Hey there, yule logs. Welcome (almost) to the official start of the Cubsmas season, which is marked by the annual MLB winter meetings, not Thanksgiving, as most people think. I know that’s a monkey in the wrench for you traditionalists who believe that choking down a dried out bird, and fighting the unwashed masses on Michigan Avenue the day after, are somehow festive. But hey, far be it from me to judge. I’m just sayin’.

And while we’re on the subject, the Schlombowski’s don’t do turkey on turkey day either. In this household, if you’re gonna stuff something it better be a sausage casing, my friend. So every year I send away for an economy-size, special-Joe-version beef bunger and jam it with the most delectable processed meats known to man and Cubs fans alike. (That would cover everything except liverwurst. I mean it’s got ‘liver’ in the name, for chrisakes. And ‘wurst’! That stuff is not going in the temple that is my body. Alright, it’s more like a tool shed … I’ll give you that. But no liverwurst.) Anyway, so I do my Brancusi imitation on it so it kinda looks like a turkey. I do this to make the in-laws feel better. (Inheritance.) This, I should tell you, is not always successful. One year, for instance, my brother-in-law turned white as a soda cracker, and started ranting about how it looked like Jesus, phoned WGN, and an hour later 400 people and 3 news trucks were on the front lawn. And another year it was a dead ringer for Nixon. No kidding.

But back to the holiday season thing.

I scribbled down my own lyrics to some carols most people know, so they’d be easy to sing and to kinda put everyone in the Cubsmas spirit. And Lord knows, after that performance in the playoffs last year, we can sure use a little spirit. I also recommend the kind that comes out of frosty 12 ounce bottles. Plus, it’ll make my lyrics sound way better. Anyway, I’m posting one here, and will put up a few more between now and Jesus’ birthday, so check back every other day or so. And don’t forget to pass them along, either, Rudolph.

Oh, and one more thing before the lyrics:

I’ve been asking for the same damn gift ever since I outgrew Creepy Crawlers. And yet, all these years later, no Series for the Cubs. I can’t believe I could still be on the naughty list, especially given that it’s been 30 years since that thing with the telescope. Maybe it’s cuz Santa’s a Yankees fan (which would explain why he’s fat and sadistic). Doesn’t explain the suit, though. He’d have to be a San Francisco fan for that, and since they’ve won the Series 3 times in the last 6 years, it does kinda seem to explain it. It doesn’t really matter though, because I figure a little Cubsmas cheer will most definitely help the cause. (That and some actual hitting in the playoffs. And some defense. And knowing where the strike zone is.)

So, pallie, in the paraphrased words of Buddy Elf, “The best way to spread Cubsmas cheer is singing loud for all to hear.” And to quote Mr. Country Joe McDonald, “There’s about 300,000 of you f—–s out there. I want you to start singin’!”

Here you go, and Merry Cubsmas.

Joe

WRIGLEY WONDERLAND
(Sung to Winter Wonderland)

That pitch was crushed, did you see it,
Sail o’er the wall? Holy she-it.
A beautiful sight,
We’re happy tonight,
Watching in a Wrigley wonderland.

Let’s finally kill that damn goat curse.
A hundred years, it couldn’t be worse.
It’s pretty scary.
Let’s win for Harry.
Watching in a Wrigley wonderland.

In the bleachers we all love our Cubbies,
And we throw back balls that don’t belong.
The Old Style’s served in cups,
But poured from stubbies.
Man, I could eat those brats
All summer long.

Later on, we’ll meet at Murphy’s,
For chicken wings, swimmin’ in blue cheese.
Then we’ll jump on the El,
Back home quick as hell.
Watching in a Wrigley wonderland.

In the bleachers we all love our Cubbies;
Aramas Derek, Ryan, Z-man and Lou.
We love them just like
Women love their hubbies;
More when things are good
Than when they’re poo.

When they win, ain’t it thrillin’?
Waving my arms, my beer starts spillin’.
We sing Go Cubs Go.
What a wonderful show.
Watching in a Wrigley wonderland.

