May 2007
Fear and Loathing in the Bronx
The Stadium is teetering, Mo’s bridge burning down, Torre’s magic touch dissolving. The boss blusters, Abreu is flustered… too many problems need solving. And while chaos ensued, and the denizens booed, there wasn’t a game left to save. We are left with the ghost of memory, and whoever else decides to stay.
And I wonder:
What’s the point of worrying again?
…………….
My brother and I sit upper deck, for the first of three games against the loathsome, despised,***** good Red Sox. They stand, in first place by 10 ½ games, without readily recognizable contributions from imports J.D. Drew and Julio Lugo, or Mr. Mercurial himself, Manny Ramirez. You had to give them credit, the jerks.
Josh Beckett rediscovered the precise location that had abandoned his curveball.
Previously maligned General Manager Theo Epstein outplayed professional nemesis Brian Cashman in his acquisition of Daisuke Matsuzaka, wagering that an insane posting fee would be balanced by a bargain basement contractual agreement, staring down avenging agent Scott Boras in the process.
Hideki Okajima, an unheralded Japanese reliever, has been lights out his first trip around the American League, which isn’t entirely surprising, considering his beyond funky delivery.
Over a year ago, impossible as it is for me to believe, I composed my favorite column, entitled "Until the End of Time." The article interprets my experience at an early season Yankee-Red Sox contest, and all its accompanied trappings: the standard, nauseating hype proliferated by deranged media entities such as ESPN, hostilities between different factions of fan, coordinated attacks involving flying beer, the basic experience was all there.
That is a documented day in my life, May 10th, 2006.
Flash forward.
May 21st, 2007.
What changed?
………….
I’ve been here before. Ever faithful familiarity is always calling us back, Bob Shepard beckoning, along with stale beer and a dull sense of tradition. I count on the wearied expression overcoming underpaid vendors by the middle innings, the overzealous security guards, intoxicated with power, shoving offending members of the audience, drunk on something else entirely, down tunnels and out of sight, the roll call from bleacher creatures, the light din following first pitch, time to settle in for a long night.
…………
Situation dictates circumstance. Alarm is a peak priority, our team skidding, a disturbing malaise feeding mediocrity.
After salvaging a small slice of the Subway, we were praying for a positive carry over. The Ace took the hill, Chien-Ming Wang, opposing knuckleball specialist Tim Wakefield.
……….
Whack seats. We’re jammed, within the middle of packed section, miles from home plate, elevated in the atmosphere.
My bro and I share a disgusting cough, gained during an ill-fated late night barbecue doubling as a birthday celebration for one of his friends. I got drunk on a powerful combination: homemade margaritas and straight shots of cheap tequila. Greg joked that I appeared genuinely repulsed after the initial hit of 1800, face etched in red and eyes blinking erratically, which is fantastic really. I wish someone could have snapped a picture.
The fallout was far worse than an amiable bitter beer face. The treacherous cough struck us both 24 hours later, and hadn’t departed by game time. There we were, locked in for a nine-inning Yankee-Red Sox throw down, intermittently expunging harrowing gasps and wadded saliva. Our exploits would have received ample attention if not for two reasons:
1. This was Yankee Stadium, and dry heaving hardly counts as an occurrence worthy of disdainful recognition, except maybe for appalled tourists or frightened Long Islanders.
2. Nefarious lynch pins had already been revealed, a disheartening twist of events that enraged my entire section. Looking back, they probably didn’t need the prompt, though, at the time, it was shocking to see two Red Sox fans, seated three or four rows away at best, preening and taunting with unmistakable glee in this, just the first inning. Usually the lynch pins, code for an individual or tag team duo who readily incite ill tempered hometown fans, wait at least an hour to work their magic, at the height of inebriation. But here were Lloyd and Harry, Dumb and Dumber without a doubt, doing a worthy imitation of early 90′s Wrestling heels. All that was missing was their manager, Mr. Fuji.
