Guess Milton Bradley and Jeff Kent won’t be signing up as a doubles team for the Dodgers off-season tennis tourney (This competition doesn’t actually exist. I invented it for the sake of making a metaphorical point). Depending who you believe, Kent is an alienating loner who has a problem with black people, or Bradley will play the race card the minute anyone says anything negative about him, someone dares criticize his performance, or simply because the opportunity presents itself (Bradley himself said, “Me being African American is the most important thing in my life – more important than baseball,” a statement which, depending on how he applies that mindset, doesn’t bother me. It’s his right. And don’t give me the “As a baseball player, baseball should be his first priority” speech. We pick on athletes all time- Bonds, for example- when they claim to only care about their sport, calling them selfish and isolated, with priorities out of whack. Here’s a guy with an interest and conscious outside the game, and everyone will say he’s unfocused. That’s ridiculous. Whether Bradley’s applying his racial awareness in a rational manner is debatable, but don’t muck it into an entirely separate issue.)

            It’s hard to know which guy’s seeing the conflict through the most objective set of eyes. Kent’s told people to talk with Dusty Baker, Dave Winfield, and Joe Carter, among others, as proof that skin doesn’t matter to him. (I did hear one ***** counter that with, “I don’t hear him asking you to talk to Bonds,” an argument that barely qualifies as a flip side, considering you won’t find a guy in Major League Baseball who’d claim to have chummed up with Bonds.) But the fact remains Kent’s spent his career with a rep as a locker room downer. If Bradley’s not digging Kent’s vibe, he certainly wouldn’t be the first. This has nothing to do with whether Kent’s actually prejudice or not, but it could have something to do with whether the guy’s riding Bradley as if he were.

            On the other hand, when hasn’t Milton Bradley had a problem with somebody or something? The dude isn’t even a year removed from a bottle-throwing incident that landed him into anger management therapy. Combine that with a self described hyper-sensitivity towards racial issues, and misinterpretations are a given. Bradley’s made real strides this year, according to everyone around him, and even the L.A. media, who always look for a chance to pounce. But he still doesn’t understand the value of putting his emotions in check, at least momentarily, until he can bring it in up in private to Tracy, DePodesta, or whomever he deems the best option, as opposed to a bunch of reporters, where the odds of good results are small at best. (It mystifies me how athletes never seem to get that. The media is a horribly destructive sounding board for their problems. Although, if they did get it, I might not have a gig, so I guess I’m thankful.)

The whole thing seems pretty silly, and it’s a little odd that nobody’s told them to shut their yaps or get fined. I would imagine the truth lies somewhere between Jeff Kent making Russell Crowe look sunny and Milton Bradley being more sensitive than a six-year old girl. Honestly, the real problem lies with whichever ***** determined putting these two on the same team as supposed co-leaders was a recipe for success. That’s a decision that makes Knicks rosters look well thought out by comparison.

On the plus side, this feud is pretty entertaining.  And it’s really about the only thing that could make The Dodgers remotely exciting right now, aside from their middling battle to finish first in an absurdly weak division. Even a lame soap opera is better than watching static.

On July 21, I posted an entry about opening up the paper and really noticing for the first time that the Royals were 28½ games back. (http://ak.mlblogs.com/my_weblog/2005/07/28_games.html)

I’m not quite sure how this flew under my radar (outside of possibly having forgotten the Royals were still in the majors), but it blew my mind that a team could be so far out, and wondered more how a team wouldn’t simply lose hope altogether. Whether it was even possible to salvage a little pride, throw on that blue cap, and say, “%$@* it! We’re still a baseball team, and we’re going out there and taking it to these guys!” At 28 ½ games out, I called B.S. and said, “Can’t be done.” Well, what a difference a month can make.

These guys would now kill to be 28½ games out.

Currently in the middle of an 18 game losing streak, a franchise record, which began on July 28^th against the D-Rays (talk about adding Everclear to a gaping wound), the team’s currently 0 for August, with the high point coming on the 12^th and 13^th, when their games against Detroit were postponed. And let’s be honest, Day-Twah would have smoked them, more than likely, certainly if you’re a guy who plays the odds. At a now staggering 36½ games behind the Chi-Sox, the rest of the season couldn’t come quick enough.

