Bleacher Report - Articles by KAT GILL

If I Wrote Fortune Cookies Inspired By Bruce Lee

KAT GILL — Sat, 08 Aug 2009 15:39:07 -0400

"Take things as they are. Punch when you have to punch. Kick when you have to kick." -Bruce Lee

Walls can keep us safe...walls can also hem us in. Be water. Water finds a way through walls.

Distractions exist to rob us of endurance, to break us down, and make us ineffective. At best, distractions can inspire, at worst, they can become the very deathblow to faith, confidence, and hope.

Never resist distractions or set-backs...never succumb to discouragement and fear. Acknowledge these as gifts...as plateaus...plateaus from which to further ascend, to confront, to utilize for your advantage, to master.

Let not that which cannot be achieved slip away from your sites. Press on. Sometimes the goal isn't meant to be reached...it is merely something to aim at...

The only thing that separates our ability to be all we could possibly be is our own willingness to accept defeat. Why quench the power of victory? Push the envelope. Reach, strive...fail and fall...and continue to will the win. Failing and falling are stepping stones in every successful event that has ever transpired under the sun...you are not alone.

A man can have intellectual wisdom, but his wisdom is worthless without having been in the arena, himself. Having been bruised, beaten, and exhausted...being forced to discover how to endure despite seeming failure. Embrace failure and frustration...welcome disappointment. They will become the very callouses of your spirit that will protect you on your journey if you don't lose heart and cave in to fear and doubt.

Never let someone else's negative influence have contact with your core. That which is from them is theirs. Never leave their negative influence upon your heart as though any aspect of their destruction belongs to you. Shed emotional connection to such. They require nothing from you.

Embrace only that which is purely deserving of your praise, honor, faith, and respect.

Knit yourself to that which edifies. Free yourself from fear. Shout your flaws to the world and remove your shackles to that which binds you.

Wisdom is not an aspect of intellect...wisdom is a verb.

"Let the spirit out - Discard all thoughts of reward, all hopes of praise and fears of blame, all awareness of one's bodily self. And, finally closing the avenues of sense perception, let the spirit out, as it will.”

"If you always put limit on everything you do, physical or anything else. It will spread into your work and into your life. There are no limits. There are only plateaus, and you must not stay there, you must go beyond them.”

(my thanks to Drac, Stok, my mom, my sister Sara, my Captain, Grey, and the awesome folks in this universe who have my back, and make this journey of life sooo damned cool.) ~kat

Grand Theft Boston: Carl Crawford Steals Six In Nine

KAT GILL — Sun, 03 May 2009 18:50:58 -0400

Last week, Jacoby Ellsbury stole home on Andy Pettitte when the Yankees were playing at Fenway. Joe Buck, Jon Miller and the other guy were all ecstatic in their usual "unbaised-announcing," "highly-professional," ways to such an extent that I could actually hear the "high-fives," slaps between them. Comments to the degree of "Only Jesus Christ himself could do what Jacoby Ellsbury has done today," were noted by me, although the actual wording may have been different...

Stealing bases. Stealing home. Never heard of. You're so wise and insightful, Joe Buck.

I would imagine Ty Cobb would enjoy being left alone in a dark alley with Joe Buck.

During the 1912 season Ty Cobb successfully stole home eight times, setting the single season Major League (and American League) record. From 1905 to 1928, Ty Cobb stole home 54 times, including stealing home in the 1909 World Series.

"Take that, Joe Buck."

However, it is my firm conviction that Jacoby Ellsbury was inspired and motivated to steal home last Sunday from one example he beheld as an eager, impressionable, and idiotic youth. I am certain Jacoby Ellsbury learned how to steal home from one man, and one man only: Carl Crawford of the Tampa Bay Rays.

In 2006, Carl Crawford stole home against Boston. It is my theory that Ellsbury allowed that energy, zest, and vigor of Crawford to penetrate his evil little heart to such an extent that he just could not control himself last Saturday and he broke for home. Kind of like Tourette's Syndrome but different. He just had to do it, and Carl Crawford was his muse.

"I didn't have a signal or anything, I just said, 'It's going to be do-or-die, I'm gonna take this chance,'" said Crawford, "If I'm out, I'm out. If I'm safe, everybody will be happy about it. I figured I could get more positive than negative out of it."

Well, Jacoby, I strongly suggest a full night of sleep, my dear lad. For today's example of what Carl Crawford is capable of stealing cannot be duplicated by most.

Carl Crawford stole six bases against the Boston Red Sox today, bringing him to the helm of stolen bases in the league with 17, leaving Jacoby Ellsbury high-and-dry and mumbling to himself with his mere 13.

Two players in MLB history have stolen seven bases in one game. George Gore did it in 1881 and Billy Hamilton in 1894. In the modern baseball era, Otis Nixon stole six bases in one game for the Atlanta Braves in 1991 and Eric Young stole six bases in one game for the Colorado Rockies in 1996. And, guess what, Jacoby Ellsbury? Carl Crawford stole six bases against your team today while you were forced to watch.

Haw. Haw. Haw.

For a team who presently holds the league leaders in RBI (Longoria, 30), and Homerun's (Pena, 11), and now Crawford with Stolen Bases (17), it boggles the mind to discover the Rays are merely 11 -15, playing .423 baseball.

Good pitching and defense have always been espoused as invaluable weapons against big hitters, but this was Boston. At the start of today's game, the Boston Red Sox's pitching was the best in the league with a 2.60+ ERA as a team. Youkilis and Pedroia, Lowell, Ellsbury—not exactly inept defensive players. So, what gives?

Carl Crawford was amazingly successful in taking control of the field, the diamond, home-plate, and the hearts of even the most cynical anti-fans.

As I watched Crawford with each steal, my mind raced for a solution for Boston. After removing Penny, Francona opted to bring in Manny Delcarman. Before today's game, Manny Delcarman was sporting a 0.00 ERA for 14 innings pitched.

Not any more.

When Carl reached first base with each at-bat, it was clear he was going to try and steal second. Pick-off attempt after pick-off attempt only served to break the concentration of pitchers and batters, alike. The work-load of the pitcher's was doubled, as was the flow of the game. In fact, Manny Delcarman was so out of sorts from his 0.00 ERA norm, that he actually allowed two singles, hit Carlos Pena with a pitch to load the bases, and then hit Pat Burrell with a pitch to walk in a run.

Needless, Crawford simply could not be stopped. And, the funny thing was, even when he successfully landed on second base, he would repeat his behavior on the baseline toward third. Clearly, "Fielder's Choice," wasn't an option, as given his history with the Red Sox, I am certain Crawford would have gladly stolen home if the situation presented itself.

Carl Crawford was able to single-handedly create an offensive arsenal against the Boston Red Sox today, to which the Red Sox had no answer.

To the Tampa Bay Rays, I tip my cap. Good playing and genius tactics are simply awesome...even when one is a Yankee fan: rained out, lethargic, and rooting for the enemy.

"Be extremely subtle, even to the point of formlessness. Be extremely mysterious, even to the point of soundlessness. Thereby you can be the director of the opponent's fate." -Sun Tzu

Red Sox Lose to Garza: Deja Vu

KAT GILL — Fri, 01 May 2009 16:59:02 -0400

My last patient had cancelled. My boss was chattering on endlessly about his Senior League softball game, while tying his shoes and reviewing his Gold Glove performance the week prior.

"You should have seen it! I jumped 15 feet to catch that line drive in the bottom of the 7th—"

(I let him talk. I have to. Aside from the "seeing-believing," aspect, he's my boss. I figure—Let the man dream.)

My receptionist was applying yet another coat of lipstick to her ruby orange lips, while glancing sideways at my boss who was now attempting to stretch his hamstrings. As he lay on the floor in the hall, he continued to explain the velocity of his jumping skills.

