The Hamstrings That Ate Manhattan
"Don't let it end like this. Tell them I said something." -- Pancho Villa's last words.

Let's all have a round of applause for The World's Most Fragile Human Being

The fiends of autistic machinations, the twin evils of optimism and over-eager anticipation that collude like oily partners in the ghoulish mismanagement of the Met front office, allowed themselves the luxury once again of falling prey to their own pithy dreams. After making tentative announcements that Jose Reyes underwent two days of medical testing in New York, including a CT scan and an MRI test, which showed no structural damage in his aching back, the decision of fate zigged when it should have zagged and once again, there was the necromancer of false hope, general manager Jim Duquette giving his best rose-coloured glasses speech of the season:

"His hamstring seems to be fine," said. "That's the good news."

Well, that's a relief. Now if we can only straighten out this rumour that Reyes has no spine, we'll be ready to start the 2004 Campaign to Ride the Cresting Wave of Mediocrity anew.

What kind of sick joke is this never-ending sob story of unfulfilled potential? With my All Star ballot, I want to vote that everyone forget about Jose Reyes. Maybe someday he'll pop up surprisingly on our radar, someday down the long road ahead, and we can be genuinely suprised that our skepticism was poorly founded. Until then, let's concentrate on the truly shocking:

Piazza's Girls Fan Club.

*****

Say it ain't so! Lee Sang-hoon Is Calling It Quits.

Allegedly, during the spring season, Lee was traded to the Wyverns as he was in trouble with coach Lee Soon-chul over his hobby of playing guitar in the locker room. At least he still has his hamstrings intact.

*****

Barry Bonds' Death Wish

Barry Bonds was dusted by Randy Johnson last night when Johnson went inside on Bond's elbow armour. The D'backs won the game, 8-6. Johnson claimed Bonds was crowding the plate.

"I was already off," said Bonds, who later singled off reliever Shane Nance and is batting .361. "I always give him the plate. The more plate you give Randy, the better chance you have. He knows I'm not going to back off ever. He's going to have to kill me first."

Hmmm. Or is that just the steroids talking?

Speaking of which, Base0nBalls Bonds should be aware that the cat is out of the bag. Bob Young of the Arizona Republic points out the study of Jerry Reiter, assistant professor in the Institute of Statistics and Decision Sciences at Duke, on walking the Barry too frequently.

"For instance, with the bases empty and nobody out, Bonds was walked 80 times in 2001-03, and the Giants scored at least one run 46 percent of those times, averaging 0.9 runs per inning.

In the same situation when pitchers threw to him, the Giants scored at least one run 36 percent of the time and averaged about 0.6 runs per inning.

Reiter found that only when there is nobody on base and at least one out is it statistically better to walk Bonds, which makes sense because it would probably take a couple of hits to get him across the plate.

Reiter said he didn't bother to analyze runners in scoring position and first base open. After all, any manager would likely walk any great hitter in that situation.

"But with a runner at first, it turned out that pitching to him was the best strategy in all scenarios," he said.

*****

In case you thought there was a limit to the human imagination, you could always point out the downright hallucinagenetic Five Reasons The Pistons Can Hoist The Trophy by Detroit Free Press delusionist, Michael Rosenberg.

"I'm saying it's possible. I'm saying that, on the scale of Strange World Occurrences, with 1 being "you pick up the phone before it rings, and the person who called is the person you were about to call," and 10 being "any day in the past 20 years of Michael Jackson's life," this would only be a 4 or 5.

You pick up the phone before it rings? Wow, and I thought I was weird for sitting in a dark room shouting at televised sporting events as though the referees or the players could actually hear me and would react to my red-eyed and shrill demands.

*****

Return of the Twitchy-Eyed Japanese Gold Glove

An uplifting examination of Peter Gammons' new pet theory on why the KazMan fields shortstop like a blind chicken bobbing for hand grenades in a barrel of oil comes via East Coast Agony:

"What I find absurd is the notion that he is so focused on trying to read the sign - peering at the plate with eyes terrifyingly wide, bounding ineffectually between two set positions, then shaking his head - that he cannot track the pitcher's delivery and ascertain exactly when he should be prepared to field the ball. The more likely possibility is that he's just not a very good Major League shortstop. Are we absolutely certain the Japenese "Gold Glove" award means the same thing as our own? Perhaps it was only mistakenly translated as such by the Mets designated Asian baseball operative - probably Jeff Wilpon - who picked up a "smattering of Chinese (sic) on a yacht tour I launched to experience subalternity", ie. explore profitable ventures like the slave trade and resigning Rey Ordonez. Perhaps it merely signifies the player with the most visits to the organization's designated optometrist. Who can say? All I know is Kaz will make a superb second baseman."

Sure, the KazMan looks inept and clueless out there, but don't forget, he isn't the worst shortstop in the Major Leagues. Ranked 69th out of all shortstops this season in fielding percentage, he is better than at least Seventeen, Count 'Em, Seventeen other shortstops having their cups of coffee in the luxury suite. He's better than Rafael Furcal and Chone Figgins and Jose Valentin, for gawd's sake! He hasn't hit rock bottom just yet.

And at least he isn't Jose Reyes' aching lower back and appearing-to-be-fine hamstrings yet.

*****

Having recently returned from draining the last remaining braincells and replacing them with single malt samples at the Feis Ile celebration of Scottish whiskey, and having no contact with the outside world or even baseball other than in Laphroaig-induced hallucinations and dream sequences, I was rather shocked to find out that Orioles lefty pitching prospect David Stahl has finally come out of the closet and admitted that he Is Happy To Be In Frederick. Even though he is 4-3 with a 3.19 ERA in nine starts this season, his statement leads me to believe that all along, it has been Stahl's long battle with the absurd, not shoulder ailments, that has kept him from Cy Young superstahdom. It also leads to the eternal question, If Stahl is so God-damned Happy in Frederick then why have all four of his wins have come away from Frederick’s Harry Grove Stadium and why is his ERA is 2.54 on the road and 4.12 at home??!!

*****

As part of the odyssey in getting to the Feis Ile festival, Sunday afternoon we were drinking pints of watery beer in the peeling-pant, run down, slowly crumbling artiface of the lone pub near the docks of Androssan, Scotland, waiting for the ferry to arrive. As any thought of baseball was being hammered out of our skulls by the mind-numbing banter of the local Sunday afternoon drunks who'd congealed in the stale, smoky sitcom that surrounded us, the lone television was blaring the five hour long Indianapolis 500 pre-race programme only to announce, three pints into the broadcast that there was a rain delay.

It could have been worse. Celine Dion could have been croaking up her typical serving of ear-shattering, fingernails-across-the-blackboard warbling on the jukebox whilst EPSN's Stuart Scott provided an ebonics-laden tantrum on the absence of African Americans on the Formula One racing circuit.

The locals wouldn't have known what hit them. It would be like being a soggy bowl of Jose Reyes hamstrings dripping in Kaz Matsui Sauce.