So, as Greg and I exchanged cough drops, at a baseball game for Christ’s Sake, Wang started encouragingly enough, escaping the first without allowing a run.
…………
The sun set, blazing a sky picturesque, hovering over the anxious souls of 50,000 plus.
The lynch pins are at the top of their game as Alex Rodriguez ambled to the plate, runner on second.
" Oh, A-Rod!" one of them crowed, attempting to sound feminine as possible. Heckling is a strange enterprise. In the testosterone fueled world of sports, here is an endeavor where it’s considered noble to sound extremely ***, so long the activity is undertaken to insult an opposing team’s players or fans. At a Subway Series game I happened to attend years ago, two fat, drunken Yankee devotees acted out dialogue between Mike Piazza and Edgardo Alfonzo that didn’t exactly earn points for subtly. You figure it out.
The second cog in the tag team, dubbed Sully and Sully by some wit one seat up, followed his friends’ ill fated lead, turning his back on the field to verbally spar with anyone willing.
The opening inning blitz left us truly stumped. Sure, a few people issued late return fire, class one f-you rockets, but the moment had passed. The Sullies had one over on us… or did they?
A-Rod demolished a hopelessly hanging Wakefield floater, and the Yanks suddenly took control, 2-0.
……………….
The counter assault was vicious. Our new friends from Boston were roundly lampooned, well after Alex had finished cruising the base paths.
Aye, revenge is a dish best served with cold cuts.
And yet… something was off.
I realized. The crowd was caught in a chant:
" Red Sox ****! Red Sox ****!"
It was venomous, tribal and theatrical at the same time. The change amazed me. It used to be that we were a constant in Boston’s consciousness, lurking, haunting. We were the dream destroyers, the bad guys worthy of Tony Montana’s vision, taking what was wanted, at the cost of anyone foolish enough to pose opposition.
They fought and fell, a parade of Indians and Mariners, Braves and Mets, until the ultimate triumph in 2003, against the nemesis, our superiority a supposed eternal lock.
We used to have an unshakeable confidence, the power of Yankee Stadium nearly a reckoning force in the 2001 World Series.
Things change. Vibrant leaves crumble into dust, as do empires.
We’d look down on them, almost pitying, as they pathetically wailed tired sentiment at football celebrations.
" What do these ****** think? That the Patriots can play the Yankees?"
No, the Yankees didn’t ****, and I was entitled to laugh, as I was to victory.
And than, it vanished, in one inevitable moment in time.
2004 shouldn’t have robbed Yankee fans of class, if they ever had any, and arrogance, if they happened to even misplace it. The team’s weaknesses festered at the worst possible time, nary a break was found, and a better team rightfully won.
So why this bitterness? This endless ocean of success hasn’t endowed faith, hardly. It has emboldened the spoiled, legitimized the desperate, and burdened the rational.
Boo Mariano Rivera in April.
Boo Derek Jeter in May.
Boo Jason Giambi in October.
Boo Alex Rodriguez all the **** time.
I surveyed my surroundings, the two Sullies, still talking smack, their voices nullified by a wall of sound and fury, and realized, Yankee fans and Red Sox fans never hated each other for their difference, it was for the similarity, when they saw themselves in each other.
When they had to boo.
……….
Wang wasn’t up to his usual tricks, unmercifully pouring in a ceaseless wave of scintillating sinkers against frustrated hitters unable to solidly connect. He was mixing in a bevy of sliders and change-ups, an artist switching palettes.
His performance turned Picasso, Wang running a maddeningly high pitch count, while maintaining a semblance of effectiveness. He’d been gifted a four run lead, after Jason Giambi’s bomb into the right field upper deck. I could see the sphere, careening peacefully on course, descending into a mess of sweaty palms.
The Sully aimed abuse was unrelenting.
Some kid, of similar age to mine, wouldn’t quit.
" Hey buddy", he incessantly chirped, " Hey buddy. Buddy. Buddy. Buddy. In the red hat. Sully buddy, look at me, look at me… look over here man!"
