Oh My, Omar

Has anyone seen the Mets play recently? If not, then you obviously missed the old fashioned beat down they delivered to the Nats last night. New York's second team may now have a team that can compete against the elderly pitching staff and monster lineup of the crosstown Yankees. Is this a team that has gelled instantly like the White Sox of last year, or is this a result of the talent that Met's GM Omar Minaya has assembled over the past two seasons?

This past off-season I stopped hearing those annoying questions of whether or not Kenny Williams knew what he was doing. No one questions the man's baseball mind and savvyness on the trading blocks anymore after assembling one of the most coherent teams in recent memory. Since Minaya took over in 2003, he has spent money like Dan Snyder after a 5-11 season, acquiring almost every sought after free agent on the market. And now the Mets are 9-1, pounding teams down in their pursuit of disrupting (their appetite for destruction) the Braves improbable hunt for a 14th straight division championship.

Two years ago it was Pedro and Carlos Beltran. Last year it was Billy Wagner, Carlos Delgado, and Paul LoDuca. You add those all-stars, each one of them at their respective positions, with the homegrown talent they've stirred up (David Wright and Jose Reyes) and you've got the makings of an NL pennant winner. Now not all of Minaya's moves have been as slick as Pat Riley's hair (see Kris Benson and Kaz Matsui) but no one's perfect. Even the salient Billy Beane makes a false move every once in a while. But after seeing this team beat up on almost everyone they have played so far, I'd say his GM report card looks better than Lindsey Lohan did two years ago.

You may be saying, "It's a long season. Wait and see." If I were a Mets fan, I would probably be skeptical too. But things are looking pretty good in the Big Apple right now. If you're a lover of baseball and live anywhere near New York you probably feel better than a massage from a girl named Fingers. Your lineup is going to score a ton of runs and your bullpen is solid. For those two reasons alone you'll probably end up winning near 80 games. I would take that. So pack that tinder box stadium, crack open a few cold ones for me, and pray that your starting pitching holds up. This could be as special a season for you as last year's was for me.

The Fight For The 8th Spot

As of today the Bulls are tied with Philadelphia for the 8th and final playoff spot in the Eastern Conference. Our airwaves and plasma screens are currently bombarded with the hype, and hope, of a second year of playoff basketball. Our "experts" talk about the fight for that coveted final spot and dangle that carrot, the one filled with thoughts of our Jordan era teams, in front of Bulls fan's eager faces. I've seen eyes light up in conversations, smiles spread over the idea of the playoffs, even momentary lapses in depression at the mere chance that the Bulls might win their 7th championship. I too dream of the days when the championship trophy is once more hoisted in a triumphant Grant Park ceremony, but the fact is, even if we do make the playoffs, this season will be a failure.

There are 2 reasons for this line of thought. The first being that even if the Bulls do make it to the playoffs, they will be destroyed by the Detroit Pistons. Anyone who thinks that our Chicago team has a chance at defeating the top team in the East, the one that has made it to the finals two years in a row, the team that dominates opponents with their stifling defense and amazingly efficient offense, is painfully kidding themselves. It's a waste of time to dream of something that you know can never happen, think of Guns n' Roses' Chinese Democracy album, for inevitably, and irrevocably, those dreams will be shattered.

The second reason applies to next year's draft. The Bulls have New York's pick this year, and thanks to Isiah Thomas that will be a damn good draft slot, plus our own. Making the playoffs drops our draft position down between one and two places. In an NBA draft that last two rounds and, even then, ends up being more watered down than a Miller Lite, those two positions are big. The difference between the 10th pick in the draft and the 12th pick in the draft could mean the difference between a powerhouse big guy, to complement the front court player we're sure to take with the Knick's pick, and a role player who will probably be traded in two years.

So I say, flush this season down the toilet and look to the future. I mean, is a losing record really considered a positive just because we made the over-stocked NBA playoffs? Our back court is loaded. Heinrich, Gordon, Duhon - they're the reasons we're even in this hunt. The Bulls' big guys, oh Sweetney you big oaf, have offered nothing to help out the stellar play of our guards. If we had one dominant player inside, and I love Chandler but he's far from dominant, we wouldn't even be having these discussions about the 8th spot, we'd be talking about playoff tickets for game one of the first round. And that's exactly what we'll be doing next year, after a monster draft that should propel us into the elite of the East. Then, and only then, will our desire at another championship be a realistic possiblity. Otherwise, get used to talking about that 8th spot.

To Pull Or Not To Pull

When the White Sox went up by six runs last night I felt pretty damn good. I figured that the two straight losses to the Indians were an aberration, that the World Champs just needed to break off a bit of rust, and that Ozzie's maddening pitching moves in the finale of that series were just him having a bad day. Then I watched Jon Garland give up a few runs in the fifth, then a few more in that same inning, and by the third out he had given up five. I yelled at the screen, "Get him out of there Ozzie," and one of my viewing partners followed with, "There's no way he'll leave him in there for the fifth." Not only did Ozzie leave him in for the fifth, but he left him in for the sixth too, at which time he gave up his eighth run, and the White Sox lead. Finally, Ozzie took the towel from around his neck and walked to the mound in need of a reliever. At the same time I walked to the toilet, in dire need of some relief.