Watching in a Wrigley wonderland.
Watching in a Wrigley wonderland.

Hey there, fly swatters. Joe Schlombowski, super Cubs fan here with my 2 cents on the upcoming All Star break’s Home Run Derby. Unless you’ve been vacationing on Neptune, you’ve seen that Jake Arrieta and Maddison Bumgarner are lobbyin’ to show off their power hitting chops by participating. Maybe on Neptune — or Mars or Jupiter or even Uranus — that’s the way they do things, but on Earth, not so much, pallie. (By the way, I most definitely don’t wanna know how you do anything with Uranus.) On this planet, the Home Run Derby is for guys who are relative experts at hittin’ yard shots. Arrieta and Bumgarner? Pitchers. Damn good ones, too, but I don’t wanna see them pulling a rib cage muscle tryin’ to imitate Babe Ruth. Not Arrieta, anyway.

To me, the Derby is like the Miss America Pageant. Now I don’t know about women, cuz I’m a guy, but when guys are forced to watch the Miss America Pageant — and we all are now and then — we agree to it for one reason and one reason only; to see which babe looks the hottest. We don’t really give a crap about whether they can tap dance and juggle at the same time, or can give an intelligent answer to the question, “If you could be a hammer or a nail, which would you be, and why?” We just wanna see the swimsuit part — the part they’re really good at. That’s it.

MadBum and Jake are great pitchers and they’re fun to watch pitch. You might even say they’re good hitters … for pitchers. But if you wanna be in the Derby, you gotta be a great hitter, with no qualifiers. And … AND … you gotta do it with power, my friend. I’m about as interested in seeing them in the Home Run Derby as an evening gown.

I tend to look at the Home Run Derby the same as I do the Pageant. I watch it for just one reason; to see the likes of Trumbo, Arenado, Cano, Ortiz and Bryant send a few balls up there with Neptune. Cuz, hey … if we’re gonna open up the friggin’ thing to anybody who thinks they’re Kyle Schwarber, why don’t we just go full-on Miss America and have guys do anything they think they’re good at besides playin’ ball. Maybe somebody can do bird calls. Or how ’bout lion taming or opera singing? Maybe the theme from The Beverly Hillbillies on banjo. Personally, I’d like to see Bartolo Colon doin’ one of those military rifle-twirling routines to a Herzegovinian march. That, or freestyle rollerskating to the Star Wars theme wearin’ a tutu. What about a ventriloquist act with a puppet of Rob Manfred makin’ up more new rules? Entertaining AND poignant. ($5 word bonus!) You get my point. And if you don’t, you must be a Mets fan.

If Arrieta and Bumgarner were gonna light up the world with the lumber, they’d be position players not pitchers. They don’t belong in the Derby.

Of course I could be wrong. But I’m not.

Joe

Hey there, flap jacks. I freely admit that I’m not ever 100% sure what Theo is doin’. Hell, I’m not even 27% sure. But then that’s why he’s runnin’ the best baseball team in an 800 light year radius and I work in a sausage factory. I’m not complaining. Me and sausage are like Bert and Ernie, milk and cookies, Rogers and Hammerstein. But I think we can all agree that runnin’ the Cubs is a better gig, and definitely comes with the kinda fringe that puts my annual Christmas bonus case of red hots on the top of the shame pile. And hey, kudos to Theo. The Cubbies are treating the rest of baseball like a baby treats a diaper. Love it.

But this Shalamar trade with the A’s for Chris Coghlan? I don’t get it.

Why trade for a .260 hitter? (Only a .146 hitter if you’re talkin’ just this year in Oakland.) Does the name Mendoza ring any bells? Yeah, I know … the Cubs have a few banged up guys, and a little backup will help get us over the aches and pains. But c’mon. Coghlan … that’s it? Mmm-kay, he knows the system. I’ll give you that one. He can play a few different positions. Especially the 7 and 9 spots where, with Schwarber gone for the duration, Soler hurt and Heyward outta the lineup occasionally cuz of his Ironman imitations, he can band-aid things for us. Versatility is good. But if he’s SO friggin’ good why the hell did we broom him in the first place? Riddle me that, Batman. (Hey, me and sausage are like Batman and Robin, too.) It’s got a bit of odoriferous desperation to it, which I hate smelling … not because it’s questionalble … but because Theo made the move even though it seems that way.