Sully # 1, face ashen, appearing defeated, finally stared up.
The kid cleared his throat. I readied for a well thought out, impassioned put down, worthy enough to put the Sully situation to rest, for good.
<span style="COLOR: black; FONT-FAMILY: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: ***************** Boston!"
And our section cheered, even joined in.
"Fuuuuaa-ck Boston! [Clap, clap, clap] Fuuuaaaa-ck Boston!"
On it went, as I sunk into my seat, trying to focus on the game.
………
Somewhere around the seventh, as the Yankees seized complete control, those seeking perverse entertainment had ample avenues opened for amusement.
There was the insanely drunk chick, alone in her intoxication, but determined, nonetheless, to present a stand-alone show worthy of ticket admission.
As Wang danced around the Boston nine, she paraded on the concourses, shaking her assets in a vain attention grab.
It worked, of course.
"Show your ****! [Clap, clap, clap] Show your ****!" [Clap, clap, clap]
She wouldn’t oblige, though her consideration was clear.
………….
Meanwhile, fight night had unexpectedly broken out. The under card boasted a battle between Sox fan and Yankee fan, right in the middle of a crowded aisle. The Sox fan, a southpaw, sneaked in an excellent jab, which may have earned him a win on the scorecards, but led to his free fall from Row J to C. The Yankee fan, clearly stunned, sought retribution against, well, anyone really, and clocked the nearest partisan in range. A legitimate pier six broke out, yet fight fans had their attention immediately diverted to another impassioned scrum on the concourse. The drunken girl, personally dubbed as "my ex-girlfriend", was, by hook or crook, bleeding from the mouth. Now, here was a true National tragedy. The Upper deck’s prized starlet was bleeding, and, by God, we wondered for just a second what kind of messed up world we were living in. After that thought passed, fingers were pointed. Some people blamed Stadium security. Some people blamed a mysterious, balding tattooed figure wearing a Scott Brosius jersey. Few, however, assigned blame to a blood specked railing 20 rows down.
……………
After an imminently needed sojourn to the bathroom, where, we’d heard from a prior patron " **** hit the fan around the fifth inning" [thankfully, not literally] we jacked a couple of unoccupied seats at the end of our row. When pressed on the whereabouts of the previous owners, a dude behind us claimed, "I don’t know where those people went. It was the third inning… and they just disappeared." Ah, the mysteries of life. But was this fate?
For, in the eighth, contest winding to a serene finish, Sully #1 appeared in our midst, expression bewildered, the unmistakable stench of barley and hops on his breath.
His accent was thick.
"Hey, do you guys remember where I was sitting?"
Greg eyed me. You take this one.
"No, man. Sorry."
Sully # 1 wearily exhaled, and than smiled.
"I’ve seen you two guys all night, just sitting back and watching the show."
"You did it to yourself." I flatly replied.
Sully # 1′s attention wondered.
"We’re standing on three decks … know that? It’s really incredible. I’ve had a blast, I really have."
"Are you crazy?" I angrily responded, almost insulted. "You’ve had drunk ******** talking **** to you all night, your team’s getting lit…"
"It’s part of the experience." Sully said, searching for the right words. He found them.
"We’re the bad guys."
He started away, but I called him back.
"What’s your name, man?"
"Derek," he said. "Like Jeter, right?"
I’m not sure if Derek ever found his seat.
…………….
As we departed the stadium, the Yankees victorious, I search for signs of hope. I’m equal parts optimistic and pessimistic about this team, but could never part from at least being interested. I figure if Hughes is back by the All Star break, or immediately after it, and Clemens can be counted on for six quality innings a night, they have a chance to make an improbable run at the division, lest they scramble for the wild card.
I can’t quit, because for all the stupidity and negativity entailed with being a fan, there will always exist a sense of wonderment, an ode to the unknown within me.
It’s in all us.
After all, we’re standing on three decks.
