There’s a game

Cahill pitching, Sweeney moved down in the order.

Cabrera
Suzuki
Giambi 1B
Holliday
Cust DH
Sweeney CF
Crosby 2B
Buck RF
Hannahan 3B

Wordle, labrador, bygone days

[Update]: Sigh. Manny suspended for PEDs. Commence firestorm.

Today’s clash of AL West titans is set for 12:35, so I guess this can serve as a combination DLD, game thread, and postgame woe-fest orgy of jubilation.

Expert analysis (the kind you just don’t get at those mainstream blogs): Brandon McCarthy gives up lots of home runs. Unfortunately, the A’s do not hit home runs.

If you grow weary of throwing errors and strikeouts and Vince Cotroneo musing about how the team really needs someone to “step up and provide a spark”, go decipher some anagrams.

Wordle:

Labrador:

Labrador update:

Labrador update 2:

Labrador update 3:

Bygone days:

Eh, Rampaged Tots

Me go deathtraps

Them got parades

Death game sport

The Port Damages

A tampered ghost

Aghast: dope term

Aorta depth gems

Pasta doth merge

OT: Gathered maps

Greased mathpot

He petted orgasm

Stomper date hag

Argh! Poets mated!

F**K losing. Fank it all.

Giese

Jjjsixsix is awesome. Jennifer is also awesome.

This is:

1 — recommended bleachers attire when Giese is pitching, and/or

2 — the money you could be saving with Gieseco, after it got mugged by that fence-building yokel (w/ apologies to Frank Rizzo)

Baby’s bottle

Your beer baby is weak!

Matt Holliday, circa 1983?

From yesterday’s Braves-Mets tilt.

Sluggerrr sez Go RRRoyals!

Battle of the shitty lineups

Suzuki C
Cabrera SS
Giambi 1B
Terrence Long LF
Cust-o-Fab DH
Crosby 3B
Henry Hill RF
Petit 2B
DFAvis CF

Huzzah

Good to see Dustin test-driving the court-ordered treatment program his brother will be undergoing.

Boo

I am utterly confused: game thread 050309

Sweeney
Cabrera
Giambi
Holliday
Cust RF
Suzuki DH
Crosby 3B
Petit 2B
Powell C

PoppyEdit:

Derby Day Open Thread

Want my Advice? Stay away from West Side Bernie’s. It’s dank and dirty—even by sleazy Seattle cruise bar standards—and they want a goddamn Regal Ransom just to get in the door. But after last night…five run lead blown, walk off desolation…I needed someone. Mr. Hot Stuff or Don fuckin Mossi, didn’t matter. Anyone.

I follow the A’s. In Seattle, this means a room at the General Quarters Inn, a ramshackle joint hard by the freeway, flaking paint, burned out neon, built years ago on the smoldering embers of the famous old tire fire, the Frisean Fire. And in all the years I stayed there, any time of year, day or night, Papa Clem was working the desk. He’d seen it all and knew where to find it.

“I wanna meet someone tonight, Clem. Where do you think…the Musket Man?” He shook his head. “Naw, Jim, that ain’t you.” And that’s how I wound up at Bernie’s, squinting across a strobe lit smoky club, eying queens, hustlers, and rough trade. Unappetizing. The house band was Summer Bird, a horrible P-Funk cover group who couldn’t even get the words right. Knot Just Feet Deep? Atomic Rain? Hell, even with my geekiest BABIP on I was funkier than these guys. The dregs on the floor gave me their best Join In The Dance eyes, but it wasn’t looking good.

And then they walked in. The first 6’2” 230, long dirty blonde hair, no shave, no fear. The second packed his own six feet and two bills, black, smooth, solid. Their faces were burned in my scorebook. Travis Buck and Santiago Casilla. They were headed my way. There was Nowhere to Hide.

I didn’t let on that I knew them. Casilla introduced himself as Jairo. Travis hadn’t really thought it through. “I’m…uh…Joe. Yeah, Joe. Joe…Buck.”

This was my chance. A second chance, no less. That February night in Surprise AZ…the Desert Party…too scared to speak, too shy to make eye contact, I’d slunk away, like Dunkirk, to get drunk in my hotel alone, again, a mumbled “I Want Revenge” an impotent protest of my own uselessness. Which wasn’t gonna Hold Me Back this time.

“Mmmm, how you doin’, Chocolate Candy?” Casilla smiled. Buck nodded as his hand traced a slow spiral down my spine. I stared down the barkeep. He jerked his head towards the back door. “That’s where guys go for Flying Private.”

And they were Mine. That Bird band played Fathership Connection; my confidence swelled. “Who wants to be the Pioneerof the Nile?”

I hit the trifecta. What are the odds?