Friday, July 19, 2013

Grading the Mid Season Grade Columns


Every year there are a host of columns handing out mid-year grades for Major League Baseball teams. But who is there to grade the graders?

No one. Until now.

Today, I’ll take a look at some mid-year report cards and grade the authors of these report cards with my own report card.

J.P. Hoornstra, Daily News Los Angeles (Angels)
There’s nothing inaccurate with Hoornstra’s assessment of the Angels at the break, but it also doesn’t tell us anything we don’t know. While scratching the surface of the Angels’ problems, it fails to peel the onion. What share of the blame do Mike Scioscia and the coaching staff bear? It’s an interesting question, but rather than dive deeper, Hoornstra asks the question and leaves it on the table like a pile of unopened junk mail. I wanted to feel fulfilled but instead felt incomplete, like a half-eaten sandwich left behind on the counter by a weary salesman on his way to another call.  Grade C

Peter Schmuck, Baltimore Sun (Orioles)
I don’t know where to begin with the great job that Schmuck does here. The multimedia slideshow captures all of our favorite Orioles in larger-than-life color, their handsome countenances warm the cockles of my heart nearly as much as Schmuck’s brief yet brilliant write-ups. Schmuck also gets bonus points for not just touching upon the superstars but giving grades to the fringy players on the roster as well (Chris Dickerson gets a grade?). This is a tour-de-force of mid-year grade columns; a combination of new media and old, an intersection of what young people want with what the old, crusty traditionalists desire. I tip my cap to you, Mr. Schmuck. Grade A

Pete Caldera, Bergen Record (Yankees)
At first glance, this seemed like an incomplete look at the Yankees season. But look again. Caldera’s brief look at each Yankees player is a harsh mirror that he is holding up to the organization. Look closely at each review. Each sentence is a slap in the face of what the Yankees didn’t do. The subtext beneath the surface of a Vernon Wells grade is a reminder that the Yankees could have had someone better. This is minimalism at its finest. This is the Zen Koan of midseason report card write ups. We were, are, and will always be the ballplayer. Grade B+

U.S.S. Mariner, Seattle Post Intelligencer (Mariners)
Rather than give its assignment to a crusty veteran columnist, the Seattle Post Intelligencer lets the staff of the U.S.S. Mariner – a savvy Mariners-centric blog that is everything new about the so-called “new media” – handle the assignment. If you like columns that bring the funny, this one gets an A+. The column is loaded with humorous quips that made this columnist’s belly shake and ache for minutes upon minutes until those minutes became hours. What’s missing here is the kind of analysis you’d expect from a midseason review. Many of the players in this column have only a sentence or two with little analysis. This would be fine for a fringe player or two, but players like Kendrys Morales are barely reviewed at all. The introduction to the grades does warn us that giving out grades is a flawed exercise.

 “You need to do things the way you’ve always done them, and I’ve always done stupid midseason report cards, so here’s a stupid midseason report card, featuring every player who’s played on the 2013 Mariners”

I have no argument that report cards are perhaps “stupid” but if that’s the case why contribute to the stupidity? A Vine of someone belching for five seconds could have made the same exact point just as effectively without so much virtual ink spilled on the virtual page. It seems like U.S.S. Mariner wanted to deconstruct the entire midseason report card concept but in the end just went ahead with it anyway. The jokes are worthy of an A, but the overall grade just can’t be that high and meet the exacting standards of the Midseason Report Card format. Grade C-

Adam Boedeker, NBC 5 Dallas Fort Worth (Rangers)
The headline said “Midseason Report Card,” so I expected grades. What I got instead was a brief column that listed an “Offensive MVP” a “Pitching MVP” a “Team MVP” and a “Biggest Disappointment.” Four players out of 25 on the Rangers get mentioned, with no light shed on how well a player such as, say, Robbie Ross did. How can I got about my day without knowing whether Robbie Ross was an A, B, C, D or F player? And what of Engel Beltre? How did he do? I had not been this crushed and demoralized since that guy in my college dorm told me that there is no God despite what our Mommies and Daddies drummed into our heads during our childhoods and in the end there is nothing but a cold, unwelcoming void for all of eternity.  Grade F