- Matt Waters
Strange Daze
The Yankees appear dead as Christopher Moltisanti. I gulp an overflowing glass of rum and coke, attempting to ignore their latest disintegration. It’s May 11th, which doesn’t stop me from worrying.
Bottoms up.
I’m at a local tavern, for the purposes of a celebration. My freshman year of college has been completed. Friends gather, wishing well, welcoming me back to the neighborhood.
Long Island and I just didn’t mesh, the reason unbeknownst to me. My career isn’t where I wanted it to be, though I’m beginning to realize my set expectations were probably impossibly stratospheric.
Aye, this stuff is easy in theory, but not in practice.
I went through phases. Least favorite was angry journalist. I’ve ceased to care about the laughable attempt at journalism by our decidedly warped media. Let the cycle perpetuate, let the villains be cast and the crusaders pat themselves on the back, fine with me. It’s high time to sit back and watch the old hypothetical wheels turn ‘round, lest I drive myself crazy with useless anger.
I have these thoughts swimming inside my mind as Washburn slices and dices, a surgeon.
He mixes his pitches, gets ahead and finishes.
It shouldn’t be a secret. The Yankees’ vaunted lineup often shrinks when confronted with fearlessness.
I couldn’t recall being this frustrated in 2005, when the Bombers stumbled out of the gate.
What’s different this time?
This team is certainly of better construction. Not a Tony Womack in sight, though Robinson Cano is slumping toward a definite imitation. The Big Downer, Randy Johnson, was dealt for a decent crop of prospects. Another superstar of sulk, Gary Sheffield, was jettisoned early in the off-season.
General Manager Brian Cashman has an arduous agenda, attempting replenish a previously barren system while attaining short-term success.
We all thought him capable.
Yet… there was the Kei Igawa disaster, a complete blight on every level of the organization.
And… the prospective haul acquired for those departed has been plagued by equal parts injury and underperformance.
Even worse… players expected to deliver dynamite offensive performance have unexpectedly stumbled, Bobby Abreu and the aforementioned Cano topping all categories in stagnation. The bullpen has sunk to the depths. Luis Vizcaino, bought aboard by Cashman in the Johnson dump, has been horrendous, commanding only one pitch consistently: the hanging slider. Kyle Farnsworth, a gamble, continues exhibiting spotty location and questionable pitch selection. Even the great Mariano has slipped so far, lacking the acute command that has made his cutter the nastiest pitch in baseball for years.
But nobody could have predicted that.
Is it the team, or myself, propelling this alarmist attitude, this lack of faith?
In all the change, good, bad or indifferent, from high school to college, from hired to fired and back again, has my previously sturdy belief system cracked?
I believed in 2005, even though the Opening Day Starting rotation prominently featured the nightmare trio of Kevin Brown, Carl Pavano and Jaret Wright. When the three amigos flopped, predictably injured or ineffective, the Yankees rested their fate on the likes of Aaron Small and Shawn Chacon.
And they survived, by hook or crook, ultimately winning the division.
I knew it all along.
Now?
Almost time for another shot of Southern Comfort.
/
I arrived at an epiphany, sitting at the bar. Every sports fan must go through this.
****, I’ve been here with the Jets.
This is the hard part, the test.
This is where we begin to disbelieve, when the memory bank becomes polluted by past failure, sour recollections applied to present circumstance.
For me, a Yankee fan, it had to be drastic.
It took a heartbreaking loss in a World Series, a complete wipeout in a Division Series, an anticlimactic disappointment in another Fall Classic, a historic choke, an Anaheim sequel, and finally, an embarrassing upset.
And I realize: last year did it.
Seeing the Tigers decimate Randy Johnson and Jaret Wright, two beacons of organizational incompetence lighting the way to defeat, finally shattered my previously unshakeable confidence.
I was downright melancholy last October.
My stomach was a reservoir of resignation. There was no shock or anger, only humbled acceptance that life doesn’t always offer happy endings. [Samba Pa Ti]
I knew it would happen.