"15 feet, straight up," he boasted while she blotted her ruby orange lips with a Kleenex.

I sat quietly in the corner, watching the two from behind the glow of my computer. Having escaped another walk-off defeat from the Hall of Fame hands of Mariano Rivera, I exhaled and stood up and stretched.

Intending to catch up on sterilizing my instruments, I opted to click MLB Gameday from the Yankees and Angels game over to the Boston and Tampa Bay game.

This is where the fairytale began.

Garza was throwing a perfect game. It was the seventh. Boston was losing terribly. And Josh Beckett had been dragged to the Town Square for a public flogging while murmuring something about the Curse of Bobby Abreu...

I smiled deviously.

Now, don't get me wrong. I despise the evil Tampa Bay faction of wife beaters and drunk drivers. This isn't sour grapes for what they did to the Yankees in 2008. This isn't about the continual love-fest the entire world seemed to be enjoying all year with all-things-Tampa-Stupid-Bay...

No.

I simply hate them.

I hate the infected image my mind holds of pitcher Matt Garza. His stupid shaking of his glove before every pitch. His talking into his hat on the mound.

His syrupy, smarmy demeanor last fall, when he looked into the cameras, licking his lips, smiling broadly enough to see lights shimmer from his lower cuspids, all the while patronizing, "Thanks, Yankees." (We had defeated Boston, which resulted in the Rays winning the Division.)

You're not welcome, Garza.

Sour grapes? Maybe. But I'm alright with being pathetically resentful. I figure there is energy in emotion. I figure the day I behold a baseball game without any emotional impact is the day I begin Prozac.

Or visa versa.

Inasmuch as Beckett's outing was another display of something seriously not alright with the man as a pitcher (at least not presently), the media was merciful regarding the 13-0 shutout against Boston and featured a concentrated focus mainly on Garza's near perfect game: a one-hitter.

Kudos you evil brat. All I've got to say is—

Thanks, Garza.

This is said given the fact that the evil Tampa Bay faction is floundering hopelessly in last place and losing all 200 of their blue-mo-hawked fans as we speak, and since Boston is really the centre of my heartfelt wish for eternal destruction and demise.

It can't feel very good to be Javier Lopez today.

I really couldn't believe my eyes when I saw Gameday display that Jonathon Van Every, the newbie-flavor-of-the-week/Mr.-Walkoff-in-extra-innings-on-Wednesday/Right-Fielder, was pitching.

Deja Vu?

Tampa Bay. Double-digit deficit. Outfielder asked to pitch? Bullpen exhausted...

Unlike Nick Swisher's debut for the Yankees as a position-player-turned-pitcher, Van Every allowed a double, and struck out no one.

Of course I was incensed—come up with an original idea, Boston. Mere territorialism and shameless fault-finding can often time make the world a happier place. Revelling in the pathetic attempts at imitation may be the sincerest form of flattery, I rolled my eyes at Francona's brain-child.

Until I realized Javier Lopez, the once again ineffective relief pitcher, was placed in right field.

Um...what?

I got on the horn and began the texts with friends and foes nationwide. The boss had left and the receptionist, also...the place was mine...the doors were locked...and the cussing and shouting began to flow.

"LOPEZ IS GONNA RUN AND BREAK HIS ANKLE LIKE WANG DID" was one text.

"VAN EVERY HAS NO LIPS AND LOOKS LIKE THAT FRANK BURNS FROM M*A*S*H, FERRET FACE" was another.

I really couldn't understand Francona's logic. I mean, it was fun watching the game slowly end with the stick-figure aspect that is Gameday.

But what on God's green earth would possess Francona to risk injury to Lopez by having him play right field? Oddly enough, the only hit of the inning was hit straight to right field and had to be run down by Lopez.

"First all, I didn't like doing it," said Francona, "but I'm not going to let a pitcher get hurt. Javy had pitched three days in a row."

Mickey Mantle incurred a career-changing injury from a sprinkler spigot, and he was used to playing in the field...

I find it hard to believe that the Red Sox had no other options than leaving Lopez in the outfield. Everyone has a fatigued bullpen already, everyone.

Besides, I was under the impression from Joe Buck and Jon Miller and the other guy from FOX, that the Red Sox had relief-pitching ad infinitum this year.

At least that's all they seemed to be talking about last weekend when the Yanks were busy losing pathetically to Francona's boys in red.

I found it intriguing, however, when interviewed, Francona explained, "I didn't want to embarrass anybody. Certainly, we didn't want to embarrass Javy."

Heavens, no. We certainly wouldn't. Or would we? Let's consider a few things:

If being a warm-body in right field is not a risky move for a pitcher, then Francona could have had someone like Jonathon Papelbon out in right field, right? He was available to "not get hurt."

Perhaps the reason Papelbon remained on the bench, warm and cozy, and Javier Lopez was forced to chase down a liner to right was due to his recent inabilities to strike out batters and field a heartbreaking extra inning walk-off play to first base against Cleveland recently? (The error by Lopez ended the Red Sox recent 11-game winning streak.)

Whole message boards exist on-line, of which the sole focus of these boards is the ongoing and overt hatred for Javier Lopez. Oddly, these boards are maintained by Red Sox fans.

I understand frustration, I do. Hell, we had Proctor. In less than one week, Mariano Rivera has allowed multiple home-runs in the ninth with two outs.

I understand disappointment.

But, last night's game in which Terry Francona opted to force Javier Lopez to play Right Field, in my opinion, was simply irresponsible and borderlines on cruel. If the 11-game-winning streak was broken at the hand of Javier Lopez and the decision to have him chase down line drives in right field was merely tough love, I suggest a better way.

Trade him.

DL him and/or work with him.

Or simply hand the new pitcher-turned-right-fielder a bat.

For all you know, Javier Lopez could become the next Rick Ankiel.

“To hell with circumstances—I create opportunities.” —Bruce Lee

Chad Gerlach: I Gave Him My Favorite Rock

KAT GILL — Sun, 15 Feb 2009 03:53:04 -0500

(Originally published: Thursday, December 29, 2005)

...the first time I met Chad...

...I was walking into Safeway...

The rain was pouring down, the wind, incessant. I was cold, pissed off, and tired. (Again.)

As I began to grab a cart...I see this young homeless guy...he's all unaware I can't hear him...

And...for whatever reason...I didn't just keep walking...or say, "No, sorry--" like I might.
These are people...

human beings...

and...regardless of what reasons factored into their slip into the homeless pit of despair...that's where they are.

I rip out one of my ear pieces...and he's asking for some spare change.

I looked him straight in the eye...and I said, "Why are you out here, dude?"

And he says, "Uh, I dunno."

And I said, "Honestly...what's your drug of choice, man?"

And he looks straight back at me and says, "Crack cocaine."

I began to mention different programs within a five mile radius...soup kitchens...NA meetings...

and he simultaneously (and systematically) shot down each and every idea with an excuse...

(it was like tennis...but different.)

I seem to recall him asking me again if I had any spare change...

(Well, fact is: my change purse is filled with still life. No shit. I have a plastic frog, several small rocks from night hikes, a red sequin, a blue thread of yarn...trinkets from days gone by... mementos from fun times...whatever.)

(And, actually, when I couldn't tip this cool barista at Starbuck's one time, I offered my purple plastic ant...and they we're all thrilled as I dropped it into the tip box.)

I only give away one of my little trinkets when truly pressed by someone.

And just then I had an idea.

I informed Chad I couldn't give him cash...but I did have something I thought he would really like.

I began to dig in my purse to my coin zipper...it was caught on the thread...but I was making some progress. He eagerly asked..."What is it, anyhow?" And I said, "Oh, you'll like it. It's a rock. I think you'll really dig it--"

I finally get the damn thing unzipped, grab the rock and look into his smiling face.