This is where me not being even 27% sure what the hell Theo is doin’ sandpapers my hiney. Cuz either I gotta just bow to the altar of Theo’s brain, and trust that he knows somethin’ about Coghlan that ain’t very apparent in his numbers, or there’s somethin’ happening around the corner that no one but Theo can see, and he’s layin’ the ground work for it. I hate friggin’ uncertainty. For the first 54 years of my life I could count on the Cubs being 20 games out by the mid-season classic. This year and last, I’m surprised if we lose. I like that. I don’t like wonderin’ what the Cubs see in a .146 hitter that they traded less than a year ago. Now there’s something magically delicious about him?

Is it gonna be better the second time? We’ll see. I love the taste of crow (or pigeon, in this case) when it comes to this kinda thing.

Joe

Life is good, Cubcakes. I used to wake up, slide out of the fart sack and pray to the Polish gods that we might actually win a game. Now? Well, I can’t wait to jump out of … of … okay, it’s still a fart sack (hey, I drink Old Style and eat Red Hots from a Pez dispenser, what’d you expect?) then pay my respects to Joe-Joe Maddon, the Polish god IN OUR DUGOUT, and wonder not if were gonna win today, but by how much. Yep, life is good north of a .700 winning percentage.

But let’s put the present aside for sec, uhm-kay? With the 2016 MLB Amateur Draft starting today, June 9 is all about the future: the stars of tomorrow that will lead each club to the Promised Land.

Or so they hope.

It ain’t that easy, Moses. I mean, who in the wide, wide world of sports can forget Shawn Abner? Just about everyone, that’s who! Abner was the first pick in the ’84 draft, ahead of guys named Bell and McGwire and Mullholland and Charlton and Maddux and Glavine and Moyer. Hearda them? Save for his mother and a handful of pals he grew up playing Whiffle Ball with in Mechanicsburg, Pennsylvania, Smokin’ Joe Schlombowski is one of the few people on the planet who remembers if Abner knew which end of the bat to hold. He did, but barely. Point is, first-round picks ain’t a sure thing.

Good thing, too, cuz thanks to John Lackey, we don’t get one.

That’s right, bat racks, the draft wheel will turn nearly three full times before the Cubbies make their first pick — the 104th overall. Hell, I could be dead by then. Like all sports drafts that matter, clubs pick in reverse order of their previous season’s finish, which is why the Phillies get first whack this year, and why Braves and Twins scouts, caffeine-high as they’ll need to be, are already hittin’ the road with an eye on the 2017 class. There will be no rest in the Big Peach or the North Star State for at least a year. Makes me feel all tingly inside.

Theoretically, the Phillies would get the first pick in all forty rounds. But then there’s this thing called “compensation picks” which turns the draft order into somethin’ that resembles the Christmas lights I unpack on Thanksgiving Day. This year, we gave up our first two picks to the Cards when Theo signed the Dental Giant and Jason Heyward. I get that. But someone’s gotta explain to me why MLB rewards teams by givin’ them preferred draft spots for not signing their top picks from last year’s draft. Makes zero sense to me, but then Carlos Marmol couldn’t close a a friggin’ umbrella either, and we paid him $9.8M in 2013. Idi-friggin-otic.

But I digress.

The point is, don’t put too much stock in this week’s draft, pallie. We’ve only got five first-rounders on our 25-man roster. And we sure as hell ain’t home grown (only four Cubs were drafted into the organization). Like it or not, it ain’t Ernie’s Cubs anymore. Free agency’s our thing. We’ve got money and we spend it like Jason Kidd at the Pink Monkey. Enough with the future; it’s draught time, as in icy cold Old Style. Now, where’d the missus hide the remote?

