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Bull penned: A friend in need

When we go through a horrendous, tragic moment the only bright side lies at the end when we finally get over the trauma and can come out stronger on the other side. No one wants to rehash old wounds, but when we witness the tragedy going down in Miami, we can’t help but view the Marlins as just an old scar that reminds us of how the Montreal Expos were calculatedly ripped to shreds.

It is nothing new in Miami. We have seen fire sales in that city before. After winning the World Series in 1997, the low budget Florida Marlins took their shining gems and traded them for magic beans. Shortly after their world championship they cast off their high-salary stars like Moises Alou and Al Leiter for a historic return: the worst ever record by a defending World Series champion (54-108).

All was gravy in fish nation, though. They had a championship banner to hang, albeit no real stars to draw the crowds. That fire sale was seemingly acceptable. The team didn’t draw big crowds and cutting salary was necessary to soften the blow. Everyone takes the first pitch anyways, right? Strike one.

Already down in the count, the Florida team that was making less than a single annual A-Rod paycheck managed to shock the world again. In 2003, a team that lured veteran catcher Ivan Rodriguez pulled a second rabbit out of their discount hat and won another World Series. Led by World Series MVP Josh Beckett, the roster included bright stars such as Derek Lee, Dontrelle Willis, A.J. Burnett and Miguel Cabrera. Yes that Miguel Cabrera. Another banner, another reason why they could pack it in. Bye bye Beckett, Burnett, Willis and Cabrera among others. Reports of games being attended by “crowds” measuring barely a thousand fans brought back the scary notion that we had an Expos 2.0 situation on our hands. The stink of another Major League screwjob was getting a little too sour to politely ignore. Fool me once, shame on me. Fool me twice… strike two.

So finally there was some hope. Marlins owner Jeffrey Loria pulled out all the stops and decided to be a caring baseball owner. Having convinced the gullible public that he was indeed a kind, concerned hierarch of the fledgling team, he managed to squeeze out a fresh new ballpark to the tune of hundreds of millions in taxpayer dollars. Does Loria foot the bill? Hardly. Miami’s public had to sacrifice a new white blazer and gold chain so they can show their faith that Loria was going to make the Marlins legit.

We almost bought it too. As a nice first touch, the Marlins changed their logo and got specific. They went from the Florida Marlins to the Miami Marlins. It was kind of like a thank you to the fans for their support, but in a tone similar to how you’d say thanks to your grandmother for the Justin Bieber album she got you for Christmas, because y’know, she heard he’s all the rage. Lucky for all those not living in Miami, they can spare themselves the shameful association. To go along with the dedication, the Marlins opened their wallets and started to dangle the bait, trying to lure the big fish. Talks of Albert Pujols, Jose Reyes and Prince Fielder were buzzing through the minds of the few true Marlins fans that remained. This was the year; a new ballpark, tested stars signed to long term, lucrative contracts and a winning mindset. It was hard not to get on board. A friend of mine with only a passive interest in the sport began calling himself a Marlins fan. They even hired Ozzie Guillen as manager. At worst, they were guaranteed some great profanity-laced interviews to hype up publicity. Hope was alive. That is, of course, until Mr. Loria’s true agenda started to make a little more cents. No that wasn’t a typo. Yes that was a terrible pun. Strike three was on its way.

Next week, with the table set for success, Bull Penned delves into Jeffrey Loria’s experience in Montreal, how he learned to pocket millions and his sinister plan to swindle the Miami public.

 

To be continued.

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Bull Penned: High treason against the ‘Triple Crown’

History was made! Well, not quite. When something has happened several times before, it isn’t quite historical or record breaking, but by golly, it has been too long since we’ve had a Triple Crown winner in baseball.

The MLB hype machine needed something to leech off of since they shut down Stephen Strasburg – the replacement of choice is the impressive season that Miguel Cabrera was having for the Detroit Tigers. By leading the American League in average, home runs, and runs batted in, Cabrera captured the holy grail of offensive accolades: the Triple Crown. Before we give this man the keys to the city, I just want to remind you that you can spell “Triple Crown” without MVP.

Call it blasphemy, call it high treason, heck, you can even call it a Chuck Knoblauch-sized error, but before we so readily hand over the Most Valuable Player award to Cabrera, we have to play devil’s advocate.