David Fernandez, Headline Miami (Marlins)
This Report Card doesn’t grade individual players but rather parts of the team (offense, pitching, defense, manager, and prospects). The rundown is a rather dry, statistical look at the team and – while the statistics are generally applied correctly – it doesn’t make for a very fun read. This piece is technically OK but I found my mind wandering more than a few times. Perhaps I am the one who should be getting a poor grade here, not the columnist. But I must persist. Grade C

Mark Simon, ESPN New York (Mets)
The layout and format of this column are excellent. Simon writes a brief paragraph for each player, with a picture of a blackboard and a letter grade next to each player. The write-ups are short and no nonsense, which is what you’d expect from something coming out of New York.  Still, what made this column for me was the blackboard. It reminded me of happier times in childhood: when the Mets were still good and life was simpler. Now the tasks that must be accomplished are more difficult, and a simple grade does not suffice. I miss the days of my youth. I miss being graded with a letter. Now I am judged by my peers, and even without letter grades I can tell from their harsh glances and unforgiving looks that I am a failure. Grade B+

Chris Branch, Cherry Hill Courier Post (Phillies)
Here Branch presents another positional rather than player by player rundown. I think I prefer the player-by-player rundown. Why should Dominic Brown get a “B” because he’s in the same outfield with Delmon Young? The pitchers get an “A”, but is that really what Cole Hamels deserves? Generations from now, when our grandchildren unearth these mid-year review grade columns, how will they be able to differentiate from Dom Brown and Delmon Young? Isn’t it enough that they’re all going to be doomed to live in a post-apocalyptic hellscape because we destroyed the environment? They should be able to go back through the historical archive and have accurate grades for every player on the 2013 Phillies as of July 13, 2013 as well.

That being said, the column was fine. Grade C

Fred Bowen, Washington Post (Kids Post) (Nationals)
Bowen’s effort appears to be for a section of The Washington Post called The Kids Post, so perhaps I should grade him on the curve. But Mr. Bowen says that he’s a “tough grader” so I’d be remiss if I didn’t hold Mr. Bowen to the same exacting standards that he is holding the Nationals to in his piece. Each player gets a grade here, but the write-ups fall back on the summary by position – and what a brief summary it is. I think we need to teach our children that when we grade people that we need to overanalyze them until the grade reflects who they truly are as people, down to their DNA, down to their core, until we have stripped them of their identify and have assigned them with a letter that exemplifies who they are. Grade C-

Grading Myself
Since no one has ever written a column grading the mid-year columns, I should perhaps grade myself on the curve. But since I did not do that here I cannot allow for such an easy out on my own grade. While I feel like the concept here was clever, the execution left more than a little to be desired. Perhaps I will do better this winter, when I grade the end year grades. Perhaps I will always be destined to write a lackluster column grading the columns that hand out the grades. My Grade: D

Tuesday, July 2, 2013

Olive Garden - January 20, 2002

I'm not a chain restaurant guy. I've never liked chain restaurants.

Growing up in New Jersey, in particular I never saw the point of The Olive Garden. You can throw a rock in Northern New Jersey and hit a dozen great Italian restaurants. Why would you voluntarily go to a chain restaurant that is inferior to one of the great local Italian eateries and wait in line for an hour to subject yourself to the inferior experience? It never made any sense to me. Chain restaurants are for when you're on a business trip in the middle of nowhere and it's the only game in town.

Twelve and a half years ago I went to The Olive Garden. My then-girlfriend Colleen (now my wife) and I had been dating for about a year and were moving into our first place together where both our names were on the lease (she had unofficially lived with me for about six months, which is another story for another day). It was only about a three mile move, but we didn't hire movers and by the end of the day we were exhausted. Even though we had only moved three miles away, we didn't know the new area at all so we decided to go to The Olive Garden because it was close. I should also point out that this was right around our anniversary so this dinner was going to be our anniversary dinner.