Having watched The Blizzard of Oz for over two years now, I understand - slightly - what he's trying to do out there on the diamond. Yes, he wants to let his pitchers know he has confidence in them, raise there levels of self-assurance so that he can once again pull four straight complete playoff games out of his black and silver hat. These things I do understand. What I don't understand is how Ozzie could basically give that game to the Royals, one of the worst teams in the league. Let's say he pulls Garland after his horrendous fourth inning, and we go in to the bottom of the fifth with a two run lead (the Sox scored a run in the top of the inning). Politte, Cotts, and Jenks, all of whom had a day off on Thursday and were at no risk of injury or burn out, couldn't have done worse than Garland did the next two innings. Most likely, they would have held that lead and given the White Sox that oh-so-important win in the first game of an away series. But Ozzie waited until Garland handed over that large lead, after the Royals had plated their 8th run, before sending in Thornton (who proceded to give up a few more runs in a 10-7 Royals win). Why did Guillen do this?

On Wednesday, when Brandon McCarthy had had two days rest, Ozzie pulled the toothpick hurler after only an inning, only to watch Boone Logan give up a game tying homerun to Travis Hafner. Now last I checked, Hafner is a powerhouse hitter who hits lefty pitchers just as well as righties, so why take out your best arm in the pen, your long reliever, just to play the lefty-righty matchup with a rookie pitcher. As I sat in the stands watching that white ball clear the green fence in right-center, I thought to myself, "This didn't need to happen." Those words rang the next day, like a song you can't get out of your head, as the Royals pounded Garland well into the six.

"This didn't need to happen." I can only imagine that every Cub fan in the state has been reciting those words since the final out of last year's World Series, and if that is the case, then Ozzie has now brought me down to their level. In four games I've watched Ozzie make mistake after mistake and I can only hope that it is Ozzie's twin brother in the dugout making these calls, not the lightning rod that took this city to the World Series last year. If it is Fozzie (as I assume his twin brother would be named) then please, call your brother and get him back with the team. We need the Ozzie of last year, the fireball that pulled no punches with the media or his players, the AL Manager of the Year, the savior of the south side. Please, Ozzie, come back from whatever your planet you're on right now and win some damn games.

Break Out The Asterisks

Fans in San Diego's Petco Park greeted Barry Bonds on opening day with a sereis of white cardboard statements, none of them of the 'We Love You Barry' variety. Some of southern California's finest questioned Bonds' perilous chase at Aaron's home run record, others questioned his sexuality, the size of his head, and the length and width of that which resides in the front sling of his banana hammock. But like coconut on a German chocolate roundcake, the icing having a strong flavor that doesn't appeal to most, one fan took it up a notch by throwing a plastic syringe at Barry's feet. Hours later Jesse Jackson lost his shit, attacking everyone from the tosser of said syringe to security inside the stadium. Now, does anyone really think Bonds wants Jesse Jackson on his side? Come to think of it, does anyone want Jesse Jackson on their side? His arrival on the scene, and not Game of Shadows, means things in BarryLand have gotten serious. All brought on, one way or another, by one single syringe.

I can hear my mom now, "Oh, that poor man." And if I were an outsider, with no emotional attachement to the game, I would agree with her. But as a lifelong baseball fan, one who has lived and died with every White Sox pitch over the past 29 years, I say the behavior of that syringe tosser was spot-on. As Peter Gammons said, "(the syringe) did not present any danger to Bonds or to any othe player," so we can throw out the Jackson diatribe, which was focused solely on the safety of the juiced beast, and instead explore the intentions of that infamous needle-thrower. Let's face it, the guy was pissed at Bonds - either that or he wanted to show the guys in San Francisco's front office what an arm he has. Assuming the former is correct, I believe he had every right to hurl that needle-less missile.

If Barry Bonds felt he had the right to turn himself into an early twenties Hulk Hogan just because he was pissed that McGuire and Sosa were getting the attention he deserved, and in doing so breaking one of the most respected records in all of sports, one synonymous with the greatness of a drunk named Ruth and the drive of a man known to his mom as Henry, then Mr. Needle Thrower had the right to land that plastic syringe at the tip of Barry's left toe (an egregiously large left toe, if it fits with the rest of his freakish frame). The fact is he cheated. He cheated the game, the fans, the record books, the players, and, most of all, himself. Yes, Barry cheated Barry. How? Look at the hoopla surrounding him now. We'll all look back at this season and say to our kids "Boy, you should have seen the disgusting mess that was Bonds' exit from the game." He's tarnished his legacy with a thick soot that no amount of Oxyclean could rub off. And for what? Fame and glory? Where's the fame and glory now? We're talking about asterisks on his record for pete's sake. Is that the way Bonds wanted to go out? Was 72 homeruns really worth it?

And when Barry breaks Ruth's record, and I cringe at the thought, what do you think will come flying from the stands then? There will probably be a bunch of hotdog wrappers, a few bottles, and if anyone can sneak one in, a bowling ball. And even if, to the horror of Jesse Jackson, that bowling ball hits Bonds point blank in the head, IT WON'T HURT HIM. His head is now bigger than that ball by a long shot, a shot longer than one of his swats into McCovey Cove, and even a sixteen pound ball couldn't split that inflated - in more than one way - melon. I can see the marble ball dribbling down his shoulder, a spiderweb crack in its curved side, and a fully conscious Barry looking down at it wondering, "How did it all come to this?" Then he'll see the anger and disgust on the faces of those he tried so hard to impress and in that moment maybe, just maybe, he might regret what he's done.