As mystical and historically significant as the Triple Crown is, it is an honour that comes in degrees. It is not like having a 40-home run, 40-stolen base season wherein there are plateaus you must reach, but rather a season-long contest in relation to the rest of the field. To be fair, being in the 40–40 club is a lot more exclusive, having only happened four times. As for the Triple Crown, we have now had 17 separate instances. Sure it is rare but not nearly impossible.

Furthermore, we have to put the Triple Crown into perspective. Major League Baseball is a fractured league. There is the American League and National League, both functioning somewhat independently. Imagine them as provinces within the country of MLB. They differ in rules in some regards, and assign their own set of awards. No other major sports leagues do this. There are two MVPs, two Cy Youngs, two Rookie of the Years and yes, even possibly two Triple Crown winners. How does this make sense? As incredible as Cabrera’s season was, he technically only led the MLB in two of the three categories. He trailed San Francisco Giant Buster Posey in batting average by a mere six points. Was Miguel Cabrera a Triple Crown winner? Yes, but only in the American League.

For a sport that hasn’t had a Triple Crown winner since Boston’s Carl Yastrzemski managed the feat in 1967, there is temptation to give Cabrera the award. There is much talk surrounding rookie sensation Mike Trout and the fabulous season he is having. Some would say he deserves the award. After all, his team, the Angels, finished with a better record, in arguably a tougher division. But, to be honest, it is difficult to look away from the glimmer and shine of three crowns.

Trout’s phenomenal defence and his superb base running ability is not enough to shake the notion that history should be rewarded. After all, the MVP is traditionally an offensive merit badge, versus an accolade attributed to highlight reel catches, and blazing speed around the base paths. If history comes into play, we have to bring in a little recent history to refresh our memories about just what the award is for.

In 2005, there was a huge stink made about the American League’s MVP candidature. Boston’s David Ortiz had a monumental season, hitting an even .300, with 144 RBIs and 47 home runs. He was in the mix, along with Alex Rodriguez, the eventual winner, however baseball purists argued that David Ortiz shouldn’t get any consideration. The reason being was that he was a designated hitter meaning he didn’t play defence. Of course, these were American League rules, so why not give out an award within a league based on the specific rules it respects? In order to be most valuable, you had to play catch as well. All those who say Cabrera is the obvious MVP have to consider the same fact.

Cabrera plays in the field, but his defence is nothing special. He tied for fourth in his league for errors at his position. So, what is worse: a player who doesn’t play defence or one who plays it poorly?

Mike Trout is as much in the MVP picture as Miguel Cabrera. He will win the Rookie of the Year, most likely a gold glove as well, and will go on to be a cornerstone of the Angels for many years. He does not deserve the MVP, however. Miguel Cabrera does, but not because of his Triple Crown.

Cabrera holds the tie-breaker in this neck-and-neck race because of some simple wording in the definition of MVP. The award is given to the player who is most valuable to their respective teams. How valuable can you be if your team doesn’t make the playoffs? It may seem insignificant to some, especially since Anaheim won more games, but come October, the field of MVP candidates should be sifted through a post-season filter. Miguel Cabrera never fell through, and he will lead his Tigers into the playoffs…as the MVP.

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BULL PENNED: Bird Watching – The Big Year

-For a game that is so damn old, with statistics and records dating back to the late 19th century, baseball is never lacking in surprises and, as the kids put it, WTF moments. Of course, there is the same old, same old nonsense that occurs year in and year out but it seems that each season, there is at least one pleasant surprise giving baseball fans a reason to keep an eye on the standings. This time around, that certainty has gone to the birds. Literally.

When preseason wrapped up this past spring, the buzz about town was that there was a new sheriff patrolling the ever-so-dangerous American League East. Toronto had run away with being crowned the kings of spring. With a record of 24-7 in Grapefruit League action, the Blue Jays were making a statement that things were about to change. No more was the A.L. East going to be a three-pony race. An impressive pitching staff, a reigning two-time home run king and a hometown rookie sensation all pointed to a seismic shift in tradition.

Well it seems the Jays left their swagger in Florida because not only did they drop the ball this year, they did it while wetting themselves. For all those who preluded the heralding of Toronto supremacy with “It is not a Yankee or Red Sox division anymore,” you can save yourself a shred of dignity. Baltimore to the rescue!