Joe

Wow, there are a lot of assholes in the world, aren’t there? On the world stage you got your Kim Jong-un and Vlad Putin (and I’m just scratchin’ the surface here). America’s got the mouth that roared, Donald Trump, and the mouth that lied, Shrillary Clinton. And much, much closer to home — practically peekin’ over the backyard fence — we got Jay Farquhar, the friggin’ Mayor of Monee. I’ll say this, though, the size of the stage has no bearing on the size of the a-hole.

A couple of days ago, Farquhar, while coaching his son’s Little League team, got so upset over an umpire’s call, he friggin’ broke the guy’s jaw … in two places. Full disclosure: I want to personally rearrange an ump’s face at least once in every game, but 1) I would never actually try to do it, and 2) I’m not talkin’ about Little League umpires. Take Angel Hernandez, for instance. If Hollywood made a movie about the guy, they’d call it “Legally Blind.” And … AND … he’s one of those narcissistic umpires that thinks every last one of the 40 thousand fans packed into Wrigley came for one reason and one reason only — to watch him call the game. Idiot. “Angel.” Pretty ironic name considering where he’s gonna spend eternity.

Sorry, I got a little side-tracked there. My point is that Little League is a place where kids are learnin’ the game. This is how you throw the ball, this is how you catch the ball, this is how you hit the ball, this is what you do in this or that situation. That’s pretty much it. There’s no room for Earl Weaver lessons, and even if there was, the worst that could happen is kids would develop a more complete vocabulary. But that’s it. To my knowledge, Baltimore’s over-caffinated firecracker never ever took a swing at an umpire. Farquhar? Breaks a guy’s jaw. You’d think a politician would be more diplomatic, right? I mean they’re supposed to be masters at the art of compromise. Yeah, they may be corrupt, they may speak outta both sides of their mouths, but fists are typically not part of a politicians party platform. Not this guy, though. And I don’t buy his claim that he was acting in self defense. What a pile of crap.

I saw the ump (his name is Tim Nelson) on the news, and you could see that Farquhar had done a little Muhammad Ali dance on his face for sure. He was wearin’ a Soxside Irish t-shirt. When I saw that, I guessed maybe he coulda had it comin’. I kid. I kid. Calm the hell down, White Sox fans.

In all seriousness, there seems to be a broken turnstile at the a-hole gate of youth sports — one that’s spinnin’ outta control and letting in the unbalanced likes of Mayor Farquhar, and others. How do we stop that? Do we need a kind of Little League TSA? Some kinda scanner that sets off a friggin’ alarm when it detects a genetically-inferior brain mass? How about issuing “Mature Adult” cards to coaches and parents — something that can only be obtained by submitting to a psychological evaluation? That woulda kept Farquhar out of the equation cuz, as a politician, his mental makeup is OBVOIUSLY questionable. I don’t know what the answer is. I’m just a Cubs fan. What I do know is that the kinda incident that happened in Monee should never happen in Little League, and that it must be a real hoot growin’ up in a house with this Mayor dude.

Joe

Muhammad Ali.

There may be 6 or 7 people on Earth who don’t know that name … and that’s a liberal estimate. Muhammad Ali died last Friday. (I’d ask for a moment of silence, but silence and Muhammad Ali didn’t exactly go together.) Ali was a true heavyweight, and I’m not talkin’ about boxing. Life was his sport, and he excelled at it. Referring to his prowess in the ring, Ali used to say he was the greatest of all time. But his greatness wasn’t bound by the ropes, or his indescribable talent, or how hard he trained … not even if he won or lost. Ali was great because of his humanity, which is interesting because his chosen profession — boxing — has often been characterized as inhumane.