We walked in and the wait for a Saturday night wasn't bad at all: only 20-30 minutes. I don't like waiting at restaurants but - again - I was fucking tired after a long day of moving furniture and boxes and at this point didn't care. I wanted something quick and simple and then I wanted to go home so I could sleep.

The crowd that was waiting was the usual group of suburbanites waiting to eat at an Olive Garden on a Sunday night. I didn't give the crowd much thought...until I saw a near altercation. A middle aged guy walked past a young dude in his early 20s and nearly bumped into him. It looked like one of those near misses that sometimes happens in a crowded area. If it happens to you, the typical reaction is to shrug, maybe say something under your breath, and go on about your life.

Not this guy, though. "What the fuck?!" he yelled, a little too loud for a public setting, to one of his buddies. "Did you see that? That guy almost knocked me over? What the hell? Get up out my business!"

His friend agreed, uttered some similar macho nonsense, and also said "get up out my business." Shortly after this, this unpleasant party of six was seated and I thought that was that. It was a little weird, but I figured we'd never see these yahoos again.

Unfortunately it wasn't the end of that. Five to 10 minutes later Colleen and I were seated and found ourselves in the same section as these winners. This was our own fault because back then both of us were smokers (BOO, I know) and these guys were also smokers. As we settled into our section, I could tell that the obnoxious behavior from these guys hadn't just been a bad moment in the waiting area but was pretty much a regular part of their lifestyle.

These guys were loud. They were drinking margaritas and talking like they were outside at a barbeque, not inside in a restaurant.

The loudness wasn't the worst part, though. The worst part is that these morons were going on and on like the non-altercation in the waiting area was the moment of their lives where wishy-washy indecisiveness should be replaced with action and they should find the guy that nearly bumped their friend and teach him a lesson he wouldn't forget.

"Did you SEE that guy? He just walked up right past me, almost bumped me and didn't say nothing. Get up out my business! Who the hell did he think he was? Where is he sitting? I'm going to find him and teach him a lesson. Get up out my BUSINESS!"

Get up out my business was a pretty big expression with these guys. They kept saying it over and over and over. It sounded inane enough the first time I heard it. By the fiftieth time I heard it I wanted to scream. Also, these guys were getting more and more animated every time they said the words "get up out my business." It could also have been my imagination, but by the fiftieth time they uttered the words "get up out my business" these guys were jumping up and down around the table and pantomiming the event.

Colleen and I were doing that whole thing where we were trying to ignore their behavior even though it was impossible to do so. Since that was impossible, the next logical step was to make fun of these idiots under our breath. After a few minutes of this, I let out a nervous laugh that was a little too loud.

My laugh shifted the attention of the Get Up Out My Business boys from the injustice in the waiting area to me. There was a moment of silence and two of them glared at me. It was not a comfortable moment. Fortunately, it was also a short moment; we were saved by their food coming to the table. Once the food came, they forgot about us and they started the imaginary incident in the waiting area.

For years, we talked about the guys who came to be known as the Get Up Out My Business boys. We joked that The Olive Garden should hire these guys to go from Olive Garden to Oliver Garden across the country as a form of live entertainment. The funniest part of the tale to me is that I have never heard the phrase Get Up Out My Business uttered before or since.

Monday, July 1, 2013

Direct TV


When your cable company raises its rates, you have to get a second job.

When you have to get a second job, you apply for a lot of jobs you don’t necessarily like.

When you apply for jobs you don’t necessarily like, you wind up interviewing for a customer service job at Direct TV

When you interview for a customer service job at Direct TV, they find out that you directed a few artsy student films in college.

When Direct TV finds out that you directed a few artsy student films in college, they hire you to direct their latest commercial because their last director quit because he felt like a fucking two-bit hack.

When Direct TV hires you to direct their latest commercial because their last director quit because he felt like a fucking two-bit hack, you gamely try to direct their commercial so you can afford your cable bill.

When you gamely try to direct Direct TV’s latest commercial so you can afford your cable bill, you direct yet another one of their crappy fucking commercials.

Don’t direct yet another one of Direct TV’s crappy fucking commercials. Get Direct TV.

