fake bright smile. “She even brought her own protective gear.” She pointed to Lisa’s pink helmet.
Blank stare.
From the field, someone called, “Batter! We need a batter!”
Jeeves, strangely enough, answered the call in all his country club glory. Soooo, he’s not keeping score?

Not to be undaunted, we parked in the dugout and began the color commentary. Jeeves, needless to say, lived up to our sissy expectations. Meanwhile, the activity on the diamond looked more like a silent dodgeball match than baseball game with everyone striving to avoid making contact with the ball as opposed to fielding it. By silent we mean that the only speaking taking place was the shit we were talking in the dugout. The star player appeared to be the 75 year old man pitching and wearing dungarees. We dubbed him the “seasoned veteran, Lefty Levis (we figured “Old Man” was too rude).” You might think that it’s impossible to witness a silent baseball game, but we assure you that if you turned tonight’s ESPN baseball game on mute and watched for a few innings, you’d get a glimpse of what we dealt with on Saturday. The only difference would be that you’d be watching actual athletes.

We chose to create nicknames for the entire crew. A heavy man came up to the plate wearing a neon yellow t-shirt and black gym shorts. Serena announced that “David ‘Bumblebee’ Stein was now at the plate.” The rest of the commentary went something like this:
Serena: “Stein is known mostly for his home run power and high number of strikeouts.”
Lisa: “He’s in line to participate in the Home Run Derby for the third straight year.”
Serena: “His power is incredible.”
Lisa: “I think he’s got it in him to hit at least 50 homers this year.”
*Pathetic dribbler that ambles to Lefty Levis. Bumblebee’s thrown out by about 2 miles because it turns out that he runs slower than evolution taking place*
Serena: “Uhhhh, that normally doesn’t happen…we swear…”

In addition to the poor playing, we couldn’t figure out who managed what. There must’ve been at least 20 catching changes during the 15-minute span that we stood there. Pitching changes make sense. Do catchers really need to be relieved when all they’re doing is leaning against the backstop behind home plate and vaguely making some sort of effort to pick up the balls tossed in their general direction by a senior citizen on the mound?

“Coral Hart” not only possessed zero athletic ability, but he also apparently possessed zero taste in clothing. His heinous bright pink t-shirt would offend a blind person. We’re not sure what kind of man wakes up in the morning and thinks, “Gee, this pink shirt is the perfect shirt for baseball! It’s so manly and it really brings out the flecks of green in my hazel eyes! The guys are so gonna dig me in this!” Oh, now we know. The kind of man who stands in right field and runs away from an incoming ground ball. THAT’S the kind of man who’d wear a shirt like that to a ball game. Crockett and Tubbs called. They want their pastels back.

Finally, Lisa offered to step in (after all, how much worse could she be?). We approached the friendliest looking one in the bunch. He was also one of the few appropriately dressed for the game (black gym shorts, SNEAKERS, a white t-shirt, and a baseball cap).
“You should let Lisa play,” Serena said (Lisa’s still wearing her pink helmet at this stage, by the way). “She can really turn this game around.”
Mr. Gym Shorts laughed. “Can you pitch?”
“Yes, of course,” Lisa replied. “This helmet has magical powers.”
“Did you bring enough for everyone?”
“No. Only I get one.”
“That’s too bad.”
“So can I play?”
“You’re not gonna make her try out?” I asked.
“Nah.” Either this is a testament to what an enjoyable and friendly person this guy is or it’s proof that he’s so accustomed to terrible playing skills that he figured letting a chick wearing a pink helmet couldn’t be worse.

Feeling encouraged by the existence of a sense of humor, Serena decided to ask him how he got involved in such boring stupidity (in nicer words, of course). It turned out that Mr. Gym Shorts worked with one of the jack wagons on the field and was invited to join the regularly scheduled afternoon of lameness. We chose not to ask if he’d actually come back again because we figured it might be a little too mean. In the midst of the conversation, Lefty Levis decided he didn’t feel like pitching anymore so Mr. Gym Shorts enthusiastically jumped right in. We applauded him for being a team player and even cheered for him as he jogged to the mound…and then he pitched. We watched in silent horror as he lobbed each pitch like a 6 year old throwing a baseball for the first time.
Serena: “God, this is awkward.”
Lisa: “And after we cheered for him.”
Serena: “He’s terrible.”
Lisa: “I’m thinking they need to call the bull pen.”
Serena: “I’m thinking we should leave.”

What’s the moral of our story, kids? A sense of humor and enthusiasm can make up for shitty athletic abilities, but not save you from being made fun of by us. In all seriousness, what’s the point in playing baseball if you’re not having fun? We would’ve had a much better time interacting with beer-drinking fools just out to have a good time.

Just one piece of awesome baseball notes for this week: Justin Verlander not only did beautiful things this week for Serena’s fantasy baseball team, the formidable and extremely good-looking “Tigers Love Pepper,” but he also threw his second career no-hitter against the Blue Jays yesterday at the Rogers Centre. His blip on the road to perfection came in the 8th on a 12-pitch walk to JP Arencibia. We salute you, Mr. Verlander! One might think that a feat of this nature deserves TBB Super Hero honors, but unfortunately, Verlander doesn’t have abs like this guy:
Therefore, Thor wins! Yay!

We’re out of here. Word to your mother. Happy Mother’s Day, Mamadukes and Mama L. (and all of you other mothers who didn’t birth the TBB).

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