Before, I wondered how these guys dealt with the psychology of knowing you’re showing up to play a bunch of meaningless games to help a meaningless team finish out a meaningless season. What I wonder now is, how do these guys even find the motivation to show up at all? Seriously. Why would you? What’s the brass gonna do? Suspend you? Now I’m being told not to show up. Bonus! Yeah, yeah, you’d be losing some dough while you’re suspended, but you’ve already played two thirds of the season. The majority of your salary’s already banked by now. These guys lose more in a Vegas weekend than they’d forfeit pulling a T.O. for the rest of the season. I’d be like, “Bill me, dude. I’m outta here”

But this mindset, while totally understandable, wouldn’t be good for the team, the fans (both of them) and baseball’s image. Despite all obstacles, the show must go on, as they say. But let’s make it as pleasant a stay in purgatory as possible. Thus, I’m offering the following suggestions to help the men of K.C. ride out the rest of their sentence before getting paroled into the off-season.

1) Team tequila shots after every run given up. Granted, blackouts, vomiting, alcohol poisoning and dugout blackouts could increase, but I’m not sure how much that would affect the on-field performances.

2) Everyone starts switching positions each game. Ever wanted to pitch? Now’s your chance?

3) Casual Friday. Losing’s fun in a Hawaiian shirt!

4) If the game’s against Tampa Bay, Texas, Seattle, or anyone else that doesn’t really need to play either, just trade off conceding losses during the series, then bust out a game of kickball. At 6’10”, 270, Andrew Sisco’s a big boy. Guarantee he could knock the snot outta that red ball.

5) Open mic sessions. The players are frustrated. Let them vent a little by doing their variation of “The Aristocrats” before each plate appearance. It would certainly be more entertaining than the actual game.

6) Forfeit the game, then just do a game tape screening of an actual 2005 win for the crowd. Granted, they’ll have to air some reruns, but it still beats the alternative.

7) Play more “Kool and the Gang” during games. How can you stay depressed during that?

8) The Team Mom needs to kick it into overdrive. Orange slices. Brownies. Rice Krispie treats. Fruit Rollups. Coca-Cola by the bushel. In between each inning and after the game. If they can’t play well, they might as well have the best snacks in baseball.

And these are just for starters. If anyone else has any ideas, feel free to add a comment. They could certainly use all the help they can get.

            Thanks a lot, Raffy. Not only did your positive test help give Jose Canseco credibility as more than just a C-List reality TV star, but you’re sparking congress to start up that showboating thing they do so well, sticking their faces in front of the lens in the name of saving baseball.  "At this point I think [the chances are] getting better and better because of baseball’s inability to police their own players," Rep. Patrick McHenry, R-N.C., said Saturday on the ESPN program "Outside the Lines."

http://sports.espn.go.com/mlb/news/story?id=2127848

            With all due respect, Mr. McHenry, taking into account your years of faithful service and undoubtedly vastly superior knowledge of public policies and lawmaking… What are you talking about? Isn’t the fact that 2 players were caught in 24 hours proof positive that, in reality, baseball’s doing quite well policing its players? Two juicers. 24 hours. That’s pretty freakin’ good. The effectiveness of the policing should be judged on the merits of its ability to snare, not scare. If cops are catching criminals, that’s effective policing of said area. Whether folks continue to commit crimes knowing their criminal colleagues are getting caught is perhaps a matter of ineffective sentences, lax courts, or just simple indifference towards the consequences. But the policing was there, in any event. It’s the very definition of the word itself.

