Game 35

Roll Call: Scott, Mindy, Brian Lawrence (aka: the player nearly named earlier), Freddy Garcia (aka the player to be named soon)
Final Score: Padres 3, Mariners 2

What can I say?

Barry Gibb said it best, I think.

“How can you mend this broken man?
How can a loser ever win?
Please help me mend my broken heart and let me live again.”

Or put more succintly,

What’s a brother got to do to get a win in this town?

Clearly, it’s not to pitch a complete game.

In under 100 pitches.

Averaging under 11 pitches an inning.

Not allowing a run after the first inning.

Nope, Freddy Garcia does it again. Another masterful performance, in front of National League scouts.

Yay, Freddy.

Unfortunately, the Mariners did their thing again as well. What thing might that be, you ask?

Hitting singles. Hacking away at bad pitches (2, count them, 2 BB for the M’s tonight).

Losing.

Sure, the SS Spezio set sail for right field. But only when not doing so would have sent him below the Line. He and Jughead have been flirting with it for a week now, and on this homestand they’re going to cross over.

I just know it.

Before the game, I even flirted with the idea of drafting San Diego’s starting pitcher. Certainly, he couldn’t be any worse than the rest of my staff. And there’s no way his ERA could go UP in Safeco Field.

And, until the 7th inning, he was pitching one hell of a game, matching the Cheif inning for inning, pitch for pitch. (Counting the win, he would have earned me 16 points tonight. Rage….building. Of a possible 36. Rage…diminishing)

But, no sense crying over milk never spilt. Especially when drinking it might cause me even more gastric distress.

John Olerud seems to have figured out what the bat is for (3-4 on the night), but he’s still aging and slow. He was pulled for Bloomquist after his third SINGLE of the night.

The gem of the evening was Dave Hansen, filling in as DH for the Ancient Mariner. 1-2 with 2 walks, he seems to be the only Mariner to have read and understod Moneyball.

Get.
On.
Base.

The third time he does so in the evening, he’s lifted for the speedy, speedy Hiram Bocachica.

No problem. That’s how the game is played. Then Bunting Bob reaches out and emasculates Jolbert Cabrera, taking the bat out of his hands to move Bocachica to second. But can’t miss closer Trevor Hoffman hip checks him into the boards, and we wonder why, if this was the plan, why not try to steal second first? There are no outs, Cabreara can hit SINGLES just like everybody else.

Because if runner goes from 2nd to 3rd, then maybe, just maybe, a bunt would be

EFFECTIVE.

Instead, it just wastes an out. AGAIN.

Sound baseball strategy. But first your team needs to be able to hit. SS Spezio gets into the box, but he is confused by the policy of “don’t get a hit” handed down from on high, and stares blankly at strike 3.

Then, it’s go time. The Ancient Mariner is roused from his thousand-mile slumber, and called forth to do battle.

Martinez sizes up the opponent, then hacks one into the pressbox. Yes, that is the wrong direction to score the tying run.

Bocachica begins to understand that running is a good idea, so he takes a few baby steps away from 2nd base. Hoffman doesn’t care. The runner is not important. Meaningless, even, because all he has to do is hack down the Old man of the forest, and it’s steak dinner for everyone.

His next offering is blistered back up the middle, a deep grounder into the hole at second. Loretta makes an incredible stop, and I return my attention to first base, where I see…

Edgar. Nor Old Edgar. Not repaired knee, hamstring, toe, other knee, other hamstring Edgar. Not the guy who can be timed with an hour glass.

But the killer inside. Charging at full speed down the line. Moving really, really fast. and beating the throw, for an infield SINGLE.

I am amazed. So is Bocachica, who falls down in the third base line.

Oops. Phil Nevin Suddenly has to do something with his other hand, so he fires the ball home. The rookie catcher doesn’t know what to do with it either, so he throws it ti 3b, where if arrives at approximately the same time as Hiram’s outstretched hand.

Game over. Apparently. M’s lose again. With our best hitter, the fella’ who blistered a three run triple yesterday, staring on in disbelief from the on-deck circle.

I know how he feels.

An hour or so later, when I get home, Sportscenter clearly shows Bocachica beating the tag. Oops.

Freddy loses , by the way. I just thought I’d mention that.

Absalon, Absalon. Where have my Mariners gone?

Before the game, my buddy Mark gave me a little crap for not wearing my Padres jersey. I took it with a smile, because although I am a lifelong Padres fan (and I’m happy that they won at least) I just couldn’t do that to Freddy. He’s pitching with his heart on his sleeve, doing his job, taking care of business. Sure, he gave up 3 runs in the first. But his ERA at game time was 3.23.

That’s a win, people. Not a disaster.

It was a double win, in my eyes, since the meaningless stats flashed up before the game show the Mariners 3rd in the AL with a team ERA of 4.26

Mariners are now 29-42 with that ERA, in case you were wondering.

The Hated New York Yankees are 45-25, with a team ERA of 4.37

Oh, but they’re the Yankees, you say. They can buy players, you say.

Horse Hockey. They’re buying wins.

We appear to be selling them.

Record: I’m not even sure anymore. The Mariners are now 16-19 at home, so that should make me 15-17. But I’m hard pressed to remember that many victories this year from my section. Mindy’s got all of hers written down, so I’ll probably update that later this weekend. After the walls stop moving, and the ants end their chorus of hate.