****, I firmly believed David Wells would come up huge as his waistline with our backs to the wall [2002], I thought we’d get to that punk kid Beckett [2003], I was convinced Kevin Brown had the heart to deliver in Game 7 [2004], I was positive Alex Rodriguez was going to awake from hibernation [2005], but, without a fragment of doubt, I knew Jaret Wright would get torched in Game Four [2006].
We can all relate.
Eagles fans repeatedly witnessing their Ultimate Weapon, Randall Cunningham, disarmed in the playoffs. Were they shocked as everyone else by the 1998 NFC Championship game, or did they send a solemn, knowing nod toward Minnesota?
Red Sox fans, before 2004 anyway, cursing a questionable managerial decision. Did they see Little Gate coming?
Brown fans, helplessly watching Elway drop back… did they come to anticipate all the future heartache?
Faith can only float alone so long, before our team has to prove it, win our belief back.
Until then, that pit will always resurface, a low tide moving in…
/
I ask for some tenacity, I get apathy. I ask for a little consistency, I’m rewarded frustration.
These are strange days.
I slumped into my seat, watching the game’s inevitable conclusion, the Mariners celebratory, the Yankees appropriately dour.
The world turns.
A cute girl sitting under the elevated television set beckons my attention. She asks me if I’m a Yankee fan, says she can tell.
I smile, immediately lightening up.
I’m about to explain that isn’t such a bad deal, 27 World Championships, a parade of legends, a beautiful stadium… and than I remember Jeremy Bonderman stomping off a mound in Detroit to a chorus of ecstasy, the slayer of a once fearsome dragon.
No, I don’t want to talk baseball right now.
Instead, I ask what she’s drinking.
- Matt Waters
[ The Yankees won tonight, splitting their double header with Chi, as I remind myself and others to keep the faith!]
Next: The National League
What’s the price of instant gratification? The Arizona Diamondbacks were an expansion team in 1998, propelled on a fast track by relentless manager Buck Showalter and an aggressive front office, participating in postseason play by 1999, winning an epic World Series in 2001. It was a whirlwind, a winning tradition instilled within infancy, the antithesis of Tampa Bay. But nobody stays on top forever. The team’s foundation gradually cracked, and the Diamondbacks finally kissed abyss in 2004, collecting an abysmal 51 wins.
The how and why, scenery for history, paints a picture of dubious decisions, chiefly the ill-fated Curt Schilling trade to Boston, for which the Diamondbacks received an assortment of spare parts and fungible resources, annihilating any opportunity for contention in ’04.
There would be no blank checks for the Diamondbacks now, no mass migration of high priced veterans into their stable. They would need to build.
The game’s current exhibits quiet violence, a pleasant riptide. Mark Prior is destined for greatness, before cruel waves cascade. The Diamondbacks may have appeared entrapped in an undertow, before the horizon became visible.
There’s Conor Jackson, and Mark Grace in a broadcaster’s booth. There’s Chris Young, and Steve Finley hanging by a thread in Colorado. There’s Stephen Drew, and Tony Womack nowhere to be found.
The ocean rolls on.
Arizona welcomes it with open arms.
Who else?
Who’s next?
N.L. East:
Marlins: Sean West
Bats: L Throws: L
Starting Pitcher
If the Marlins’ brilliance in the area of talent evaluation weren’t so well established, one would be tempted to believe them blessed, by a god of serendipitous fortune. Whenever the apathy entrenched within their “fan base” appears to infect performance, a Dontrelle Willis is acquired, or a Miguel Cabrera is developed, and the Fish solider on. Meanwhile, we all wait in wonderment, for the Marlins’ to unveil another untouchable.