What Mr. McHenry, and all his TV-starved, opportunistic cronies need to realize, assuming they’re actually concerned about this problem and not just using campaigning (I know, I know, but humor me, for the sake of this blog), is that these players are grown men. You can warn them about the consequences. You can outline each banned substance, every ingredients, every questionable product. They can see with their own eyes that punishment suffered will be a public, humiliating one. And guess what? They may decide to shove a needle in their butt, anyway. In the end, they’re going to weigh the pros of enhanced performance vs. the cons of getting caught, and make a choice. They’re going to ask themselves if they’re smart enough to outwit a testing program, if they have enough buddies who’ll loan them a cup of urine, if enough people in their life and locker room are willing to look the other way.

And they’ll make a choice.

And that choice isn’t going to be affected one way or the other because a rep from NC (who, by the way, should be more concerned about policing his home state, considering only 3 years ago, **** and murder were on the rise in Tar Heel country. http://www.wral.com/news/2295840/detail.html) is on the warpath. I don’t remember March hearings in their entirety, so I don’t recall if this cat got his “allotted” camera time or not, but forgive me if I doubt the sincerity of his concern.   

I’m not saying the steroid situation isn’t a problem. I think it’s cheating, plain and simple, it’s bad for the game, and those indulging should be summarily punished. But let’s give MLB and Selig (who’s pushing for harder sentences as it is) at least a couple seasons to handle things in house before turning this into another C-Span sweeps week ratings stunt. Most of us don’t want the government in our living room. The idea of them on our diamond doesn’t sound much more appetizing.

Manny’s weird.

No. Seriously. He is.

Apparently, he and Francona just met the press together, practically sitting in each other’s laps, with Millar "translating" Ramirez for reporters.

http://sports.espn.go.com/mlb/news/story?id=2120933

Is it just me, or does Millar seem to be steadily steering himself towards an SNL tryout after his career ends? Or some form of acting career? I wouldn’t be shocked to see him on "Last Comic Standing" during the off season (assuming the show’s still even on the air. I’ve never actually seen it).

But anyway, I don’t know why the Sox even entertained moving Manny. Unless this stuff is, behind the scenes, much more disruptive and cancerous than outward appearances let on, why even blink? Every few months, like clockwork, Manny’s unhappy. He asks for a trade. He stays in Boston. And before you know it, he’s back to shaking his dreadlocks and smiling that slightly demented grin. And in the meantime, he never stops knocking in runs. So what’s the problem? Unless they really want his salary off the books, or again, it’s much more distracting than it seems, let the guy vent.

"That’s just _____ being ______" has become one of the most overused, clichéd and ridiculous statements in sports when it comes to managers, agents and owners excusing star players’ behavior. And I hate it as much as the next guy. I’m always thinking, "Yeah, it is _____ being ______. It also just so happens that _______ is a &*%$." And who knows, maybe Manny is a &*%$. I really don’t know. I’ve never met him before, and don’t know a ton about him, outside of bizarre statements.

But in Manny’s case, he’s become a parody of himself when it comes to expressing his "unhappiness." When it happens this often, this regularly, and so randomly inspired, it’s essentially like dealing with a toddler’s displeasure. You simply let the kid tucker himself out throwing a tantrum, and before you know it, he’ll be watching Spongebob on TV, happy as a clam. Manny’s just a rather wealthy three year old with one heck of a swing. Treat him as such, and in two weeks, it’ll be like this never happened.

Until it happens again.  But really, who cares?

A thought hit me this morning as I perused the L.A. Times sports page. I was leafing through the baseball section, checking scores and recaps. My Cards won, good for them… So disappointed the Yanks are back in it… Mark Hendrickson got CRUSHED against the Sox (How do you give up 5 ER in 0 innings? Did they credit him with a few from his last start?) The Royals are 28½ games out…

28 ½ games out??!!

Obviously, I knew K.C. was bad, but I hadn’t really been thinking much about them lately, I guess (Putting me in company with roughly the rest of the planet). But until now, it never really sank into my brain just how bad these cats are doing. Seriously. They’re approximately 1/7^th of a season out. That’s a lotta games. But the worst part for the Royals comes from knowing the outcome is ultimately irrelevant even if they start winning a little. Which they won’t. But let’s just say they did. It still wouldn’t matter. Outside of a historical streak, they’re destined to finish with an embarrassing record either way.