My first memories of this man were as a kid. My dad — who at the time continued to refer to him as Cassius Clay, as did the media — would rant about Ali’s conscientious objection to the war in Viet Nam and refusal to submit to the draft. I was way too young to know what was goin’ on. I didn’t know what the “draft” was, or where Viet Nam was, or why my Father wouldn’t call Ali by his chosen name. I mean, when he talked about John Wayne he didn’t call him Marion Morrison. Over the last 50 years, though, I figured out who my father is. Think Carlos Zambrano, only more so. I have to cut him some slack on this issue, though, cuz I also learned about the Nation of Islam and Elijah Muhammad whom Ali followed, and whose teachings included his claim that “the white man is the devil.” Men aren’t perfect. That includes Ali, and my dad.

I watched Muhammad Ali box. A lot. Hey, man cannot live by Cubs games alone (although the missus would tell you that I try pretty friggin’ hard). I didn’t see guys like Joe Louis or Jack Dempsey, but still, I have to think that Ali probably was the greatest. Like most everyone, I also heard him speak. It was pretty much unavoidable, cuz if he wasn’t reciting his own poetry about his next bout — which were a helluva lot more frequent than they are today — he was being interviewed by David Frost or Johnny Carson or William F. Buckley, or somebody else who mistakenly thought he could verbally spar with this guy who barely graduated high school. Ali was fluent in the languages of showmanship and principle which drew people to him. It was like Rizzo walkin’ into Murphy’s after a game, times a thousand. Complete pandemonium.

That’s why it’s been an uninterrupted, 24-hour-a-day avalanche of Muhammad Ali since Friday. He was, in a word, unforgettable. He was also charming and witty and loved tellin’ everyone how good lookin’ he was. He was fearless, too; taunting his opponents by dangling his arms at his sides, daring guys who could literally kill someone with their fists to try and hit him. And he was incredibly smart — rope-a-doping George Foreman into exhaustion and winning a match he was supposed to get pummeled in. But boxing wasn’t Ali. That was just something he did. People may have discovered him through the sport, but sayin’ Ali was a boxer is like sayin’ Einstein was a patent clerk. Nothing and nobody defined him. Instead, he defined everything around him, including the biggest, badass of them all, the Federal Government. Standing toe-to-toe with Uncle Sam, while sacrificing his title and the best years of his boxing career, Ali remained true to his religious beliefs, and the government ended up with a black eye.

Muhammad Ali wasn’t perfect, but he was gracious. He was a fighter, but a man of peace. His passing diminishes the whole of the human race, which saddens me, especially when I pull my nose outta the sports pages long enough to see the state the world is in, knowing that we all could use more Muhammad Ali’s. 

Joe

Hey there, crullers. Joe Schlombowski, super Cubs fan here, reminding you that today is National Donut Day. Or “Doughnut” Day. I’d usually take a stand on an issue like that, but the pure, orgasmic pleasure that defines one of these epicurean delights is all that matters. Arguing over that is like arguing over whether an ump missed a call cuz he forgot his white cane or his seeing eye dog. Anyway, today you should honor the little powdered or glazed or old fashioned wheels of pleasure by consuming as many as possible. In my case that would be just enough to not quite ruin my appetite for a few game day Chicago dogs. Not that the Snakes tend to upset my stomach like, say, the Mets do, but I also gotta think about my Schlombowskish figure.

Anyway, the whole reason I bring up Donut (or Doughnut) Day in the first place is cuz, so far this year, the Cubs have dished out 363 zeros to opposing teams. That’s 363 innings that the long, long line of highly-paid, bat-flippin’, best-on-planet-Earth Major League hitters have been stuffed by our staff and the marauding defense that hunts down and destroys anything they accidentally get their bats on. 363 zeros in the box score. 363 donuts (or doughnuts). Call ’em what you will — zeros, goose eggs, ohs, whatever — while Cubs bats have been channeling Babe Ruth, Ted Williams and Willy Mays all rolled into one three-headed monster of ka-boom, our defense has been handing out donuts (or doughnuts) like it’s some kinda Good Samaritan thing.

You know how one of the traditions at Wrigley is throwin’ any opposition’s dingers back, like they’re contaminated (which they are)? Well, I’m thinkin’ that today we pelt the Snakes with donuts (or doughnuts) every inning they get zeroed. What do you say, Chicago?