It is a double-take scenario; seeing the Orioles challenge the mighty Yankee machine is worth a second look, if not for morbid curiosity. How could a team that started the year with 150 to one odds of winning the World Series be at the top of a pile of supposed titans? The answer is quite simple, yet not so obvious.

The Orioles are not blessed with any made-for-T.V. superstars. When you think A.L. East, you think of names like Jeter, Ortiz, Longoria, Bautista, not Wieters or Markakis. There are no bonafide all-stars or sexy names on this Baltimore squad. No MVP candidates or phenoms. Barring any miracles, they won’t have anyone that will reach 100 RBIs, or knock 40 home runs. If Nick Markakis can get hot in the final week, he will be the only Oriole with a chance at hitting more than .300. So, how can a team of rag-tags, with no identifiable offensive standout or pitching messiah, rise to the top of such perennial crème de la crème? It is all about taking that crème and whipping it.

Though Baltimore is competing with New York for the division title, an honour they have not seen since 1997,  they can be considered the true winners of the division. They were a Cinderella story since April, but they maintained success because they consistently won games against divisional opponents. They have managed to compete when it mattered.

The Orioles have amassed the best record in their division when it comes to games against their division rivals. By winning these important games, they solidified a playoff berth, and shocked the millions who pegged them as a team to finish 30 or more games behind.

This anomaly in the standings has been a gift to fans in Baltimore, starved for meaningful baseball in the fall, but I think the biggest gift will be that shmuck who said “Screw it, why not?” and threw down $20 on Baltimore back in March.

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Bull Penned: It’s not all eye-black and white

Baseball is a complex sport. So much so that an entire branch of statistics and mathematics known as “sabermetrics” was developed to further complicate the already flooded world of baseball numbers. To match such a mind-numbingly broad universe of statistics is an equally daunting rule book that explains the finer points of the classic game. What that massive tome fails to touch upon is what is often referred to as the ‘unwritten rules of baseball’. For the most part, they are well known among baseball aficionados: don’t steal signs, don’t steal with an enormous lead and certainly don’t share a locker with Barry Bonds. Clear as day, right? Well what about when a player flubs on something that isn’t game related? What happens when politics and culture clashes make their way to the diamond and begin to rub people the wrong way?

Toronto Blue Jays shortstop Yunel Escobar made news Saturday, Sept. 15 when he wrote a short message on his eye-black (the black sticker placed under the eye to fight glare). It read “Tu ere maricon.” To those with basic Spanish, or to those who have ever seen any movie with Danny Trejo, you already know what this means. For everyone else, it roughly translates to “You are a faggot.” Big mistake.

Escobar, in a news conference, said that he did not mean for the message to be offensive. How could Escobar not know, you ask? It’s 2012 and that word is now on par with such bigoted vocabulary as the N-word. Escobar was forced to take a three-game suspension by his club, and given the public spanking he deserved, but while punishment was required, Escobar’s intentions may not be to blame.

Upon reflection, you have to realize that Escobar, while not a kid at 29-years-old, was just a casualty of a culture shock.  Escobar hails from Cuba, and needed a translator present at his press conference. English is not his forte. I can understand that what he says back home may carry a different significance here in Canada but that isn’t an excuse for the offense it caused. Having said that, Escobar should not be branded as a homophobe or bigot.

I’ve been to Cuba. I’ve been called a “maricon” and it had nothing to do with my Speedo. On the flip side, I had a Yunel Escobar moment myself while there. I’d signal the bartender by holding up my index and pinky finger in a “rock-on” fashion was my way of ordering two beers at the pool-side bar. Innocent enough, yet to Cubans, this hand gesture signifies your wife is cheating on you. Cubans don’t take lightly to that. I was told privately by the bartender that such a gesture is offensive. Thank Fidel I was a good tipper, otherwise I would have drinking spit-coladas all week.

Escobar is by no means a John Rocker nor is he Fred Phelps. He made an innocent mistake. What you can and can’t write on your face is one of those grey areas that aren’t fully explained within the MLB rule book. Let’s move past this. Poor guy has it bad enough that he plays for Toronto, must we flog him some more? Escobar now knows to be careful. For all we know, he could have just meant “You are a bushel of twigs.” Look it up.

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