I know many sports fans make fun of baseball’s lack of inherent physical exertion compared to football, basketball, tennis, etc. I’m one of those people, in all honesty. There’s a reason these guys can play double the games of an NHL athlete. You’re not gonna walk off the field bruised and battered as a boxer, or as exhausted as a cyclist. I’ve seen enough shirtless MLB players in locker rooms to know it doesn’t require tiptop physical conditioning. Simply put, it’s not as demanding, on those terms.

But it’s an underrated grind. 162 games is a looonnnnnggggg season. Which will seem even longer if you’re losing 2 outta 3 games. Which is what K.C.’s doing. And it’s probably not gonna change one bit. How do you get up and play, knowing that? How do you find the energy? The life of a writer is tough and unstable, no doubt, but for the most part, I’m confident that 2 out of 3 assignments I turn in won’t get rejected. And even if that was a danger, my failures come on a much private scale. At least the citizens of Kansas City don’t get to tune in and watch me read an email from an editor entitled “What the &#$^ is this junk?” To go through what a guy in a Royals uni is experiencing has to seriously ****. You gotta give them a little props for just keeping their heads up. Unless, of course, they aren’t, which I would completely understand.

On the plus side, only 68 games left to go.

Seriously, what is up with players acting like complete %#&*heads the last few days? First, you got Gary Sheffield basically saying he’s gonna dog it if he’s traded to The Mets. Not that it’s particularly shocking that this perennial breath of sunshine would make such a statement, but the concept itself still boggles my mind. Maybe I’m from the “old school,” but I consider the possibility of being traded as part of the deal for athletes. You go where you’re sent. When did this trend of players controlling where they go become the norm? Dude doesn’t even have a “No-Trade” clause in his $13,000,000/year contract (Of course, given Sheff’s moods, you’d be out of your mind to give him the option of not leaving your club).  Apparently, however, it did include a “No-Professionalism” clause. You just shoving dip in your mouth, bro.

Then you got Kenny Rogers going after a cameraman, joining the likes of Dennis Rodman, Sean Penn and The Howard Stern Show’s Scott the Engineer. Although, let’s be fair. The Gambler does have a legit beef. After all, this lens-wielding maniac had the audacity to film him… at a nationally televised event. You’d think the guy was the stalkerazzi who crashed into Lindsay Lohan the way Kenny went batty on him. It’s absolutely ridiculous. I don’t know what bothers me about it more. That a professional athlete would be such a *******.

Or that I wasn’t there to watch.

            As a member of the media (ESPN The Magazine and espn.com), I’m in locker rooms and attend various sports-related events all the time. Yet, for some reason, every good freak out seems to happen either in another city or a night when I don’t have a reason to be there.  Again, I don’t condone this behavior. I think it’s absolutely absurd and hope Selig comes down hard on this *****. But at the same time, would it kill an athlete to pull this nonsense on a night I’m there to interview someone? The closest thing I’ve ever seen to a Kenny Rogers freak out are the following:

1) Andy Ashby yelled at me a few years ago when he was with The Dodgers. I’m not gonna rehash the whole story, but in a nutshell, I’m guessing he thought I had been talking about him with another reporter. Thus, when I was standing a good 30 feet away, he turned to me and yelled, “DO YOU NEED SOMETHING?” I just shrugged and said “No,” although my buddy Jason pointed out that I should have responded, “No, I need to speak with a name.” I loved that he was out of baseball within a year.

2) A rep for Penny Marshall yelling at the Clippers P.R. guy who wouldn’t let her in the locker room to talk with a player, who may not have even been there. She didn’t have a media credential, which is mandatory for entrance, although at the time, being a Hollywood director willing to plunk down for Clippers season tix should have been enough.

3) I approached Kyle Farnsworth one time during spring training, not seeing he was working on a plate of food. As I got the words “Kyle, do you have a second?” out, he growled, “I’m eating.” I immediately apologized, and in fairness, he didn’t even come close to losing his temper. But Kyle Farnsworth is huge. Seriously. The guy is absolutely yoked. Just him growling was scarier than 95% of professional athletes screaming at me. Not a reassuring sight.