Wednesday, May 1, 2013

Brother Yuni


He threw a fastball that made hitters sad
Yuni was badder than bad
Danger, danger when you swing through the pitch
Yuni missed and made baseball nerds mad

Everything bad, nothing good
Yuni tried the best that he could
When he reached the plate for his at bats
Yuni knew just where he stood

Yuni Yuni Yuni Yuni
Yuni Yuni Yuni Yuneye
Yuni Yuni Yuni Yuni
Yuni Yuni you’re gonna die

There he stood 0-2
Knowing just what to do
He swung from the heels every time
Numbers minded fans thought he blew

Traditional fans caused a scene
Said sabermetric douchebags were mean
Ain’t no difference if you like numbers or not
Making fun of Yuni’s obscene

Yuni Yuni Yuni Yuni
Yuni Yuni Yuni Yuneye
Yuni Yuni Yuni Yuni
Yuni Yuni you’re gonna die

Yuni Yuni Yuni Yuni
Yuni Yuni Yuni Yuneye
Yuni Yuni Yuni Yuni
Yuni Yuni you’re gonna die

Monday, April 15, 2013

Boston, Massachusetts: April 15, 2013


Eight and a half years ago, I started telling my wife Colleen and very close friends that I was going to run a marathon. No one laughed at me, but more than a few people looked at me like I was making a joke. In the fall of 2004, I wasn’t running at all. I wasn’t even walking, with the exception of  few walks around my neighborhood. I was smoking cigarettes. I wasn’t a heavy smoker, but 10-15 cigarettes a day doesn’t do you any favors if you want to go for a 2-3 mile run, let alone run a marathon.

Four months later, I had quit smoking easily enough but was having trouble with my long runs. The program I was doing had me go from a 10-mile run to a 12-mile run to a 14-mile run. The 14-mile run was grueling. During the last mile or two, my legs were jelly and I felt like I was going to fall over. When I got home, I crawled up the stairs of our second floor apartment, stumbled over to the coach, and almost started crying. I don’t show a lot of emotion in general, so Colleen was a little freaked out. “What’s wrong?” she asked, sounding upset.

“I don’t think I can do it .” I told her. “If I feel like that after 14 miles, how am I going to run almost twice as many?”

Two months later, I finished my first marathon.

When the subject of running a marathon comes up, the first question people always ask is “was it hard?” My answer is always the same. “The training is hard. Compared to that, the marathon is easy.”

Training runs were solitary affairs. For the long, weekend run, I’d get up at 5:30 or six in the morning so I could spend some time with Colleen after I got back. For two or three hours, I was by myself. Some runs were better than others, but I can remember the bad ones better than the good ones. One of my favorite memories is running 14 miles for a different marathon in a constant mist on a raw, cool fall day. Besides me, the only people outside were taking their dogs out to go to the bathroom, and they all gave me the same look that said, “I have to be out here. What the hell are you doing out here?”

Race day was different. There’s a lot of anxiety, but the atmosphere at the starting line and throughout is that of a big party. I ran one marathon in Cincinnati and another one in Philadelphia. Both races had throngs of people on the sidelines, cheering you on, telling all of the runners that we were doing a great job, or were looking great, or some other kind of encouragement.

Another popular question that comes up is “what does it feel like to cross the finish line?” This is harder to put into words than whether or not running a marathon is “easy”, but besides watching the birth of my children, it’s the greatest feeling I’ve ever had my life.

As I said above, I didn’t exactly face naysayers, but I did get a lot of reactions that had an underlying “really?” As in, “really, you think you’re going to be able to run 26.2 miles?” Or, “really, you think you’re not going to give up eight weeks into your training?” Or, “really, it’s noble that you want to do this, but you’re going to be really sad and disappointed when you give up…because you eventually will.”

Training for a marathon is a transition from “no I can’t” to “yes I can” and finally to “damn right, I did it!” Once you’re out there running the race, any doubts that you have or that may have been planted by others fall on deaf ears. It’s you out there, and every stride is a triumph before you even cross the finish line. Getting to the starting line is a victory in and of itself.