I extend my hand and place the rock into his outstretched palm. I smiled, awaiting his response, shoulders back...breath held.

His smile fades for a second. Then he leans forward, looks me straight into the eyes, and says, "You're a real f**kin funny person, aren't you?"

And, you know, it was just a rock. So, maybe he didn't get the coolness of it...I thought.

It wasn't until I was about a block from home that I began to piece together our entire conversation.

NOTE TO THE WISE:

Never casually utter the phrase, "I have a rock for you," around a self-professed crack fiend.

Friday, December 30, 2005

...here we see Chad...a lifetime away from the homeless beggar he is today...
...a couple of months ago, he approached me at Chevron. I was pumping gas, and he just appeared out of nowhere.

He didn't remember me from the prior encounter we had had at Safeway. And, as before, he hit me with the, "any spare change," grumble. He was monotone...his eyes looked tired...his face was dirty...his demeanor: broken.

I definitely remembered him...as I had the intense realization of myself being a total dumbsh*t cemented with his face.

I looked at him for a nanosecond and exclaimed, "I can't believe you! I already gave you my favorite rock!" And he actually physically reacted to my statement...as if I was hurling a flaming dart in his direction. He then squinted at me, thought about it, and slowly smiled, "Hey, I love that rock!" And we laughed.

I again mentioned different programs near by...and he again walked away waving one hand, and shaking his head.

When I got into the car, a friend of mine said, "Hey, I know that guy."

And I was all, "What? Did he hit you up, too?"

And he's all, "No. He was on the 2002 U.S. Postal Team with Lance Armstrong."

And I'm all, "What?! No, come on."

And he's all, "No. I'm serious. That guy was like number 2 in the country."

And I'm thinkin that since my friend is some huge bicycle enthusiast, he's projecting cycling onto everyone and everything he encounters.

So we go back to my place and look up the team. Hard to tell who's who. So...the matter dies.

Until last week.

I'm walking, head down against the pelting raindrops, into Safeway. And there's Chad.

Lonnnnnnnng time no see. And he does the spiel. And I looked at him.

I had forgotten all about him...and the rock incident...and all that...and I said, "Dude. Were you a cyclist?"

And he appears ashamed, head down, swiping the pavement with one foot. He barely raises his head, with one eye open as the rain hits his face, "yeah."

Then he bursts into a volley of coughs. "I've been real sick."

And I said, in my motherly tone, as I neared the store,"When are you gonna stop doing this? You need to get back to cycling. My friend recognized you...he said you're famous. What's your last name? I'm gonna look you up."

I was walking into Safeway when our conversation was put on hold. I thought he'd be long gone by the time I exited that place, some 45 minutes later.

From behind a building pillar, he emerges, singing... "I love myself better than you, know it's wrong...what can I do?"

I was suspended in this moment.

Cobain. The truth in his lyrics...these lyrics...and Chad is not a lost cause. This guy.

Being enslaved to drugs. Hating yourself for being your own worst enemy...yet fighting so hard to have a life. The depression, the desperation...the questions and judgement from people.

My exact conclusion to the judgement I receive from people is this:

Until someone walks in my shoes, with my exact past, present and future...the pressures, the struggles, the emotions...then, judge me not.

And, your evaluation, opinion, and declaration of me holds no weight, as I am not subjecting myself to your evaluation, opinion, and declaration. If I want input, I'll raise my hand.

No one knows another person's exact struggles and conflicts better than that person. External behavior and decisions aren't necessarily an indication of a person's nature, character, or lack thereof. Sometimes, a person's outward behavior, and external appearance, are more of a symptom. A symptom of an underlying condition...drug and alcohol induced, or otherwise...a tenable symptom, nonetheless.

In which, judgement is never a solution. As it is almost always uninformed, unfair, and unjust.

There is One Judge. And none of us are Him.

So. In this season of giving, and thankfulness, and all that...I am reminded of my fellow humans.

Those who's "light," at the end of their tunnel, is merely an oncoming train...

I am grateful for the experiences in my life, which have enabled me to fully understand their struggle. And it's hell. Selfish, arrogant, irresponsible...yes...but also a trap, a snare, and a continual ripping on the heart and soul...to such an extent, death seems the only peace available.

Not surprising so many find their escape there...

I stood looking at Chad. I began to gently nod, "Cobain." I whispered. He nodded and softly spoke, "I miss him."

A while back, I was telling a friend of mine that I really missed the way life used to be for me. During times of the most excruciating pain and suffering, I enjoyed believing "it would all be okay, someday." I held onto that fact for so long, amidst so many tear filled days and nights...And now, it's like, today has become "someday,"...and it's hard to look forward to things being "better," when things are actually quite great.

It's hard to have hope in something, when it's right here in front of you.

I explained that, it seems like when everything in your life is going perfect, it's unnerving. It seems like the bottom is going to fall out any moment.

Sad...I understand. Sad...doesn't cause me worry...'cause it's about as bad as it's going to get...and there is always reason to hope. But when everything is going perfect...it's hella unnerving...I'm so much more comfortable with sad...

His response to me was, "It's like that Cobain lyric. 'I miss the comfort in being sad.'"

And, it's true.

Even in the most extreme moments of grief, sorrow, and sadness in my life---somehow I knew, without wavering---that I had a reason to hope.

But, when you've experienced intense sadness and sorrow, even tinged with hope,the silence of it's departure can be quite loud.

For me, there is no sadness without hope.

I leaned toward Chad and said, "I miss the comfort in being sad."

We stood in the rain, eye to eye for a moment or two...

Then he turned away, he looked out toward the falling rain, and barely spoke while looking back at me, "There's no such thing as comfort. Sad is all I know..."

And, just like that...he walked away...into the rain...

This guy. He's on my heart and in my prayers. His life, his choices. But that doesn't mean I can't care. I can't help but care. And I hate that I can't impart to him what I've learned. Save him from the torture, from the desperation...the loneliness and hopelessness...give him some reason to hope...

But truths this deep only come to those who live through them.

And I forget

Just what it takes

And yet I guess it makes me smile

I found it hard

Its hard to find

Oh well, whatever, nevermind...

Kat

*the reason why i am reposting these entries from December of 2005, from my blog MY DEAREST ADAM, is because last night i was made aware of what has become of my homeless friend, chad.

click here if you're curious and have an hour to burn...

click HERE if you're STILL curious as to what's become of Chad TODAY:

http://www.sacbee.com/ourregion/story/1608330.html

Chad Gerlach is presently training and racing for team Amore & Vita in Italy. Guess my lucky rocks are way more powerful than I ever imagined... ~kathryn

From The Dusty Archives: How I Became a Yankee Fan

KAT GILL — Fri, 06 Feb 2009 05:17:57 -0500

"It was the best of times, it was the worst of times; it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness; it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity; it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness; it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair; we had everything before us, we had nothing before us; we were all going directly to Heaven, we were all going the other way." (Charles Dickens—A Tale of Two Cities.)

As the afternoon sun poured onto the desktops it illuminated the dust. I sat...head down...pretending to read, but gleefully watching my classmates inhale the shiny particles. Mimi and Jenny—they were Brownies. They were the pretty ones. The teacher always picked them for hall monitor or sending a memo to the Principal. Their mothers were home all day long and would stop by to bring the class cupcakes.

Tommy Johnston had eyes that could cut glass. I tilted my head to see if he was breathing in the dust...but this time, I imagined the dust was poison. The kind of poison they spray in wars. The kind that would kill you within seconds. No one would know until you dropped like a rock. You would look fine until 1 second before you died.

Tommy Johnston was breathing the dust. I smiled.

As the bell rang I grabbed my shawl. I loved my shawl. It was the only "hippy," kind of clothing my conservative mother would allow me to wear. My shawl was pink and purple with these happy and joyful paisleys dipping and turning in every direction. Chartreuse and gold...it was soft. Sometimes I slept with it.