Joe

Code:  \ˈkōd\
1) a set of laws or regulations
2) a set of ideas or rules about how to behave

Codes, unlike rules, are often unwritten and informal. No official book. No company manual. No government-like posters in the lunch room. They’re phantom collections of understandings between members of a group. For example, Chicago has a hot dog code that says you never, ever, never, never ever put ketchup on a hot dog; there’s no law preventing it, but if you’re from the Windy City you just wouldn’t ever do that. And if you did, you’d have to take the extra-large ration of doo doo — justifiable, by the way — that your friends would dish.

There are other kinds of codes, too. Like, say, a code of ethics. That’s the kinda thing Hillary Clinton wouldn’t recognize if it jumped up and took a bite out of her pantsuit-wearin’ donkey. Another would be a code of conduct. Donald Trump couldn’t identify that one if it was sittin’ on top of whatever it is that’s already sittin’ on top of his head. But that’s not what’s at issue here. In November, yes. What I’m talkin’ about now, though, is a code of honor. Semper Fidelis is the Marine Corp version. It means remaining faithful to the mission, to each other, to the Corps and to country, regardless of whatever kinda hell is happening all around them. Even the Mafia has a code. It’s called Omertà, and it means you never rat on your friends, you don’t cooperate with authorities, and you keep your nose outta the illegal actions of others. If you’re a wise guy, Omertà isn’t something you wanna treat with a casual attitude; like Alfonso Soriano used to have in the batter’s box. You could end up wearin’ cement shoes. If you’ve ever seen Prince Fielder run, you’d know that’s somethin’ you want to avoid.

Which brings me to the point; that unwritten code in baseball that says if one of your guys takes out one of our guys — whether it’s a hard slide into second base or some chin music that actually hits a high note — there’s gonna be some kinda retaliation. It’s part of the game — even the sissified, pink tutu-wearin’, give-a-warning-to-both-teams version Bud Selig turned it into. When I was a kid though, if you did a Chase Utley against the Cards, for example, you’d have to expect Bob Gibson to attempt a little brain surgery on you the next time you came to the plate. Not givin’ someone a tit when they’ve obviously tatted you is just plain cowardly, my friend. It’s baseball, not figure skating, and if you’re gonna put on the uni it’s your duty to stick up for each other. Period. Plus, it adds a dimension of Omertà to things, cuz you never know when, where or necessarily who is gonna pay the price. Bryce Harper thinks flippin’ bats and admiring your own work at the plate makes the game more interesting? That’s just ego in a very jackassian sorta way. Throwing a 97 mph heater at a guy’s numbers, on the other hand, tends to start a conversation — one that uses ALL the words in the english language, and that sometimes ends up in a spontaneous all-team dance on the infield grass. Now that’s interesting, pallie. You can keep your friggin’ bat flip.

The reason this is top of mind at the moment is because of what we’ve witnessed over the past few weeks. (Besides the Cubs continuing to clean their spikes off on the rest of the National League, that is.) There have been 3 obvious “code” incidents, where guys were throwin’ what I call “pigeon balls” — pitches that come with messages. Buster Olney wrote a good piece about this the other day, describing each of these exchanges and what led to them. The key questions Buster raises are 1) Is it acceptable for pitchers to throw a baseball at or near a hitter to deliver a message? And 2) Should a history of bad blood between teams and players matter? I say yes to both, just in case you haven’t been paying attention. Where Buster misses the mark, IMHO, is his dissatisfaction with how differently each of these events, although very similar, were handled by the umpires, and his call for “MLB to determine what will be tolerated and what won’t be, and to send a message of its own, loudly and clearly, perhaps by reaffirming the rules that should apply in these moments.”

Then there’s that pesky little Rule 8.02: Throwing at the Batter. It reads as follows:

The pitcher shall not intentionally pitch at the batter.

