Baseballhead:
Quarter Patrol

Michael Cox

What fun to be the only person in America to not have seen Matrix Reloaded during its first weekend. Now I have to try and avoid everyone expounding on plot twists. As long as I completely avoid all blogs, I should be okay.

This past week marks the one-quarter point of the 2003 season, and it's already interesting to compare things now with the way they were in the distant past, say a month ago. For example, only four weeks earlier the Yankees had the season locked up. Sportswriters were expounding on the Godlike mastery with which the Yanks were dispatching their opponents, crushing them in a manner which bordered on the unfair, while neglecting to mention that said opponents consisted entirely of the Devil Rays, Blue Jays and Twins.

At the same time, Red Sox Nation was up in arms over the ineffectiveness of the closer-by-committee, calling for Theo Epstein's dad to ground him (Epstein is young, you see). The season already lost, attendance at Fenway dropped precipitously to 97 percent of capacity.

Well, take a gander at the standings today, and it's a dead heat. Wha'happened? The Yanks ran into a brick wall (or at least one of those really nasty speed bumps, where if you don't slow way down your Camaro bottoms out) called the AL West. All the Sox have had to do is keep their heads above water and sweep the Rangers, who in turn took it out on the Bombers. Now it gets profane...I mean fun, as the co-leaders of the East face each other for six out of the next nine games. Let the bawdy chants begin!

Meanwhile, the rampaging Royals have fallen back to Earth, which has curiously coincided with being forced to play teams outside of the AL Central. The Twins have regained their sea legs and now stand astride the division, beating their chests and screaming...well, actually, I think that was coughing I heard.

I could go on...the "fall" of Atlanta (now the authors of the best record in MLB), the Angels' victory tour (cough, cough, .500), the "hapless" Tigers...okay, so the Tigers are still hapless. The Cubs are also still in first, although their precarious hold has been sustained primarily via a timely series with the Brewers (who join Detroit in the Association of Predictably Hapless Baseball Clubs).

The NL West has become a lot more competitive due to the sudden flailings of the Giants, including a sweep at the hands of none less (well, there are a few less, but not many) than the Mets.

Of course, with three-quarters of a season left to go, a lot can still change, although I'm not expecting the Milwaukee Rally Stein to sweep the nation this October (however, I am currently licensing the Wisconsin-area rights to the Whiff Weasel). But ask the Mariners how much good it did them to lead the AL West in May a year ago. They'll ask, "Whaddareya, a wise guy?" and give you a wet Willie. That's what they did to me anyway.

Speaking of milestones, FOX brought their Game of the Week back just in time to feature Boston's Trot Nixon "pulling a Larry Walker," as the sportswriters called it. In case you haven't heard, with only one out, Nixon caught a fly ball off the bat of David Eckstein, and forgetting not only the number of outs but the runners on base, handed the coveted Bud Selig-autographed treasure to an anxious fan.

However, unlike Walker, Nixon did it on semi-regional network TV. "At least fans in St. Louis, New York, Indianapolis and Lincoln will have to wait for their local sports report to see it. Boy, I won't be able to show my face in Panama City or Fargo, though," Nixon said afterwards (in a parallel universe).

But Nixon's solo brain flatulence was nothing compared to the team effort put forth in San Francisco last Tuesday, as the Giants scored a tying run against Los Expos on an infield fly. With the bases loaded, a Barry Bonds pop-up fell between infielders, SF baserunner Neifi Perez broke towards home, and Expo catcher Michael Barrett stepped on home plate to get the force out.

But this not being that alternate universe where Trot Nixon speaks his mind about FOX, the infield fly rule meant Bonds was automatically out, and that there was no force. While the infielders chatted casually about that cool bar in North Beach, Perez casually strolled (and I do mean strolled) home, almost secretively touching the plate to score the tying run.

The mirth didn't end there. Noticing that plate ump Jim "Ulysses" Joyce had signaled a run, the 'Spos infield gave the arbiter a piece of their minds, until Frank Robinson ran out—to yell at his own players.

This, my friend, is why I love baseball. Like life, it rewards thought and punishes mental lapses, and also like life, those mental lapses become a source of great amusement to people like me.

Speaking of mental lapses, the Devil Rays signed Julio Lugo last week, likely so he could form a support group with Al Martin.

about the author

Michael Cox is happy to be a writer, where mental lapses can be blamed on the editor. Show your amusement anyway at mc@strikethree.com.