Jimmy Joe Mayer and Tommy Johnston began to yell—Jimmy Joe was my friend. He had been born with a hole in his heart. He was small, like me; so we were always the last two in line...year in and year out.

Jimmy Joe told me one time we were standing outside, waiting for the teacher, in the pouring rain that he was afraid he would die as a kid. I told Jimmy only bad kids die young. Jimmy asked me why so many bad kids were still alive. I told Jimmy I didn't know.

The red etch-a-sketch flew to the ground and slid under Jenny's desk. "See what you did" Tommy Johnston snapped, while pushing Jimmy Joe away from him, into the blackboard.

"I hate you" Jimmy Joe yelled lunging toward Tommy Johnston...his eyes welling up with tears, his face bursting with a crimson anger, his fists clenched so tightly that his white knuckles didn't disappear when he unclenched his fist to wipe away a tear.

The etch-a-sketch lay on the ground—blank.

He gently picked it up...cradled it in his hands...exhaled into sobs, and fell to his knees.

As his shoulders and head dropped he whispered, "It's gone. It's gone. I hate you, I hate you...I will always hate you for this." I slowly tip-toed from the both, toward the door...looking down, I saw nothing on the etch-a-sketch, but a tear.

I don't know if Tommy Johnston was the first person I ever truly hated, but at that moment, I truly hated him enough for all the other hate I would ever need for anyone else for the rest of my life.

As the rain shot through the plumes of grey exhaust from the car in front of me, I wondered. I wondered about the new season. I wondered about the players. Other teams—the rivalries. I wondered how long it could possibly take for them to finish up with my order of large fries and cheesecake.

I shifted the car into park, took my foot off the brake, sat back, exhaled, and turned up the radio. As the plumes of grey fog mixed with the falling rain I saw particles of silver dust.

"Where have you gone, Joe DiMaggio? Our nation turns it's lonely eyes to you."

Tommy Johnston's mother bought Jimmy Joe a new etch-a-sketch...as Jimmy Joe had not only lost the picture of Joe DiMaggio he had worked on all winter. But Jimmy Joe's etch-a-sketch lost it's little "sketcher," pin when it hit the ground.

It couldn't sketch a thing. Tommy Johnston had the idea that since Jimmy Joe had a new one, Tommy Johnston wanted to take the broken one and put it on the train tracks. Tommy Johnston heard that etch-a-sketch's were filled with dynamite, and if you hit one hard enough, or set one on fire, they would explode into a million pieces that would shoot into the sky for over a mile.

The moon was almost full as we crept in the overgrown lot. I only went because Jimmy Joe asked me to, but I was shivering and I was frightened. The field was uneven and I kept falling into the weeds...my shawl getting caught on the stickers. Tommy Johnstone was laughing and running toward the tracks, yelling back to Jimmy Joe and me to, "Hurry up."

"This is as far as we go," Jimmy Joe blurted, his chest heaving from the half mile walk. "What do you mean, you baby?" Tommy Johnstone yelled, his silouhette elongated by the moonlight stood 70 feet tall on the weed tops. "Just go do it," Jimmy coughed, "go on."

We crouched down into the dewy weeds, looking toward the east part of town as we heard the train speeding up. The powerful thumping of the engine coming in faster beats. "Are you sure it's on there?" Jimmy whispered as I slapped a mosquito near my ear, "Yeah, it's on there alright. Just you wait and see," Tommy Johnston boasted, his eyes wide open, licking his lips as the headlight came toward us.

I adjusted my windshield wipers as I entered the freeway. An 18-wheeler pulling up right behind me, I opted to lay low on my arrival—feeling the burst of water as he shot past me. The hot oil burned my fingertips as I reached into the bag. I licked the salt crystals off my fingertips, and took a deep breath as my heart sank when I heard the first few chords sneaking into my ear...

"Hello darkness, my old friend
I've come to talk with you again
Because a vision softly creeping
Left its seeds while I was sleeping
And the vision that was planted in my brain
Still remains
Within the sound of silence..."

I had chosen to never listen to that song after the summer when I was in 3rd grade. Tonight something in my heart was ready. Something made me let it come in. Something caused me to turn it up and exhale...

I let it permeate me. I let my heart feel the flood I'd held back for so long. I felt the pain behind my eyes and throat grow sharp...and heard myself breathing heavily as my eyes filled with tears.

As the windshield wipers slapped the dirty freeway water off of/and back onto my glass-and-steel pseudo-"confessional," of a car...I felt the presence of the past. I felt the sting. I instantly realized the floodgate that were opening in my mind, and the memories hit like a tsunami.

"You're a liar!" Jimmy Joe screamed, throwing his hands to his sides—just a silver puff of smoke! That's all I saw! Just a silver puff of smoke!"

As we slowly walked in silence through the field, I played the impact over and over in my mind, like the very dust particles everyone inhaled that day, sparkling with the train's headlamp—like glitter in the twinkling of an eye.

It was a Saturday afternoon, I could hear the faint tune of the ice cream truck perusing the neighborhood.

My mother yelled my name from the living room.

As I neared the bottom of the stairs, I could see a mountain of clothing waiting for me—as well as her messy hair and exhausted eyes.

I knew better than to try and argue with her when she had that look. As I sat down on the floor, I heard her talking with my dad in the kitchen, adult chit chat, boring grown-up stuff. I looked up at the television—baseball.

I looked back at them, and back to the television. Would I? Could I get away with changing the channels? The rule of thumb in my home was no one under the age of 99 was allowed to change the channel, day or night.

The most random, God-awful programming was almost exclusively selected by them. I was certain this was one of those bad things that happen to children when they grow up, they become boring sadists to anyone younger. Especially their own children.

As I reached for the shiny silver knob just a foot or so from the tip of my nose, I heard my mother yell, "Don't even think about it."

As I sat back down on my heels, I began to feel imprisoned. The pile of underwear, towels, and socks seemed like Mt. Rainier. I grabbed a sock and made a decision. I can't really even remember why, but I remember when.

Since I had no other choice than to sit in front of this mind numbing sport show, then I would pick a team to root for. I remember looking at the players, looking at their uniforms and trying to decide who would be "my team."

I found the mate to the sock and folded it into a ball. The players all look alike, and I could never like this stupid game anyhow. I can't even hit a ball with a bat. But Jimmy Joe could! Just then I looked at the score...and I decided to choose the team that was losing.

That team was the New York Yankees.

The Yankees won that day, but I was never able to tell Jimmy Joe.

Jimmy Joe never returned to school that Monday. He had drowned in the American River on Saturday, trying to help a younger child who had fallen out of a raft near the rapids. The younger child survived, but Jimmy Joe was brought to the shore, lifeless.

That Wednesday afternoon, my teacher called me into the hallway. She reached into a book and pulled out a card. She handed it to me and said, "Jimmy Joe's mother brought this to school to give to you. It was his. And she wants you to have it."

It was a 1952 Topps Baseball card...I'll never forget it. The impish smile on the face of some old guy.

But that old guy, he was wearing my New York Yankee's hat! The team I had picked while folding clothes the same day Jimmy Joe died.

I lost my best friend in the 3rd grade. I was all alone at the end of the line in the hallway at school, and life would never feel as innocent and curious again, I thought.

But Jimmy Joe knew someday I would find him again. The New York Yankees were Jimmy Joe's favorite team, and I never knew that until my teacher handed me that Topps card after I had picked them as my team while folding clothes...

That's where it began.

A few years later, when I was in Junior High, I remember being in p.e. and my teacher demanding I spit out my chewing gum.

I recall clearly being sent to the front office and explaining, in tears, that I had been chewing that wad of gum since the playoffs—and if I stop—the Yankees will lose the World Series.