If, in the umpire’s judgment, such a violation occurs, the umpire may elect either to:

Expel the pitcher, or the manager and the pitcher, from the game, or may warn the pitcher and the manager of both teams that another such pitch will result in the immediate expulsion of that pitcher (or a replacement) and the manager. If, in the umpire’s judgment, circumstances warrant, both teams may be officially “warned” prior to the game or at any time during the game.

(League Presidents may take additional action under authority provided in Rule 9.05)

Rule 8.02(d) Comment: Team personnel may not come onto the playing surface to argue or dispute a warning issued under Rule 8.02(d). If a manager, coach or player leaves the dugout or his position to dispute a warning, he should be warned to stop. If he continues, he is subject to ejection. To pitch at a batter’s head is unsportsmanlike and highly dangerous. It should be – and is – condemned by everybody. Umpires should act without hesitation in enforcement of this rule.

Go ahead and reaffirm that rule. Not a damn thing will change.

Yeah, these incidents were kinda handled like they were from different planets. You read the rule … what can you expect? It’s full of words like “judgement” and “may” and “circumstances” and “should.” It’s dealing with something that’s not an absolute, which is why the rule was written that way in the first place. If the nature and severity of code retaliations were always the same, you could have one, all-powerful way of handling them. But they’re not. Too many variables. How hard was the pitch thrown? How close, exactly, was it? Was it really intended to hit a guy or was it just a “hey, I could hit you if I wanted to” thing? Where was it located? Is the pitcher a control guy, or not so much? What was the cause of the retaliation? How severe was it? How long ago was it? Yadda yadda yadda. This is an issue that’s never gonna be etched in stone, and if you try to treat it like it is you’re gonna have a lot more of the Syndergaard/Utley thing than you want. It’s a Pandora’s box, my friend. I say, lock the damn thing and throw away the key.

Look, there are two issues, as I see it: 1) The rule, as written, allows for a lot of interpretation on the part of umpires and 2) Major League Baseball has umpires. Like the code, umpires are part of the game. Do they get stuff wrong. Yeah. Does it drive me to the friggin’ moon and back when they do? Without exception. Do I wanna see Rob Womanfred and his band of merry minions continue to turn baseball into something I hardly recognize by turnin’ umps into zombies, or replacing them altogether with some sort of cyclops-techno-wiz-bang robot that you can’t kick dirt on? HELL no! This is baseball, not u-friggin-topia. The more perfect we try to make the game, the less perfect it’s becoming.

Of course, I could be wrong. But I’m not.

Joe

You know what I like about rain delays? Pretty much everything. Of course I’m lookin’ at it from my own personal Joe Schlombowski perspective, which I freely admit is pretty friggin’ warped in a side-by-side comparison with just about anybody. The missus tells me I look at everything through Cubs-colored glasses. Guilty. I hesitate to point out, though, that I take my glasses off whenever she’s feelin’ frisky. I don’t really need to be wonderin’ what Joe Maddon would do in that situation, or who oughta be brought in for relief. Know what I’m sayin’?

Aaaaaaanyway … rain delays are my friend. Maybe not so much in April, cuz the green plastic can cause frostbite to at least one cheek, sometimes both of ’em. The ones in today’s game, though, were kinda like yellow flags at the Indy 500; I get a chance to make a pit stop, fuel up with a couple of loaded Chicago dogs and an Old Style, then head back out to my seat whenever I feel like it. Sometimes I like hangin’ in the concours for a while. Hey, Midwesterners are flat out the nicest people in the solar system, so you make a little small talk and, BANG … you gotta a new friend. Other times you GOTTA hang up there cuz the rain is biblical … like Noah’s ark is gonna be pulling up at Clark and Addison any minute. That’s what we had today. Loved it. Why? Cuz being at Wrigley is the most fun you can have with your cloths on, my friend. A rain delay is just baseball’s version of Viagra; it makes the game last longer, but you don’t have to seek medical attention if it’s longer than 4 hours.