Sean West could be next in line. His measurable attributes would make any scout salivate. West is 6’8, and 210 easy. His full maturation incomplete, an already impressive fastball stands to gain an extra degree of velocity, in due time. West was a bit one-dimensional in College, boasting a single consistently effective pitch, the heater, eschewing secondary offerings. That in mind, his growth could be glacial, especially at advanced levels. However, West has displayed a willingness to learn, and is twirling breaking balls with regularity in the bushes, attempting to redefine his style. And while the deuces remain wild, West’s potential remains sky high, just another prodigal Marlin.
Braves: Jarrod Saltalamacchia
Bats: Switch Throws: R
Catcher
Jarrod, a supremely talented switch hitting catcher, is still tabbed by many as the Braves’ top hitting prospect, despite a disappointing 2006 campaign, marred by injuries. If his ascension proceeds as previously expected, master tactician John Schuerholz will gain an invaluable trading chip, considering the dearth of catching talent of Saltalamachhia’s caliber around the baseball landscape, and Brian McCann’s rightfully fortified presence on the Braves’ roster.
Phillies: Kyle Drabek
Bats: R Throws: R
Starting Pitcher
Questionable character issues have dampened Drabek’s stock in many baseball circles, viewed as the top right-handed pitcher available in the ‘06 draft. Kyle is the son of former top echelon starter Doug, the Pirates’ ace in their last hour of glory. He mixes an impressive fastball and curve, but his change needs solidification.
Drabek’s erratic persona leaves a stain of gray with regard to his future. He could completely flame out or follow in his father’s footsteps, probability equal.
Mets: Lastings Milledge
Bats: R Throws: R
Outfielder
Milledge wasn’t exactly a popular man toward the tail end of his truncated tenure with the Mets in 2006, closer Billy Wagner bestowing a sign above his locker advising:
“ Know your place, rook!”
Crude as the sentiment may have been, it definitely possessed legitimacy. His questionable character left many dropping Milledge beneath Carlos Gomez and Fernando Martinez on the Mets’ organizational prospective depth chart.
Lastings’ ability, however, will grant him a multitude of second chances. He seemed in a seizing mood during Spring Training, impressing veterans with newfound maturity, and utilizing his lightening quick wrists at the dish to grant entry on the initial 25-man roster. Lastings couldn’t find at-bats in April, however, with the suddenly surging Shawn Green blocking his path, and was relocated to New Orleans. Instead of sulking after the demotion, Milledge has hit .330, and appears well on his way to establishing a permanent “place” on the Mets.
Nationals: Kory Casto
Bats: R Throws: R
Outfielder [Left]
The baseball in Washington sure is dreary. In bleak situations such as these, team ownership wishes for a phenomenal youngster to arrive on a white horse, spiriting disenchanted fans away, to a better, yet realistic, place in the future. Unfortunately for Stan Kasten and company, the Nationals have one of those already, in Ryan Zimmerman, who won’t generate a ton of buzz, purely because of an already imbedded status with the club.
Nothing about Kory Casto is particularly spectacular. He has the potential to become a solid starter, middle of the road. Casto’s professional technique plate wise sets him apart from other outfielders of his ilk, without one stand out strength. His power could blossom, festered by the aforementioned intelligent approach. He doesn’t have the speed for center or arm for right.
Somewhere, a poor soul in Washington yawns, through no fault of Kory Casto.
N.L. Central:
Reds: Homer Bailey
Bats: R Throws: R
Starting Pitcher
Pass on querying Homer Bailey regarding the finer points of his craft. He’ll never offer a pitching dissertation. Not the cerebral type.
Golden right arm in tow, Bailey equates simplicity with victory. Universally slotted as the number two pitching prospect in baseball, behind only King Philip of the Yankees, Homer has flat dominated at every level, and is currently lurking at the Reds’ Triple A affiliate, a step away from testing himself in the show.
His control isn’t impeccable, ability to make meaningful adjustments questionable. But Bailey’s credentials are undeniable, his day in Cincinnati soon dawning.