And that’s about it, really.

            In the grand scheme of things, nothing. No meltdowns. No confrontations. No in your face bruhaha’s.  I’m not saying that these guys should be behaving like jerks for the sake of my entertainment. From my experience, 99% of professional athletes behave like professionals, do their job and are reasonably easy to work with (or at least, distantly cordial). And I prefer it that way. But if they’re gonna act the fool, at least send me an email so I can get front row seats. Something constructive oughtta come out of millionaires acting like idiots.

Just wanted to say a few quick words about Roger Clemens. I’ve never been the hugest Rocket fan in the world. Brilliant, once in a lifetime talent. Iffy personality. Plus, I hate it when dudes un-retire. If you’re out, you’re out. Stay out. Say what you want about Big Mac. Balco, the record books, asterisks, pocked skin, evasive congressional speeches while wearing glasses in an obvious attempt to look serious.  

            Whatever. That’s all fair game, whether I agree with you or not. But give the guy credit for one thing. He said he was done. Waved goodbye. And stayed the **** out of the limelight.  I admire that. But all that said, watching Old Man Clemens hurl his butt off for a pathetic Astros squad, and doing it better than ever, is a truly inspiring sight. And unfortunately, it makes me dislike the guy more. And the reasons are as petty, immature, and unlikable as I’ve sometimes thought Clemens to be.

The guy makes me feel incredibly old.

On the surface, this doesn’t make sense, considering, at 42, he’s 9 years older than me. It’s not like he grew up before my eyes, and we’re entering “Cats in the Cradle” territory every time he takes the mound. 

Plus, it’s hard to get gooey eyed over a guy with an inherent huggability just north of Barry’s. Even if he’s your favorite player, the guy’s hardly E.T. So this ain’t sentimentality. Nor is it “nearing the end of an era in baseball” nostalgia, since, under any circumstances, the guy’s reasonably close to done. That doesn’t bother me. Frankly, I’d rather see players go out too early than too late. I don’t get emotional like that about athletes, save a few of my favorites or ones that I truly admire. Everyone’s gotta retire at some point. That’s just part of sports. And it’s the way it should be.

The reason Clemens makes me feel old is because he turns up the clock on my own life. Every time I watch what he’s doing in his 40’s, it makes me feel like I haven’t done enough at 33. If I’d ever want to accomplish as much as guy like Clemens (which I won’t, mind you, but for the sake of argument…), I gotta pick up the slack. That’s a lot of accomplishments to cram into 9 years. I have a reasonably successful writing career going. But on that kinda scale, I’m way behind the 8-ball. And each day I watch Clemens’ legend grow as I fail to win a Pulitzer, write a bestseller, or pull down a three picture screenplay deal, I feel myself aging at a rapid clip. It only creates a greater sense that time is running out.

Although for some lucky guys, it’s apparently on their side. Permanently.

As if there’s any doubt about this in the first place, but anyone requiring proof the Yanks have an absurd payroll need only wrap your head their head around this little development. On Wednesday, the team will announce plans for a new $800,000,000 stadium, which will hopefully be ready for the 2009 season. While I tend to be somewhat of a fuddy-duddy traditionalist when it comes to new stadiums (It kills me that the Cards are moving out of Busch stadium), I’m not here to bash these guys for jumping ship from baseball’s most famous house. Frankly, I love that this team I despise has one less tradition to run their yaps about. Exchange the pin stripes for Members Only Jackets and Capri pants for all I care. Whatever. Go to town.

What strikes me as hilarious is that, according to onestopbaseball.com (http://www.onestopbaseball.com/TeamPayroll.asp), the Yankees wouldn’t even need to quadruple their payroll to start raising beams for this new palace. They could pull it off with around $33,000,000 to spare (just enough scratch to double Kevin Brown’s contract). Now before you go writing off this as me just looking for reasons to mock the NYY (Normally, a perfect valid accusation), think about this for a second.

