29 August 2011
08 August 2011
Managing the 2011 San Francisco Giants might be the most impossible job in the world. What do you do when only two guys on your roster have even a shred of a clue at the plate? How can you build a productive offense around a see-the-ball-hit-the-ball, rolly-polly thirdbagger and a preppy-lookin' dude with Zito socks and a penchant for taking it back up the middle? What do you say to a pitcher who throws eight innings of two-run ball against one of the league's best offenses and takes the loss? Who do you go to for advice when you're ready to pull out every hair left on your head because the middle of your lineup just went down in order on 7 pitches in a one-run game?
These are the questions I ponder as I study the face of Bruce Bochy — the chiseled jaw of a former Navy brat, the fine lines around his eyes, the squinting gaze of a guy who's seen his fair share of bus rides and red-eye flights in a sport where chance plays just as much of a role in the difference between victory and defeat as talent and ability. I really pity the guy when he's up at the podium in the postgame pressers, groping for cliches to cover for his bottomless frustration with what has to be one of the most pathetic offenses ever to lead a division in August.
01 August 2011
I'm choosing to ignore recent baseball-related events in Cincinnati. I will expunge them from my brain before I incur any collateral damage. I shall wipe the slate clean and look upon tomorrow as another day. Instead of wallowing in pointless abandon over this horrendous lost weekend, I will roll with the post I've been aiming to write since Thursday night...
This has to do with that little series in Philadelphia and a certain manager's comments afterwards regarding the relative merits and demerits of two young starting pitchers. To provide a frame of reference for the following diatribe, please allow me to introduce you to the studly dudes in that picture there: