What's the score?

In honor of the beginning of the baseball season, WTS asked its writing staff, “what is your earliest baseball memory?”

John: I think I was four years old. I went to Wrigley Field with my Dad and my grandfather. It was a sort of rite of passage for us Connor boys, or so my father said. I grew up in the suburbs of Elgin, IL, just outside of Chicago, so naturally we wanted watch the Cubs (sorry White Sox fans!!). I remember my Dad cheering like a fool for Ryne Sandberg. I remember my grandfather calling every play before it happened.

“Sandberg is going to fly out to center.”

Sandberg flew out to center on the next pitch.

“Jones will cough twice, look to his coach, and steal second base.”

Jones did exactly that.

“I will walk ten paces towards the concession stands, a baby will cry, and Griswold will hit a home run.”

And my granddad called it. I thought he was genius.

It wasn’t until the cyborg-machines came and tried to eviscerate my family with lasers, that I realized my grandfather was a time traveling soldier from the future sent to protect me. Nestled between his arms and his futuristic laser pistol by the first base dugout, I remember the smell of the grass, the cool spring air, and the never ending ominous drone of the cyborg-machines… baseball.

I found out after the game that my grandfather was actually my grandson from the future. He is a decorated general of the human resistance against the cyborgs. He had memorized everything that was going to happen that day. It’s pretty complicated, but I remember taking away one feeling—you can’t beat the simplicity of baseball or the horrors of machines.

Russ: I grew up in Canada, so I didn’t have many opportunities to watch baseball games. I was a senior in college when I went to my first one. Growing up, I remember all of my friends being Blue Jays fans and telling me how great the game of baseball was. So I finally went, and I hated it.

It is possibly the most overrated sport in all of sports. I guess maybe because I didn’t watch it as a kid like all of my other friends, I lacked the nostalgia they had. I think baseball is all nostalgia. How many highlight reels, sports clips, and “classic” moments do we have to watch while at the PRESENT game?

If it wasn’t for someone’s dad to tell them, to force them to like baseball I think it would have died out in the 1940s when our countries had better things to do. Like stop Hitler. Seriously, even Ted Williams and Joe Dimaggio were like, “screw this crap, I’m gunna do something better and fight some Nazis.”

HOW THE HELL DO PEOPLE STILL LIKE THIS SPORT? NOTHING EVER HAPPENS?! WHAT THE F*** IS WRONG WITH YOU PEOPLE?!?!*

*Editor’s note: Upon completion of this story, Russ was promptly fired from WTS staff and deported back to Canada. Thank you and God Bless America.

Resident Lion: RRRAAARARARARARARRRARRRRRR

Chris: My earliest baseball memory was at an Orioles game in 1984. During warm ups, I ran all the way down to the front row to see if Cal Ripken would sign my glove. I yelled, “Cal!” He turned around and said, “Yeah kid?” “Will you sign my glove?” “Love to.” I got goosebumps. He put down his bat and pulled out a pen.

He looked right at me with those deep, blue eyes and said, “What’s your name kid?”

“Chris!”

“Chris, do you honestly believe that one bullet was able to hit both John F Kennedy and Governor John Connally?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“Good answer.” He smiled. “Chris, don’t you think it’s a little strange that the Rothchilds and the Duponts own 50% of the world’s wealth?”

“Sure!”

“Smart kid. Say Chris.”

“Yeah Cal?!”

“If you were to start your own New World Order, would you fashion a remote bunker in South Dakota?”

“I guess so.” He finished signing my glove and went back to batting practice. Greatest day of my life. I looked down at my glove and read, “To Chris, don’t you think it’s funny how much power Freemasons and Jews have?” Wow! Cal Ripken Jr.

Vinnie: I grew up in the Bronx, so baseball was in my blood. People on my block always used to say if you didn’t like baseball you were probably a ruskie. Harsh words, but that was life back then. Simple.

We’d used to play pickup games in the sandlot pretending be our favorite Yankees stars. Hey! Go Yankeees! Or da’ bums we used to call them. The best team in the HAshfaousbnfaouehaouhngalsknaHhHEELP! EHELPP MEEE@!!!Jglsdkngk*

*Editor’s note: While writing this piece, Vinnie was attacked by our resident lion. Vinnie is okay now. We have since put down the lion.

RIP Snuggles 2010 - 2012

His former ID Badge:

WTS is incredibly excited for what looks to be the best Stanley Cup Playoffs in years. Get ready hockey fans!

We take this time to remember why hockey has maintained such a loyal and passionate fanbase across all of America.

Regional Lingo…

Hockey may seem like a foreign and frightening sport to fans in say, Florida. Blood thirsty Aryans on ice does not sit well with the Jewish community. That’s why the geniuses at the NHLPA developed lingo to ease hockey into non-traditional markets.

In Los Angeles, Kings fans don’t use proper terms to describe positions. Instead of a Center, LA fans call that a “Kobe Bryant”. A Right Winger is a “Right of Kobe Bryant”. A Goalie is called a “Fat Kobe Bryant” So on and so forth.

A recent televised transcript:

“Anze Kopitar playing Kobe Bryant tonight passes it the Right Kobe Bryant and he shoots! He scores! The crowd in the Staples Center is going wild. Including Kobe Bryant who is in attendance. He runs on to the ice to hug The Kobe Bryant! The Kobe Bryant and THE Kobe Bryant together!”

In Arizona, Coyote fans are never told the official names of opposing teams. Instead, teams are given names like “My Stepdad” or “God my Stepfamily sucks” or “The banality of life in the desert”. The deeper the existential crisis, the more likely Coyote fans are to root against teams.

At Carolina Hurricane games, they actually just play Michael Jordan UNC highlights on the jumbotron. Hockey is the most popular sport in North Carolina (Second most is UNC basketball).

It doesn’t always work out…

In San Jose, fans are always too busy to attend games. Every Sharks home game is left vacant. The San Jose crowd you see on TV is just an image gif loop created by the nearby Google Inc. In fact, the actual team left years ago because no one cared. The San Jose Sharks team is digitally added every night courtesy of Electronic Arts.

And as we all know, the hockey experiment in Atlanta recently failed. Due in part to the NHL’s inability to convince Atlanta fans that its team was “cleansed” of all “Catholics”. Ilya Kovalchuck was an active and charitable member of Atlanta’s Catholic community—a hero to most. In the end, that was the final straw.

Sometimes it works, sometimes it don’t as the saying goes. But Hockey will live on and it will continue to try out new markets, forever spreading its icy joy. Til then, enjoy the Playoffs or “The 1992 UNC vs. Georgetown Championship Game” as they call it in North Carolina.

At 49 years old, Jaime Moyer has the chance to be the oldest pitcher to win a major league baseball game.

Now wives all across America can tell their husbands, “If Jaime Moyer can pitch at 49, you can get off your lazy ass and re-shingle the roof.”

The real winners are the roofs.

A lot of sports blogs will tell you (Bullshit you) that your bracket picks are extremely important. We do not believe that.

It’s what happens after you pick your teams that’s more important. Bracketology is an outdated and worthless field.

So you picked Duke to make it to at least the Elite Eight. A few upsets here and there have really put you at the bottom of your friends’ bracket pool. You already put in 10, maybe 20 dollars to join. You want to save the embarrassment of picking Missouri to win it all, or worse, see your friends spend YOUR money on 90’s style fitted caps. It’s time to bring your A-game-it’s time to win back your dignity.

1. Pretend you lost a loved one: Call up the commissioner. Tell him or her that a family member just passed away. Really make them feel guilty that “Great Aunt Judy” lost her battle with “consumption”. Hopefully you’ll be hearing in no time, “Dude I’m sorry it’s cool. If you want to bow out of the league and get a full refund, that’s totally chill. My Aunt also died of consumption.”
2. Convince them that what they perceive to be reality is not real: During the next game you watch on TV at a bar, say the Xavier vs. Baylor game, flat out deny whatever is happening. Baylor is up by 4 points. NO. There is no basketball game. We’re watching Hamlet right now. My these seats are quite far. I can hardly see the actors! (Tip: be sure to inform the bartenders of your plan so they can get in on it too. Chances are they’d love to. Confounded customers usually lead to more drinks)
3. Drink heavily: The perfect (and cheapest) amnesia inducer.
4. Go off the grid: I have recommended this to many-a-bracket players and they fell madly in love with it. Throw your computer, iPhone, discman, blender, and whatever it is that is electronic and can connect you to the rest of the world into a bonfire of fiery damnation. Pack a few pairs of clothes, hitchhike to your nearest mountain range and live off the land for next few years. “Into The Wild” it, bro. That way, no one will ever find you again.
5. Double or nothing that Santorum wins the primary: Blow away your friends with a wildly ridiculous claim, and prove to them that your gambling addiction knows no bounds!

Good luck out there Madders! Hopefully these tips will help you swallow the bitter pill of bracket defeat with a little sense of integrity. If you are doing well with your bracket, well I hate to tell you this, but that wasn’t a bracket you filled out…that was a will you signed because you’re dead. Sorry, looks like you’ll have to give back your alive friends’ money.

…is now in session, baseball fans. Call the boss, book a flight to Tempe, grab some pine tar, and don’t forget to tell your wife, “You would understand if you were a man.”

Now other sports sites will talk about which teams have the best chance to top their divisions or who is going to be the next breakout prospect, but “What’s the Score” knows what you really want to hear about Spring Training.

THE FASHION

Please click here for music accompaniment. 

Wow!

OOO!

Ouchies!

Whether you’re dressed to impress or to pragmatically reduce sweat and enhance body-performance, we have got the inside scoop on what’s hot this Spring.

Hubby, Albert Pujols, struts his new look “Hollywood” visage. He dons a Dick’s Sporting Good’s made Rawling’s baseball pants (custom made by Dick himself). He leaves his nylon-fit jersey untucked letting us know that this new Albert is ready to let loose!

Hiroki Kuroda is showing off the “Hey I’ve got to go to my Poli Sci 2 lecture after we jog” look with style.

Listen people, the big thing that is in now is shadows. It’s in the movies. They’re on the street. You could chase yours until the dogs come home, but it isn’t until you see baseball player sport some shadows on his fit, fit body that you realize, “WHAT HAVE I BEEN DOING WRONG MY WHOLE LIFE?”

We think the Orioles are a lock to win the World Series, because they look too good to be the worst team in baseball. Orange and black slim fit shirts? Unfair.

Why are we all fascinated by Jeremy Lin?

More importantly, in the wake of this breakout star’s string of rock-out performances, we here at What’s The Score have been scrambling to figure out how this player flew under our radar.

Like all basketball analysts, we pride ourselves in accurately predicting which prospects are going to be studs or duds.

Looking back at all of our research on Jeremy Lin—he was going to be neither.

At most, our algorithms were telling us he was going to be the team’s athletic trainer. Early reports from Harvard were telling us that his family was known for their “ancient” remedies and “firm feet” for muscle relaxation or “massaging”.

We spoke with Rocket’s GM Daryl Morey in 2010, who now regrets dropping Lin from the Houston Rockets, about his early take on the Knicks star. “I honestly thought he was our finance intern. Nicest guy.”

It still made no sense to us. No one had taken the time to see how he played on the court, except for What’s The Score.

We went to see Lin, who was rated the top high school basketball player in California, play for Harvard on 11/19/09. Our game notes of the night read, “Wait that guy? Really? Really? I thought it was just a weird last name… Not as tall as Yao—no dice.”

The public may be saying that us scouts and statisticians in basketball are eating our hats about Lin. Which to that I say is not true. Lin is an anomaly. There is a reason why he was not offered any athletic scholarships out of high school. There is something about his attributes. Around the league, we call it athletic ability. He’s not as tall as most. He’s got smaller hands than your average point guard. His pale, fair skin implies “mischievousness” and “mysticism”. His eyes too small. There has even been talk that he may not even understand how to communicate in our language (still disputed).

All in all, I’m a big fan of what he’s doing on the court now. It may not last, but it sure is an exciting time to be a basketball fan.

It’s Superbowl week here at the “What’s The Score?” offices, and we are excited. For all you stathounds, @DanChoiStats and I are working around the clock to bring you the most accurate predictions to Superbowl XLVI.

We’re doing everything. Using algorithms we learned while earning our degrees in Sports Mathematics at Harvard and Yale, we are so close to predicting a winner and a final score. But with modern statistics can come slight miscalculations. That’s why we’ve enlisted the help of animals.

That’s right. More specifically, we bought an aquarium and an octopus to double check our work. (The pet store owner we bought it from said his octopus predicted the exact date of the fall of the Soviet Union. You can’t beat that sort of accuracy!) See process of how it works here. The octopus is NEVER wrong.

We now present to you the “What’s The Score?” octopus SuperBowl XLVI predictions!! Pull out your wallets and place your bets fellas!

• Best Picture - Moneyball
• Best Actor - George Clooney
• Best Actress - Michelle Williams
• Best Supporting Actor - Christopher Plummer
• Best Supporting Actress - Berenice Bejo
• Best Director - Terrence Malick
• Best Writing Original - Woody Allen
• Best Writing Adapted - Moneyball
• Best Music - Man or Muppet from the Muppet Movie

Now unfortunately, since we are dealing with an animal we cannot decide what predictions it chooses to make. Apparently our octopus has a knack for movies, and why @DanChoiStats even gave the octopus the option to predict oscar winners is beyond me (Dan we need to talk about listening and cooperation. Tweet me.) For you Oscar fans, our octopus is never wrong! He is saying put your money all in on Moneyball and forget The Artist. Bold predictions by a bold octopus!!!

For you sports fans, we gave the sports octopus experiment another go. Leaving the octopus only two options: The Giants or The Patriots.

Your answer: Madonna

Our octopus is so smart, it was able to write in a response. Not exactly what we were looking for… but for all of you music betters out there put your money ALL-IN on Madonna having a great set at the halftime show. Analysts have been saying with the addition of MIA, Madonna is going to look desperate in trying to connect with a younger generation and drop the ball. Our octopus says, “NO WAY!” Expect her to be in top form, and come through in the SuperBowl Halftime clutch.

But since this is a sports blog, we returned our pop-culture loving octopus back to the pet store in exchange for a more “sports-friendly” animal—A BEAR.

Unfortunately, pet stores do not sell bears (legally) to the general public. So “What’s The Score?” fans, you’ll have to wait until we can predict a winner through statistics.

Following the great sports contemporaries like Grantland and Outside The Lines, “What’s The Score?” would like to share a classic piece of sports writing.

@DanChoiStats and I found this 1978 Esquire piece to be an in-depth look at one of baseball’s most notorious figures. We present to you “A Date with Fanaticism” by Gay Talese.

I woke up in a hotel room covered in beer bottles and cigarettes. A thick fog of nicotine and regret filled the air. I could hear the shower running. My head was spinning. How did I get here? I took a swig of Jameson to help whiz away the cobwebs.

A shower knob squeaked. Then there he was, nude and wet. He was holding a small bag of cocaine. His nose honked twice. It was the Philly Phanatic.

He set up a line of coke on top of the hotel’s complimentary bible, and snorted. He squealed with delight. Of course, when the Philly Phanatic squealed, it sounded more like, “HONK HONK HONK!” Like a little bike horn stuck up his nose, because that’s how the Phanatic communicated—through a little bike horn stuck up his nose. In a series of dashes and dots, I communicated with him.