They gave me a Kleenex...and a note for my teacher to let me chew.

Tommy Johnstone was a Dodger fan and would try and make me cry when I would wear my Yankees hat or talk about baseball to any of the kids. Tommy Johnstone was convinced Ron Cey was the best ball player God ever created. 1977 and 1978 were the most hellish years I believe I ever faced as a Yankee fan due to Tommy Johnstone and Ron Cey. But, in the end, the Yankees won...and Tommy moved away.

(Someone told me Tommy Johnstone went to prison for check fraud some years later...but I never really looked into the story to see if it was the truth. It sounded fairly probable to me and I wouldn't want to remember him any other way, quite honestly.)

I carried my Topps card in my back pocket for years, until it disappeared one day. I never was able to find it...now that I am an adult, I think it was probably laundered and didn't survive. I believe my mother shielded me from the broken heart I wouldn't have been able to bear at that time in my life.

I remember the day my mother took over an hour to console me when she discovered my No. 44 Reggie Jackson t-shirt had not survived one of the only washing/drying cycles it had ever been subjected to. I wanted to bury it in the backyard at sunset, and: we did.

I remember Bucky Dent. I remember Reggie. I remember Billy Martin yelling and screaming. I remember George Steinbrenner punching someone in an elevator.

I remember the day Thurmon Munson died, and Bobby Mercer not only spoke at his funeral, but played in a game that night against the Orioles that few will ever forget..

I remember thinking the crowd was booing Lou Pinella...and telling my mom I would never go to Yankee Stadium, where they boo their own. She went on to explain to me they were yelling, "Lou."

Friends came and went. I fell into and out of love. I went to college and grew up, and the Yankees were with me every moment of the way..

I remember when we farmed Jeter. Rivera. Posada. Bernie. Pettitte.

I remember finding myself in a motel room, some years later...bored...homesick...clicking through the channels...and there they were—my boys in pinstripes.

It had been years since I had paid attention to baseball. I had become sidetracked with other things in life...distracted by the seeming demands of being an adult, and yet: there they were.

The playoffs—Jeter & Williams—some kid named Maier interfering...and I was home.

Years would go by but somehow, I always found myself watching my boys in the fall. A few times they went all the way—a few times not.

I grew up with the Yankee haters.

Hell, I fell in love with, and subsequently lived with one. And literally, he would come into the room, while I was watching a game, and point out how they sucked, how stupid they were, how they were overpriced assholes.

He's gone now, they remain.

Honestly, I can't remember a time when the Yankees weren't a part of my life. Then again, I remember thinking I could never imagine not seeing Bernie on the field, or Paul O'Neill.

I know. It's only baseball.

But, to me...it's more.

It's life.

It's being a part of something bigger than keeping an appointment, paying your bills, and gassing your car.

It's the opportunity to ride on the wings of your favorite slugger and round those bases with him.

It's the bottom of the 9th, two outs, 3-2 count—bases loaded—and relishing the anticipation.

I am so grateful for every moment I have laughed, cried, argued, and mused over my team—the New York Yankees. I wouldn't trade one moment of my many years with them for all the tea in Boston. I have learned alot through these many seasons of triumph and glory—disappointment and loss—sometimes it's heaven, sometimes it's absolute hell, but, this is life...and they will always be a part of my life.

As I reached the parking garage elevator, my fries had grown cold. My nose was stuffed, and one quick glimpse in the mirror informed me of my need to avoid all contact with others. I pressed the elevator button and glanced behind my shoulder to the garage camera, aimed right at me.

Just then, to my right, a Porsche pulled through the gate on the west side—as I glimpsed to see it...I beheld the raindrops illuminated against the night sky...like glitter...dust...memories...everywhere...and I smiled...

(Dedicated to Jimmy Joe Mayer)

The Arizona Cardinals: More Than Conquerors

KAT GILL — Mon, 02 Feb 2009 01:56:12 -0500

When a 9-7 wild card team can fight their way into the Super Bowl by beating teams like the Atlanta Falcons (11-5), and the Carolina Panthers (12-4), people begin to see that team as: good.

When this same team is able to face a five-time Super Bowl Championship winning opponent, come back from a 13-point deficit at half-time, persevere with grit and moxie in the 4th quarter to amass 16 additional points...and finish that game only 4 points behind their so-called Goliath; people might see that team as: AWESOME.

All I wanted today was to see a good game...

I never expected to see the amazing tenacity of the Arizona Cardinals. To see their drive, their audacity, their forebearance...

(I also never would have imagined them giving away 106 yards in penalties.)

Super Bowl XLIII ended with the Cardinal's losing to the Pittsburgh Steelers, yes. But, oddly, I'm unaffected by this defeat...actually, I find myself proud and smiling.

It isn't often I behold a game where such fearless bravery and unquenchable effort is expelled.

I'm certain some will consider this victory of the Steelers' as one which exemplifies their dominance in the game of football; and I guess that may be one way to assimilate the facts of the game and the overall outcome.

However, I am of the mindset that a real champion is not measured by the score at the end of the game.

The best team is not always the team who wins. The best effort and greatest athletic moments aren't always realized on the scoreboard.

True dominance and victory can often be awarded to a team without recognition...without a sound...without a trophy...a team who endures the fight and loses.

A team with an insurmountable deficit...a team who, if logic and reason were to be their guide, would merely concede when overpowered...surrender when defeated...and resign when reality clearly dictates their impending demise.

Valor and awe go to such a team who face their short-comings, who fail, but refuse to remain down...who maintain their vigor with diligence...who are immune to improbability, take fate by the horns and wrestle it to the ground.

The Arizona Cardinals fought the good fight. They kept the faith. They made me laugh...they made me scream...they made me pull my hair out and bite my nails.

But in the end, the Arizona Cardinals were more than conquerors, to me. They were the personification of endurance without reason...hope without time...effort immeasurable...and Inspiration Ad Infinitum.

It was an awesome game...

“We didn't lose the game; we just ran out of time” - Vince Lombardi

Why I Want the Arizona Cardinals to Smack It to the Pittsburgh Steelers

KAT GILL — Sun, 25 Jan 2009 06:02:08 -0500

(The below is an actual letter. Some of the names have been changed to protect the innocent. Actually, who am I kidding? Most of the "innocent," are heinous evildoers, who, in my opinion, who should fry in Hell. But, that's another story for different day. Enjoy. —Kathryn)

Dear Mister Postal Person Dude,

Hey. It's me. The one in apartment 722.

Alex, the guy in 725, informed me that you may have overheard our animated discussion regarding the upcoming Steelers/Cardinals game scheduled for next weekend.

Alex seemed to recall that you are an extremely passionate fan of the Steelers, and suggested I make an effort to clarify my position with you, for the sake of "peace."

I enjoy receiving most of my mail. I hope most of the mail I enjoy receiving continues to find it's way into my box, some of the time.

I am certain you would not allow a little sports-related discrepancy to interfere with your's and my peaceful, pleasant, and professional relationship.

(I'm right about that, aren't I? We do have a peaceful, pleasant, and professional relationship, right?)

Let me try and explain.

Spite.

Spite can drive a person to heights or depths unimaginable.

Fact is...

Michael

yeah

That bitch who I spent a solid YEAR OF MY LIFETIME trying to endure as the so-called, "love-of-his-life," while only proceeding to rip my hair out in frustration due to the fact that he's an immature, lying, cheating, stealing, piece of crap...

him.

Well

he has a dad

Who thinks he is GOD to ALL MEN, EVERYWHERE. A REAL MAN. He drives a HEMI; gets better gas mileage than anyone living or dead; has the most advanced GPS tracking system known to modern man (within his HEMI-powered-gas-guzzler), causing NASA to actually covet HIS technology...his chest hair is made of steel...his guns are fully automatic, locked, and loaded at all times...and if that's not enough: Satan fears him.