Building an entire stadium wouldn’t require them to quadruple the payroll. An entire STADIUM. Not even 4(!!!) times the payroll. 

The Red Sox, payroll’s #2 at 123.5 million, would actually have to sextuple the player budget to build New York’s new shack… then throw a bit more into the kitty. The Mets, the bronze medallists in the player spending Olympics, could barely pull it off 8 fold. Go down the line. The Braves (#10) would need almost ten times their payroll firepower. The Tigers (#15) more than 11 times. The Marlins (#20) would pony up an unlucky 13 and change. Wanna know why Pinella’s been shrieking like a lunatic about the Devil Rays’ crappy coffers? The MLB’s most payroll-challenged squad would need 27 times their income to win 34% of their games in brand new surroundings. That wouldn’t even build Steinbrenner’s new office and private box.

In the meantime, the Yankees current payroll could build a quarter of what is guaranteed to be an excessively lavish stadium. A fourth of a stadium. That’s a lot of space. At the very minimum, it’s a pretty decent outdoor theater. From what I hear about Tropicana, a theater would be an upgrade to watch the Devil Rays lose in. Granted, they still couldn’t fill it, but you get my point. They’d still kill for that kind of nest egg.

So here’s the best part. Wanna know why I go to sleep every night with a smile on my face? Other than the booze?  As we speak, the Yankees have tossed over one billion dollars (say it with a Dr. Evil voice. It’s more fun) into their quest to remain baseball’s Goliath, and they’re struggling to play .500 ball. They’re throwing down the entire economy of an underdeveloped country to roster and house a team that’s keeping pace with The Pirates and the Blue Jays, with a roster whose flexibility makes Herman Munster look nimble.

Of course, what with today’s sluggish economy, a billion dollars really only buys you about $800,000,000 worth of ****. 

They say that a man will see just about everything if he lives ling enough. Well, I’m only 33, which makes me feel pretty lucky that I didn’t have to put in much time, relatively speaking, to see the greatest baseball injury since Vince Coleman was swallowed by a tarp in St. Louis during the ’85 postseason.

Carlos Zambrano has computer elbow.  (http://sports.espn.go.com/mlb/news/story?id=2066296)

Computer elbow?

The guy’s apparently damaging his arm from too much emailing, thus the front office has taken it upon themselves to put the kabash on the downward spiral Zambrano seems all too willing to lead himself down. For his part, Carlos seems to have seen the light, quoted as saying "I have to spend one hour and take it easy."  Similar to the intervention Brandon, Kelly and the gang held to save Dylan from himself, this candid confrontation seems to have done the trick.

And that’s great for Carlos. But what about folks not in the position to simply cut back on time spent in front of the ol’ PC? I, for example, write regularly for ESPN The Magazine and espn.com. I spent October-March chained to my computer, getting my first book, Fishing on the Edge, on shelves as we speak (Only this blog’s second shameless plug. An admirable amount of restraint, if I do say so myself. I’d pat myself on the back, but I’m too concerned about injury from contorting my arm so unnaturally.). I work on scripts. Heck, this blog ain’t typing itself, people! I don’t mean to over-dramatize the situation, but I’m literally risking my health, my livelihood, even my LIFE entertaining y’all. (And that’s just professionally. My personal life, with its foolhardy, extreme sports mentality towards email, web surfing, and instant messaging is nothing short of a death wish.).

Thanks to the courage Carlos Zambrano has displayed tackling this problem, I’ve decided to take certain steps in my own life. Obviously I can’t stop writing. It’s my passion. It’s what I love to do. Plus, I have no other skills whatsoever (Seriously. None. Try me). Slowing down is not an option. But I have to prepare for a potentially grim future and try to evade it as best as possible. Thus, I’ve taken the following steps to protect myself.   

I’ve insured both of my arms at $1,000,000 each. Its not enough to just cover my right arm. I can’t produce such quality writing relying solely on my non-throwing hand. If one arm’s damaged, I’ll simply have to make due with a cool mil and not try to dwell on lost future revenues.