Rain delays also give everyone a chance to see some of the unsung heroes of the Cubs organization: the grounds crew. Who thinks about them … ever? Their mothers maybe? Their wives? Those guys get no love, but they’re a big part of the reason that Wrigley is the cherry on top of the Major League baseball park sundae. Would you like to be rollin’ the tarp out there when the sky is falling? Yeah, me neither. A rain delay always reminds me that the grounds crew does a lot more than drag the field and lay a little chalk down. I tip the Joe cap to those guys.

Now I suppose if I’m runnin’ up and down the aisles the whole game hawkin’ souvenirs and cotton candy, I’m none too keen on rain delays. Why? Well, how the hell would you like it if your work day got longer every time it rained? Not fun. Remember that the next time you’re at the park, and be sure to give a little somethin’ extra for the effort.

Another thing I like about delays is wondering what’s gonna happen when play starts again. A long pause in baseball ain’t like pausing your DVR in the middle of Game of Thrones. You do that and it has absolutely zero effect on whether or not someone’s head is gonna get chopped off. You press play again and … THWACK!!! In baseball, though, a rain delay can totally derail what was a sure fire win, or a devastating loss. The guys get a little tight, a little cold … maybe have a few too many ham sandwiches … they could come back out on the field with about as much energy as a vasectomized dog. Let’s say Rizzo gets a Dear John text from his girlfriend. Might effect his play, right? Or, maybe she texts him some kinda selfie that says hurry the hell up and come home cuz this here is waitin’ for ya. That might have an impact on his play, too. Either that or he might purposely get thrown out of the game. Anyway, a good rain delay introduces an element of uncertainty, although without the same level of impact that it had before the Cubs turned into the 1927 Yankees.

To quote Bull Durham’s Nuke LaLoosh, “Sometimes you win, sometimes you lose, sometimes it rains.” And we all know what a friggin’ genius he was.

Joe

Is the sky blue? Is the Pope Catholic? Does Howdy Doody have wooden balls? Yesterday against the Cards, the right arm of Jake Arrieta wasn’t quite as bazooka-like as it has been for the 22 starts that immediately preceded it, but it had enough boom shaka-laka to get the win; his 23rd in a row, tying the Major League record and sparking the stupid question, will Jake Arrieta ever lose again? Actually, there are no stupid questions, just stupid people asking questions … which makes it difficult to distinguish them from White Sox fans.

The obvious answer, though, is that, yes, Arrieta is gonna lose again. Oh … I suppose he could get run over by the team bus before his next start, in which case then, yeah, he’ll never lose again, but 1) I think he’d rather lose again and 2) winning streaks are overrated. The problem with streaks is that after a while they start to get inside your head; you begin thinkin’ about not losing — not breakin’ the streak — instead of focusing on winning. And there’s a difference, pal. The fact that that question was even asked is proof that there’s something to my theory. Of course, it was asked by a member of the media, and there’s really no way to gauge just how far down the moron scale those can be. If you wanna keep a winning streak in perpetual motion, you gotta ask different questions. Do you think Jake will throw another no-no this season? How many times will he strike out the side tonight? Which will be the bigger story in October, the Cubs winning the Series or Arrieta going undefeated? If your mind is in the right place, you’re a lot more likely to get what you want. (That’s what the missus tells me, but it’s difficult to square that during baseball season.)

Anyway, winning streaks aren’t important. I’m probably more superstitious than the next guy, and am known to exhibit all kinds of borderline psychotic behavior to keep them going. But I’d much rather the Cubs win 85 games, make it to the playoffs by the skin of their teeth, then win their last game, than see them win 30 in a row. Think about it; if you get through the season with a hundred W’s, but never more than 3 in succession, you’re gonna get a shot at the hardware. Arrieta’s streak is nice, for sure, but there’s a 100% chance it won’t last. Even if it does, it has about as much influence on the fate of the Cubs as Donald Trump’s hair spray.

When Jake loses, the thing to ask won’t be, “Will this ruin his season?” or “You think this will get in his head?” Rather, we should all wonder if his next winning streak will be longer than the first. That, and whether the Pope shits in the woods.

Joe