(His name is John Junior, I think.)

Well anyhow...HE drove into Michael's young, empty, stupid head that a REAL MAN MUST

UNDER EVERY CIRCUMSTANCE

BE A STEELERS FAN OR ELSE HE WOULD GROW UP TO BE SHORT, ILLITERATE, AND BALD.

so

Michael opted to favor the Steelers due to his fear of becoming bald.

For we all know there's nothing WRONG with being short

(you seem rather tall, for instance)

or illiterate

(most communication is non-verbal, i've heard)

So, yes. Michael opted to favor the Steelers due to his aversion with losing hair.

(By the way, I like your hair-style. I had no idea the Federal Government would allow an employee of their's to have such long hair. They call that a Mullet, right? Very stylish and attractive, I must say.)

Now, where was I? Ah, yes: back to me.

2008, And I'm all giddy over my special little quarterback, Eli.

Michael PROMPTLY explained to me, last year, that BIG BEN AND COMPANY HAVE NO INTEREST IN GOING ALL THE WAY IN 08. THEY WILL DOMINATE, MASSACRE, AND ANNIHILATE EVERYONE IN 09.

I was made to endure many long, boring lectures about the AMAZING INVINCIBILITY AND FEARLESS DOMINATION OF BIG BEN AND EVERY STEELERS FAN, GLOBALLY, AS WELL AS INTER-GALACTICALLY

and how the Giants were "cute."

Well,

this year I found myself secretly awaiting the cherished collapse of your Steelers.

NOT BECAUSE I DON'T LIKE THEM...I JUST WANTED TO ENVISION THE SCREAMING CRIES OF UTTER DISBELIEF, DEFEAT, AND DISILLUSIONMENT coming from the hopeless and pathetic lungs of Michael and his fat, old fart father, Junior.

I am certain that our Lord and Savior, Jesus, can distinguish between my true heart attitude of wishing INSTANT DESTRUCTION upon the Steelers, and understanding the slight blessing, for a select few, perhaps, if He were to allow them to actually play well...

Therefore, I am not worried about frying in Hell over the matter.

However, you DO KNOW that Kurt Warner USED TO QUARTERBACK THE GIANTS prior to his stint as a grocery store checker, right? (or was it after...I forget) but THE GIANTS, MY GIANTS. You see, I'm a Giants fan. I'm not necessarily a Cardinals fan. No!

Warner used to be with the Giants, therefore, I'm not really too far out on a limb to support him with regard to being with the Cardinals due to the fact that he was a Giant first.

(First, being after he was with Regis High School, University of Northern Iowa, the Iowa Barnstormers, the Amsterdam Admirals, and that small stint with the Saint Louis Rams.)

And did you know he's a recovering alcoholic?

(Or maybe that was another Giants quarterback. Collins? Doesn't matter. I mean, CLEARLY you can understand how being on the Giants could drive a man to drink? I mean, did you see Eli last Sunday? I defy someone to explain to me how he would play the way he did, HAD HE NOT BEEN DRINKING. And it only makes sense. In the past three months, three of our Wide Receivers have been on the receiving end of loaded weapons. THREE. LOADED WEAPONS.)

(And a couple of them were actually shot.)

THEREFORE, by deductive reasoning based upon Max Planck's original theory of relativity, Galileo's theory of uniform motion, and Einstein's formula of E = mc² , we can clearly see I have no other option than to support Warner in his effort to succeed in his quest for winning the Super Bowl as he leads the Cardinals to victory over the Steelers...

as

The powers of Yin, Yang, and all that is Holy in the world of sports cries out for me to align myself against every form of evil. MICHAEL is the physical embodiment of said evil, and any attrocious object of affection deep within his heart would not be consistent with that which is good.

therefore,

my simple message for the Steelers and their loyal fans:

FRY YOU EVIL BASTARDS.

amen.

:)

~Kathryn, Apartment 722, your grateful postal customer.

With My Good Eye Closed...

KAT GILL — Thu, 22 Jan 2009 17:06:59 -0500

(This article contains no stats. It's only sports-related affiliation is horse-racing. It is entirely subjective and meant to somewhat amuse. If you aren't amused, feel free to throw a rock at it.) ~Kathryn

“Can I buy you a drink?” He repeated, this time his face beginning to blush.

My betting line was taking much longer than usual. I wasn’t so sure who to hate more. The woman at the counter, with her orange-pink hair that matched her pink-orange press-on fingernails…or each fat, balding, cigar-smoking better clogging up the line. Two minutes until post time, the man directly in front of me, spending an eternity on placing his bet, continued to wave his stubby arms while adjusting his thick glasses and reinserting his non-lit cigar nub back into his mouth every 3 seconds.

I found myself drowning my thoughts with the guitar solo from Soundgarden’s “Good Eye Closed.” When the music flows from my mp3 player, into my ears, into my brain, and throughout my bloodstream, it’s a drug I enjoy.

I enjoy riding away from reality…envisioning scenarios of absolute absurdity. Motion Picture Epic clips…the ceiling collapsing, perhaps.

I check the rafters. Steel. Pity. Steel is fairly firm.

Refocus, Fat man still waving…cigar still unlit...

A flood. All the money floating from the cash registers…coins sinking…the unaware, and drunk, lingering on the bottom…me, floating and pocketing wet hundreds at the top…

He appeared out of nowhere, tapping me on the shoulder, saying something.

I rip out my headphones, “I’m sorry, what?”

“Can I buy you a drink?” He repeated, this time his face beginning to blush.

“No, thanks. I never touch the shit.” I replied automatically, while turning back to see it was finally my turn to bet. Miss Orange-pink waiting almost impatiently, “Thanks, anyhow.” I said while I took a step forward, “I’ll take $10 on the 1 to win.”

As I reached the last set of double doors at the racetrack, a thought hit me. Like a Mac Truck to a Chevy Luv on the freeway a midnight. In the rain. Going downhill without brakes on black ice.

He asked to buy me a drink. I’ve never so much as talked with the guy a day in my life. Why would I? He was this zillionaire horse owner, trainer, driver…I was just a handicapper. I mean, it was cool and everything, that he was trying to talk with me…but why would he care if I was thirsty or not?

A photo finish. Damn it! Why would there have to be so many photo finishes when it’s two degrees outside, pouring down rain? As I watched the instant replay of the finish, I clearly saw I won. I opted to return to Soundgarden and images of catastrophic fun. Looking around for structural weaknesses or other causes for calamity, I saw him through one of the windows. Smiling and raising his glass at me, I wondered how long I had been staring in his direction without noticing him. Instantly I was aware of the contrast, him sitting amidst all of the beautiful women and successful men…the skimpy dresses and 3-piece suits…the ambient lighting and energy-efficient heaters…HDTV’s and booming house music…

Me: blinking in the misty rain while wiping my nose with my glove. I waved back.

“It’s official,” is echoed on the steely speakers overlooking the winner’s circle…myself and a couple of fat, balding men slowly walk back to our eternal line from before. Miss Orange-Pink has been replaced by an elderly woman with a wig so black, it could be imagined a black cat fell asleep on her head, having been drawn to her from an uncontrollable attraction to her blinking fake gold lucky dice earrings.

“With my good eye closed,”…the realization of his encounter resurfacing to my puzzled mind…escaping again…I see the building fill with water…coins and drunks to the bottom…hundreds and me, scrambling atop…

but this time…also afloat...atop…smiling…warm…him…waving me over…

Yankees: The Quintessential Duct Tape Mouth Gag Response To Lack Of MLB Parity

KAT GILL — Fri, 16 Jan 2009 17:38:22 -0500

You gotta love the fights within Major League Baseball. I mean, hell, this ain't hockey. No one expects a professional ballplayer to just haul off and deck some mouthy batsman. Then again, we relish the moment it happens...