I’m making an appointment with Dr. Arthur Ting, personal physician to Barry Bonds. I need to know that if surgery, drugs, or procedures that might be deemed “controversial” are necessary to preserve my gift, I have a doctor that won’t let the AMA or federal law bully him around.

I’ve reinventing myself as more of a “closer” writer, and will bring in a stable of “starting” and “Middle relief” writers for future projects. Let these other saps wear their elbows to the nub. I have too much going for me to blow out my arm.

My elbow will sit in a bucket of ice ten minutes of each hour I write. I’m also gonna start putting on a jacket when I’m having writers block. Keeping it warm could make all the difference.

Three words. Cream. Clear. Whizzenator.

I will more than likely retire from writing as a relatively young man. When I’m older, I want to be able to play with my kids and the toll this profession takes on one’s elbows is brutal. I look at older writers like Norman Mailer, J.D. Salinger, or Elmore Leonard cringing to lift a beer to their mouth and think, “I don’t want that to be me.”

For the gift of reason, the gift of perspective, the gift to start over while I still have a chance, I say "thank you, Carlos Zambrano."

Thank you.

I was a catcher for most of my baseball “career,” until 8^th grade knee problems forced a switch to the outfield, which ended said “career” a few years later. (Seemingly born with no hint of depth perception, lining up fly balls proved more difficult than astrophysics). But I was actually a pretty good catcher, and one of my idols was Tony Pena. This guy was incredible in the early to mid 80’s. He had a cannon arm. He played in a one-legged crouch behind the plate, slanted back, looking more like a low rider cruising the LBC than an athlete.

Low riders are cool. Tony Pena was cool.

And when he was traded to St. Louis (my hometown) from the Pirates, I was ecstatic. I told everyone who would listen (plus those clearly tuning me out) that he was the man. Everything was set for a new hero in St. Louis, except for one small little problem.

He ****** upon arrival.

I have no idea what the **** happened, but all of a sudden, the guy looked like he’d never picked up a bat before. Nobody cared that he was still a human backstop, because we had traded city-fave Andy Van Slyke away, along with C Mike LaValliere, who ended up winning a gold glove anyway. He picked up the slack eventually, but was never the same, and eventually ended up in Boston a few years later. I was pissed, not at Pena (I actually loyally defended him against all smack talkers, roughly everybody I lectured about how good he’d be), but at having to see an idol not come through.

It’s always depressing whenever someone you worship, whether in sports, music, acting, or Polynesian dance (if that’s your thing), loses it for whatever reason. Nicolas Cage was one of the most inspiring artistic forces on the planet to me during high school and college. Interesting roles, bold choices, ridiculous range as an actor. Then he turned into this very blatant 20 million dollar check *****, and spent roughly 1996 until now doing nothing particularly good (With Adaptation and Face/Off the lone bright spots). And it ****** to see, not just because I often wasted 9 bucks to see this ****, but because it exposed the fallibility of heroes. You choose them on instinct, gut reactions and because of the awe they spark, which makes it that much more personal when they fold under the weight of (sometimes unfair) expectations.

Thus, when Tony Pena became the Royals skipper, I was immediately rooting for this chance for both of us to find redemption. He’d use the knowledge, skills and charisma he had as a player to guide his troops. I’d be right for having crowed about his knowledge, skills and charisma. And for a while, I was. Pena inexplicably took that team to a winning record in 2003, and I even got to interview him for a piece my brother Brian and I did on Beltran for ESPN The Magazine. He was a seriously cool cat and I felt 14 again, rediscovering hero worship.

Unfortunately (Or predictably, when you really check that roster), reality reared its ugly head and the team reverted to garbage. I cringed at seeing Pena get fired for not being able to make wine from L.A. tap quality water. But I never had to see it, since he resigned and beat them to the punch, perhaps even sacrificing himself to light a fire in the clubhouse. Either way, he wasn’t canned.  If the writing’s already on the wall, you might as well choose how the sentence gets punctuated.

I always knew the guy was a stud.