Brewers: Yovani Gallardo
Bats: R Throws: R
Starting Pitcher
While Homer Bailey may be the consensus number one pitching prospect in the National League, Yovani Gallardo is unanimously the most exciting. Gallardo is a strikeout machine, currently sporting a ridiculous 42-8 K/Walk ratio in Nashville. His repertoire is delightfully old school, an ebbing fastball topping out in the mid-nineties, paired with a hard breaking curve ball. There are concerns that Gallardo’s occasionally shaky mechanics could irrevocably damage his arm, which would be a terrible waste.
Cardinals: Colby Rasmus
Bats: L Throws: L
Outfielder
The heir apparent to Jim Edmonds, Colby Rasmus is the complete package, tagged with the five tool label, and deserving of every appliance.
Rasmus is the quintessential Cardinal jewel, in the vein of J.D. Drew, though his blazing speed and flowering power also harkens Grady Sizemore. The Cardinals’ outfield will be in definite flux following 2007, when Rasmus, all of 20 years old at the outset of this season, could be prepared to fill the void.
Pirates: Andrew McCutchen
Bats: R Throws: R
Outfielder
Jason Bay was becoming a nomad when he landed with the Pirates organization in 2003. He’d made his rounds in the under belly of the Expo, Met, and Padre organizations, traded for the likes of Lou Collier and Jason Middlebrook.
While Dave Littlefield made an excellent deal, acquiring Bay with Oliver Perez from San Diego for Brian Giles, the beleaguered Buccos could never really take credit for developing the star outfielder on their own accord.
And, upon recollection that Brian Giles was acquired from the Indians, in the mind numbingly stupid Ricardo Rincon disaster- [from the Cleveland perspective, of course. Rincon gave them one good year, Giles was an ELITE offensive player, and no, I don’t want to hear about the glut in Cleveland’s outfield, because the Indians gave a TON of playing time in the proceeding years to Wil Cordero and Russell Branyan, who Giles wipes the floor with. It was an awful trade, topped only by the SAME Indians trading Richie Sexson, for who, Bob freaking Wickman, are you kidding me? But… I digress. Somebody has to write a book about the mid-nineties Indians. It has to happen.]
-One realizes that the Pittsburgh Pirates haven’t cultivated an elite outfielder since Barry Bonds, who, evidently, probably didn’t need much help.
The remedy: Andrew McCutchen. Different players invoke alternating adjectives within the minds behind the eyes watching them at work. Jose Reyes is kinetic. Jim Thome is powerful. Derek Jeter fights.
Andrew McCutchen is smooth. He never really endured a severe adjustment period upon introduction to the professional level, someone even of Jeter’s rank suffered.
He burst into Rookie League, swatting .297 and fleecing bases, playing his game unaffected. 2006 produced more eye popping output, McCutchen becoming the youngest player in Altoona Curve history. [Double A] All Andrew did was trump his Single A output, where he simply may have felt insulted.
It’s a matter of when, not if, with regards to McCutchen. And when his time comes, Andrew is a practical guarantee to be ready, and willing.
Astros: Hunter Pence
Bats: R Throws: R
Outfielder
Hunter Pence is electric, and could jolt the Astro offense, limp far too often. The multifaceted outfielder has made it nearly impossible for management to rein him from the ballpark formerly known as Enron, delivering a sterling Spring Training performance, following an outstanding Minor League season. At age 24, Pence belongs in the Major Leagues, and holding him back in Triple A could be best classified as tepid. With the big league club off to a slow start, Houston should explore a proactive course, one including Pence as a key ingredient.
Chicago Cubs: Felix Pie
Bats: L Throws: L
Outfielder
Felix Pie is devilishly skilled, a hint of unintentional arrogance dripping from his game. After all, when Pie summons his dynamic elasticity, on the whim of pure instinct, it nearly stings to see the suffocating difficulty of baseball battled with such unassuming ease.