You could always count on Kyle to flex some muscle...after all...when you can't find the strike zone with a 100+mph fastball...people begin to get edgy...fastballs whiffin past their heads...I dunno...kinda rude. But hell. That's why they wear helmets, right?

PARITY WITHIN MLB.

Ohdearjesus.

If I hear ONE MORE whining band-wagoner of the Pittsburgh Pirates scream FOUL over the Yankees' recent spending, I will literally hurl.

Now, we all know, the actual term isn't to be referred to. Not in recent days. Yes, yesteryear the term "parity," was used...but...as of the SELIG REGIME, one must appropriately apply the words "competitive balance," to any conversation, written or otherwise, when talking parity.

So, the shite hit the fan. The Yankees bought every single last free agent on the planet and spent a zillion dollars and are thereby destroying major league baseball via their big pockets, monopolizing, and extortion...causing "poorer," teams to disintegrate into a quad-rillion chunks of molten metal, flying through the atmosphere, never to be heard from again...

The evil empire attacking poor Alderaan.

Well, I submit to you: get over your personal hate of the Yankees for just long enough to be intelligent. Inasmuch as I enjoy a passionate argument just like the next guy, an unintelligent-passionate argument is just plain stupid. If you're going to have passion, apply it aptly. Keep your wits about you.

The concept that the New York Yankees have been successful in buying championships has long since been disproved. Thank God. As a Yankee fan, witnessing year after year after year, the mismanagement of the acquisitions, the whittling away of our possible prospects, and the collection of has-been free agents; I wholeheartedly applaud Tampa Bay for demonstrating: THE LITTLE GUY CAN FLOURISH.

(Yeah. when you lose eternally, you get HELLA TIGHT DRAFT PICKS, HONEY, and can make the post-season, eventually.)

I digress.

PARITY.

IS THE SPENDING OF THE NEW YORK YANKEES EQUATING TO A DIMINISHED EQUALITY OF COMPETITIVENESS WITHIN MLB?

Let's review some of the facts together, shall we?

Since 1995, ALL BUT SIX TEAMS HAVE MADE IT BEYOND THE ALDS/NLDS AND HAVE APPEARED IN EITHER THE CHAMPIONSHIP SERIES OR THE WORLD SERIES.

ALL BUT SIX.

In the ENTIRE LEAGUE.

Of those six...many issues revolved around team ownership, or management...but...money, or lack of money by no means was the PRIMARY REASON for failure-to-thrive.

What other sport can declare that nearly every team within their entire league has made a post-season appearance within 13 seasons?

There is only one World Series winner who had a payroll over $100 MILLION DOLLARS:

THE BOSTON RED SOX.

Twice.

Clearly...there is more than one team who has spent over $100 MILLION DOLLARS, in order to make the playoffs and/or win the World Series.

Fact is: there are seven.

NYY: 01, 02, 03, 04, 05, 06, 07
BOS: 04, 05, 07, 08
LAA: 04, 05, 07, 08
CHI: 08
NYM: 06
LAD: 08
CHC: 08

TEAMS WHO SPENT OVER $100 MILLION DOLLARS AND DID NOT MAKE THE PLAYOFFS IN THE YEAR THEY SPENT OVER $100 MILLION DOLLARS:

BOS: 01,02
ATL: 08
NYM: 03, 05, 07, 08
SEA: 07, 08
LAD: 01, 03, 07
CHI: 06, 07
DET: 08

TEAMS WHO SPENT OVER $200 MILLION DOLLARS AND DID NOT MAKE THE PLAYOFFS IN THE YEAR THEY SPENT OVER $200 MILLION DOLLARS:

NYY: 08

TEAMS WHO NEVER, IN THE HISTORY OF THEIR TEAM PAYROLL, EVER SPENT $100 MILLION DOLLARS AND, IN FACT, DID MAKE THE PLAYOFFS IN THE LAST 10 YEARS:

STL: 00, 01, 02, 04, 05, 06
ARI: 99, 01, 02, 07
CLE: 99, 01, 07
FLA: 03
HOU: 99, 01, 04, 05
MIL: 08
MIN: 02, 03, 04, 06
OAK: 00, 01, 02, 03, 06
PHI: 07, 08
SDP: 05, 06
SFG: 00, 02, 03
COL: 07
TBR: 08

Wow..based on this evidence...OUTSPENDING BY NO MEANS IS OUT-COMPETING.

And, we ARE talking about "competitive balance within the MLB," right?

Because we certainly cannot simply be espousing some emotional anti-Yankee TOO MUCH SPENDING/DESTROYING THE LEAGUE diatribe to the whole world in response to the Yankees' acquiring Sabathia, Burnett, and Teixeira, right?

(A cute little side note to the Yankee-haters: uh...even IF the Yankees hauled off and picked up Manny, they'd STILL be SPENDING LESS IN 2009 THAN THEY SPENT IN 2008.)

I submit to you, the pesky Oakland Athletics have opted to NEVER raise their payroll to $100 MILLION DOLLARS,and they have made the playoffs five times. Those pesky Cardinals have also showed up in October six times in nine years; without spending even half of what the Yankees spend.

IF the contention of all the Yankee-hatin' NO-PARITY-IN-MLB-OH-GOOD-GOD-GIVE-US-A-SALARY-CAP-LORD-SELIG is correct...and spending increases competitive imbalance...then please explain to me HOW the St. Louis Cardinals have managed to appear in the playoffs WITHOUT EVER SPENDING $100 MILLION DOLLARS, EVER, ON THEIR PAYROLL SIX TIMES in the last 10 years?

Please show me the clear evidence that exists to differentiate SPENDING=COMPETITIVE IMBALANCE when the mean differential between SPENDING divided by PLAYOFF APPEARANCES between a NON-SPENDER and the HIGHEST SPENDER is one.

Since 1999: St. Louis spent less than $100 MILLION DOLLARS and made six playoff appearances.

The Yankees have repeatedly out-spent the entire league every year since 1999, and have made merely seven playoff appearances, by contrast.

It is an unintelligent argument to contend that consistent competitiveness and spending are related.

I would suggest, based on the overwhelming evidence presented, that the opposite be true. In order to be consistently competitive within the MLB and to secure a post season position, NEVER SPEND OVER $100 MILLION DOLLARS.

Then again...I could be wrong...

A salary cap is NOT the answer for the MLB. The Players Association would NEVER allow it, we'd have a strike, and Selig knows full well how much money would be on the line.

I don't believe the league is unequally competitive, based on the achievements of nearly all teams. I do, however, believe many team owners and/or CEO'S are highly irresponsible, apathetic, and greedy, when it comes to seeking further growth and profit for their team and it's players.

If I were to suggest any remedy for teams with less financial aptitude: I would suggest an adjustment of the revenue sharing and luxury taxes, HOWEVER: it would only make sense to do so with an enforced stipulation from team owners and management, that they be held accountable for re-investing those monies back into draft bonuses, player development, and payroll. And NOT to be used to line their own pockets while their team remains in ruin and ineffectuality.

“Jealousy is the tribute mediocrity pays to genius.” - Fulton J. Sheen.

New York Giants: The Reality of Defeat

KAT GILL — Mon, 12 Jan 2009 04:28:44 -0500

This week is really beginning to shape into a memorable one.

A couple of hours ago, I finally stepped out into the "real world," to go grocery shopping. Upon reaching my vehicle in my building's garage, I saw a healthy puddle of that all too familiar glow-in-the-dark green life-blood of my vehicle: anti-freeze.

I've spent several years successfully dealing with a coolant leak in the front of the vehicle. I guess the universe wants to throw me a curve: The leak is from the rear undercarriage. Charming as hell.