Philly grew up, the youngest of seven kids, in rural Ogden, PA. A small, modest town where most people made a living working at the widget factory (The factory has since shut down and given way to a Bubba Gump’s). He was born with green furry skin, a grotesquely large nose, and the grace of a Russian ballerina. Philly’s parents, George and Collette, wanted a normal life for Philly so they encouraged him to follow in his old man’s footsteps at the factory.

He was on the fast track to foreman until one day, without warning, Philly ran away from home. He never turned back. I traveled to Ogden to find his family. It turned out his father died in a terrible widget accident, and his mother died in a terrible fried shrimp basket accident after she was hired at the Bubba Gump’s.

He spent time riding the trains with hobos. Sharing hobo secrets and stories. In fact, it was during this tumultuous time that Philly learned his patented “belly shake” dance from the hobos. The dance or signal, in hobo code, meant “follow me, I’m going to Washington to claim my bonus!” The Bonus Army march was, in fact, thousands upon thousands of grown men hula-ing on the steps of Congress.

He spent time felling trees for lumber baron William Cox, who also happened to own the Philadelphia Phillies. It was there Philly developed his penchant for “bringing the fun”. He became known for stealing his fellow loggers’ caps and putting them on his head. Philly loved to stand behind men sawing trees and belly bump their behinds. He was beloved by all. Cox noticed and saw an opportunity.

He immediately hired Philly as one of his top striptease performers (Cox was also Philadelphia’s biggest strip club magnate). After several years of stripping, a mascot position opened at Phillies organization. Cox needed a dancer, so he hired the best—Miz Understood. Miz Understood lasted only 3 months as the Phillies mascot due to excessive sexual solicitations with fans and umpires. Cox came to his senses and finally hired Philly as the Philly Phanatic. The world has never been the same.

In the hotel, the Philly Phanatic was examining a 9mm pistol. He looked at it forlornly. Stroked the barrel and muttered a prayer. He put the gun to his temple and CLICK… CLICK… CLICK CLICK CLICK CLICK! He forgot to load it. He laughed and started dancing the mashed potato.

I finally remembered why I was here. I needed to interview America’s favorite mascot for Esquire. The night before he had convinced me that it was good idea to “sip some honey and break some singles” at his favorite strip joint. I finally decided to get to business. I pulled out a pen and notepad.

“So how does it feel to be America’s favorite mascot?”

He stuck his tongue out at me. HONK!

“You’ve become a role model and hero to children  everywhere who aspire to be mascots. What do you have to say to your followers?”

He mimed stroking his genitalia until he pretended to ejaculate into his hand. With his other hand he picked up a picture of himself titled, “A National Treasure!” and smeared his imaginary cum all over it.

I flipped to the back of my notepad. “Do you miss your family?”

Silence. “Honk… honk… honk…” He broke down crying.

Some heroes need a good cry. He needed it, because it turned out the next day the Phillies were playing the Reds to determine the NL East crown. It was one of the most important games of the year.

And the Phanatic delivered. Between the 5th and 6th innings, two little girls kissed his cheeks and he fainted immediately. The little girls blushed and section 208 laughed with delight. You would have never known that only a night before, Philly confessed to me that he had never felt love.

The crowd cheered and roared. “Phil-ly! Phil-ly! Phil-ly!” He told me after the game that when he wasn’t passed out, he was thinking of his home in Ogden, PA. How the wheat fields always reminded him of a gold ocean. How the curls of his mother’s hair always fell in front of her eyes when she laughed. How life could have been so much simpler.

It’s the end of the game. Phillies had won. He sits in the Phillies dugout, waiting for the perfect moment to steal Pete Rose’s hat. It was Philadelphia’s favorite Philly bit. Philly then looks over to me, slowly nods, and pops two Quaaludes into his snout. I nod back, as a father would to his son. I understood. “Celebration” by Kool and the Gang began to play and the Phanatic broke into the worm towards Pete Rose.

Another day in the life of the Philly Phanatic.