Except you’re not alone. So many people out there share your story. Their reasons might be somewhat or completely different, but all of the other first timers started out in the same place: deciding to run a marathon but not knowing what the outcome of the decision would be until months of training and preparation.

All of these memories came flooding back today after the I first saw the news about the explosions in Boston.

The Boston Marathon is a different race than the two marathons I ran. Cincinnati (The Flying Pig) and the Philadelphia Marathons are open marathons. Anyone can register and give it a shot. Boston is a qualifying marathon. In order to get in, you have to have finished another marathon under a certain amount of time (there are different time requirements for different age brackets). There aren’t any first-time runners in Boston (theoretically; some people run the race even though they’re not registered).

When you’re running a marathon, around the twentieth or twenty-first mile, the idea of the finish line becomes Valhalla. You start picturing what you’re going to see when you cross, the large crowd, and the festive atmosphere that’s going to be waiting for you there.

On the day I ran the Philadelphia Marathon, Colleen, my then 23-month old daughter Lucy, and our friends Jenn and Jim were waiting for me about half a mile from the finish line. The Philadelphia race goes down this long stretch of a road named Kelly Drive that is bereft of crowds for a good three miles and makes the last few miles difficult. About a mile before the finish line, a few fraternity and sorority houses known as Boathouse Row are where the crowds form. The longer it takes you to finish, the larger those crowds are. I’m far from an elite athlete, so by the time I got there, it was almost impossible to pass through the throng. I didn’t know if Colleen or Lucy were there. I told myself it wouldn’t be the end of the world if I didn’t see them, but when I heard Colleen shout out “Mike!” I instantly knew I had been fooling myself. I saw Colleen’s beautiful face and my little daughter all bundled up in her arms and knew that seeing them made this even more special, and it made the last mile a joy instead of a chore.

I can’t stop thinking about the families that were out there today waiting for their loved ones to cross the finish line. The loving wife or husband who knew that the countless hours of training would impact their weekends for months and not only didn’t complain about it but was supportive and gave everything he or she could and dug deep in his or her own way. The sons and daughters who maybe didn’t completely understand until the moment during the race that Mom or Dad ran past them with a look on his face that they had never seen on Mom or Dad’s face before. The parents who always offered support for their children who weren’t going to miss it when their kids crossed the finish line.

But the other thing I’m left with from today is the countless acts of kindness from so many of the people involved with the race or in the community. The runners who finished the race running to the hospital to give blood. The local entrepreneurs who offered a place to sit, free food for those who couldn’t afford it, and anything else they could do to help. Residents offering strangers with no place to stay a bed or a couch to sleep on. I’m surprised but not surprised, amazed but taking it in stride. Twenty-six-point-two miles builds a community in a short four and a half hour span, an environment that says we’re all in this together whether you’re running the race or just standing there cheering the runners on. Those that have been part of this temporary community of 26.2 at one time or another were less surprised by the random acts of kindness. A marathon is already a miniature miracle: an extraordinary achievement undertaken and frequently achieved by “ordinary” people. The kindness I saw today in Boston I saw in Cincinnati and Philadelphia on smaller, lesser scales but was no less important to those competing. There is nothing like a marathon to remind us that we are all in this together and that – for a short time at least – we can lift each other to heights we never imagined possible.

Thursday, March 14, 2013


It was just before dawn one beautiful morning
In Hundred Acre Wood
It was peaceful, quiet and calm
And nothing could go wrong
Or at least so it would seem
But there was a loud sound
And it shook all the ground
And the animals all slowly woke
It made all the earth shake
Like a major earthquake
Or hellfire coming from the skies
Winnie's honey pots broke
Eeyore's ears competely fell off
And Rabbit was completely crushed by a tree.
Owl's home was destroyed
The Heffalump was annoyed
And Piglet was turned into ham stew
And my eyes still grow damp to remember
Christopher Robin tried
To save all his stuffed friends 
It was dark all around, dead animals on the ground
When the Tiggers broke free
And no one survived
From A.A. Milne's greatest works. There were all left behind
Most of them dead, the rest of them dying
And that's how that fucking Tigger
Took Winnie the Pooh from me.