They say tragedy comes in "three's."

Well, two down.

I'm so glad I woke up at the absolute crack of dawn today to have friends come over and raid all my caffeinated beverages and slack around talking endlessly while I got to behold my cherished team's annihilation.

I knew within the first two minutes of this game, something was really not right with them. They were "off." Eli seemed frustrated the entire game and nothing really seemed to work. Two Interceptions...Smith just couldn't catch...The Eagles getting some inspirational floodgate at the end of the second...It was a train-wreck.

Sure I'm disappointed, and I'll tell you why. I'm a Yankee fan. I've seen far too many seasons of entitled complacency in one lifetime. I love my team, but I become envious of those teams who are "hungry." Their passion.

Today's performance by the Giants reminded me of those teams who simply give up. The Angels in the last two postseasons. The Yankees. Even Boston against Tampa Bay during the playoffs (until Ortiz decided to TRY and give the team something to fight for).

Fighting. Competing. Passion. That's what I enjoy. That didn't arrive with the Giants today. In fact, I don't even know if the Giants, themselves, arrived at the game today.

Pity.

"You know when you get old in life things get taken from you. That's, that's part of life.
But, you only learn that when you start losing stuff. You find out that life is just a game of inches...

So is football.

Because in either game, life or football, the margin for error is so small. I mean one half step too late or to early, you don't quite make it. One half-second too slow or too fast and you don't quite catch it.

The inches we need are everywhere around us.

They are in every break of the game, every minute, every second.

On this team, we fight for that inch. On this team, we tear ourselves, and everyone around us, to pieces for that inch. We claw with our fingernails for that inch. 'Cause we know when we add up all those inches, that's going to make the difference between winning and losing, between living and dying.

I'll tell you this, in any fight, it is the guy who is willing to die who is going to win that inch.

And I know if I am going to have any life anymore it is because, I am still willing to fight, and die for that inch because that is what living is. The six inches in front of your face.

Now I can't make you do it. You gotta look at the guy next to you. Look into his eyes.
Now I think you are going to see a guy who will go that inch with you. You are going to see a guy who will sacrifice himself for this team because he knows when it comes down to it, you are gonna do the same thing for him.

That's a team, gentlemen and either we heal now, as a team, or we will die as individuals.

That's football guys. That's all it is." (Any Given Sunday)

New York Giants: The Possibility of Victory

KAT GILL — Fri, 09 Jan 2009 05:27:48 -0500

I can talk circles around even the most astute baseball fan. I can come up with facts and stats over intricate situations in baseball games 50 years ago. I can pick out winning race horses at the track, just by watching them run by.

I have investors at the track who are willing to trust my judgment and invest large sums of money in the horses I choose. I'm rarely wrong.

And then there's the sport of football.

Football has become my "wrench in the gears," of my otherwise seemingly stellar sports aptitude. I'm an idiot when it comes to this game. Albeit, I only began following the sport out of sheer desperation, fraught with exceeding boredom encountered during the baseball offseason two years ago. I remain at a "below basic achievement level," when compared with my peers.

Dumb-as-a-six-pack-of-beer-without-the-little-plastic-thingy-holding-all-the-cans-together would be a good phrase describing me in conjunction with football.

I'm okay with that. I'm okay with not knowing the players names, per se. I'm okay with recently realizing that there are actually two separate groups of guys from the same team who play in two separate categories.

Hell, I figured in baseball we have nine guys out in the grass for the whole game...it made sense that those same 11 guys out on the football field must be getting tired by the fourth quarter.

Slowly and surely, the pieces are coming together. You have the one guy who hikes it to the other guy who can't go past a certain blue line before he throws it to one of the other guys from his team. I get all that.

What I don't get is how the hell that blue line moves around. It does, watch it next time. It follows these guys. At first I was thinking maybe some kind of LCD light thing going on under the grass. I mean, hey, they have heaters under some of those fields, why not LCD lighting?

But, alas, that implausible mystery was resolved last weekend when one of my smug friends pointed and laughed at me when I mentioned it...Not that I was all too concerned with understanding things his way.

The Giants will be facing the Eagles this Sunday. The game will be televised here in California at 10:00 AM on FOX.

The televising of anything at 10:00 AM, in my opinion, is criminal. I like to think of 10:00 AM as somewhere right in the middle of me-dead-to-the-world-and-not-wanting-anything-to-do-with-being-awake-so-shut-the-hell-up-and-turn-off-the-light. So, right off the bat, we have an issue with the harshing-of-my-high with this particular game. But I will wake up and watch it.

The Giants versus Eagles game is the only game I have any true emotional investment. As I make it a point to rarely invest my emotions into anything. When emotions are invested into things, things can go sideways real quick.

Things get ugly. Things get hurt. Handcuffs and Crime Scene Investigators arrive. They start drawing chalk lines around things, and things just become unattractive and messy.

I will watch. I will watch with emotions invested. Things will happen.

I anticipate I will be fervently pleading with all the football gods on behalf of the New York Giants. I theorize the baseball gods are good chums with the football gods. I also theorize since the baseball gods have been rather unkind to my baseball team in recent years, I theorize those football gods now owe me. I theorize they owe me big.

(I have all this detailed in an Excel spreadsheet with charts and graphs I can send you for a nominal fee.)

I am willing to appease the football gods by being awake before 10:00 AM on a Saturday, only to observe a game of which I am beyond autistically challenged to comprehend or assimilate.

Thus, with my celestial expectation from the aforementioned football gods, I have also opted to perform my yearly research as to "whom," shall become the Victor this Sunday.

My findings are of some importance, as I performed my first yearly research last year and was correct. Thus, I speculate my research infallible, and I will gladly share these findings with you.

The New York Giants will win.

"What," you may ask, "are you basing this conclusion on, Miss Dumb-As-A-Wall?"

"My dear fellow sports fan," I retort, "the infamous Kat Gill Biorhythm results."

Yes, grab hold of your chairs ladies and gentlemen. I submit to you my yearly findings of our boy, Eli Manning, versus his less-than-attractive-when-barfing foe, Donovan McNabb.

The above is the actual biorhythm of Eli Manning's Physical, Emotional, and Intellectual strengths/weaknesses for the target date of Jan. 11, 2009.

Emotional: Eli will be at a -20 percent level with emotion. This may be observed as a good sign when coupled with Physical: rising up from Jan. 4 (at negative 100 percent) to exactly 0 percent for Jan. 11. Thus, inasmuch as Eli will not be huge on physicality, he will be on a surge as opposed to a plummet. Likewise, we note Eli's Intellectual surging to nearly 80 percent for Jan. 11.

(Also, just take a glance at Eli's projected strengths for +7 days from Jan. 11. Eli will be at 100 percent physically and intelligently, and absolute -100 percent emotionally. This is the day of the Super Bowl.)

Conversely, let us peruse the findings for Donovan McNabb:

The most obvious finding is McNabb's absolute lack of intellect. On the target date of Jan. 11, McNabb will be registering a shocking -75 percent on Intellect.

However, here is where it becomes fun: McNabb will be at exactly 100 percent Physically on the exact date of the Giants game, but just look at his surging Emotional swing.

This graph must be what PMS looks like. When you couple physical and emotional that highly, spiking and peaking, I can only imagine for McNabb the day will be one of unimaginable exasperation.

For, if McNabb can somehow, without intellect, manage his physical aptitude despite his potential for an extreme emotional outburst, he might actually be successful.

But remember, Eli will be registering nearly the same level of intellectual strength as McNabb's emotions. You tell me. Which is stronger in a game of strategic prowess? If, indeed, both teams are equally capable of achieving a victory, what strength will have the greatest impact for Eli and McNabb? We shall see...

"Invincibility lies in the defense; the possibility of victory in the Attack." ~Sun Tzu