For the diehard citizen of Wrigley-Ville, such as the visitors and contributors to Gonfalon Cubs on Baseball Think Factory, Pie is a household name, a beacon of hope amid the searing misery that was Dusty Baker: The Final Chapter. Pie debuted after a hamstring injury claimed Alfonso Soriano in mid-April. The Cubs surprised in summoning Pie, anything but a stop gap solution. Felix has managed to stick, impressing with his fielding prowess. Despite being the only truly qualified center fielder on the roster, Felix finds himself within a flawed glut of Jim Hendry’s twisted design, costing him at-bats, and presumably, making Andere Richtingen extremely unhappy.
N.L. West:
Los Angeles Dodgers: Andy LaRoche
Bats: R Throws: R
Third Baseman
There isn’t much damning evidence against Andy LaRoche. He has the bloodlines, his father a former Major League pitcher, his brother, potential contemporary, a slugging first baseman. The only negatives attached to LaRoche link to his athleticism, average at best.
But at the plate, Andy’s superb discipline should translate well at the professional level.
Arizona Diamondbacks: Chris Young
Bats: R Throws: R
Outfielder
It was always a personal opinion, before 2005 anyway, that White Sox General Manager Ken Williams received a bit of a raw deal in Michael Lewis’ groundbreaking book “Money Ball”. Williams was portrayed in an unsuspecting manner, essentially getting held up by master trader Billy Beane, trapped in his web. Kenny would remove any lingering blemish from his image after guiding the White Sox to a World Series crown in ’05, largely on the strength of his trades for Jose Contreras and Freddy Garcia.
Sure, Kenny was on fire, in the winter thaw following his ultimate triumph. And it was here, precisely, where he may have made his biggest mistake.
Seeking to further bolster an already loaded pitching staff, Williams sacrificed a top outfield prospect named Chris Young, among others, in exchange for Javier Vazquez, who had struggled for the second consecutive season.
In 2006, as Young surged through the Diamondback system, and Vazquez searched for the consistency eluding him since 2003, it grew increasingly that Kenny Williams hadn’t made a particularly good trade.
And this time, he hadn’t carelessly dealt Chad Bradford.
Chris Young’s haughty perch extends beyond the Diamondback organization. He routinely places in the top five of prospect lists encompassing the talent of every franchise. He is an outstanding defensive center fielder, capable of breathtaking stabs and gravity teasing leaps, a plus arm to boot.
At the dish, Young is imminently capable of compiling superlative averages. He has flashed power early in 2007, and should heat up in the summer months.
Rockies: Jason Hirsh
Bats: R Throws: R
Starting Pitcher
The Rockies classify themselves as a Christian organization, steeped in belief, of charity and good will. This sentiment, however, went only so far, when one of their homegrown, Jason Jennings, requested a due payment of cold hard cash. Embattled Dan O’Dowd, citing Beane 14:56 [“What it profit a G.M., to lose a starter, without getting prospects back in return?”] promptly dealt Jason for a package of players including Hirsh, the Astros’ top gun on the farm.
Hirsh had a superlative ’06 season in the Minor Leagues, but one particularly rough patch at the Show slaughtered his earned run average, and apparently lowered his stock with Houston’s hierarchy, as they willingly included him in their bid to acquire Jennings.
Jason throws a heavy fastball, which alleviates mistakes in location. All told, he’s off to very good start with the Rockies, Humidor help him, sporting a nifty 3.41 ERA in 31 innings.
San Francisco Giants: Tim Linecum
Bats: R Throws: R
Starting Pitcher
A Roy Oswalt clone, Linecum’s approach to the plate is stunning in abject violence. Witness Linecum, practically unfurl himself at the hitter, legs ferociously kicking, hips recklessly twirling.
A vague first round curiosity in last year’s draft, Tim has exploded onto the Minor League scene, many forecasting a quick debut with the Giants
There, he could join Barry Zito, Matt Cain, Noah Lowry, and a revived Matt Morris in the Giants’ rotation.
Linecum’s Fresno stats are almost as scary as his wind up: 4-0, 0.29 ERA.
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